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... it was only a child’s chance playful shout that made Brewer turn.

Now luck was with him. As he turned, his eyes locked momentarily on the gunman’s. He caught the glint of metal, sensed rather than saw the weapon held loosely at his side. Brewer’s response was pure instinct: there was no time to think, no time to reason. He ducked, turned and ran.

Now was the gunman's chance. He accelerated, his arm raised, the gun steady in his grip. Shots rang out. One, two, three.

Suddenly the mood changed. Tourists and Muscovites turned to stare in disbelief at this new and unexpected street theatre. Brewer rushed past their blank, uncomprehending faces, shouting at them to move, to clear out of the way. Somewhere a woman screamed.

Brewer stumbled, twisted and recovered. The gunman edged closer, fitter and faster than his prey.

He fired again as Brewer reached the foyer of the National. An invisible hand jerked violently at Brewer’s sleeve. Chips of sharp, stinging paint and concrete flew into his face. His breath came in short, panting gasps. God, he was out of condition. Too many years of easy living had taken their toll. A second volley of shots, dull metallic thump-thumps, erupted as he ducked behind the hotel’s interior staircase. He needed something to defend himself with and fast. But there was nothing.

Hurried footsteps hammered across the cold marble flooring. One more step and the gunman would see him. Even a blind man with a burlap sack over his head could not fail at this range. Brewer remembered the automatic pistol hidden inside the suitcase in his room. Why the hell had he left it there? He was stale, had forgotten the ground rules, the first basic laws of an agent abroad: Know the territory; always be prepared.

The footsteps halted. Brewer froze, catching his breath. There was a glimpse of a man muffled in an overcoat and scarf, the stale, warm smell of his breath, and then just as quickly the gunman was gone, his hurrying steps echoing around the foyer.

Brewer stepped out and into the street. He looked quickly one way, then another, his restless eyes scanning every doorway, every window, anxious not to be caught unawares a second time. Nothing. A typical Moscow street scene. The whole episode could have been a dream, a moment of crazed insanity. Even the irritating, yapping dog had reappeared. Crowds milled aimlessly around as if nothing had happened. Perhaps it was for the best. Brewer was not in the mood to chase an armed maniac with nothing more threatening than a used handkerchief.

Hotel staff were already gathering by the door and cluck-clucking with familiarity at the bullet holes scarring the hotel’s pre-revolutionary facia. They had seen it all before.

‘Mafia,’ one confided wisely, chewing slowly on imported American gum.

‘Maybe,’ Brewer nodded and went up to his room, unconvinced...