Dominic Conlon

Arctic Firepath

DEDICATION

For Gemma and Sarah

DISCLAIMER

All characters and events in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons and events, past or present, are purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

As Nic Tyler looked across the bleak scene in the fading light, the cold reached through his thin clothes. The landscape was beautiful but if he didn’t find help soon it would kill him.

He knew from the guide book that average winter temperatures in Tiksi were minus 30 degrees centigrade, but often sank far lower. Tonight it was — 45 C, and Tyler experienced every degree through his overcoat. The two men who called told him the journey to the meeting would be short, so he had decided against bringing anything warmer.

But the ride was longer than expected, and he grew alarmed when they left the outskirts of the town. The man with the disgusting breath withdrew a sharp knife that glinted in the reflected glow of the headlights. Tyler feared violence, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the blade. After a fearful hush, he pleaded for his life. They ignored him and drove on in silence.

Eventually the car stopped and his heart pounded in his chest. The bodyguard with the knife got out and beckoned. Convinced he was about to die, Tyler shook his head, believing if he stayed inside he might have a chance. The man grabbed him and hauled him out. He fell to the ground and remained there, too frightened to move. He expected they would pull him to his feet and march him to some shallow grave. Instead they returned to the car and drove off.

For a moment, Tyler was stunned. He was alive — they had let him live!

Then the enormity of the problem became apparent. He dived into his overcoat pocket and pulled out his phone. Damn, no signal — but not unexpected. He gazed at the landscape, seeing a carpet of snow stretching to the far distance. The odd group of wizened fir trees stood above the white blanket, swaying in the bitter cold wind.

The road would lead him back. He saw the tyre tracks, and he bent down to scoop away the packed ice. Underneath he discovered black tarmac. The best option would be to follow the path, but with the onset of night he would have to stop. He had no idea how far he was from the town, but if necessary he would build a bivouac in the shelter of the wood. Having eaten a hearty dinner beforehand, he was confident it would sustain him until the morning. He set off, jamming his cold hands into the pocket of the overcoat in an attempt to keep them warm.

An hour later he stumbled over the verge, not knowing he was off course because of the approaching dark. Trudging across a field knee-deep in snow, the effort to lift one leg after the other began to tell. The biting cold wind chilled him to the bone, and he was losing confidence. In the twilight a copse stood silhouetted against the horizon and he changed direction for it. Arriving two hours later, he dropped onto the ground and leaned against a tree. He longed to be at home. After a while a harsh gust blew spin-drift against his face and he made a supreme attempt to gather branches and twigs, piling them up around the trunk. He tried to fill the gaps with some snow to form a windbreak. The exertion was too much and he observed without alarm the loss of co-ordination. His hands were a pasty white colour, and he sank to the frozen ground.

He was in this god-forsaken part of the country because he followed Khostov. Tyler cursed his foolishness again, more loudly this time. He should have trusted his instincts and taken the first plane to the UK. This was their tactic to make sure he didn’t talk. They hadn’t sent him here to get him out of the way — they wanted him dead, never to be found.

He shivered violently and when that subsided he became tired and closed his eyes. The spasms reoccurred, each time shorter than the last. He listened idly to the wind as it whipped through the stand of trees. After five minutes his body stopped shivering altogether. Somewhere within Nic Tyler’s consciousness an alarm bell went off.

He must keep moving!

He examined the contents of his pockets, but found nothing that might help. His phone had shut off with the cold. With shaking hands he slid it under his armpit to warm it up. When he switched it on the battery indicated minimum charge, though he had recharged it fully earlier. His brain felt mushy but he vaguely recalled that sometimes a text message would get through even when there was no signal. He hoped the battery reserve would last long enough to type it.

What should he say? There was only enough time for one message. Should he let someone know about his murder, or tell his wife he was sorry for cheating on her?

He attempted to press the keys. His hand had turned a pale blue colour; the digits were hard to move and intensely painful. The buttons on the old fashioned mobile were difficult to push, and there was a noticeable lag between each depression and the character forming on the screen. Before he finished, his fingers no longer worked. He gripping the phone in his mouth and depressed the Send key with a tooth.

He searched the bleak expanse, seeing only darkness, hearing only the sound of the wind through bare branches. An unfathomable sadness came over him and his eyelids quivered, then closed. After a few moments he fought to open them, and in the distance he imagined a light. Was it real, or just an illusion created by his failing mind? The light swung to and fro hypnotically, as if held in a person’s hand. It seemed to be getting closer. Urgently he retrieved the phone from where it had fallen. It was an ancient device with few extras. But the one gadget he had never used was now vital to his survival. The torch built into the top could be turned on with a long press of a switch.

He employed the same trick of clenching the phone in his mouth, using an incisor to close down on the ‘star’ key. Five seconds later the LED lit up. Though the illumination was weak, Tyler knew it would show for some distance in the dark.

Panting with exertion, his breath formed clouds in front of him. With a last burst of effort he lifted the mobile and waved the torch in the direction of the oncoming light.

CHAPTER TWO

Sean Quinlan raised the Steiner binoculars to check the environment. It was early morning and the traffic hadn’t yet begun to build on the Universitätsring. Following the direction of the Rathausplatz, he surveyed the baroque towers of the City Hall opposite.

Nothing.

He examined the nearby surroundings, crisscrossing the landmarks and skyline of Vienna. A glint from the north-east caught his eye and he zoomed in on the location, rapidly adjusting the optics.

Nothing.

Sean shifted position to lie nearer the balustrade. Cold and cramped, he had been on the roof of the Burgtheater for five hours. He should have been used to surveillance for extended periods, but this wasn’t any ordinary reconnaissance operation. An assassination was an unprecedented event in the Section.

Late developing intelligence put the subject in Vienna for a short period this morning. Miss this opportunity, they told him, and there would not be another for years. The briefing had been rushed, and Sean’s principal overrode his objections.

