It was very cold in the loft which, as Royston vaguely recognised, meant that laying the Cosywrap last winter had been a worthwhile investment. As he rummaged about in the pile of wood-chippings under the cold water tank he was shivering: from the cold, and also from an uneasy feeling which bordered on panic that what he was looking for might have mysteriously vanished.
His groping hand made contact with an oilskin package and he nearly moaned aloud in relief. He drew it out of the wood-shavings and dusted it off in the feeble light of the torch which he had brought up with him when he climbed into the roofspace, muttering to his wife about leaking water-pipes. The package was intact; God knew why it should not be. Royston’s fingers were numb with cold and tension. It took him a long time to unwrap the oilskin, wipe down the gun and test its mechanism.
The gun was a Police .45 Magnum. Royston had ‘acquired’ it early in his career, when he still occasionally went on the streets. No one else knew of its existence, the original owner now being dead, and Royston had kept it hidden in the roof for years, just in case.
On a visit to FBI headquarters in Washington, the part the public doesn’t see, he had once watched a marksman blow down a solid wall, using just such a gun. The squat bludgeon of a weapon was difficult to hold in one hand, both were required to steady it, and even then its accuracy was poor. But if you were lucky enough to score a hit, the party stopped right there. Even the FBI armourer was in awe of what this gun could do.
Royston knew himself to be in mortal danger. Kyril was rumoured to have supplanted Yevchenko as Stanov’s right hand man. It was inconceivable that he had not heard Royston’s name spoken in the spacious, high-ceilinged office on the third floor in Dzerzhinsky Square. Whatever his motives in coming to England, he had to be silenced once and for all.
Royston looked down at the heavy gun lying in his hands. ‘Don’t fire it unless you intend to kill’, that’s what the FBI armourer had said, and Royston proposed to accept his advice.
‘Michael…’
He looked up, startled to hear his wife’s voice.
‘Telephone!’
He stuffed the heavy weapon into his pocket and started to crawl back towards the ladder.