Execution

FORTY-NINE

‘What’s the plan?’ asked Rik, as Harry led them across an intersection towards a darkened area in the distance. ‘We’re not going down in the sewers, are we? I saw that film. It gave me the creeps.’

‘Relax,’ Harry murmured. ‘If we do I’ll send one of the girls down first to shoo away the nasty spiders.’

They were passing between a seemingly endless collection of four-and-five storey apartment blocks set back on streets that were too wide for comfort. All the Russians would have to do was hit the right street and they would be caught out in the open.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Katya. She seemed calm enough, but there was an air of tension about her that spoke volumes about the kind of men pursuing them.

‘There’s a safe house we can use,’ Harry replied. ‘If we can get to it. But we can’t do that with them following us.’ He had tried calling Richoux, but there was no response. The man’s local knowledge would have been invaluable, but they were going to have to fall back on their own resources. So far they had seen no sign of a taxi, and hanging around for one to turn up was not an option. If the Russians called up reinforcements and flooded the area, it would be only a matter of time before they were seen.

Up ahead the glow from the street lights between the apartment blocks appeared to fade, showing an area of relative darkness. Harry had mentioned it to be a park near the Praterstern, a large gyratory system connecting a number of roads like spokes of a wheel. If they got to that safely, they could go under cover in the park until they managed to pick up a taxi and head south to the district of Favoriten, where the safe house was located.

‘Fair enough.’ Rik turned to check on Clare, who was being helped along by Katya. She had refused his help earlier, and he’d figured she was better off doing it herself if she chose.

He was about to turn back when he noticed a flicker of movement a hundred yards away. A figure was jogging along the street, flitting in and out of the shadows. He’d seen some movement before, but had dismissed it as normal. Now he wasn’t so sure.

‘I’m going to drop back,’ he told Harry. ‘I think we’ve got a tail. I’ll catch up at the park.’

Harry turned and looked behind them. The pursuer had vanished. ‘You sure you can handle it?’

‘No worries.’

‘OK. Don’t take all night; his buddies won’t be far behind.’

Rik stepped of the street and into a small belt of trees and bushes bordering an apartment block. The trees conveniently blanked out any view of the windows above and behind him, leaving him in almost complete darkness. He allowed his breathing to settle and listened to the night, trying to block out the hum of traffic and focus instead on noises closer at hand.

He heard the man before he saw him. Whoever he was, he had a clumpy tread and was breathing heavily with a faint wheezing sound, like a worn-out prize-fighter who had encountered too many punches. Rik waited until the last second, then peered out as the man passed beneath a street light. He was short and stocky, dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket. He had close-cropped hair and a developing paunch, but walked with the resolute gait of a man accustomed to long route marches.

The glint of a weapon showed in a hip holster to one side.

As the man drew level with his hiding place, Rik stepped out and hit him across the throat with his gun.

Whatever his physical state, the man had good instincts. He moved to one side the moment he sensed trouble, lifting his forearm to block the attack and uttering a sharp expletive. But he was a fraction of a second too slow. His arm took most of the blow, but the gun barrel glanced off the solid mass of muscle and bone and thudded into his throat. He grunted and made a choking sound and pitched over backwards.

Rik bent and dragged the man into the bushes, picking up the gun which had slipped from its holster. He flipped the body over and took out the man’s shoelaces, then tied his little fingers and thumbs together, palms outwards to prevent him from breaking them, and used the man’s belt to secure his ankles. It wouldn’t last long, but would give them breathing space to get away unseen.

He stopped, hearing footsteps approaching along the street. Another one? He waited, then heard a snuffling sound, and came face to face with a red setter ducking its head beneath the foliage. It stared at him, tongue hanging out, then whined. He wasn’t sure who was most surprised, but was thankful when the dog retreated at a sharp command from a woman walking by just a few feet away.

He allowed her to move away before going back to searching the unconscious man’s pockets. He felt a bulky object in the jacket. It was a shortwave radio. He made sure he didn’t touch the controls and put it in his pocket to dispose of later. Then he set off after the others.

