Death's Foot Forward

by George B Mair

  Grant had posted himself ten paces up Leo Tolstoy Street in the shadow of a house. The district was being reconstructed, but several old houses remained, and there were still dusty side streets leading to fragments of a Moscow which dated back to the Lenin era. Carefully he lifted his right hand and looked at the signet ring which he always wore on his middle finger. ‘Suicide’ rings, of course, were long out-dated, but this was a technological miracle, a masterpiece of ingenuity so finely made that its quarter-inch-long needle could only be detected when a magnet was drawn over the surface. The barb was inlaid along the upright of his initial ‘D’ and the magnet which activated it had been fashioned from the clip of his wrist watch which he always carried on his left wrist. The shaft was exactly one quarter of an inch long and made of a specially powerful alloy guaranteed not to break. Its diameter was less than that of a hog’s bristle, but it was part of a delicate piston mechanism which could inject a lethal dose of fluid with one straight blow. Grant disapproved of guns and knives whenever they could be avoided, arguing that since he lived in an age of scientific marvels he should be given the benefit of everything which could be used to minimise risk. Death could be guaranteed within seconds of receiving a shot from the tiny needle, and not even a post-mortem could easily prove the presence of poison. But one had to plant the blow accurately and remember that clothing could act as a filter, the ideal place being a shot into the side of the neck.

  As the footsteps hesitated at the corner Grant glanced carefully at his finger, checked that the needle was pointing accurately, gently caressed its tip with his left hand and waited. When his shadow was level with him he threw a straight right, landing just below the ear. The man gave a grunt of surprise. He had perhaps fifteen seconds left to live and Grant held himself tense wondering if he would prepare to shout, and ready to gag him if he did, but he knew that already the man would be dazed and that the first cramps would have begun in his chest.

  The Russian began to reach inside his jacket. An armpit holster, thought Grant, and watched with almost detached interest as he saw the hand suddenly clench and grip at his shirt, fumbling to loosen the buttons. And then the big man slithered to his knees and rolled on to his side.

  Grant carefully pressed firmly against the base of the tiny needle with his thumb-nail and sighed contentedly as the barb slowly folded back into position. He listened again, but the street was still silent and then he risked a light, cupping the flame of his lighter as he examined the man’s neck. The blow had been carefully measured. Enough to release the pump mechanism but not enough to bruise. There was only the slightest reddening of the skin and a minute fleck of blood where the needle had jabbed home. He unfolded his handkerchief and carefully dabbed it dry. If possible it was better that the Security Police should believe their man to have died from natural causes. He could hear voices in the distance, but on the other side of the road, and forced himself to do the job properly. Gently he squeezed round the spot, rubbed the neck clean and then walked quietly away.

  Maya lived some distance away towards Krutitsky Church in one of the few remaining wooden villas which had survived the new city planners. He cut back to Zubovsky Bridge keeping as much as possible to the shadows and crossed the river, following the side streets behind Dobrininskaya Square and Paveletsky Station. Since the river makes a great U-turn in the centre of Moscow he had to cross it once again to reach Krutitskaya Quaie and the minor road which led to the villa.

  The house was small but surrounded by a tiny garden, though in Moscow, where people were still sometimes living one family to a room, the wooden dacha was almost a palace. There were three apartments downstairs together with a tiny kitchen and bathroom, and a large bedroom below the roof with a press large enough to hold all Maya’s travelling trunks and professional trinkets.

  He suspected that the house might be watched but doubted if more than one man would be on guard and in the end he spotted him, a cigarette glowing in the lee of a wall fifty yards away. Grant had no sympathy for anyone who had crossed him in battle, arguing that any man who followed the underworld of terror must be prepared to take the consequences if he was caught, and if he was fool enough to give himself away by smoking then he deserved whatever might be coming to him.

  Gently he threw a pebble towards the house. The noise was trivial and only a person looking for trouble would have given it a second thought. The red glow hesitated and then darted towards a cluster of shrubs growing on waste ground beside some trees near the gate. He carefully tested his left arm. The bone still ached and his ring was also useless until it had been recharged. The cigarette glow was waning, but visible, and he could smell the smoke even at ten paces. The night was black dark and he could hear nothing but the quiver of a gentle wind in the leaves and the heavy breathing of a man who had again grown careless.

  It was vital to strike cleanly. He thanked his stars that he had long ago learned breathing control and that his well-tried shoes with their thick rubber soles would only caress the gritty road as he stalked his prey. The agent was about thirty, powerfully built and posted just clear of a lime tree. He was staring straight at Maya’s villa when Grant flexed his fingers and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. As he looked round Grant’s fist flew up in a controlled upper cut which landed just between the angle of the jaw and the point of the chin. There was a grunt and the man collapsed as though he had been pole-axed. Grant dived on him in the same second, his right hand fastening round the Russian’s throat until it was all over.

  Ever since he had wakened that morning Grant had felt that this was going to be one of these really big days. And he was superstitious. When Lady Luck was smiling play her to the limit! He was anxious not to make trouble for Maya, and if her own special agent was found murdered she might be in a big trouble indeed. It was better that the fellow should simply disappear.

