Quiller Balalaika

A mass of snow unshipped itself from a branch not far from where Uri was standing, leaving a cascade of jewels to stream through the headlight beams. Uri didn't move, or turn his head.

'Walk,' the other man told me, and shifted his gun upwards an inch.

I looked at him in silence. On the drive here from the city I'd thought out some compromises in terms of my behaviour. I had to continue playing the luckless i

So I was playing it a touch more subtly, still an i

'Walk,' the man said again.

'Walk where?' No longer capable of cogent thought.

'Into the trees. Follow the headlight beam.'

I began walking.

But there was of course no chance left of survival, none, and when this happens the psychochemistry of the doomed organism is interesting: fatalism, moving in to occupy the mind, leaves the subconscious to sort over any options that might be left, and this was happening as I made my way through the snow, my shadow stark in front of me.

They must surely send, then, this time, a rose for Moira, as a signal to let her know what had happened. This had been agreed, though she'd told me not to worry, I'd always come back.

Meanwhile follow the shadow, my shadow, and keep conscious thought aware only of the crunching of my calf-skin boots through the snow and beyond it the vast silence of the night, of the universe, leaving the gossamer-fine attentions of the subconscious to address my karma and conjure if they could a ray of light.

'Over there.'

His voice fainter, that of a character lost among the trees in the midwinter night's dream.

'Over where?'

'Stand against that tree. Face this way.'

To my aid, Oberon, if you are there.

The conscious mind fanciful, free-wheeling, stand back to the tree, this tree, this one?

The headlights dazzling; all I could see were two short figures against the snow, the one with the AK and the other one, closer, their faces blurred. I didn't think he would take an interest, the closer one, because of any avarice, but simply because of its power in the mind of man as I pulled it out of my pocket and held it up to assert its brilliance in the light, the universal power of the diamond.

The snow drifted down between us, black against the glare. Burning bright at the edge of my vision field as I went on holding it at arm's length, turning it, tilting it to make it flash. Time drew out, leaning across the silence, forgetting to count.

'What is that?'

'A diamond.'

He turned to look behind him, make sure that Uri was well positioned, then turned back and began walking towards me.

A kaleidoscope of colours freckled the snow on the ground as shards of light were sent arrowing from the gem.

Suddenly he was standing in front of me, a black silhouette against the headlights, his left hand held out, the Parabellum in the other hand, in the aim. I gave him the diamond.

There was of course no question of buying my life with this thing. It was already his, and in a moment he would put it into his pocket and turn and move to a safe distance and raise his hand to Uri. The diamond could only have been used as I'd used it in the Baccarat Club, as a come-hither.

'Magnificent,' he said, the freckles of coloured light on his face now as he turned the facets.

I didn't answer.

Watch his hand, the left one. When it begins moving to put the diamond away, take the final chance, for here is the moment of truth.

Time slammed shut as he moved his hand and I used an open hammer strike downwards onto his gun wrist and heard it snap in the instant before the gun fired off-target and I made the next strike to kill, a half-fist into the throat with the knuckles burying deep into the cartilage, and as he started dropping I locked the inside of my elbows under his armpits and slid my hands round his neck and wrapped them across and lifted his body above the snow and pushed him forward as Uri gave a shout, ignore, and the dance began.

Blood on my fingers: internal haemorrhage had started underneath the smashed cartilage and his mouth was ru

Dancing like two bears through the snow, the weight of the dead man more than I'd thought it would be, my face beside his and our heads bumping together, smell of his blood as his ribcage flexed and his lungs sent bubbling sounds from his throat, dancing together into the glare of the light and hearing another shout, ignore, sweat ru

'Stop! Stop right where you are!'

Waving the rifle up and down but he couldn't do anything with it unless he tried a face shot which was all he could see as a target but my head was pressed against my dancing partner's as we lumbered towards him and I wouldn't think he'd risk it, wouldn't think but didn't know, and if he did take a chance my brains would be spread all over the trunk of that tree and I hated the thought of a messy end, dance, you son of a whore, but oh Jesus Christ he was heavy now and the triceps were begi

'Stop!'

Ignore, of course. I was waiting for him to do one thing and that would end the matter, waiting for him to make one mistake and I knew what it was and he might not, might not, so let us pray, sweat ru

'Stop right there or I'll fire!'

Bullshit, you'll fire the moment you can see a clear target but I'm not leaving shelter and if you try getting round on my blind side I can turn my shield much faster than you can move and you know that. Keep up the rhythm, keep up the rhythm under this appalling weight, the muscles ru