Steven had been opting to run through narrow lanes, hoping to shake off his pursuer, but also looking for opportunities to be briefly out of sight, hoping to spot some feature which might give him a chance of gaining the initiative, but the real risk of a gun being used made him think he should be heading for a heavily populated area. A pro wouldn’t be so foolish as to use a weapon on a crowded street. He could see that two hundred metres ahead, a street running across at right angles seemed much busier and headed for it.
The heavy saw what he was intending to do and the left side of Steven’s face was suddenly peppered with stone fragments as his pursuer opened fire, hitting the wall beside him. There had been no sound of a gunshot, although Steven recognised the thwack of a silenced pistol as a second shot narrowly missed him before ricocheting off an iron down-pipe with a fading whine.
There were no turnings off the lane he was on and he still had over a hundred metres to go as he introduced a desperate zig zag to his run.
Up ahead, a small red car turned into the lane and stopped before a young woman, searching in her handbag and obviously in a hurry, got out and hurried towards a flat entrance to disappear inside. Steven immediately zig zagged towards the car, praying that she’d left her keys in the ignition. A bullet smashed into the car’s offside headlamp as he reached it and threw himself inside, struggling to get his knees under the steering wheel, which was too close to the seat for his six foot plus frame. His pursuer had stopped running to adopt the classic taking-aim position, spreading his feet, holding his weapon in both hands as Steven clumsily managed to find first gear and press his foot to the floor. The car’s rev counter roared into the red zone as it hurtled towards the heavy who managed to get off one more hurried shot before throwing himself to the side to avoid being run over, something he didn’t quite manage as Steven felt the nearside of the car hit him a glancing but substantial blow in the chest.
Steven slowed after a further fifty metres to check the rear-view mirror for signs of physical damage he’d inflicted. The heavy was getting up unsteadily to his feet, crouching and holding his ribs but still very much alive. Steven had no wish to provide him with any more target practice so he accelerated away, reaching down to slide the driving seat backwards for some semblance of comfort. A last glance in the mirror before turning out of sight suggested that the injured man was holding a phone to his ear.
Steven pulled off into a quieter street and sat for a few moments, calming down and getting his breath back while his phone brought up his map location. He called the Sci-Med duty officer and gave him details of what had happened.
The duty man calmly recorded them and asked a few questions of his own, finishing with, ‘How would you like this handled?’
‘As discreetly as possible,’ Steven said. ‘The police will probably have been called about a stolen red car — the one I’m sitting in. Try to intercept any police action on this and stop it. Have Special Branch handle it. The Russian in question is armed and will be heading back to this address.’ He read out where Dimitri Petrov lived. ‘where a black limousine and its driver may still be waiting for him — The Russian has chest injuries, maybe more.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’m going to leave this car now at the location I gave you in case patrol cars have already been asked to look out for it.’
‘Understood.’
‘And inform Sir John what’s been going on.’
‘Will do. Do you need transport?’
‘No... I’m fine.’
Steven got out of the car and straightened up before massaging the small of his back with both hands and deciding a Nissan Micra wasn’t for him. He brushed away some stone fragments from his shoulders that had managed to stick there and checked his shoelaces before setting off at a slow jog back to normality. When he got in, Steven poured himself a large drink and slumped down into his favourite window chair to put his feet up on the sill and reflect on the events of the past hour.
Surprising didn’t quite cover it. Why on earth had the Russian gorilla been so determined to hunt him down? To all intents and purposes, he had been an evening jogger who had taken an impromptu snapshot of a fancy limo and whoever happened to be getting out of it. Who the hell was the owner who demanded such privacy? Was an armed response the price to be paid for gazing upon his countenance? Steven drained his glass and headed for the shower.
‘Where have you been?’ Tally asked when Steven answered the phone with a towel wrapped round him. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for the past hour.’
‘Sorry,’ said Steven. ‘I went out for a run. I went a bit further than I originally intended. How are you getting on?’
‘I’m well into the way of things,’ said Tally. ‘and after reading all the reports, I’m even letting myself feel more optimistic than I thought I might be. The measures taken to isolate pockets of infection are working well... although.’
‘Go on,’ Steven prompted.
‘Well, my one worry is that what I’m telling you is based on the figures I’ve seen coming in and there’s always the chance that I may not be seeing the whole picture.’
‘Under-reporting?’ Steven asked.
‘I’m hoping not but the authorities keeping it quiet for the first five months hasn’t helped.’
‘So, the damage to business might well be done anyway,’ said Steven.
‘Well, we’re all hoping that the new initiative is going to pay off. I’ve put in a request for the official WHO report produced after the end of the 2014–16 outbreak.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Similarities in the pattern the spread took back then.’
‘Don’t you have enough to do?’ joked Steven.
‘There’s really not that much to do in the evening.’ Tally replied.
Steven felt relieved that he had managed to get through the conversation without telling Tally anything about his awful evening. She had more than enough on her plate without worrying about him.
John Macmillan rang next to say that Special Branch had not managed to trace his assailant or the limo. They had taken care of returning the little red car to its rightful owner and they would also arrange for its repair. ‘They don’t want an insurance company finding the bullet that smashed the headlight and reporting it to the police.’
‘Of course,’ said Steven.
‘We’ll talk more in the morning.’
Next morning, Steven asked Jean if she would run a check on the photos he’d taken on his phone.
‘Anything to go on?’ she asked.
‘Almost certainly Russian,’ said Steven. ‘He was visiting Dimitri Petrov with a gorilla friend who shouted at me in Russian.’
Steven went through to John Macmillan’s office and went through what had happened all over again.
‘Damned Russians,’ said Macmillan. ‘You can’t move in Mayfair for them. London is awash with Russian money of dodgy origin. Every time you cross the road you run the risk of being knocked down by some Russian kid driving a Ferrari he got for his birthday. Are you really sure this character was determined to kill you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Steven. ‘He knew what he was doing.’
Macmillan let out his breath in a long sigh as his anger gave way to resignation. ‘What’s our country coming to?’ he murmured, ‘As long as you’ve got the money you can come here and do as you damn well please. You only have to show you have ten million in assets and it gets you a UK investment visa with permanent residence after only two years. It’s pretty obvious the police have been steering clear of them, going easy, looking the other way and now we’ve got nerve agents being used on our streets and gunmen running around Islington taking pot shots at joggers.’