  And then he remembered. A well not far from one of the main doors of the nearby church, and protected by a wooden lid. A moment later he was prising it free from the moss and earth which embedded it against a cope of worn stone. The hole was at least three feet broad and when he dropped a stone into the inky blackness it was about two seconds before he heard the plop of water and a swishing echo far below.

  Back in the copse he heaved the limp body over his shoulder and returned to the well, lowering it to the ground beside the edge of the hole. Gently he lifted the feet and heaved until the body was suspended head down over the circle of darker blackness. As it dropped there was a dull thwack when it struck the side wall and then the echoing splash as it hit the water.

  Swiftly he replaced the lid, carefully packed moss along the edges and swept the ground clear of marks with a handful of thin branches from a bush. His own shoes had soles worn free of any design, but even so he longed for a heavy downpour of rain to mask whatever traces he might have left on the light sandy dust.

  Two policemen passed within a dozen yards as he was preparing to leave, one wheeling a bicycle, and paused near Maya’s gate for a smoke. But at last the coast was clear, he brushed himself down, raced back to the house, and running his luck to the limit rang the bell.

  He had to wait longer than he would have wished before he heard soft footsteps inside and the door slowly opened. ‘Quick,’ he whispered, ‘let me in.’

  ‘David Grant!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, David, my dear. But didn’t I tell you not to come?’

  His voice was urgent. ‘Listen, Maya. Trust me. Nobody is watching us. You are perfectly safe.’

  Her deep blue-black eyes were alert with anxiety. ‘But they had a man posted outside. Did you kill him?’

  ‘And he deserved it.’ As he was speaking she pulled him towards the short steep stairway which led to her room. They both knew that it would be unwise to show lights, but at least they could talk, and they also knew that later they would make love.

  Always their love making had been filled with danger. In Paris there had been the deception of lying and telling the director that she was stayin
g with Polish friends. Two agents of the secret police travelled with the company and she had realised that they would check up on her story, but fortunately it was true enough in essentials, since Grant had originally met the Poles in a camp after the war, and loyalty to memories of his skill which had nursed them back to health rose above duty to Party. The man, who was a journalist accredited to Paris, had done a magnificent job of rope pulling. Red herrings had been drawn all over the place and she had been able to stay with them as a guest rather than in a hotel with the other dancers. His wife, a fun-loving girl from Cracow, had also entered into the spirit of the thing and with her husband done everything possible to make their stolen meetings easy.

  And she had got away with it. But now, in her own country, it was difficult to have a lover not approved by the Party, and as she listened to Grant describing his hours in Lubianka, his night at the Maly, and his murder of two police agents she realised better than he did how slim were their chances. It was hardly possible to disappear in Moscow, and Sokolnikov would be worried when his men failed to report.

  They sat on the edge of the bed holding hands whilst Grant answered her last questions, and then she snuggled close against him and shivered. ‘A little ghost walked over my grave,’ she sighed. ‘But perhaps our luck will really hold and it won’t walk until I’m an old, old lady with lots of grandchildren.’

  He laughed. ‘I thought you weren’t the marrying kind.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said seriously, ‘but I could still have grandchildren, because I’m very much the loving kind.’ She gently lifted his hand and slipped it inside her house-coat. Her breasts were firm and pointed hard against his eager fingers. ‘In Russia we don’t wear pyjamas or things in the summer time. Take off these horrible clothes, David, and come in beside me.’

  He could sense her rising passion and the throb of her racing heart as he took her into his arms. ‘You’re not frightened, Maya?’

  She shook her head and the gleaming dark hair caressed his stubbly chin. ‘No. There is a Russian proverb which says that where there is death before love, life always follows.’

  Grant was tired. His left arm was again aching and reaction had begun to set in, but the magic of her body was stealing into his mind and he felt that he would have been content simply to lie beside her for hours, soaking up the strength which always seemed to come from contact with a beautiful woman. He laid his cheek close to her forehead and felt her eyelids flutter against his skin in a quivering butterfly kiss. His arms slowly dropped to her waist, savouring the elastic power of her firm muscles, the sweep of her thighs as they massed downwards from a firm athlete’s pelvis and the rise of her taut dancer’s buttocks. ‘In Moscow there has always been death before love,’ he whispered. ‘It is a city of death.’

  The girl wriggled more tightly against him and held up her hands, pulling his head towards her lips, her fingers lingering on the prickly growth of his cheeks. ‘I like when you need a shave, David. It is like touching velvet sewn with needles, but stop talking about death, this may be our last night together so I want to listen to you telling me about love, there is so much to do in two or three short hours.’

  Her fingers were working with his clothes and she deftly loosened his tie and shirt. ‘Get them off,’ she whispered, ‘and show me that you love me.’

  A moment later she pulled him into the bed and lifted his hand to her mouth. ‘Such a dear, dear hand, David,’ she sighed and gently kissed it, her lips stealing upwards over the dark downy hair of his wrists to the bend of his elbow where she buried her head in the crutch of his arm whilst his hand stroked restlessly over the sleekness of her hair.

