Overkill pr-1

by James Barrington

  When he’d finished, he folded the page and looked up at Richter. ‘I’ve never heard of this Richard Simpson or his organization,’ Horne said, ‘but I do recognize the counter-signature on this letter. I do not,’ he added, ‘wish to know what you are doing here in Moscow. Payne will provide you with whatever assistance you need.’ Richter nodded and Horne reached out his hand to the telephone. ‘Get me Payne, please. It’s urgent.’ He put the receiver back in its rest and looked in a hostile manner across his desk at Richter.

  Andrew Payne, still the acting SIS Head of Station, arrived three minutes later. Horne introduced ‘Mr Beatty’, told Payne to give him whatever assistance he required, and then dismissed them both with a certain amount of relief. Payne was a tall, sandy-haired individual in his late thirties, who appeared puzzled at Richter’s presence in Moscow, and still more perplexed when he had explained what he wanted.

  ‘It’s not that I can’t tell you exactly what I’m doing,’ Richter said, ‘it’s more that I don’t think you’d really want to know.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Payne said, somewhat stiffly. ‘So all you actually want SIS to do is provide you with a car for the day – not an official car, just an ordinary saloon – plus maps of Moscow and so on. Then you’ll be meeting this man Gremiakin late this evening, and flying back to Britain tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Richter said.

  ‘Are you expecting a little trouble at this meeting with the Russian?’

  ‘No,’ Richter replied. ‘I’m expecting a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I see. Do you require a weapon of any sort? We have a small armoury here, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Richter opened his jacket to show him the butt of the Smith and Wesson. Payne nodded absently, and five minutes later Richter was inspecting his transport for the day in the Embassy car park. It proved to be a VAZ, like that in which Mr Newman’s unfortunate doppelgänger had met his end. Richter hoped it wasn’t an omen. He checked the boot first, to confirm that what he expected to find was actually there, then he unlocked the car and climbed in. Richter spent a few minutes getting used to the controls before starting it and driving out into the light mid-afternoon traffic of Moscow. He didn’t really know where he was going, but he knew that he would recognize what he wanted when he saw it.

  Moscow is encircled by two ring roads, both centred more or less on the Kremlin. The first describes a circle about three miles in diameter and encloses the heart of the city; the second is ten miles out, and follows the Gorod Moskva district boundary. Richter would be meeting Leonid Gremiakin at his apartment in the Shaydrovo district, about eight miles to the south of the city centre and just to the east of the main road which runs on south to Tula and Orel and, if you follow it far enough, eventually to Sevastopol in the Crimea on the northern shore of the Black Sea. Shaydrovo seemed a good place to start, so Richter turned the VAZ on to Ljusinovskaja at Serpuhovskaja ploshchad and headed south.

  He drove past the western loop of the Moskva River, where it flows past Yuzhnyy Port and Nagatino before turning north for the centre of Moscow, and on through the thinning suburbs, through Belyayevo and on to Krasnyy Mayak. Then Richter turned left and circled round to approach Shaydrovo from the south. The maps Payne had provided were no more than adequate, and did not, of course, identify individual apartment buildings, but he had plenty of time in hand, and within two hours he had found exactly where Gremiakin lived.

  Richter headed west out of Shaydrovo, turned north and drove almost as far as Belyayevo on the main road, then turned left towards Vorontsavo. About a mile along the road he turned left again, past the outskirts of Kon’kovo and on towards Tëplyystan. By the time Richter reached the turning for Uzkoye, he had identified three sites that were suitable, so he carried on south to Yazenevo, past the access road that leads to SVR headquarters, and then drove east to the main road and turned north, back towards the Embassy.

  Richter only needed one more item, and he found that on a derelict building site as he approached the inner ring road. Richter stopped the car, picked it up and put it in the boot, and drove the VAZ back into the Embassy car park.

  At seven Richter went down to the dining room for an early meal. When he’d finished eating it was seven thirty, and by a quarter to eight he was sitting in the driving seat of the VAZ and heading south again. He reached Shaydrovo a little after eight, drove to Gremiakin’s apartment building and parked around the corner. Richter climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door. After a minute or so it opened, and a stooping, grey-haired man with twinkling blue eyes peered out, looking at him quizzically.