Sean chose the rooftop of the Austrian National Theatre to make the shot. It gave a wide field of view, had an excellent approach and a rapid escape route. But however baffling the assignment, Sean couldn’t fault the tools they had given him. He bent to place his eye to the Schmidt & Bender scope, and the traffic leapt into sharp focus.

Two minutes later he glanced at his watch and pressed the button on his ear mike.

‘Target overdue’.

Sean resumed position, placing the stock of the L115A3 long range rifle firmly against his shoulder. The curve of the grip and the slight oily smell from the magazine were immediately familiar. He had used the kit extensively during a visit to Helmand some seven years ago and rated it highly. An adjustable bipod held the barrel at the balance point and he had fitted a muzzle brake to reduce the recoil and flash. On this occasion, with a range of less than a thousand metres and a clip of .338 Lapua Magnum, a kill was certain.

Except for one tiny problem.

He wore thin Nitrile gloves to prevent prints. The skin-coloured thumb of his left hand started to beat a small involuntary tattoo against the stock. Sean stared at the movement, astonished. He pressed the digit against the wood, but still felt the twitch of electric nerve endings. It couldn’t have occurred at the worst possible moment.

He ignored the tremors and continued to check each car as it turned the corner from the Burgring onto Universitätsring. Five minutes passed, and every vehicle proved to be clean. Then a man’s face appeared in the scope; the olive complexion and the characteristic way the head drooped forward were enough for a positive identification.

‘Target in the cross-hairs. Confirm good to go.’

There was a long pause. Sean touched the ear-bud mike again. ‘Confirm good to go.’

‘We’re waiting for clearance.’

The car filled the field of view. If Sean didn’t get a decision now it would be too late.

‘Stand by, we will get back to you.’

They must be getting cold feet. As if to confirm the thought, Sean’s mike buzzed.

‘Stand down and wait for further instructions.’

Sean dismantled the rifle, the movements quick and practised. He removed the suppressor and magazine, folded the bipod and unscrewed the scope, packing the items away in the metal transit case. Wrapping it in the mat, he collected the detritus of the night’s stake-out; water bottles and food wrappers went into the rucksack, the case and mat strapped to the outside. He inspected the area for any remaining signs of his occupation.

‘Sniper one, you have been blown.’ The voice sounded matter of fact, but the message electrified Sean. He crouched low and sprinted to the rear of the theatre roof where he had attached a climbing rope. The wail of police sirens carried in the distance as he clipped the descender onto his harness and hopped over the balustrade. Holding on to the brake bar, he rappelled in long quick hops. Three seconds afterwards he felt the hard tarmac of the street and squeezed the remote release. He remembered at the last moment to dodge out of the way before the rope and tackle fell to earth.

He gathered up the kit and ran to the van parked around a corner in a side street. The first police car came into sight as he started the engine. Sean resisted the urge to flatten the accelerator; they might not know he was using this vehicle. The car shot past, screeching to a halt at the back of the Burgtheater. A second followed more slowly, turning after it passed him. Sean kept his speed down and eyes on the road. At the Minoritenplatz he went right at the end, attempting to work his way towards the river.

A glance in the mirror showed the second cop car following at a respectful distance. Police sirens grew in volume as more cars converged on the theatre. Sean turned left and then right along the Rudolfspark. The police car closed up the gap on Saltztorgasse, and by the time he reached the Salztorbrücke Bridge they put the siren on and started to overtake.

Sean jammed his foot down and swung the wheel ahead of the overtaking vehicle, pushing it hard up against the central barrier. He heard the satisfying crunch of metal as the driver tried to brake and extricate himself from the crush, but the car’s front tyres were shredded.

He considered their next move. They were going to send all available cars over the bridge. Good. He wanted them to think he was making for Bratislava, some 50 miles further along the motorway. They would follow him into Slovakian territory because the Schengen treaty allowed the police force hot pursuit over neighbouring borders. A plan grew in his mind, and Sean was happy for them to assume he didn’t know the rules — it could be a way to give them the slip.

He wound the window down to listen out for the distinctive sound of a helicopter. If they sent one up he would just have to abandon the van and try his luck on the streets. The lack of preparation for the assignment, absence of mission support from an Executive, and now the exposure of his presence meant he was on his own. He had become a pariah to the British Government, and could not expect help from them or anyone else. Sean drummed his fingers on the wheel in irritation.

The traffic slowed, and he saw a queue developing up ahead. What now? A minute later he knew; they had strung a roadblock across E58. He swerved to the inside lane then turned down a side-street. The road looked clear until he overtook a parked car. Fifty metres away another police car stood side-on, blocking the street. Behind the driver’s door a policeman crouched, pointing a gun. Sean glanced back, but his retreat was cut off by a large truck.

He slowed down, braked hard, and prepared to stop. The policeman rose, keeping a taut grip on his handgun. Ten metres away, Sean slipped into first gear and hit the accelerator. The car struck the bonnet square on, shunting the police vehicle backwards and felling the officer. Sean dashed out, dodging around the cars to find the man’s gun on the road. As the policeman got to his feet, Sean waved the firearm, a clear command to move away. He slid into the driving seat of the police car, keeping the gun trained on the officer while groping for the keys. He reversed in a tight circle and drove off in a squeal of tyres.

Wait till they hear about this in London, he thought. There would be muttered warnings from the civil servants and angry exchanges between the bureaucrats in the corridors, but it couldn’t be helped.

Sean began to hunt for an underground garage, eventually finding one on Lavarterstraße. The barrier was automatic and no-one paid attention when he entered. He still intended to reach Bratislava, but not by road. First he needed to change his appearance.

It had started to drizzle, so he took a taxi to Schwedenplatz and purchased a raincoat, briefcase and umbrella in a nearby men’s clothes store. He bought a ticket for the Twin City Liner, a fast catamaran that plied between the two cities. The wharf was opposite the subway station.

