Читать книгу Moscow Blue - Philip Kurland - Страница 4

Seriously engrossed at his desk, a smouldering butt perched on the edge of a full ashtray, senior bureaucrat, Kolyunov, didn’t react to the squeak of plastic-soled shoes on the polished wooden floor. Lesser mortals often arrived unannounced into the large, sparsely furnished office with its atmosphere saturated with the smoke of cheap Russian cigarettes. But by the time the three men had reached his desk, it was too late to ask questions. A savage thrust snapped his head back, stretching sinews to their limit. He grabbed the arms of his chair instinctively to anchor himself, and although his glasses were knocked askew, he could still make out the unmistakable swarthy features of the two intruders standing in front of him. From behind, cold hands of the unseen third had a rigid grip on his seventy-year old head.

‘What are you do --’ Kolyunov began, but his question was cut short by his tie, rammed into his mouth by a large, stubby hand. He kicked and struggled for freedom but his feeble attempts were easily brushed aside by younger, stronger men. No pain was inflicted during the melee and he barely reacted to the hypodermic needle passing through the tissues inside his nostril. The unseen man standing behind him suddenly released his grip on Kolyunov’s head, letting it fall forward heavily onto his buttoned waistcoat.

Kolyunov yanked the tie from his mouth, his face flushing with rage. He stood as sharply as he was able, knocking his desk and dislodging his butt from the ashtray. He needed a few seconds for his throat to moisten enough to swallow, but by then the three intruders were already at the door. They took one last look at their victim before disappearing into the hallway.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Kolyunov yelled. ‘Do you know who I am?’ There was a fruitless pause. ‘I’m Assistant to the Minister. What do you think you’re doing coming in here like that? Who sent you? Come back here! D’you hear me? I’m ringing Security.’ His authoritative tones reverberated off the flaking gloss-paint on the lofty walls, but by the time he had finished, the men were far gone and there was neither courage nor strength to run after them.

‘Viktor!’ Kolyonov shouted, his fingers stabbing ferociously at the intercom keys. ‘Come in here immediately!’ But there was no response from Viktor Besedof, his personal assistant based outside in the hallway.

‘Where the hell is he? The lazy bastard.’ Kolyunov thumped his desk out of pique, catching the side of his glass, shooting the remains of his tea over his documents. He paused to catch a laboured breath. ‘You bastards! You Georgian bastards!’ He wasn’t used to shouting, and in a bizarre way, realised he enjoyed the release of tension it brought.

He felt the front of his pants were wet, causing unfamiliar fear to freeze him for a moment. ‘What have they done to me?’ he mumbled, moving towards the open door with small faltering steps.

‘Viktor!’ he bawled. ‘Where are you? Damn you! What have those bastards done to me? What have they . . .’

At that moment he emerged into the hall. Viktor Besedov was nowhere to be seen. His chair was empty, and the long, well lit hall completely deserted. ‘Viktor?’ Kolyunov queried quietly, but there was not even a subtle echo to give him some degree of comfort.

As he turned and twisted in his fruitless search, he became aware of having difficulty maintaining his balance, and in trying to straighten his glasses, pitched them spinning to the floor. ‘Help me!’ he cried out weakly, creeping back to his room. ‘Help me.’ But his almost silent pleading was in vain. The building was deserted. ‘FSB!’ he croaked, leaning against his desk for support. ‘FSB. Three billion! I should never …’

Kolyunov tried to lift the phone, but the fatal injection was taking full effect and his limbs would not move. He knew all the authority and power he had enjoyed only minutes before, were gone, and as he begged for death not to claim him before he could say his goodbyes, his knees crumpled, dropping him to the floor, his face a bright pink.

Life for the Russian bureaucrat had faded to black while the three assassins became lost in a snowy encounter with Moscow’s early evening rush hour.