  ‘Comrade Gremiakin?’ Richter asked, and the Russian nodded. Richter proffered an SVR identity card which was absolutely genuine. He knew it was genuine because it had formerly been the property of Colonel Vladimir Orlov, deceased, but it now bore Richter’s picture and a different name. ‘I’m Lieutenant Nicolai Teplov,’ Richter said. ‘General Modin has requested I deliver you this letter and then take you to him. An urgent matter has arisen and he requires your services.’

  Gremiakin smiled, took the letter which Modin had written beside the autoroute in northern France and opened it. He scanned its contents, looked carefully at the signature, and then handed it back to Richter. ‘I’ll just get my jacket,’ he said. Two minutes later he locked the apartment door behind him and followed Richter down the stairs. ‘I’ve not seen you before,’ Gremiakin said, as they descended the final flight.

  ‘No, Comrade. I’ve only worked for the general for a few weeks.’

  ‘You have an unusual accent, Lieutenant,’ the Russian continued. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Georgia,’ Richter said.

  Gremiakin was silent for a few moments, but then as they emerged on to the pavement and walked towards the corner around which Richter had parked the car he spoke again. ‘Probably not Georgia,’ he said, and the way he said it made Richter stop and look at him. Gremiakin had removed his right hand from the pocket of his jacket, and Richter could see that he was holding a small automatic pistol. ‘More probably one of the counties of northern England, Mr Willis. Or should that be Mr Beatty?’ Gremiakin said.

  Something, somewhere, had gone badly wrong. In the quiet of the evening Richter could faintly hear the sound of a car engine at high revolutions, still a long way off, but rapidly getting closer. Obviously Gremiakin hadn’t just been finding his jacket in his flat – he’d also been making a telephone call, and the cavalry was on its way. Richter had probably less than a minute to sort things out.

  Gremiakin was smiling with pleasurable anticipation. ‘I was talking to General Modin this afternoon – most of the afternoon, in fact,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘and he told me all about you.’

  ‘I see,’ Richter said, and turned as if to walk away. Then he pivoted on his left heel and span round, dropping and kicking out, hard, with his right foot. His kick caught the side of Gremiakin’s right knee, and he fell like a pole-axed ox. As he tumbled, Richter crouched forward and punched him with the side of his hand, below and behind the left ear, and the Russian was unconscious before he reached the ground. The VAZ was only about fifty yards away. Richter put his arms round Gremiakin’s chest, dragged him to it and manoeuvred him into the passenger seat. The noise of the approaching car was much louder, and Richter expected it to arrive at any moment.

  What Gremiakin wouldn’t have been able to tell them was what Richter was driving, because he had parked the VAZ out of sight of the flat, and Richter was keen that they shouldn’t find out. Gremiakin was still out cold. Richter started the engine of the VAZ, put Gremiakin’s pistol – a 9mm Makarov PM, modelled on the German Walther PP – in his pocket and walked back to the corner to wait for the cavalry.

  Richter took the Smith and Wesson out of the shoulder holster and checked the cylinder. He knew it was fully loaded, but it never hurts to check twice. Then he just waited.

  The car – a VAZ, similar to the one Richter w
as driving – came round the corner in front of him on no more than three wheels, headlights blazing, and lurched to a stop in front of the apartment building. Four men got out and ran for the entrance doors. Richer had no quarrel with any of them, so he waited until they were inside and, he guessed, at least halfway up the stairs, before he did anything.

  Then Richter took careful aim with the Smith and fired once at the car. The pistol kicked high, and the left front tyre blew with a satisfying bang. Richter lowered the weapon again and put two rounds through the engine compartment. If a .357 Magnum bullet hits the side of an engine block, it’s quite capable of going right through it. Richter couldn’t guarantee that he’d destroyed the motor, but he was quite sure the car wouldn’t be able to follow him.

