you based your argument are wholly invalid. But, you are almost right, and you may take that comfort with you to your grave. What I will say is that it wasn’t a phased array radar, but something much more interesting.’ A careful man, Orlov, giving nothing away even though he knew that within minutes Richter was going to be in no state to ever tell anyone anything. The Russian glanced behind Richter. ‘Yuri, he’s all yours,’ he said.
Richter looked round and Yuri smiled at him. Richter didn’t need any prompting to know why he was smiling. He turned back to Orlov. ‘I’ve told you what you wanted. If you’re going to kill me can’t you just shoot me?’
Orlov shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Richter,’ he said in a tone which made it quite clear that he wasn’t, ‘but I promised you to Yuri, and he’s been looking forward to tonight ever since the day you visited JARIC. And anyway,’ he added, ‘we don’t want gunshots echoing out over the Home Counties, do we? Lowers the tone of the area.’
Richter tried again, leaning forward in the chair as far as his roped arms would allow. ‘Orlov, please. Hasn’t he hurt me enough?’
Orlov’s smile turned to a sneer of contempt. ‘Our conversation, and your life, is at an end. Yuri, take him away. Try not to make too much of a mess downstairs.’
As a sentence of death it left a good deal to be desired, Richter thought.
Dmitri Trushenko glanced around the apartment for what he knew would probably be the last time. He had packed enough clothes and toiletries for a couple of weeks into a lightweight suitcase which was standing by the apartment door, and he had just made a final check of the contents of his briefcase. As well as the portable computer with its built-in modem, he had his mobile telephone with a spare battery and charger, plus the Ultra Secret classified
He had left a brief note for his manservant on the dining table, confirming that he would be away, staying with friends in St Petersburg, for the next week or so, and adding that he would telephone when he knew the date of his return. The note was virtually a duplicate of the one on his secretary’s desk at the Ministry, except that his secretary had also been given his contact address in St Petersburg. It was all perfectly normal – a part of the routine that Trushenko had carefully established over the previous seven months.
There was a brief knock at the door. Trushenko opened the door and handed his suitcase to his chauffeur, then picked up his briefcase, locked the apartment door and followed him into the elevator.
The drive to the station took only a few minutes in the light early-morning traffic, and Trushenko arrived in good time for the express to St Petersburg. The chauffeur took the suitcase out of the boot of the limousine and accompanied Trushenko into the station. Trushenko handed over the ticket – purchased for him by his secretary – to the railway official, who removed the top copy and handed the rest back. He took the suitcase from his chauffeur, walked on to the platform, and climbed on to the train without a backward glance.
Yuri and the anonymous thug released Richter’s arms, and he slumped forward out of the chair on to the floor. His one hope was to convince everyone, and especially Yuri, that he was in no state to resist anything. That might, just might, make them a little careless.
They picked him up and Yuri twisted Richter’s left arm up and behind his back. The second man made to help him, but Yuri shrugged him away with an impatient gesture. ‘He’s mine,’ he growled, in heavily accented Russian. ‘I do not need your help.’
Richter believed him. So did Orlov. ‘Do as he says. Just open the door for them.’
Yuri dragged Richter out of the room and to the top of the stairs. Richter wondered briefly how he was supposed to get down them. He found out. Yuri simply gave him a hefty shove. Richter stumbled off balance, grabbed for the banister and missed, then tumbled. He had enough presence of mind to tuck his head well in as he fell, and he tried as far as possible to roll rather than bounce, but by the time he reached the half landing his body felt as if it had gone over the Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Richter moved cautiously, but nothing seemed to be broken. Yet. He had got to his knees by the time Yuri reached him. The Russian kicked out, his foot catching Richter in the stomach, and he crashed and rolled his way to the bottom of the stairs. From the throbbing agony in his lower abdomen, Richter decided that if Yuri ever tired of being a bodyguard, there was definitely an opening for him on the football field. Richter was quicker this time, and he was on his feet before Yuri reached him, but still bent almost double clutching his stomach.
Yuri grabbed Richter’s arm and jerked him upright, and Richter moaned softly. It wasn’t hard to do. It would have been hard not to. Yuri punched him in the stomach a couple of times for good measure, and gave him another shove. Richter reeled across the hallway and fetched up against a panelled door. Yuri grabbed him, twisted him round and smashed him face-first into the panels, then turned the handle and pushed him into the room.
Richter stumbled over something and fell to the floor, knocking the back of his head against a table leg as he did so. What made it worse was that the table leg didn’t move. As the lights came on he looked at it and saw why. It was a billiard table, covered in a dust-cloth that reached down almost to the floor. The one thing Richter needed then was a weapon, any weapon, and he suddenly realized that he might have found one.
Richter looked over at Yuri. He had turned round to close the door and was taking off his shoulder holster, the better to enjoy his work. Richter reached his right hand up, under the cloth, to where the corner pocket was, praying that the balls would be in the pockets and not in a box in some cupboard, because if they were in a box he was dead.
His probing fingers found the mesh of the pocket, and then the smooth round hardness of a ball on the rack just below the pocket. Just the one, but one was all he needed. He closed his fingers around it and dropped his arm just as Yuri turned back towards him.
Yuri had the door key in his hand. He smiled at Richter and slid it into his trouser pocket, then walked over towards the table. He stopped about three feet away and looked down. ‘I’m going to enjoy this, English. My brother was a good man, a good Communist. You are going to wish you had never been born. Get up.’
Richter was leaning against the leg of the billiard table, his right arm twisted round behind him, the ball held tight in his fist. He shook his head. ‘Can’t,’ he gasped. ‘Can’t move.’
Yuri snorted with disgust and stepped closer. Richter hoped the Russian wanted him on his feet first, so that he could have the pleasure of knocking him down again. Most thugs preferred that, in Richter’s experience. Yuri reached down and seized the lapels of Richter’s leather jacket in both hands. ‘I told you up, English bastard.’
Yuri was strong, and Richter knew that he was only going to get the one chance. If that failed Yuri would break both his arms and then beat him to a pulp. Yuri began to pull. Richter could feel his weight coming off the floor. He looked at the Russian’s face, judging distance, keeping his right arm and shoulder low. As Richter planted his feet flat on the floor, he moved.
His right arm was still below the level of his knees, and he brought it up, up with every ounce of strength that he possessed, straightening his legs as he did so. Richter’s right fist, holding the heavy ball tightly, swept up between Yuri’s arms and caught him under the chin, hard. The Russian’s head snapped back, and he crashed to the floor.
Fifteen minutes before the St Petersburg express was due to leave, Trushenko climbed down from the carriage and hurried back along the platform. At the barrier he explained that he had to make an urgent telephone call and was directed towards the far wall of the station.
Twenty-three minutes after that, Trushenko was in another railway station, sitting in a carriage on a train that was going to an entirely different destination.
Richter didn’t wait. As Yuri tumbled backwards Richter kicked his right foot up into his groin as hard as he could, then went for the head. He wasn’t thinking, by that stage. He was an animal, an animal fighting for its life, and he was going to make no mistakes.