Boarding the ship and the journey itself were uneventful. Just over an hour later, he watched as Bratislava came into view. By the time the boat arrived it was raining heavily, and the police were waiting.

Sean followed the businessmen and tourists down the gangway and onto the wharf, opening his umbrella. There was always a risk when presenting new documentation, but with the change of clothes and the briefcase, he hoped he had done enough. He handed his passport over to the younger of the two waiting men. The man pursed his lips and eyed Sean. Not satisfied, he passed it to his senior who gestured for Sean to lower the umbrella. Sean complied, shaking the brolly vigorously, at the same time complaining about the weather in passable German.

‘Please step this way sir.’ The older officer spoke in English. He indicated the junior should continue to inspect passengers arriving off the ferry.

The man walked across the street to his car, and Sean followed. He reached in for the car’s microphone, but never got a chance to speak to headquarters. Sean ensured his coat blocked the view while holding the officer’s eye. Transferring his weight from the back foot to the front, he followed through with a concentrated jab to the Solar Plexus using a triangular knuckle strike. The wind went out of the man and he dropped the receiver. Sean eased him into the driving seat, then ripped the handset from its socket, closed the car door and faded into the crowd.

* * *

It was hard to believe the Section café could be so cosy, situated in such a nondescript office block, north of the Thames. Just two miles away lay the imposing grade II listed building that was home to their sister organisation, SIS. The Section preferred anonymity on the other side of the river.

The café was a home from home for Sean; he always called in here before a meeting. The tea ladies liked to mother him. Perhaps they sensed the tension forming inside. But whatever his mood, they were invariably cheery and ready with a chirpy remark. Sometimes he would listen to the conversations they had between each other. They were so down to earth, so different from his experience in the field that listening to them took his mind off current worries.

‘What’s that, dear?’

Sean glanced at the gold pendant he was absentmindedly twisting in his hands. ‘It’s a gift from a friend.’

‘That’s nice,’ she replied, mopping the table. ‘Though I thought you wouldn’t need it, love.’

She must have met plenty in here, sipping lattes and nervously anticipating a mission. No doubt she had also seen them when they returned; some ready to pull the walls down, others seeing nothing but the abyss. She was right; he had never been superstitious.

Outside the normality of the café were several Directors’ offices, where missions were incubated and hatched. Sean was killing time while waiting for a meeting with one of the Directors, Christopher Abbott. The tea lady collected a couple of empty mugs. ‘She must be fond of you.’

Sean smiled. He had received the present only two nights ago, and the memory still occupied his thoughts.

It had started so well. He had booked a table at L'Osteria in the beautiful square of Santa Marina. Her long dark hair was done up in a tight bun and she wore a simple black strapless dress. Sean admired the line of her bare shoulders. He could no longer spot where the bullet had nearly ended her life six months ago. Her recovery had been remarkable, and tonight her face glowed with health in the candle light.

‘You look elegant.’

Natasha smiled, and raised her wineglass. ‘To us.’

Sean lifted his glass. ‘To us’. He glanced at his mobile phone. ‘Just a minute.’

Natasha waited patiently while Sean checked a text message. After a minute of silence she couldn’t help but say something. ‘Let me guess — an urgent call from the office. They want you tonight,’ she said with a clipped voice. ‘Don’t they know you’re on holiday?’

‘They know.’ Sean’s tone was subdued.

‘When do you have to go?’

‘There’s a flight first thing tomorrow.’

Natasha’s face fell.

‘Until then, let’s celebrate.’

For a moment she didn’t respond. ‘What about the rest of our holiday?’

‘You can still go and see your family, Nat. I’ll catch up with you later.’

‘But I only have a week. After that I’m at work. Surely they’ll let you stay for a few days?’

Sean frowned. ‘I’m really sorry Nat.’

Natasha turned away, saddened at how quickly the romantic atmosphere had been dispelled. She poked about inside her handbag and brought out a small case wrapped in gold paper.

‘You may find this useful then.’

Sean unwrapped the paper revealing a jewel box. He opened the lid slowly. A gold pendant attached to a necklace lay on a grey cloth. Sean dangled the ornament from its chain, turning it in the light from the candle. Inside an oval frame was a figure walking with the aid of a staff, carrying a child on his shoulder.

‘It’s a man’s St. Christopher medal,’ she explained, seeing Sean’s curious expression. ‘It will keep you safe.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

‘I realise you’re not the type of man to wear it around your neck’ continued Natasha lightly, her mood improving. ‘But you could always keep it in your pocket.’

‘I will, Nat. You’ve given me a gift, and now I have one for you.’

Sean took out his own present and placed it in front of her. ‘Before you open it, I have a question which is sort of related.’

Natasha looked up with surprise. She waited a second. When Sean didn’t continue, she inclined her head. ‘Yes?’

‘Will you marry me?’

The question caught her unawares and she was unable to respond immediately. Then abruptly she pushed the unopened box towards him. ‘I’m sorry Sean. I don’t think you’re ready for this.’

When it appeared Sean wasn’t going to speak, Natasha broke the silence.

‘I really wasn’t anticipating anything quite like this. I’m not saying no. It’s your job. When you go I worry you might not come back. They ring you at any hour, and wherever you are you say goodbye and leave. What sort of life would that be for me?’

Sean sighed. ‘When I return to London I’ll resign.’

‘I’m glad, Sean. But are you sure you mean to leave? You’ve been there a long time.’

‘No, I’ve decided. I want to be with you.’

‘Maybe. But I imagine you’ll miss the excitement of another assignment or thrill of a chase.’

‘You’re more important. Besides, I’m ready to leave.’

‘Why?’

‘Recently I’ve begun to get the odd tremor.’ He held out his left hand to demonstrate. ‘Sometimes I get occasional twitches during a mission.’