  Richter holstered the Smith, ran back to his car and drove away as quickly as he could, watching the rear-view mirror very carefully. The first of them came round the corner of the building when the VAZ was about eighty metres down the road, and just as Richter made a turn to the right. At that range Richter was certain he would not have been able to read the car number plate. He would no doubt have identified the vehicle as a VAZ, but that was hardly a problem – every second car on the streets of Moscow was a VAZ.

  Gremiakin was beginning to stir, go Richter waited until the road straightened up, then took out the Smith, reversed it, and hit him smartly on the head with the butt. Gremiakin lapsed into unconsciousness again, and Richter concentrated on getting to where he wanted to go.

  It was a little after eight forty when Richter drove up a narrow track off a side road to the south-east of Kon’kovo. He parked the car in a small clearing well off the road and facing back the way he had come, stopped the engine, got out and just listened. In the twilight Richter heard bird song, occasional rustlings of small animals in the undergrowth, and the wind in the tree-tops, but no voices, no indication of any human presence. Satisfied, he opened the boot and dragged out the tarpaulin he had liberated from the building site that afternoon, and spread it out on the ground behind the car and next to a small tree. Then he took out the toolkit and the jack handle and put them beside it.

  Richter dragged Gremiakin out of the car and laid him out on the tarpaulin. He was beginning to come round, which suited Richter fine. He opened up the toolkit and took out a roll of thick black sticky tape, a length of which he stuck across Gremiakin’s mouth as a makeshift gag. Richter didn’t want him to talk, only to listen. Richter used a couple of plastic cable ties to lash the Russian’s wrists together behind the tree, leaving him in a sitting position. He removed Gremiakin’s shoes and socks, found a stout tree branch about three feet long and used more cable ties to secure his ankles to it, one at each end.

  Ten minutes later Gremiakin was fully awake and staring at Richter. Richter stared straight back. ‘You shouldn’t have come with me,’ Richter said. ‘You knew who I was, and you must have guessed what I wanted. You should have stayed in your flat.’

  Gremiakin blinked, his blue eyes watery. ‘You said you talked with General Modin. I presume that meant you talked with him in your professional capacity?’ The Russian’s nod was just perceptible. ‘He was under suspicion because of what happened to the London weapon, I suppose? Recalled by the Kremlin, or possibly Bykov put the finger on him?’

  The Russian shook his head. ‘That’s a surprise,’ Richter said. ‘And because you were involved, I presume that the general is now no longer with us?’ Again the slight nod. ‘Another tick in your records?’ Richter said, and Gremiakin looked puzzled. Richter waved a hand. ‘Never mind,’ he continued. ‘I didn’t come about the general.’

  Richter opened the toolbox again and took out a claw hammer. Then he walked behind the tree and smashed it as hard as he could, twice, into the back of Gremiakin’s right hand. The skin ruptured, and bones splintered, showing white against the up-welling blood.

  Richter walked back to the end of the tarpaulin and sat down. He took a tissue from his pocket, cleaned the debris off the end of the hammer and put it on the tarpaulin beside him. Only then did he look at Gremiakin. The Russian’s face was pale and bloodless, and tears were running down his cheeks.

  ‘It stings, doesn’t it?’ Richter said. ‘Perhaps before you die you’ll appreciate a little of what your subjects have suffered at your hands over the years. I’m only sorry,’ he added, ‘that I don’t have the sophisticated instruments that are available to you in the Lubyanka.’ Richter smiled mirthlessly at Gremiakin, and dragged the toolbox towards him. ‘So we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got in here, won’t we?’ he said.

  Richter took a pair of heavy wire-cutters, walked behind the tree again, severed two of the fingers from Gremiakin’s left hand and tossed them on to the tarpaulin in front of him. The Russian was groaning and barely conscious, so Richter cleaned up the cutters and waited a few minutes for him to recover.

  ‘This is really just a taster,’ Richter said. ‘You’ll die within the hour, very painfully, but you’ll still have had an easier ride than most of the people you’ve questioned.’ Richter picked up the hammer again and Gremiakin flinched. ‘Your feet next, I think,’ Richter said, then put the hammer down. ‘You probably want to know why,’ Richter continued. ‘You want to know why you’re here, and why I’m doing all these terrible things to you – terrible things that you would normally expect to be doing to somebody else. You probably think I’m a sadist, but I’m not. But I do believe in retribution, and if anyone I’ve ever met deserves retribution, it’s you.

