Overkill by James Barrington Page B

the seat, then closed all the stall doors. He entered the fourth stall,
pushed the door closed behind him and climbed onto the seat. Then he waited.
    Seconds later, he heard the noise of the restroom door opening, followed by heavy footsteps. The man stopped just inside the room and Richter knew he was looking at the closed stall doors, and
was probably down on his knees peering underneath them. After that, the Russian had only one option, and five seconds later he took it.
    Richter heard the crash as the first stall door smashed open, then the second and the third. Timing is everything. To kick down a door, the attacker must obviously be standing on only one leg,
and a man on one leg is by any definition unbalanced. In the split second before the Russian’s right foot connected with the lavatory door, Richter stepped off the seat, pulled the door open
and simultaneously launched himself forward, left arm reaching downwards.
    The kick that hadn’t connected had spun the Russian round on his left leg. Richter’s hand hooked neatly under the Russian’s right calf and he pulled up and backwards, a basic
Aikido move that used the opponent’s own momentum against him. The Russian lurched sideways, toppled against the side of the lavatory stall and then fell heavily, legs splayed wide apart. As
the man hit the floor, Richter kicked sideways with his left foot, catching the Russian’s right arm at the wrist, sending the small black automatic pistol spinning under the wall of the
adjacent stall. Then he smashed his fist, hard, into the left side of the Russian’s neck, and then it was all over.
    Richter pulled the unconscious Russian out of the stall and propped his body against the restroom wall. He reached into the man’s inside jacket pocket and extracted a black leather wallet,
which he opened. One of the items inside caused him to nod in satisfaction. He replaced the wallet, retrieved his briefcase and extracted the bottle of scotch. Richter cracked open the top, poured
the liquor liberally over the front of the Russian’s jacket, then placed the bottle by the unconscious man’s right hand.
    The pistol was a Russian 5.45mm PSM, light and easily concealed. Richter took a handkerchief out of his pocket, picked up the pistol and dropped it into the paper towel waste bin beside the row
of sinks. He’d just picked up his briefcase when the restroom door opened and a man walked in. He looked at Richter, then at the figure slumped against the wall.
    ‘Another drunk,’ Richter said, in colloquial Russian, walking towards the door.
    The man sniffed, then nodded. ‘Sometimes you can’t walk round Red Square without tripping over them,’ he replied.
    Richter nodded agreement, opened the restroom door and headed for the departure gate.
     
Chapter Five
    Friday
Stepney, London
    The telephone woke Richter at seven forty. ‘Yes?’ he muttered.
    ‘Go secure, please.’
    ‘Right,’ Richter said, reaching for the telephone base unit and pressing the button. To anyone listening in, it would sound as if both had disconnected.
    ‘Thomas, Duty Officer. How did it go?’
    ‘Fairly well,’ Richter said. ‘The First Secretary’s a bit of a prick, but the Fourth Under-Secretary, a chap named Erroll, is pretty switched on. The car was a mess, and
so was the body. The head was crushed beyond recognition, and the hands and arms were badly burnt. The Embassy identified the body by documentation only.’ Richter paused and yawned. The voice
in the earpiece squawked at him. ‘What?’
    ‘I said, was there was any doubt about the identity of the body?’
    ‘No, none at all.’
    ‘Poor old Newman. A pretty futile way to go. He was—’
    ‘Not really,’ Richter interrupted. ‘You misunderstood me. The identification was conclusive, but only because the body definitely wasn’t Newman.’
    ‘What?’ Thomas said. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t certain.’
    There was a short pause, the faint