‘I expect everyone gets that — particularly in your job.’

‘We all do. It’s quite common to develop jitters before a mission. But it never used happen once I’d started.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

Sean hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I am getting too old, but I’m afraid they’ll find out. I’d rather go out under my own steam.’

‘I can’t say I’ll be sorry. What will you do?’

Sean shrugged. ‘I’ve not thought that far ahead. I’ll have to give notice.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘I’m not sure Nat. Perhaps they will let me go after I finish this job.’

‘Would they allow you to go straight away?’

Sean shook his head. ‘No, they’re not that kind of people.’

‘Please be careful. You know how much I worry.’

‘I promise I will. Sean turned the medal towards the candle light. ‘I have this to protect me.’

* * *

The tea lady interrupted his thoughts. ‘Call for you dear, Mr Abbott says you may go in now.’

Sean snapped back to the present. He pocketed the keepsake and strode to the exit.

* * *

Director Abbott indicated the chair opposite his desk.

Sean saw no point in pussy footing around. ‘What the hell happened?’

Abbott had been in the post a year, and had grown hardened to agents with a beef. He shrugged. ‘We were listening on the police channels. Someone told them where to look.’

‘How could it be — no-one knew where I was going to take the shot. Damn, even I didn’t know until 12 hours beforehand.’

Sean continued to prowl around the office. ‘And what happened before that?’

Abbott raised an eyebrow.

‘Why did you stand me down at the last moment?’

‘We were told to.’

‘Told? By whom?’

‘Sean, for God’s sake, will you sit down? My neck’s killing me!’

Sean tore his gaze away from the window and glanced round Abbott’s comfortable office. Reluctantly, he took the chair. ‘OK, let’s start at the beginning, at my briefing. You couldn’t wait to get me on the plane to Austria to slot Zlotnik. You didn’t even have time to assign an Executive to the mission. Why was it so important?’

Abbott leaned back in his chair, appraising the man in front of him. Quinlan was a formidable force and he wouldn’t give up easily. Abbott decided to humour him, for now. ‘We’ve lost two agents in the last six months, and we think Zlotnik is behind the killings. We almost lost a third yesterday.’

‘Bloody hell. Did I know any of them?’

‘Did you know Johnson? He was killed six months ago, then Chandler was shot by a sniper two months ago.’

Sean shook his head. ‘No, I never met them.’

‘You did know the third, though.’

‘Yeah? Who?’

Abbott studied Sean. ‘You.’

CHAPTER THREE

Sean let the silence lengthen while he tried to work out what Abbott meant. How could he have been Zlotnik’s third target?

‘You don’t mean the police?’

‘No. Apparently, they made a cock-up.’ Abbott could almost sense the gears turning behind Sean’s impassive face.

‘Good job, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’ Sean pulled a mug towards him and filled it from the thermos. The office coffee was the vilest stuff he had ever tasted, but he needed time to think. ‘So what do you mean?’

‘Did you notice anything unusual before the target arrived?’

‘No. Everything was quiet. I did catch a reflection from a window, or something on another building.’

‘And?’

‘I checked it out of course, but I didn’t see anything.’

‘What did you do after?’

‘I moved position.’ He tasted the bitter coffee. ‘You suppose I caught the flicker from a scope?’

‘It’s possible. If that happened, you removed yourself from the line of fire. You were lucky.’

Sean felt an odd sense of detachment. He struggled to recollect the moment he had seen the flash. It might have been nothing, but he hadn’t entirely dismissed the incident. Instead, some instinct caused him to shift, putting the balustrade between him and the reflection.

‘If I was so lucky, I wouldn’t be working for you.’ A small smile around Sean’s lips robbed the remark of offence.

‘If I was as lucky, you wouldn’t be working for me.’ There was no matching smile.

Sean looked up. ‘You asked for me.’

‘Yes I did.’ Abbott raised his hand, palm up. ‘I’m sorry, that was unnecessary. We were, ah.’ He paused.

‘Short staffed?’

Abbott’s smile appeared more like a grimace. ‘We were caught short. There wasn’t enough time to recall anyone from further afield.’

‘I see.’ Sean poured out some more coffee. If the debrief lasted much longer he would have to find a loo. ‘So why are our agents being picked off?’

Abbott sighed. ‘I wish I knew, but we have a good idea who is behind it.’

‘Zlotnik?’

‘Yes. The termination order was a highly unusual step, but we believed it was the only way to stop him.’

‘We?’

Abbott silently indicated the office around him and by implication, the Section.

‘So why was the operation pulled at the last second?’

Abbott sighed again. The man just wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘Oversight caught a whiff.’

Sean nodded. Someone further up the chain had got cold feet after all.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Zlotnik? Gone back to Russia, I expect.’

‘What was he doing in Vienna?’

‘We understood he was there to inspect the security arrangements for the Earth Energy Summit.’

‘He doesn’t normally travel outside of Russia, does he?’

‘No.’

Sean paused for a minute, thinking through the sequence of events. ‘So I was set up.’

Abbott’s expression remained fixed.

‘You brought me in during the closing hours of an operation you had planned long before. No proper briefing, just told to go and finish him. You thought if things ran true to form, Zlotnik would bring in his own sniper to target me.’ He examined Abbott’s face for any trace of embarrassment. There was none.

‘Zlotnik was the bait. I’m guessing you had other people in position, hoping the sniper would give away his location. You’d then try to take him out.’

Abbott waited.

‘Do you not know how I work?’ Sean’s voice rose a notch.

‘How you work?’ Abbott’s voice remained studiously calm.

‘I work alone.’

‘Yes, it's in your file.’

‘So you didn’t consider giving me the whole picture? That the place would be crawling with agents? Or I would be targeted by a Russian hit man?’

Abbott lifted his shoulders, palms outstretched. ‘I did tell you to watch your back. There wasn’t time for anything else. In any case, you more than proved our confidence in your abilities.’

