Russian Roulette

Book 0: The Sixties Crime Series

by Bernard Knight

Genres: Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A classic murder mystery by acclaimed crime writer Bernard Knight, set in London and Moscow at the height of the Cold War. Simon Smith, an ex-Army man with a gift for languages, is drafted in by a shady businessman to do some `work? in the USSR. Simon thinks it?ll be an easy job with an ample reward?but what with multiple murders, beautiful femmes fatale, and devious master criminals, it?s not as simple as he?d hoped! Meanwhile, the Russian detectives set to trail a suspected thief have all their expectations confounded? A thrilling tale of international politics and police work on the other side of the `Iron Curtain?.

Release date: January 10, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 168

Sample

Prologue

It was one of those cold, windy Sunday nights, when torn newspapers tangled around empty milk bottles and even the tomcats cowered behind their dustbins.

Already early May, it felt like Christmas. It was even raining.

‘Like sumpt’n outta goddam Dickens!’ muttered the American, as he paused under a gas lamp in the Covent Garden backstreet to peer at a scrap of paper. He pushed the address back into his pocket and stared at Crouch Street with distaste.

The grimy windows of the tall grey houses scowled back at him with Victorian disdain. A row of overfilled garbage cans stood like a line of crippled pensioners along the edge of the pavement.

Glimmers of light struggled reluctantly from behind shabby curtains, but further along the street he could see a brighter glow over a doorway. Kramer shrugged his expensive overcoat higher around his neck and moved up the street until he could read the illuminated Perspex sign.

‘Happy Dragon!’ he sneered under his breath. ‘What a helluva place to pick for a meeting!’

He turned in off the dismal street and began to trudge up the surprisingly well-carpeted stairway to the first floor.

In the restaurant above, Simon Smith waited with mounting impatience. He had eaten three exotic Chinese dishes, none of which he had wanted. He’d had to justify his sitting there for forty minutes beyond the arranged time. Never a lover of oriental food, his stomach was now reminding him that egg foo yung and curried prawns were incompatible. A brandy, a lager and three coffees had failed to put out the fire in his abdomen and he was beginning to wish that he had told Harry Lee Kramer to meet him in a Wimpy Bar instead of the Happy Dragon.

He looked at his watch for the second time in a minute and hissed with annoyance. His gaze strayed around the dimly lit room.

There were open tables in the central part, but all around the walls were alcoves formed by heavy brocade curtains. In these discreet niches, a few courting couples and furtive co-respondents lurked in the gloom. A slim Chinese youth glided by with empty dishes, his almond eyes flickering briefly over Simon’s face.

Where the hell was Kramer? Surely even a Yank could find this place, not a hundred yards from the Strand. Simon’s nerves were as good as the next man’s, but after the broad hints about the nature of the proposition that Kramer had dropped on the telephone, he had every right to be a bit on edge. The delay did nothing to soothe him.

He played restlessly with his coffee cup, half-full of cold brown mud, then flicked a microscopic crumb from his lapel. A very smart, if not actually ‘sharp’, dresser, his normal fastidiousness was heightened by the waiting. The thirty-five guinea suit was less than half paid for and even his glassy elastic-sided shoes were not yet wholly his own. In fact, he thought sourly, unless Kramer showed up and the deal went through, his creditors would have him going around London in his underpants before the month was out.

A corner of his eye saw the swing-door open and his head jerked up in anticipation. A lean, tall figure sidled in, muffled in a tweed overcoat, which was soon spirited away by a dinner-jacketed Chinese who materialized from nowhere. After a few whispered words, the manager waved regally towards Simon’s alcove.

Harry Lee Kramer came across and scowled down at the younger man.

‘Say, pal, I know we’re supposed to be going into the cloak-and-dagger business, but ain’t this carrying it a bit far?’

Simon rose and shook hands briefly with the American, whom he had never seen before. Kramer’s long, dyspeptic face turned even sourer. He slumped down into a seat opposite and began massaging his stomach with two fingers slipped between his waistcoat buttons.

‘You going to eat?’ asked Simon.

‘Naw, I’m not having this Hong Kong chow. I had a decent steak back at the hotel … but I’ll have me a drink.’

The Chinese boy appeared like the genie of the lamp. They waited in stony silence until he came back with two brandies.

Simon Smith sat primly attentive, hands folded in front of his glass, bottling up the seething fears and excitement within himself.

‘Well?’ he said, when he could stand Kramer’s heavy silence no longer.

The American took his heavy horn-rimmed glasses off his executive-style face and began to polish the lenses with maddening slowness.

‘Did you get the visa and the tickets?’ he asked, ignoring Simon’s question.

The other man nodded impatiently. ‘They cost me every penny of that hundred quid you sent.’

Kramer ignored that as well.