  ‘You,’ Richter continued, ‘are a sadist, without question. You probably see yourself as a technician, just a man doing an important job for the KGB and then for the SVR that nobody else wanted to do. But you’re wrong, because you enjoy your work, and that’s the difference. It probably gave you a particular thrill to see General Modin lying naked in front of you this afternoon, strapped to the table and hoping to die quickly. He was a decent man who didn’t like you, and never made any secret of it, and I’m sure that added extra spice to your work.’

  Richter took the hammer then and hit the side of Gremiakin’s left foot as hard as he could. Blood flowed and bones broke. Even through the tape gag Richter could hear the Russian’s howl of anguish. ‘That,’ Richter said, ‘is a small return of service for General Modin.’ He cleaned the head of the hammer again. ‘But as I said, I’m not here because of the general.’ Richter put the hammer down and looked at Gremiakin.

  ‘I’m here,’ Richter continued, ‘because of an Englishman. A man called Newman, Graham Newman, who received your attentions earlier this year. He was, as the SVR quite obviously knew, the British Secret Intelligence Service Head of Station here in Moscow. General Modin was quite forthcoming when I asked him. Newman was snatched by the SVR, not because of anything he knew, but because of something he might have found out about.’

  The Russian stared at him. ‘You questioned him. According to General Modin, it took you several hours, and I cannot even begin to imagine the agony Newman went through before he finally died. You can, of course, because you were entirely responsible for it.’ Gremiakin shook his head. ‘Normally, of course, we professionals accept that kind of thing as being all part of the game, one of the risks a man runs if he gets involved in the clandestine world.

  ‘But Newman was different,’ Richter continued, ‘at least to me.’ Gremiakin was still staring at him. ‘Graham Newman,’ Richter said, ‘was my cousin.’ The Russian recoiled as if Richter had hit him. ‘So you see, this is nothing to do with professional ethics or morals or anything else. This is just a simple family matter.’

  He reached into the toolbox again, took out a six-inch screwdriver and walked towards Gremiakin.

  Richter left the site at a little before ten. What was left of Gremiakin was lying in the undergrowth, wrapped in the tarpaulin, and it might be days or weeks before anybody found the body. Richter had thoroughly cleaned all the tools, and was confident that there was nothing in the vehicle that could link the VAZ e
ither to the site or to the body. He wouldn’t have been so certain in the West, but Russian forensic science is fairly rudimentary.

  He returned to the Embassy without incident, parked the car and went to bed.

  Tuesday

  Moscow

  Richter saw Payne the following morning, told him that his business in Moscow was completed, and asked for a car and escort to Sheremetievo airport that afternoon to catch the British Airways afternoon flight back to Heathrow.

  ‘Why an escort?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Because I have reason to believe that I have been compromised and my possession of a diplomatic passport may not be sufficient to guarantee my safe passage out of the country.’

  This burst of officialese was actually understating the case. Gremiakin had known exactly who Richter was, and his telephone call to his minders had presumably included a statement of Richter’s identity. Even a cursory check of the departure flight schedules would reveal that a ‘Mr Beatty’ was booked on the London flight.

  Reverting to Richter’s real name and genuine passport, which he had sewn into the lining of the bottom of his overnight case, wouldn’t help. Russian bureaucracy is slow but thorough – they have, after all, had a lot of practice. Before a Mr Richter could fly out of Russia, a Mr Richter would have to fly in to Russia; the two sections of the visa have to match.

  Richter’s best hope was that Gremiakin had not had time to disseminate the information properly, and that he would be able to slip out before the hunt was really under way. The escort from the Embassy might help if this turned out to be as forlorn a hope as Richter expected.

  Payne elected to come in person, together with the Second Secretary, and they climbed out of the car at Sheremetievo Terminal Two at fifteen thirty, allowing the usual two hours before the flight’s departure time. Richter hadn’t noticed any unusual police or militia presence outside the airport, and the terminal appeared much as normal. He was beginning to think it was actually going to work when he saw a face he knew approaching him.