‘I could have bloody died out there.’ Sean rose, anger forcing him to move.

‘There’s a risk with every mission, Sean. One you accept every time you go out there.’

‘I need to work with people I can trust. When I agree to a job, it's because I reckon I have a chance of coming back. I don’t need you to stack the odds against me!’

Abbott spoke softly. ‘Losing your nerve Sean?’

‘No.’

For a fraction of a second, Sean wondered if Abbott had learnt about the tremors. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

Abbott waited, but when no answer was forthcoming he asked: ‘Could you elaborate?’

Sean thought for a moment. He would have to let them know soon anyway. ‘I want to leave,’ he said simply.

Abbott topped up their mugs. ‘Care to tell us why? Is it the work, conditions, pay…?’

Sean shook his head. ‘This is hard for me. I’ve been here too long.’ He glanced around the room, recalling the various briefings he had had in here over the years. ‘I don’t want to outstay my welcome.’

‘That would never happen. You’ll always be wanted.’

‘Chris, you and I know an agent’s shelf-life is limited. What’s the average age of the current crop — 28, 30? I’ve lasted a long time, and I’m very grateful for everyone here who supported me on my missions. But I’m not immortal; I can’t keep going out and expect to return in one piece.’

‘So you are getting stage fright.’

‘It’s nothing do with that.’

‘Then?’

‘I want to settle down.’

* * *

The PM rubbed his chin while staring off into the distance. The Earth Energy Summit in Vienna was only weeks away, and the recent defection of China from the group continued to dog the agenda. The door opened, and Howard Stern entered.

‘Morning, Howard.’ Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown took in the worried countenance of his Foreign Secretary. ‘Why so glum?’

Stern slumped into the nearest armchair. ‘You remember a couple of weeks ago I mentioned the report on Russian energy production was imminent?’

The Prime Minister nodded.

‘Well, it came out today.’ Stern slapped a file down on the PM’s desk. ‘And it makes terrible reading.’

Ashdown regarded his colleague closely. He was not usually so gloomy about another country’s economic prospects, but Howard Stern had been around the block more than a few times. He was a consummate politician, and if he was worried, then the PM should be too.

Ashdown sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking’ he said, indicating the report.

‘It stinks. I warned you earlier the stats might be bad, but I didn’t think they would be this bad. This is the fourth consecutive year Russian oil revenues have fallen, and this time they’re disastrous.’

‘Why should we be worried? We’re developing new-found reserves in the North Sea, and now fracking has proved to be stable under the right conditions we will soon have enough to avoid being dependent on non-allied countries.’

Howard Stern turned a world-weary eye on the PM. ‘Terrance, this isn’t about us. I know the UK will have enough to become self-sufficient eventually.’ He pointed to the file. ‘The reality is that now Russia hasn’t.’

‘I’m sorry; I’m not with you today.’ The PM appeared puzzled.

Stern sighed in exasperation. This wasn’t the first time he had had to explain the concept to his boss. The fact that the PM had forgotten about the issue so quickly meant either he hadn’t understood in the first place, or he had understood and dismissed the problem. But Stern liked him because he was always prepared to listen to what people around him said, regardless of how critical they were. In the end he would consider all sides and decide. Not all his decisions were good though, and Stern was concerned this was a case in point.

‘You should be worried, Prime Minister. Over the last twenty years Russia has grown used to dominating the world stage from a position of wealth. From that wealth comes its power. Most of its affluence traditionally derives from oil and gas revenues, and it has used this to control its former socialist states. Its voice in the United Nations has grown in strength, especially in the Security Council.’ Howard Stern glanced at the PM. ‘You know all this to be true.’

The PM nodded in agreement. ‘Go on.’

‘There is still a lot of corruption in the country, particularly in the energy sector. I know the President has made huge strides in tackling the problem, but nevertheless it still exists. Its pipe infrastructure is leaky. Fees for leakages are paltry. Companies pay the fees because it’s more expensive to fix the leaks. Whole areas in Siberia and the north are black with oil. Leaked oil is finding its way into Arctic seas, so pollution is another problem that will come back to bite them — and us.’ Stern opened the file on the desk. ‘That is the least of their problems.’ Stern gestured to a page in the report. ‘Oils wells are running dry, and many gas fields are coming to the end of their useful life.’

‘I still don’t see why this should matter to us.’

‘Look Terrance, I predict two things will happen.’ He ticked them off on his finger. ‘One. Russia will become like a bear with a sore head. Its position in the world is being undermined by wealthier countries out-performing it, not just in energy terms but also in high-tech industries. Russia is already losing face to its upstarts.’

Stern ticked off his second finger. ‘Two. Russia needs to rejuvenate its income, or it will become a poor super power has-been.’

‘You mean, like us?’ murmured the PM.

Stern ignored the remark. ‘There is one area where they could make it happen.’ He tried to gauge the PM’s openness to his idea.

The PM shook his head. ‘Tell me.’

‘The Arctic.’

The PM held up his hand. ‘You’ve talked to me about this before, Howard. But the fact is, the Arctic is a hostile environment. It’s covered in ice for a lot of the year. Temperatures are very low, and the sea is deep. The cost of extracting oil or gas is too high to be economic.’

Howard Stern sighed again. So this was the reason the PM had dismissed his earlier argument. ‘The ice cap is getting smaller every year. There are credible predictions it will disappear altogether in ten years’ time. Russia has already published plans to provide floating nuclear-power platforms. We know an increasing number of rigs are being sent to the Kara Sea. And Russia still has ambitions for mining oil and gas reserves beyond their 200-mile boundary because it believes Arctic waters to be an extension of its continental territory.’

‘Howard,’ the PM interjected. ‘This topic isn’t going to win us any votes. Even if we could do something about it.’