  She was curled like a kitten beside him, drawn up into a ball which was ready to spring. And then with a gasp she straightened out and their mouths met in a crushing embrace. It was nearing dawn when they relaxed for the last time and lay contentedly in each other’s arms, Grant’s long firm fingers working her hair into a coxcomb and her own hands idly tracing designs on the fur of his chest. The sky had begun to lighten slightly and they both knew that at most there could only be another half hour, but everything had been said which could be said. Maya knew that he would return. She was a fatalist and doubted if Sokolnikov could become a nuisance overnight. First her punishment period would have to be put in and he would want her status restored before making any advances, but by that time who could say what might have happened in Moscow, where men in his position could still disappear overnight? She had even made a half promise that she might try to join David in the West. She felt that they would allow her to dance again in Moscow or Prague and that from there she could make a getaway. ‘If you still want me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Maya,’ said Grant heavily, ‘I’ll always want you, and I’ve a hunch that you will be back West again, so we’ll play it your way and hope it works out.’ He was content that she had begun to change her mind and that at last there was a chance of her planning a getaway.

  She gave a tiny little laugh and he felt her limbs tense with expectation. ‘Why do you love me so much?’

  He lay back and looked at a late star which had begun to rise against the lightening sky. He felt refreshed and fit for anything, even his arm was aching less and the heavy depression which had browned him off ever since the executions had disappeared. He smiled and rolled on to his side, trying to look into her eyes in the still dark room. ‘You’re good for me. You love without regret. I hate all the sadness which can follow love. I hate when a girl begins to mope and turn sour when it’s all over. You’re natural. You make love the way you dance, because you can’t help it. It’s a sort of beauty in you which has got to be expressed.’

  She smiled happily and rubbed her cheek against his chin. ‘A lot must depend on the man though. Perhaps you make me do my best.’

  A thought crossed his mind. ‘Have there been many?’

  Her lips pouted and she mouthed the answer into his ear in a long whisper. ‘No-o-o.’ And then she laughed. ‘It will make you conceited. But you are really and truly the first. And as long as you want me there will never be anyone else.’

  He kissed her again and forced himself to rise. At most he had an hour before dawn and by then he wanted to be at the Embassy. He dressed in the darkness and then held her in his arms for a last long moment. ‘Promise me one thing. If you get into a real jam you’ll ask our people for help. I’ll be at the Embassy quite soon and fix it so that they’ll take you in at any time.’

  She was standing beside him, a slim nymph in the first flush of early dawn, her figure etching against the window. ‘I promise,’ she sighed. ‘You make me forget everything which is supposed to matter.’

  ‘And when I come back we’ll get out together.’ He said it as though repeating a promise, and she gripped his hands tightly when she replied.

  ‘Sometimes also death can come after love, David, though I think you will live. There is something about you which makes me hope.’ But one part of her mind knew that she would never get away. And another part wondered if she really wanted to, even for Grant.

  She stood on tip-toe. Her lips were level with his chin and she drew his head down until they had kissed in one last long surge of ecstasy. ‘Parting is not a sweet sorrow,’ she said. ‘Parting is hell.’ And then she opened a little drawer in her bedside table. ‘Look, my favourite ear-rings. I’m going to give you one for luck.’

  He slipped the diamond clasp into his waistcoat pocket and kissed her hand. There was nothing left to say. For tonight and for all the nights he could see ahead it would be death’s foot forward until he had squared his bill with Sokolnikov.

  Chapter Four – One rib for every hour. . . .

  Outside it was still half-light and the streets were deserted. He was well away from the dacha and on Gorky Street before anyone looked at him twice, and then it was only an old woman sweeping the sidewalk. The Soviet soldiers on duty outside the Embassy saluted him impassively as he crossed into home ground. It was against his train
ing and principles to become involved anywhere with officialdom but for once he felt that it was permissible. He was on leave and within his rights in signing the book even at five in the morning.

  But his luck was still running high. The ex-marine sergeant on duty was an acquaintance who remembered him well from the old days in Seoul. Swiftly he penned a letter of authority in English to the receptionist at the National asking for his baggage to be given to the bearer who would also settle any outstanding small account.

  The sergeant grinned wickedly. ‘Strictly irregular this lot, sir, and H.E. mightn’t like it. So we’ll try to handle it off the record like as a small favour between friends. Right.’ He lifted a phone and rapped out some orders. ‘Along ’ere at the double, son, an’ you’ll have to use your loaf.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘How’s about a kip in my room for an hour, sir? You look a bit done if I may say so. And we can send you to the airport in an official car if that suits you.’

  Grant cautiously eased his left arm and brooded. ‘What will His Excellency say?’

  ‘Can’t see it matters, sir, I’ll say you popped in to sign the book an’ that we couldn’t get a taxi in time. Least I could do was give you a run in one of our own buggies. Especially when you wasn’t feeling so good.’

  ‘And what if there’s trouble at the airport?’

  The sergeant was very bland. ‘Nah then, sir, you’ve been readin’ too many thrillers. What would there be trouble abart? You’ve been on holiday. You’ve been leadin’ a nice quiet life. ’Ow could there be trouble?’