‘Preshkin’s not answering.’ One of Captain Symenko’s lieutenants, a recent addition to the team, had been monitoring the lead man’s progress along the back streets. He had been getting a regular commentary by radio about the direction in which the fugitives were moving, but that had ceased, accompanied by some interference and background static. ‘Hello, Preshkin. Come in,’ he barked, as if to prove it.

‘Leave it.’ Symenko could read the signs well enough; Preshkin had pushed too far ahead and got jumped. He swore, drawing surprised looks from the men in his car. But he had good reason: they were now running blind with only a vague idea where the fugitives might be. But what if they had a car nearby? Then all his fantasies about catching foreign spies — and one clearly traitorous former FSO officer — would be so much dust.

He turned and looked into the back of the Mercedes, at a man sitting scrunched between two of his men. All was not yet lost. He had an ace up his sleeve.

‘Well, Bronyev,’ he muttered, ‘it looks like you may have an opportunity of redeeming your failure to have spotted the treachery in your colleague, Balenkova.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bronyev was angry, but powerless to do anything. As an FSO officer, he had a high degree of leeway over other departments. But Symenko outranked him and his own position had been further weakened, as had been pointed out already back at the embassy, by his claim that he had no inkling of Katya Balenkova’s plan to defect. He had tried arguing that it was not so far a proven defection, but that had carried no weight. If anything, it had made his situation worse.

‘You worked with Balenkova. She knows you. Trusts you.’ Symenko showed his teeth in a nasty grin. ‘Of course, if I hadn’t been told different just a short while ago, I’d even believe you were shtupping her on the side. But that’s not likely, is it — eh? You know why?’

Bronyev made no answer, his face blank.

‘She doesn’t like men, does she?’ Symenko continued. ‘I bet you didn’t know that, did you?’

‘No.’ Bronyev shook his head at a hard elbow in the ribs from the men on his left.

‘No. I thought not. It seems your former colleague has a bit of history in that direction. I’m amazed she was allowed to continue serving. Still, we’ll soon have her back. Then she’ll find out what being a minority really means.’ He tossed a mobile phone into Bronyev’s lap. It was Bronyev’s own. ‘Call her. Tell her to come in. We’ll talk. . give her a chance to explain herself. No doubt she was overcome by foreign agents and has had no opportunity to break free. That kind of shit. I’ll leave it to you — you know what to say.’

‘She won’t talk to me. Why should she?’

Another elbow in the ribs from the man on his left made him grunt. In spite of his position, Bronyev turned his head and stared at him. The man was big and solid, with a broken nose. A professional FSB bruiser. ‘You do that again and I promise you your nose will be even less attractive than it is now. I’m an officer of the FSO who has done nothing wrong, so accord me some respect.’

The man looked back at him and sniggered, his breath sour with the smell of onions. Then he followed it up with another dig of his elbow.

Symenko opened his mouth to tell his man to back off; he knew just what members of the FSO were capable of, especially at close quarters. He’d seen plenty of their kind in his time, passing through this city with powerful and important men. And Bronyev was right — he had done nothing wrong.

He was too late.

Without a flicker of warning, Bronyev rammed his own elbow upwards at an angle, using his torso to gain full torque and pushing his bunched fist with his free hand for maximum effect. The result was catastrophic for his attacker; his nose, already badly abused, took the full force of Bronyev’s blow, which snapped his head backwards into the roof of the car. A rush of blood sprayed down the front of the man’s jacket, but he was beyond caring, and lolled loosely in his seat like a stringless puppet.

Bronyev didn’t stop there. Sensing the man on his right beginning to move, he thrust his hand down between the man’s legs and grasped a handful of his testicles, and squeezed.

The man froze, eyes going wide.

‘Enough,’ said Bronyev softly, eyes on Symenko. The captain looked stunned by the speed of his reactions. ‘This is unnecessary and you know it, captain. I have it within my right to report you and your men for brutality against a fellow officer.’

Symenko nodded. ‘Yes. Of course. I was about to stop him.’ He glared at the man on Bronyev’s right, who stopped wincing long enough to signal that he was not moving.

‘Good.’ Bronyev released the man and picked up the phone. He hit a speed dial number and waited while it rang out.