Free The Kremlin Device by Chris Ryan Page A

car was parked against the kerb. Suddenly a grey van hurtled past us from behind. Tyres screeched as it scorched to a halt inches in front of the car, blocking any take-off. From the van burst four figures in uniform – militiamen, by the look of them. They ran at the car, ripped the doors open and dragged out the driver and passengers.
    In seconds the three guys from the car were spread-eagled over their own vehicle, taking heavy punishment from batons. Then one of the uniformed men stood back in the road and fired a couple of short bursts from his sub-machine gun, aiming into the air over the river. His purpose seemed to be to scare the shit out of the targets – and I wondered where the bullets were landing in this huge city. As if to emphasise what he thought of his victims, another militiaman ran in and swung his boot, delivering a fierce kick to one of the huddled bodies, catching the man in the small of the back, whereupon he sank to the ground with a groan.
    My instinct was to back off as fast as possible. Whinger evidently felt the same, and hissed in my ear, ‘Keep walking!’ This was nothing to do with us, and we definitely didn’t want to get involved. So we crossed to the far pavement and kept going. The last we saw, one of the three had been dragged into the van and driven off, leaving the others slumped in the gutter by their vehicle.
    â€˜What the fuck was that all about?’ Whinger muttered. ‘Were they the cops, or hooligans pretending to be cops?’
    â€˜I bet those were some of the guys we’re going to have to train,’ said Rick cheerfully.
    The brawl had made me yet more edgy, and for the last few hundred yards to the hotel, we speeded up. The approach was thronged by hangers-around, but as far as we could see the crowd didn’t include our friend who’d lost his knife. Still, I was relieved when we’d pushed through and were back inside.
    By now it was nearly 11.00 p.m., and Whinger spoke for all of us when he said, ‘Let’s get a pint, for Christ’s sake.’
    We’d already spotted a bar on the third floor, so we took the lift up. Whinger stepped out first on to the landing, and he was hardly through the door before I heard him go, ‘ Phworrhh! Firekin ell!’
    â€˜What is it?’ I rushed out – and instantly saw: leaning against the wall was the most blatant hooker I’d ever set eyes on – fishnet stockings, black leather skirt nine inches long, white blouse open to the navel, blazing scarlet lipstick, hair a dark, coppery colour she was never born with. As we passed within a couple of feet of her she let out a long jet of cigarette smoke through pursed lips and gave us a cool, arrogant stare of appraisal.
    â€˜Jesus!’ Whinger muttered as we turned along a corridor. ‘How was that for an old slag? She could be quite a looker if she wasn’t so plastered in make-up.’
    â€˜Rather you than me, mate,’ I said. ‘Wait a minute, though. You’re not exactly strapped for choice.’
    The entrance to the bar was ahead of us, at the end of the landing; in front of the doorway lurked three more women, all peroxide blondes, all smoking. We pushed past them into a dark cavern thudding with a disco beat and headed for the bar on our right.
    â€˜ Pivo, pozhaluista ,’ I said, trying out two of my best words. ‘ Tri .’
    â€˜Three beers?’ said the barman in good-sounding English.
    I nodded, and he pulled three tall glasses of Heineken, the only brand on offer. The beer was OK, but it cost the equivalent of £3 apiece.
    As our eyes became accustomed to the dim light, we realised that the whole room was heaving with hookers, all dressed in minimalist kit. Two were dancing with each other under strobe lights on a small circular floor in the centre; the rest were sitting at tables or standing against the walls, gyrating in time with the beat. A quick head-count put the