Quiller Balalaika

11: SPIN

Sweat of a dead man's hand, chilling and intimate, on the butt of the gun as I caught it.

It was short-barrelled but heavy, a Taura 44 chambered to take a man-stopping shell, the scent of its last shot lacing the air.

It's no good pretending he was taking a risk, the Cougar. Yes, I could swing the chamber open and line up the cartridge and hit the thing shut and take aim and fire, drill him accurately between the frontal lobes, watch his surprise in the instant before the head snapped back under the impact. But they'd be on me like wolves, the three remaining bodyguards: he knew that, and also that I hadn't the slightest interest in ending his life and then my own in some kind of personal gotterdammerung.

I laid the gun on the floor.

'Pick it up,' Vishinsky said softly.

'One day,' I told him, 'you're going to look back to the time when I came into your life and showed you the royal path to great riches. You need to think ahead a little. You need to realize that I don't hold my life cheaply, and I'm ready to pay.'

He leaned forward an inch. 'Pick up the gun.'

I couldn't quite tell from his eyes whether the crystalline glitter was the lingering excitement of Moskolets' death or the anticipation of my own. But I could see that he was beyond linear thinking, oblivious to logic. He was all emotion now, with the forebrain shut down, the death of the hit man taking him into what we would call a feeding frenzy in a shark.

So I gave up the idea of appealing to his consciousness on the Beta level and thought about the situation instead. With two of the guards absent burying the hit man there were three left: too many. I would need to get control of four men within a time frame – call it a couple of seconds – far too narrow for success. And there was nowhere to run, no way out of here except for the heavy steel door: this was the seventh floor of the building and the windows were sealed.

'Pick up the gun.'

There might be a way of reaching Vishinsky through the emotions, but I doubted it. I didn't know him well enough to try probing his sensitivities.

I don't like this.

Shuddup.

It was a question, then, of choices. If I didn't give Vishinsky the death he craved in this way he'd take it in another, here or in the forest. Or he'd tell his minions to drag me across the room to the guillotine and start work, or to smash me into pulp before the coup de grace, whatever pleased him, whatever would sate his appetite.

'I'm giving you a chance,' I heard him saying, his tone sing-song again as if he were talking to a child, 'just as I gave that imbecile Moskolets a chance. That's very generous.'

'The risk's too big,' I told him, but it meant nothing. As long as we could talk, express ideas, there might be something I could do.

'There's a risk, yes, but you've got to take it. You have no choice.'

Perfectly true.

But you can't -

Oh for Christ's sake shuddup.

'You should leave room for logic, Vishinsky. You've heard of the goose and the golden eggs. If you let me live, I can -'

'Kaido,' he said to the guard nearest me, 'give him a little persuasion.'

I heard the man moving, and this was the point when I knew I'd have to take the only way out. I picked up the gun.

'There, now,' Vishinsky said, pleased.

The only way out was to rely on the odds. The Taura 44 was a six-shot but the odds weren't six to one: they were in fact infinite. Rely on that.

'Six times and I miss,' I said to Vishinsky, 'and I'm free to go?'

'Yes. You have my word.'

The air in the room was becoming still, pressing against the skin. The walls seemed to be contracting, an illusion triggered by the knowledge that I had no escape.

'I'd prefer to stand up,' I told Vishinsky.

'Yes? I've no objection.'

As I got onto my feet the guard nearest me closed in. I could smell the sweat on him. Either he thought I might try for some kind of action or he wanted to be near enough to catch me as I went down. I remembered Vishinsky - Mind the carpet – don't get blood on the carpet! A fastidious man.

'Play,' he said now.

Spin the chamber, yes, buck the odds, go for a winner. But the sweat had begun creeping on the skin. Trigger.

Click, and five to go.

Vishinsky was sitting back now, his long pale hands folded on the silk dressing-gown, his eyes filled with that unholy light I'd seen before when he'd been watching Moskolets do this.

I could feel the wall at my back, pressing against my shoulder-blades; in a way it gave me strength, a feeling of permanence. I watched Vishinsky. He watched the gun as I spun the chamber again and put the muzzle to my head.

This, or the forest. Take the chance.

Click, and four to go.

'Spin it,' I heard Vishinsky saying, and realized that time had gone by as my senses drifted away from reality, desperate for escape.

'What?'

'Spin the chamber.'

Yes. Concentrate. Four more. Wrong: not four. An infinite number of chances left; we only needed four.

That was fair odds and I spun the thing and put the muzzle to my temple and froze because even with infinite chances this could be the wrong spin.

There's something you're not thinking of. I know. But I don't want -

Think about it. Don't deny it.

All right, we'll get out of the denial phase. Of course this man won't give me freedom if I don't spin the cartridge into line and blow my head off, any more than he would have let Moskolets go. It'd destroy the climax for him, and he couldn't stand that, doesn't have to, it's his and I'm leading up to it for him, playing his game and making out I've got one chance in a thousand to win.

