Russian Roulette Read Online Free PDF Page A

to, the imposing façade of the quayside buildings. He walked briskly, as if afraid that his feet might betray his new-found purpose in going back to the ship.
    A few more yards brought him to the quiet cathedral square, but he had no eyes for the domed basilica at the top of a great flight of steps, or the sedate government buildings that lined the square. He kept his eyes on a small street right opposite. Hunched down against the wet breeze, he hurried on.
    It was obvious that if he kept straight ahead, he would come to the waterfront which joined the main quay at right angles, the bridge to the Dolgorukiy ’s berth being at the junction.
    Crossing the square, he plunged down a narrow street lined with tall grey warehouses. It was on a slope and at the bottom he glimpsed open water.
    A large truck was manoeuvring out of a gateway and he had to stop while it got into the narrow street.
    As he stood waiting, a raincoated figure fifty yards
    behind him stepped nimbly into a doorway.
    The truck grumbled its way down the alley and Simon carried on to the main road at the bottom, which ran along the water’s edge. The rain started to come down heavily again. He pulled up his jacket collar in a useless effort and hurried along the deserted road towards the bridge, now dimly seen through the sweeping rain. A few cars swished by and then he was alone – so he thought.
    The road had no proper sea wall like the main quay, just a muddy slope, on which were a few beached boats and some small repair yards. The rain began to come down in torrents and he looked for somewhere to shelter. The water was dripping from his eyebrows, half-blinding him, but he could see a crude corrugated iron boat shelter a few yards off the road.
    He hurried to it across the sodden grass and dived in thankfully. A wooden fishing boat was propped up inside but no one was in it. The rain beat a deafening tattoo on the tin roof and he had no way of hearing the cautious footsteps squelching up behind him.
    He stood with his back to the open end of the shed, idly looking at the boat.
    There was a sudden sucking of rubber soles in the mud as the intruder leapt, but Simon had no time to turn.
    Fingers closed like a vice around his neck and nails dug into his windpipe. He almost died there and then, out of sheer terror, but clung to consciousness long enough to realize that someone was killing him.
    His vision went red, then black – before he collapsed in a head-bursting climax of asphyxia.
    Kyrill Pokrovsky, the Chief Purser, and First Officer Yutkevich waited restlessly at the head of the gangway.
    The purser looked at his wristwatch about twice every minute, while the other leaned over the rail to peer endlessly through the drizzle at the roadway behind the quayside warehouse.
    â€˜Ten minutes to sailing time!’ fretted Yutkevich. He put his head down over the ropes of the gangway platform and called down to a uniformed Finnish dock official, who stood on the wharf below.
    â€˜Any news of them?’
    The Finn shrugged and waved towards the office set in the end of the warehouse.
    â€˜They try the hospitals now!’ he shouted.
    A telephone tinkled inside the hull of the Yuri Dolgorukiy and the First Officer stepped inside the oval steel door to answer it.
    â€˜Yutkevich – da , tovarishch 2 captain, we have tried that … yes, telephoned twice … yes, captain.’
    He hung the instrument up on the wall of the carpeted foyer and stood staring for a moment at the oil painting of a medieval horseman from whom the ship took its name. His mind was on the captain … he was thinking that he, Yutkevich, should have been giving the orders.
    Twenty years with the Morflot fleet and still only a First Officer, while a dozen younger men had gone to the top over him. He snorted and put the bitterness behind him for a moment to concentrate on the problems of the present. He walked back on to the top of the gangway. ‘Blast all