Howard drew in a deep breath, his patience almost at the end. ‘Terrance, the whole point of this is not about self-interest. There are two elements beyond votes that are important: the future of the people dependant on the Arctic in order to live, and global warming. In other words the future of people on the planet.’

For a moment there was silence in the room.

‘OK Howard, I understand. But right now I have more pressing priorities. Can we look at this some other time?’ The PM studied his Foreign Secretary to gauge his reaction to the delay; he didn’t appear to be happy about the prospect. ‘I will pick this up again. Now, do you have anything else for me?’

Reluctantly, Stern put the topic aside. ‘No.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to go to.’ As he got up the PM spoke again.

‘I’m sorry Howard, but business has to come first.’

The Foreign Secretary paused at the door, then left without making a response.

Terrance Ashdown tapped the pen against his cheek. There might be an opportunity to have a word with the Presidents of Russia and America in Vienna. But once they understood the topic concerned the environment north of the Arctic Circle, they would just ignore him and try to fob off the issue.

Perhaps there was a way he might get their attention. He jotted a note to himself in the diary.

* * *

Abbott summoned Sean after HR had retrieved his personnel file. When Sean entered, Abbott was flicking through the folder. ‘I just wanted to refresh my memory. I did check your record before Vienna.’ He gave Sean an appraising look. ‘I’d heard about you on the grapevine before then.’ He topped up his mug. ‘I was looking forward to working with you.’

‘Was?’

‘Well, I am looking forward, though sadly it will probably be the first and last time.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I think the records say you have a Reg. C.’

‘Yep.’ Sean had initially signed up for a regular commission with the commandos.

‘Which means you could retire at age 40 or after 18 years, whichever is the longest.’ He drank from the mug. ‘You accepted several extensions to your contract, so notice period is 6 months — unless you have any pressing personal matters.’ He regarded Sean. ‘Do you have any?’

Sean’s head jerked up at the news. Six months! ‘Any chance of reducing that?’

Abbott shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know Sean, but if you can make a case I will personally try to push it through.’ He leaned back. ‘I don’t want to give you any false hope. It will be difficult — there aren’t enough agents and Executives, and support staff have been cut to the bone.’

He bent forward. ‘As missions go, this is an easy one. If you’re successful I will see what I can do to reduce the notice period.’

Sean could turn the mission down flat if he wished and get on the next plane to Venice where Natasha was waiting. He marvelled at the clever way Abbott had couched the terms. By accepting this easy assignment, he would cut his notice.

Sean thought hard. It seemed a good deal at first glance. But most of his missions were like the proverbial poisoned chalice. On the previous assignment the real objective hadn’t been revealed to him at the outset, and it nearly resulted in the death of his fiancée.

‘Let me give you the brief, then perhaps you can think about it before deciding.’ Abbott’s offer appeared generous, but he was only giving Sean the standard option.

Sean nodded. He might as well listen to what he had to say. ‘Executive?’

Abbott shook his head. ‘Not needed.’

Sean considered that. An agent was usually assigned to an Executive for a specific operation. They would work together, with the Executive having the more senior role. The agent would do all the dirty work, and the Executive would provide him with anything required to complete the mission. That might be a whole range of items, including intelligence, cars, guns, a safe house or whatever was required. Executives were also responsible for liaising with London to ensure the Section stayed in the loop. Except for the abortive operation in Vienna, Sean couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been assigned to someone. Perhaps this was the way the Section intended to operate in the future.

‘Budget cuts again?’

‘Not really. We just don’t see the need at present.’

‘So from what you’ve said, this job doesn’t appear to be high priority.’

Abbott remained non-committal. ‘At this stage, no.’

Sean began to weigh up the pros and cons. On the plus side, the Section was happy to give him a free hand. Although Sean understood the requirement for an Executive, he hated assignments with multiple agents. In his experience it was possible to end up shooting one of your own team. He was damn lucky he hadn’t encountered anyone in Vienna. The new task looked like a simple operation, and it would be over soon. But no matter how easy it appeared, complications invariably arose.

Abbott passed a thin folder across the table. Inside were half a dozen photographs of a man in his late forties. He had a round face, dark hair and wore spectacles. Judging by the suit he looked to be slightly overweight.

‘You’re looking at Nic Tyler,’ continued Abbott. He’s American, married to a British wife. They have a home in Kent.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘He was in Russia, working for an American company called US Shale.’

‘Was?’

‘He was reported dead three days ago.’

Sean gave Abbott a puzzled glance. ‘So what’s the job?’

‘I’m coming to that,’ he replied irritably. ‘The point is he died in mysterious circumstances in Siberia. He was discovered frozen to death, miles away from civilisation — or whatever passes for civilisation there.’

‘Murder?’

Abbott nodded. ‘It’s a distinct possibility. US Shale joined forces with a Russian company called GazArtic, and we’ve known for a few weeks all is not well at the partnership. We’ve caught rumours of back-handers, inflated prices being set, fudged company accounts — the usual stuff. So far though, nothing concrete has come to light.’

Sean passed the file back as he continued to speak.

‘Then Tyler went missing. At first they assumed there was some communication problem with that part of the country. Several days later his wife received a text message from her husband. We understand it arrived two days after he was found.’ Abbott pushed a single piece of paper over to Sean.

sorry i cheated

always loved u

am dying

CHAPTER FOUR

Sean studied the text message. ‘You’re sure it arrived after he died?’

‘Positive.’

‘And it was definitely sent from Tyler’s mobile?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is his phone?’

‘It was found on him.’

‘So — we have a bit of a mystery, but hardly worth assigning me.’

‘You’d think so, but there are other reasons for involving you.’ Abbott ticked off the items on his fingers. ‘One. Tyler was working closely with his opposite number at GazArctic. His name is Alexei Khostov, a leading nuclear physicist. He might be able to confirm details on the allegations of corruption at GazArctic.’