No way.

So what are you doing it for?

Good question, but there's an answer of a sort. To gain time.

There's no time for you to gain. Be realistic.

Something might happen. The phone could ring again, distract him, divert him to some other business. Or -

Whistling in the dark.

Perfectly true.

'Pull the trigger,' I heard someone saying softly. Vishinsky.

Sweat crawling on me, on my face, didn't want him to see it, no choice, not too many choices left now, we're approaching the climax and he'll be stiff by this time under the gold silk dressing-gown, God damn his eyes.

'What?'

To gain time.

'Pull the trigger.

Yes. But where is it now, the small bright polished killer? Lined up with the barrel, its pointed copper nose ready to meet the skin, the skull, the soft grey mass wherein there shines the last wavering light of hope? Or is it nestling in the next sheath of the chamber, biding its time?

He was leaning forward, Vishinsky, the reptilian eyes shimmering. Pull the trigger before he loses patience or he'll-

Click.

I felt the breath trying to come out of me in an explosion but managed to control it, save face.

Or he'll just tell them to do it for me, shoot me down, bring on the climax, he wants it so badly now.

Three. Three more if we're going to play the game out, six chances, win or lose.

The walls still closing in, the focus of reality contracting, the air airless, the silence soundless as time passed, ungained.

Wait for him to move, Vishinsky, to show impatience.

I could hear the guard's breath, feel his aura. Kaido. Would he be at my head or my feet when they buried me? He was my brother, on the premise that all men are brothers, a premise difficult, God knows, to keep one's faith in when the chips are down. If – moving, Vishinsky, shifting in his chair -

I spun the chamber, put the gun to my temple and fired.

Click.

Silence crashed in.

He was still there, watching me, the Cougar. Or had it happened, was this illusion, the continuum across the brink of death, the leap into the new reality?

How do you know, when it comes?

Two more.

I could feel the adrenalin coursing through the blood, hot with purpose, the muscles burning for release into action, the choices teeming in the mind – open the chamber and line the thing up and shoot Vishinsky, take on three athletic toughs in mortal combat? Let us be practical, my good friend. Make him a final offer, then, ten million US dollars for this wretched ferret in the field, would London pay that much if I could swing the deal? It might, but this man wouldn't go for it, all he wants now is his climax, he's far beyond rational reach. Fling this gun away and go down in a sordid bar-room brawl, take one of them with me if I can as a sop to pride? Surely we can do better than that.

'Spin the chamber.' His voice coming from a long way off.

The light in here seemed brighter now, with the senses finely attuned to offer the organism every shred of data available that might help it survive: the light and the sound of the guard's breathing, the smell of his sweat, of mine, the pressure of the wall behind me, the sourness in the mouth.

I spun the thing and put the muzzle to my head and squeezed.

Click.

The room rocked, steadied.

One. One more.

Think. Consider the choices again. Reflect.

There's no point. The choices are his, not mine. If I try anything at this stage he'll lose the last of his control, order them to beat me to the point of death or take me to the guillotine for him to play with before the climax, then bring a body bag and remember the fingers, don't leave them lying there, throw them in and don't stain the carpet whatever you do.

One. One more. But when -

'Spin it.'

His eyes brilliant with the light of joy.

Surely it must be there by now, taking its place in the scheme of things, ready to breach the skin, the bone, to shatter the seat of consciousness, to blow this beleagured creature into Christendom.

I spun the chamber and raised the gun, felt the warmth of the muzzle against the skull.

I don't know how long it was before he spoke.

'This will be the sixth, won't it? Pull the trigger. Do it now.'

I thought I heard the echoes of his voice; in extremis the mind conjures illusion.

Wait. Wait until his patience runs out.

The air pulsing, beating softly at the ears to the rhythm of the heart.

Wait.

'Fire, damn you, pull the trigger!'

Come then, dark of night, and gather shadows for thy shroud.

Click.

The room rocked again, steadied again. He was still there, the Cougar. Everything was still as it was. Sweat on my face, itching; life was real.

I threw the gun to Vishinsky and he caught it. His eyes had the light of hate in them as he stared at me. He could have told me to go on spinning the chamber, of course, go on firing until the gun kicked and they caught me as I dropped. But gamblers believe in the power of the Fates: it's their whole rationale. So perhaps he thought that since the Fates had spared me, they might show me other favours that could be dangerous if the game went on for too long. He'd played and he'd lost.

'Get me a drink,' he said softly. 'Cognac.'

Behind me as I moved for the bar I heard him slipping the rest of the shells back into the chamber of the gun and slapping it shut.

'Drink, Kaido?' he said.

'Sure, boss.'

'Then you can get another bag and take him to the forest.'