Free The Kremlin Device by Chris Ryan

he held in front of the guy’s face.
    That made his eyeballs rotate and quietened him nicely.
    â€˜Into the river,’ I said, and Rick flipped the weapon over the wall. We heard the splash as it hit the water.
    â€˜No mobile phone or radio?’
    Rick shook his head. ‘No wallet or money either.’
    â€˜In that case he’s probably after ours.’
    Suddenly I remembered one of the unofficial phrases Valentina had taught us. ‘ Valite otsyuda! ’ told him, and indicated the direction he could go – back the way we’d come.
    He got the message, no problem. As we released him, he shook himself like a dog and set off without a word. I saw that he had a bit of a limp, dipping slightly on his right leg. We watched until he had disappeared up the steps by the bridge, then we carried on along the river.
    â€˜What did he say, Rick?’
    â€˜Just that he was out for a walk.’
    â€˜Like hell he was.’
    Rick was the most observant member of our party. He had a terrific knack of noticing any small object or incident that was out of line, and his memory for faces was phenomenal: even a year or more after an event he’d remember a person’s appearance. Sometimes it took him a minute or two to place them, but then the setting and date would come back. I’m sure his skill derived partly from all the surveillance work he’d done in Northern Ireland, and often it stood us in good stead.
    â€˜Where did he pick us up?’ I asked. ‘Was he outside the hotel?’
    Rick shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He must have been hanging around on Red Square.’
    Away to our right, across the river, the floodlit Kremlin was a magnificent sight, but we were feeling too unsettled by the incident to appreciate it fully.
    â€˜I can see three possible explanations,’ I said. ‘One, he was after our money. Two, Sasha detailed him to check where we went. Three, he was a Mafia dicker. I don’t like any of them. If he was just a mugger, it goes to show how dodgy this place is. If Sasha sent him, it means we’re not trusted. If he’s Mafia, it means we may have been rumbled already.’
    I was getting jumpy. I remembered how the Colombians had had dickers posted at all the airports, photographing people as they arrived off the planes. Someone had told me that the secret police got hold of the flight manifests, and that by using computers they were able to match up passengers with pictures, so they could keep tabs on every single visitor to the country.
    We walked on, until we became aware of a handsome, old-style building set back from the road behind a courtyard on our left, and flanked by two matching outliers, evidently part of the complex. Beside the gate, in a grey pillbox, were two Russian guards in uniform, chatting, smoking, looking bored and not paying attention. Behind them, further in, was a stone gatehouse containing a guy in a red jumper who sat at a desk behind a glass screen.
    â€˜Bet that’s a Brit,’ I said. ‘He’s a bit more alert. He’ll be controlling the electronic gates and the phones.’
    â€˜Look on the roof,’ said Rick, ‘left-hand corner. There’s an infra-red light. They must have good security systems.’
    We crossed the street towards the gates, where a brass plaque announced that the building was the British Embassy. The discovery made me feel a little better: at least we’d carried out one small but useful research task.
    We recrossed the river by the next bridge, watching our rear all the way, and returned to base along the north side of the Kremlin, past the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where a perpetual gas flame burned out of a horizontal slab, and a cloak made of bronze lay folded over a plinth. We paid our respects and walked on.
    Then, only a minute or two away from the hotel, we were nearly caught up in a violent incident. Fifty yards ahead, facing us, a single