Abbott ticked a second finger. ‘Two. Khostov is rumoured to be managing a top secret project to deliver nuclear reactors for a new type of floating platform. We’re interested in any moves Russia makes in developing its energy reserves.’

Abbott ticked another finger. ‘Three. Past Intel indicates he is friendly to the west. If there’s the slightest possibility he would like to come and work in the UK, we want you to be with him to provide the necessary encouragement.’

‘Right, I understand’ replied Sean. ‘What’s my way in?’

‘Nic Tyler’s widow. Help Kellie Tyler to repatriate her husband’s body. Find out whatever you can when you’re over there. Make contact with Khostov if possible, without alerting the Russian authorities.’

Sean looked sceptical. ‘That’s all?’

‘Yes. You stay with Kellie, there and back. We’ll give you some cover for the Foreign Office.’

‘I won’t have much time to do anything in Moscow. I imagine the process wouldn’t take more than a couple of days.’

‘Not even that — 24 hours at the most.’ Abbott faced Sean. ‘No heroics. You must accompany the widow back.’

‘Bloody hell, you don’t want much do you?

‘Perhaps now you understand why we need to send an old hand.’

‘Thanks. Old hand or not, we’ll be watched at every step. The only way I could get that kind of Intel is by going to ground.’

Abbott understood Sean to mean disappearing from the authorities and operating in the shadows until he had collected the information they had asked for. ‘No, I don’t want you to do that. Just see what you can pick up.’

‘And when I return?’

‘A quick debrief and that’s it.’

‘Then I’m free to return to Italy?’

Abbott pulled a face. ‘You know how these things go.’

‘That’s the problem. I have to get back to Italy before the end of the week.’

‘Girlfriend over there, is she?’

‘That’s information you don’t need to know.’

Abbott shifted in his chair. ‘Can we decide after the debrief?’

For the second time Sean shook his head. ‘No. I can turn this mission down for any reason, and I’m not required to tell you why.’

Abbott sighed. ‘Very well then. When you get back you can go wherever you want.’

Sean paused, weighing up the odds. He had Abbott’s word, but he knew from bitter experience the department could overrule him if they chose to. Despite the alarm bells, he felt obliged. After all, he would be leaving the service in six months. What could go wrong? He took a deep breath.

‘OK. I’ll do it.’

* * *

For every operation he accepted, Sean had to sign a stack of forms; the Section were sticklers for procedure. He went down the stairs to the ground floor where the admin department tried to keep on top of the paperwork. A pretty girl from Finance peered over the counter and gave him a pile of papers. Sean flicked through, pausing near the end. The form required his signature and a witness, confirming he wanted no changes to his Will.

‘Is there something the matter?’

They were unfailingly polite to agents who were about to embark on a mission; some never made it back. He hesitated. Previously he had always signed the slip without thinking, but this occasion was different.

‘I want to change the Will.’ He would still remember Katherine and leave in the clause about the flowers for her grave. But now he had to consider Natasha. ‘Here, I’ll jot down what I’d like. Would you see to it?’

‘Of course sir.’

He wrote out the directive with mixed feelings. Katherine had died fifteen years ago and he would never forget her, but this marked a turning point.

He signed, dated the form, and passed it back to the girl.

* * *

Yakov Petrovich held the notice high above his head. He judged the passengers arriving at Heathrow’s terminal 5 would be able to see it over the heads of the waiting crowd. The sign said Vassily Maskhadov, though Yakov expected to greet Alexei Khostov. A small crowd came through the gate, and Yakov craned his neck, anxious to get a first glimpse of Alexei. The man he had come to meet was tall, thin and distinguished. Yakov had known him on and off for the last thirty years.

Yakov waved the sign when he spotted Alexei in the next group to emerge. He was even thinner than when they had last met, and his face more lined. He had a stubble turning into the start of a beard, but the brown eyes possessed the same watchful air as before. His hair, once dark, was going grey at the temples.

Alexei Khostov recognised Petrovich and walked over with quick precise movements. ‘Yakov! It’s so good to see you again!’

The two men embraced. Petrovich slapped him on the back and they broke apart, each regarding at the other.

Khostov spoke first. ‘You look more like an oligarch now than when I last saw you in Moscow!’

Petrovich glanced down and patted the suit over his stomach. ‘You always make the jokes Alexei. I have to say you are not looking as well as when we last met.’

‘Ah Petrov, I’ve been working too hard.’

‘And why did you ask for the name on the sign — are you flying with a false passport?’

Khostov gazed around the crowded airport. ‘I’ll tell you about it in the car.’

‘Of course.’ Petrovich beckoned to a smartly dressed chauffeur. ‘Alexei, you remember Pieter. You may trust him with your luggage.’

The chauffeur took Alexei’s black leather briefcase and showed them the way. Khostov noticed Yakov had changed his motor yet again. Last time he recalled a silver E-class Mercedes, but today it was a black BMW X5. Khostov shook his head when the chauffeur attempted to put his briefcase in the boot, preferring the case to stay with him. Yakov sat beside Khostov, and they passed small talk as the BMW moved smoothly out of the terminal area. After five minutes Khostov turned to Yakov.

‘You are dying to know why I am travelling under this passport,’ Khostov teased.

‘I am curious, yes.’

Khostov held his palm up to staunch further questions. ‘I can only say so much. Any more would be bad for your health.’

‘Well then, tell me what you can.’

Alexei Khostov settled back in the leather seat, considering just how much he could reveal. After a few moments, he began. ‘In Moscow, I was assigned to a project right out of the blue.’

‘Involving?’

‘Involving the latest design of nuclear power plants for ice breakers and floating platforms working in the Arctic.’

‘Why were you surprised? You are the foremost nuclear physicist in Russia — and probably the world!’

‘Because the assignment had nothing to do about the design of the power plants. There are enough engineers doing that job, together with some very experienced people in an American corporation partnering the company.’

