Run Around by Brian Freemantle Page A

himself across the room, flailing with the chair leg club.
    Barabanov was just feet away when Zenin hurled the boiling oil directly into his face. The snarl became a scream of blinded agony. Barabanov was carried on by the force of his own impetus, so that he collided with the stove, but Zenin had moved by then: the Ukrainian slammed his hand down in another unseen cauldron of scalding oil, actually upending it off the gas ring right down the front of himself. Barabanov screamed out in fresh agony, swiping wildly with the club he still carried. Zenin carefully judged his moment, ducking beneath one swipe and bringing the heel of his hand sharply up against the point of Barabanov’s chin before he could make another, hearing the distinct crack as the man’s neck broke, ducking away so that he would not be hit by the man’s fall.
    Zenin checked his watch, smiling in satisfaction. There were still four minutes before the expiry of the time limit so his record was unblemished. Barabanov was very heavy and Zenin grunted with the effort of hauling him back into the outer room: the man’s head lolled, disconnected, and his face had begun to swell into one huge blister. Zenin positioned the convict at the bottom of the stairs with his body actually coming down it, as it would have done if he had stumbled and fallen from the top, and then pressed Barabanov’s hand around the handle of the first oil pan, the one he’d actually thrown at the man. He stepped over the body and climbed to the bathroom, covering his hand with a towel before scattering the contents of a medicine chest into the sink and on the floor, as if some frantic search for some soothing or protective cream had been made and then carried the towel downstairs again, wedging it into Barabanov’s other hand.
    The assessors had been unanimous in marking Zenin’s performance as excellent, the highest award possible. It was the standard he intended to maintain on this, his first job.
    He immediately locked the door of the Bayswater hotel, checking through every item in the suitcase that had been provided for him by KGB agents at the London embassy which he was forbidden to approach direct, knowing any incriminating mistake in the clothing was unlikely but determined against even the slightest risk. London public transport maps were included and using them he travelled to Soho by underground, locating without difficulty the newsagent’s shop that unknowingly was going to indicate his undetected arrival and alert the London rezidentura to initiate the next stage of the Operation. He paid four pounds to have the For Sale card advertising a six-foot dinghy displayed in a glass case crammed with other cards, telling the assistant he would call in daily for replies. From Soho he travelled by bus to the zoo in Regent’s Park, from which he walked to Primrose Hill, at once pleased that he had taken the reconnaissance precaution because there was a sign that bicycling in the park was illegal, about which he should have been warned. He made a mental note to complain about the London rezidentura when he got back to Moscow: it was the sort of oversight which could have ruined everything. He lunched in a surprisingly good bistro and afterwards walked to Camden Town where he caught an underground train back into central London. In a Trafalgar Square cinema he saw a film about a supposed secret agent named James Bond, which he found professionally absurd, before returning to Soho to ensure that the contact message was displayed as it should have been. It was. He was not really hungry but he ate anyway, to occupy time, but it was still early when he returned to the hotel. There were four other guests in the television lounge but Zenin did not join them, because it was necessary to avoid any casual contact. In his room he went directly to bed and fell at once into a dreamless sleep.
    The following day he returned to Soho, enquiring about replies to his