Quiller Balalaika

by Adam Hall

  'Boss, please, boss, for the sake -' his voice cracking.

  But he took the gun, looked at it as if he'd never seen one before, silent now, his mouth shaking, his eyes wide, such are your typical hit men, put them on the wrong side of their favourite toy and this is what you see, call it a jelly-fish, not good to look upon without a sour rush of contempt into the mouth.

  'Play,' Vishinsky cut across him, 'play!'

  The guard Vitali stood away from the man quickly, perhaps bearing in mind how far a jet of blood will reach when an artery's hit, and there was a click as Moskolets pulled the trigger, another click as he pulled it again, wanting suddenly to get it over, know the worst, was that it?

  I watched Vishinsky's face, the eyes of the Cougar, as he stared at the roulette-player, unblinking. Behind him the guard had his own eyes narrowed, his mouth compressed, his head jerking a degree as Vishinsky's voice came.

  'Play, you fucking clod, come on, three – fire!'

  Another click, the man's finger moving as if to the force of the other man's voice, the face of Moskolets now bright with sweat, his hand shaking as he kept the gun held to his temple, his eyes no longer registering anything as his mind passed beyond terror and beyond despair, dwelling in oblivion, already -

  'Play, Moskolets, you -'

  Crash of the gun and the guard jumped forward to catch the man as the blood bloomed crimson across the skull and the thick squat body jack-knifed into Vitali's arms.

  'Mind the carpet, don't get blood on the carpet!'

  'Okay, boss,' cradling Moskolets' head against his jump-suit as he lowered the body, two of the other guards moving in to help him.

  'Get a bag.' Vishinsky's voice quiet now as the cordite fumes curdled in the air below the lamp. 'Put him into a bag and give me his gun.'

  'Sure, boss.'

  One of them left the room, his feet quick, bouncing in their fancy Nikes across the carpet. Vishinsky didn't move, sat with his legs crossed and the revolver on his lap as he stared at the mottled face of Moskolets, his body propped against the wall, a guard holding the palm of his hand over the bloodied cavity in the skull.

  It was a black bag the other man brought back, the standard model. It must, I suppose, have been tempting for the Cougar to have his escutcheon printed on it in gold – he must have kept a supply of these things, for God's sake. The Russian-style syndicates, Croder had said, make the Italian and Sicilian operators look like harmless amateurs, yea, verily, in all sooth.

  A dull musical note sounded, long-drawn-out and with a tone of finality in it as a guard pulled the zip-fastener shut on the bag.

  'Two of you, take him to the forest.'

  'Sure, boss.'

  They lifted the body together, one at its shoulders and the other holding its feet. A third guard opened the door for them, closed it again, its sheet steel booming faintly like the echo of a prison gate. The fumes of the cordite hung on the air, bitter-sweet.

  Vishinsky picked up one of the bullets from the carpet and slipped it into the chamber of the revolver and slapped it shut and threw the gun across to me.

  'Now you,' he said. 'Play.'

  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.'

  12: KICK

  I told Ferris, 'Get Legge's people to check on the Mercedes. It should still be in a side street near the Hotel Faberge.'

  'Check on it?'

  'It could go bang.'

  'I'll tell him. What did you come here in?'

  'Nothing.'

  I ate some more goulash, hunger beginning. We were in an all night greasy spoon cafe, as far as I'd been able to walk from Vishinsky's hotel before I dropped.

  I'd signalled Ferris from the phone box outside and he'd got here a minute ago, so we had to deal with the essentials first. I didn't want some innocent policeman blowing himself up when he started investigating the abandoned Merc.

  'Are you operational?' Ferris asked me. Another immediate essential.

  'No.'

  He sat taking me in with his calm yellow eyes. He must have been distinctly edgy, over the last few hours. When the executive's in a red sector his director in the field stays locked in his base with his nerves, counting the roses on the wallpaper while London comes through on the scrambler every ten minutes to ask for an updated report.

  'You need treatment?'

  I said no. There was nothing broken. But it'd be a while before I could run flat out or jump a wall or take on more than one assailant at a time with any success, which was what operational meant. Perhaps tomorrow, if I could get any sleep in what remained of the night.

  Ferris scraped the legs of his ric
kety aluminium chair on the tiled floor and went across to the counter and came back in a minute with a ragged cotton napkin and dropped it onto the table. I wrapped my left hand in it: the bleeding had started again.

  'Any down?' Ferris asked me.

  'Three.'

  He'd assumed I wouldn't be looking like this without somebody having become terminal somewhere along the line. There was Jakub, on the roof, and two of Vishinsky's bodyguards at the Hotel Nikolas.

  'Self-defence,' Ferris said.

  'That's right.' He'd have to report it to London. I'd used a full jokari.

  'You reached the board?' I asked Ferris. The board for Balalaika.

  'Oh, yes. As soon as you signalled.'

  The stub of chalk would have gone squeaking across the slate: Executive clear of red sector. And Holmes would have gone over to pour himself some more coffee, celebrate, hallelujah.

  'So you've no transport?' Ferris.

  'What? No.'

  'You phoned from here?'

  'Box is outside.'

  I finished the gruel while he went and signalled Legge for another car for me to use.

  At least, Koyama would have called it a mawashi-geri, afull roundhouse kick. Qian would have called it a tie-yu, ahook kick. Actually it had been both, because when the roundhouse is drawn back to the fullest extent it automatically forms a hook, with the foot at right angles to the leg.

  When I'd heard Vishinsky telling the bodyguard what he wanted done I was still approaching the bar to get him his cognac, and everything had slowed down. When we need more time, we are given it; any crisis will automatically trigger the mechanism.

  At that instant the bar was still eight, nine feet away, and I had five or six seconds in which to think what to do. Something had to be done because as soon as I'd given Vishinsky his drink the bodyguard would drop me with a shot and they'd get the bag in here, finis, finito.

  It was a full bar, ranging in proof from Dubonnet to straight vodka, twenty or thirty bottles in two rows. At the extreme right was a green frosted bottle of Remy Martin, which was what Vishinsky would be waiting for. The height of the bar top was some three feet, the approximate height of a jokari, depending on the build of the karateka executing the kick, which assumes the horizontal the moment the leg is drawn back.