Russian Roulette by Bernard Knight

so much as think of interfering in my arrangements and I will kill you with the greatest of pleasure!’
    Simon slowly lowered the handkerchief. He was astounded and sickened by the change to hate and evil in the little man, who had become almost a figure of gentle fun over the past few days.
    Fragonard was continuing his string of offensively framed orders.
    â€˜You will not write, telephone or contact this man Pabst in any way. You will do nothing except keep your nose clean and be a good little tourist … confine yourself to tumbling girls on your bed and I might overlook your incredible stupidity this evening!’
    Once more, the words, delivered in the most insulting way imaginable, spurred Simon’s temper into action. His fear fell from him, especially as Fragonard’s pistol had dropped during the speech. It was replaced by icy, calculating rage.
    Fragonard began to speak again. ‘Now get out and …’
    The words ended in a gargling cry as Simon’s foot smashed up to land under the soft seat of the chair. He caught the other man off balance and tipped him clean over backwards.
    Fragonard still had an iron grip on the gun and Simon lunged after him to tear it from his grasp, but it was unnecessary.
    As the older man flew full-length across the carpet, his head hit the skirting board at the edge of the communicating door. There was a sickening crack and he lay still, the pistol falling from his limp fingers.
    For an awful moment, Simon thought he was dead. The fact that, half a minute before, Fragonard had been within an ace of shooting him was forgotten.
    He knelt by his side and was immensely relieved to hear a heavy snoring breath come from the stricken man.
    Simon slipped his arms around Fragonard’s chest and heaved him up against his own chest, lugging him to the bed. He laid him flat and was even more relieved to see him stir and moan a little.
    His gaze fell on the pistol, now lying against the wall. At least he could get rid of that – then he would be comparatively safe from the murderous little man, as Russia was the last place on earth in which to replace illicit weapons.
    He picked it up by the trigger guard, with the vague notion of avoiding fingerprints, then looked around for somewhere to dispose of it. There seemed no where suitable in the room – then his eyes fell on the bathroom.
    He went in and stood on the thick, ancient seat of the lavatory. There was an old-fashioned cast-iron cistern level with his face. He prised up the cover, ignoring the trickles of rusty water that ran down his wrist, and dropped the automatic inside, well clear of the siphon.
    Jumping down, he pulled the chain to make sure that the gun wasn’t fouling the mechanism, then went quickly to the bedroom entrance. Fragonard was groaning loudly now and trying to push himself up on one elbow. His injury seemed to be much less serious that it had first appeared.
    â€˜There’s more where that came from, chum;’ growled Simon with a touch of bravado. He felt suddenly sick and longed for his bed. All the delayed effects of the evening’s drinking and emotions rushed over him as he slipped out and shut the door behind him.

Chapter Seven
    Simon awoke to a painful drumming in his head. At first, the thoughts that penetrated his hangover tried to convince him that it was only the pounding of blood in his tortured arteries, but gradually he was forced to accept that someone was actually pounding on his door.
    Opening his eyes, he was momentarily surprised to find that he wasn’t in his own Bayswater room. Then the fog cleared away sufficiently for him to grasp that he was in Moscow and that his watch showed five thirty; presumably a.m.?
    The knocking again conveyed a sense of urgency through the door. Stumbling into his dressing gown, he tottered across the room, the journey seeming to take half a day. As he reached the little passage alongside the bathroom, he heard