‘I represent a member of a big stateside corporation,’ he began heavily, as if launching into an hour’s lecture, ‘It don’t matter which one. I’m not supposed to know, so I’m sure you’re not! ’

Satisfied with his spectacles, he put them back on his nose and nudged them into place with an almost obsessive grimace.

‘The research department of this outfit have had the tip-off that the Commies have developed a new kind of tool steel that’s really something … I’m no engineer, God knows, just a plain old undercover man, but it seems that this stuff will slice through metal like a hot knife through butter.’

He paused to gulp some of his brandy and take a long look at his companion over the rim of the glass. About thirty, Kramer thought – a bit more, perhaps. Nicely compact, well-built shape – make a good middleweight, though he looks too fond of his face for the ring. Bit of a ladies’ man – fair wavy hair, baby-blue eyes – be a good conman if he had the personality to go with it, he mused.

Simon suddenly spoke, his voice brittle with pent-up tension.

‘I hope you haven’t got any bloody silly ideas about me cracking safes or shinning over factory walls, have you?’

Kramer shook his head like a bull with an old sack caught in its horns.

‘Naw, naw, naw … jus’ let me finish, will yuh?’

He swallowed some more brandy as if it was cough mixture and winced as it hit his ulcer.

‘Look, it seems that this stuff will revolutionise automated production lines – our people will be able to cut the ground from under Ford and General Motors. So they want it fast – especially before the French or the West Germans get in on the act.’

He looked around furtively and lowered his voice.

‘We’ve already had the whisper that the Krauts have got wind of it, so we gotta beat ’em to it, see?’

Simon nodded, his eyes fixed on the other man. ‘And just where do I come in – and for how much?’

Kramer peered around again, more from force of habit than from fear of being seen. He dipped a hand into his inner pocket and slid a thick envelope across the tablecloth. ‘There’s a thousand bucks in there. Deliver the goods – like I’m gonna tell you – and there’ll be another two grand for you.’

‘Pounds sterling?’

‘Dollars – US.’

‘I want pounds.’

‘Nothing doing, bud – I got my orders. You ain’t the only pebble on the beach – just the first one we happened to pick up.’

‘Let’s hear the details – see what it’s worth.’

Harry grimaced his glasses back up his nose. ‘Right … we’ve got another feller to do all the graft – you’re just the legman. You contact this guy in Moscow and bring back a sample of the stuff for analysis.’

Simon’s hand jumped from the packet as if it had suddenly become red-hot. He leant across the table. ‘Bring the actual stuff back! You must be joking, chum.’ He snorted. ‘I thought you just wanted some bit of paper or a microdot or something … I’m not hawking a steel ingot through Soviet Customs, thank you!’

He sat back with the aggrieved air of one who has just been mortally insulted, though internally he was shaking with excitement. Kramer did another head-shaking act.

‘Naw, naw, naw … there’s nothing to it! What the hell, any idiot can get in and out of Russia these days, it’s not like it used to be. There’s nothing political in it,’ he wheedled illogically, ‘just a bit of good old-fashioned industrial competition, that’s all.’

‘Well, you get some other sucker to stick his neck out!’ snapped Simon, in a rash display of falsely nonchalant heroics.

‘Take it easy,’ placated the American. ‘We only dealt with you because it was such a cinch, even for a beginner. I know you ain’t done any of this before, but with you speaking the lingo so well, it’ll be a pushover. I told you, it’s only legwork, no risks involved. It’ll be a paid holiday!’

‘I could get shot.’

‘Naw, naw, naw!’ Kramer made vaguely conciliatory movements with his hands.

‘Or twenty years in a labour camp.’

Kramer sighed. ‘How much, then?’ He was never one for beating too long about the bush.

‘Make those dollars into pounds.’

‘You’re nuts!’

There was a stirring sound across the table as Simon prepared to get up.

Harry hurriedly raised a hand. ‘OK, OK … I thought it would come to this,’ he muttered, rubbing his belly mournfully. His duodenum always played him up at this point in every business deal.

Simon spoke again, his voice tremulous as fear wrestled with greed. ‘And you’re sure it’s just a simple pick-up job?’

‘Yeah, yeah … now listen, here’s what you have to do. And for Gahd’s sake, don’t louse it up, pal. If this contact man gets the chop, you, me and my ulcer will be outta work for a long time!’

Chapter One

An empty vodka bottle fell with a satisfying splash into the mirror-calm waters of the Baltic.

The sleek white ship slid past in the moonlight, her long wake pointing back towards the tiny flashing light that marked the Swedish coast.

The bottle had come from an open porthole on ‘A’ deck, which spilled light, music and a babble of voices into the quiet of the late evening. Shrill laughter and the clinking of glasses heralded yet another mid-voyage celebration.

‘Of course, I thought of taking a first class cabin, but then, I said “what’s the point?” … I mean, it’s supposed to be a classless society, isn’t it? … we all eat the same food, share the same decks, so why pay absolutely pounds more, just to have a private loo and an extra washbasin!’

