Instantly inflamed, now Shukshin sensed movement: the patio doors clicking shut behind him! He whirled, saw, and his jaw fell open. ‘Who . . .? What . . .’ he choked.
Two men faced him, stood there in his own study where they had waited for him, and one of them held a gun pointed straight at Shukshin’s heart. He recognised the weapon as Russian service issue, recognised the coldly emotionless looks of the two men, and felt Doom closing its fist on him. But in a way it was not entirely unexpected.
He had thought there might be some sort of visit one day. But that it should be now, of all ill-omened moments.
‘Sit down – Comrade,’ said the tall one, his voice harsh as a file on Shukshin’s ragged nerves.
Max Batu pushed a chair forward and Shukshin very nearly collapsed into it. Batu moved to stand behind him where he sat facing Dragosani. The ESP-aura washed all about Shukshin now, as if his mind swam in bile. Oh, yes, they were from the Chateau Bronnitsy, these two!
The blackmailer’s face was ravaged, eyes sunken deep in black sockets. Looking over his head at Dragosani, finally Batu’s round face cracked into a grin. ‘Comrade Dragosani,’ he said, ‘I had always thought you looked ill – until now!’
‘ESPers!’ Shukshin spat the word out. ‘Borowitz’s men! What do you want of me?’
‘He has every reason to look ill, Max,’ Dragosani’s voice was deep as a pit. ‘A traitor, a blackmailer, probably a murderer . . .’
Shukshin looked as if he might spring to his feet. Batu placed heavy, stubby hands on his shoulders. ‘I asked,’ Shukshin grated, ‘what you want of me?’
‘Your life,’ said Dragosani. He took a silencer from his pocket, screwed it tightly to the muzzle of his weapon, stepped forward and placed it against Shukshin’s fore head. ‘Only your life.’
Shukshin felt Max Batu step carefully to one side behind him. And he knew they were going to kill him.
‘Wait!’ he croaked. ‘You’re making a mistake. Borowitz won’t thank you for it. I know a lot – about the British side. I’ve been giving it to Borowitz bit by bit. But there’s a lot he doesn’t know yet. Also, I’m still working for you
– in my way. Why, I’m on a job now! Yes, right now.’
‘What job?’ said Dragosani. It had not been his intention to shoot Shukshin, merely to frighten him. Max’s getting out of the line of fire had only been a natural reaction. Shooting was messy and made for bad necromancy. The way Dragosani had planned Shukshin’s death was much more interesting:
When he had obtained all he could get this way, by simple questioning, then they would take Shukshin to the bathroom and bind him. They would put him in a bath half full of cold water and Dragosani would use one of his surgical sickles to slit his wrists. As he lay there in water rapidly turning red as his life leaked out, then Dragosani would re-question him. The promise would be that if Shukshin told all, his wounds would be bound and he’d be released. Dragosani would show him bandages, surgical tape. But of course, Shukshin would only have so much time to respond. All the time the water was darkening with his blood, until he lay in a cold, crimson soup. It would have been a warning, a promise that if Shukshin continued to give them trouble, then Dragosani and Batu – or others like them – would be back to finish the job. That is what they would tell Shukshin, but of course the job would be finished right there and then.
Even so, still Shukshin might hold something back. Something, perhaps, which he did not consider important, something forgotten – maybe something too damning to tell. Maybe, for instance, he was already working for the British . . .
But whatever he said it would make no difference. When he was dead they would flush his drained corpse with fresh water, take him out of the bath, and then , . . then Dragosani would continue to question.
Now Dragosani took the gun away from Shukshin’s forehead, sat down facing him. ‘I’m waiting,’ he said. ‘What job?’