The affected accents of the hostess battled against a transistor radio going full blast and the Assistant Purser’s attempts to render ‘The Foggy Dew’ in his native Russian.

Simon Smith clutched the brunette’s arm – a thing he did at the slightest opportunity. ‘Come on, Liz, let’s evaporate before the old dragon buttonholes us again.’ He referred to the formidable blue-rinsed widow who was giving the party, but his companion refused to budge.

‘No, not yet … I’m enjoying myself. Get me another drink, will you?’

Elizabeth Treasure spoke with the imperiousness of a beauty who is accustomed to having men trample one another to death in the rush to obey her every whim.

Simon meekly took her empty glass and began weaving across the cabin to the makeshift bar. His mind was churning with problems, all slightly awash in duty-free drink. Mission ‘Tool Steel’, as he had come to think of it, formed the backcloth of his worries but, at the moment, ways and means of overcoming Liz’s stubborn resistance to his dishonourable intentions were at the forefront of his mind.

She was easily the most attractive woman on the ship, in spite of some close competition from some Swedish and Finnish girls. A chic young lady of about twenty-six, she was wonderfully dressed and exquisitely made-up. She had a figure that made Simon ache every time he looked at it. Built for conquest, her petulance and moodiness were a challenge to the amateur secret agent. He had found out very little about her in the four days since leaving Tilbury for Leningrad, except that she ran an exclusive boutique in Chelsea, along with a partner, presumably another young socialite.

Her unshakeable resistance to seduction was plaguing Simon.

He had always thought himself a pretty fast worker when it came to the love game; he had no particular pride about this – results just showed it to be a fact. Other chaps were good at golf or poker – he was good at seduction. It irked him to admit that, after four nights aboard the Yuri Dolgorukiy, he could get no further than some fairly advanced necking with the delectable Mrs Treasure.

As he squirmed between the last pair of shoulders in the small cabin, to arrive at the ‘bar’, he muttered ‘It’s tonight or bust!’ to himself.

He rested his empty glasses on the bedside locker that was doing service as a bar.

‘What will it be, old chap? Vodka and coke – vodka and gin – or vodka and vodka. Haw, haw, haw!’

Simon peered down at the flushed face of their courier, Gilbert Bynge, who was acting as barman in the intervals between nuzzling the neck of a very young and very pretty Swedish blonde.

A shambles of bottles stood on the locker and surrounding floor, most of them empty. The courier had been pitching the finished ones with carefree abandon and, so far, fortunate accuracy, through the open porthole behind him. He was now getting tipsy and it was only a matter of time before he exploded one in a shower of glass over the guests. Simon studied the remaining drinks.

‘A straight vodka and one with coke … not too much coke, I’m trying to crank her up tonight.’

Gilbert Bynge leered at him and splashed vodka into the used glasses, keeping a firm grip on the blonde’s waist with the other arm.

‘How’s the campaign going, old boy … any joy yet?’

They had discussed the problem earlier that day over beer, Gilbert being the only other man on the Trans-Europa tour who was within a decade of Simon’s age.

‘Not a touch yet – I’ll get these drinks down and then slope off to the boat deck with her – she’s a hard case.’ He gathered up the glasses and set off across the cabin, leaving Gilbert to add to the line of empty bottles now floating every nautical mile across the Gulf of Bothnia.

Their overpowering hostess had thankfully not returned to Elizabeth’s side, but her place had been taken by a short, rotund man with a bald head. He was gesticulating with the enthusiasm of an Arab bazaar keeper, his pink baby face gleaming with perspiration.

‘Vodka and coke – that OK, Liz?’

The brunette took it with the air of someone accustomed only to the best champagne, and stitched her smile on again as she turned back to listen to Monsieur Fragonard. He appeared to be lecturing on the rival merits of Versailles and the Louvre.

Simon stood in the steaming fug, sipping his drink impatiently.

The short chappie was a Swiss merchant, voluble and boring, who latched himself on to anyone who would suffer him at any time of the day.

I’m going to draw another blank tonight if I don’t get her out of this place soon, he fretted, as Fragonard jabbered on to Elizabeth.

He was distracted by some commotion in another corner, where it appeared that the Assistant Purser had fallen in a drunken stupor and shattered his head against the door. Managing to fall full-length in this crush is an achievement in itself, thought Simon dispassionately. The Chief Purser dragged his colleague out into the companionway and the other occupants expanded to take up the space. Almost all the twenty members of the Trans-Europa tour were there, with the exception of a few of the most senile old ladies. A couple of Soviet crewmen and some hangers-on like Gilbert’s girlfriend made up the rest. Apart from Liz and the courier, not one of the tourists was under forty, and, more than once, Simon had the impression that he had joined an old folks’ outing rather than an expensive continental holiday tour. Still, at the . . .