‘So what were you asked to do?’

‘Play detective.’

‘Detective — detecting what?’

Khostov seemed pensive. ‘This is where the circumstances become sensitive. You forget Petrov, in Russia there are a lot of under-cover payments, especially on big projects such as this one.’ He glanced at his friend. ‘You have some personal experience of this, I believe.’

Yakov smiled. ‘There’s no need to get personal Alexei.’

‘The sums of money involved in this project are truly staggering.’ Khostov murmured. ‘And someone died.’

‘Oh.’ Yakov was quiet for a moment. ‘You thought you might be next?’

‘Yes’.

‘So somebody found out. They didn’t like the idea, and you came here for safety.’

‘Em, not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’

‘No. But I found a new aptitude for detective work.’

‘Ah. So you discovered where the money was going?’

Khostov nodded.

‘Where?’

Khostov put a single finger up to his lips.

* * *

At the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency headquarters in Springfield Virginia, Sarah Giles squinted at the fuzzy photograph on her computer screen. The satellite imaging equipment was working correctly, but low cloud and atmospheric pollution had blurred the subject.

She began to use a standard set of tools to try and measure the size of the object. The blur was definitely some kind of ship, but it didn’t seem to fit into any known category on the database. She read off the figures: length 150 m, beam 50 m, estimated draught of 6 m and displacement of 25,400 m3.

She checked the figures again, attempting to match them with the catalogue. Still nothing fitted exactly and she shrugged. The nearest was a freighter, but the location and course of the target didn’t correspond with anything plying the world’s oceans. Sarah hit the palm of her hand on the desk in frustration. She would have to go and see her boss.

Peter Lint’s desk was a short walk across the open plan office. He was always accommodating, but she didn’t want to keep on monopolising his time when she knew he had more critical things to do. Even so, she had a feeling this sighting might be important and she couldn’t just ignore the problem. She tapped quietly on the door and entered.

Peter Lint smiled as she approached. ‘What have you got?’

‘Sorry to disturb you. I’ve sent you a pic of an unidentified vessel. I wondered if you could help me out on this one?’

‘Let’s see.’ Peter opened the picture on his screen. ‘Have you been tracking this?’

‘Yep. She left Arkhangelsk yesterday. She’s not a trawler; she’s too small for a freighter, but too big for a commercial yacht. I couldn’t find her on any database.’

‘OK. Predicted track?’

‘Looks like she’s following the North East Passage — so far.’

‘Hm. Let’s check the database for new ship types. It’s most probably Russian, and we know its dimensions and tonnage.’ Peter checked his computer. ‘There.’ He pointed to the information on his monitor.

Sarah leaned over. ‘An icebreaker! I would never have guessed — it’s much larger than any icebreakers I know.’

‘Well’ said Peter, ‘that’s what it is. Probably going to join others in the Pechora Sea — about 800 miles north and east of her home port.’

‘I apologise for troubling you,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t understand how quickly you found the information.’

‘That’s OK.’ Peter grinned. ‘It’s very new, so I’d keep an eye on it if I were you.’

‘Will do, and thanks again.’ She stood up.

‘Ah Sarah,’ Peter called out. ‘I don’t mind you popping over when you’ve got a query. That’s what I’m here for. Would you care for a little advice?’

She paused. ‘I’d be glad of any tips.’

‘I suggest you need to do some more of your own research on ships you are tasked with monitoring. Get to identify everything about them: their home ports, destinations, cargo and etcetera. I know it’s difficult to do at work when there’s so much going on. You’ll find it easier to do your studying at home.’

‘OK Peter, I’ll see what I can do.’

Lint could tell she wasn’t convinced. ‘You’re good at your job Sarah — but you have the potential to be far better. If you study you’ll become more useful to the organisation and increase your chances of promotion.’

‘Thank you Peter,’ she smiled. ‘I do enjoy my work, and I will make the extra effort.’

* * *

Maxim Desny watched as Gavrilovich Markow plonked a mug of coffee down on Zlotnik’s table, spilling a little in the process. Zlotnik studied the cup for a whole minute through tungsten-rimmed glasses. His large head seemed too heavy for his shoulders and hung unnaturally forward. He had several days’ stubble and a waxy sheen covered his light-brown skin, making him appear ill. Gleaming dark hair was combed straight back with unruly waves appearing at the neck.

Desny knew he was not ill; he always looked like that. Maxim Desny had worked with Zlotnik before, but he could never figure out the man’s thoughts. People feared him for this, and the trait for sudden violence.

Zlotnik moved his arm, sweeping the mug to the floor. The pottery shattered on the tiled concrete, and all conversation in the room stopped.

Desny looked around at his colleagues to gauge their reaction. Gavrilovich Markow from the FSB was a big man, and not easily frightened. A direct descendant of the old Soviet KGB, the FSB was a much feared Soviet intelligence agency. Desny had worked with Markow too, briefly, when they were both in Moscow. Further along, Desny saw Yasha Petrov from GRU intelligence, a thin, hard looking character. GRU was the military intelligence directorate of the Armed Forces. Desny had not met Petrov, but his background as a sniper fitted the picture.

Mila Urilenko from the FSO sat opposite Petrov. This was the first time Desny had seen Urilenko, and he was struck by his features. He had the countenance of a schoolboy on a man’s body, the skin pock-marked, as though still in puberty. A lopsided haircut added to the illusion. He wore clothes one size too small, making his arms and belly seem fat. The man’s reputation preceded him. Rumour had it that the FSO were obliged to take him from the FSB because of his antisocial tendencies. The FSO was the federal protection service for high-ranking state officials, and Desny guessed he must have had good contacts in the Kremlin to secure such a high ranking post. Desny couldn’t work out what he was doing here, but he hoped to find out shortly.

A steward scuttled forward to clean up the spilt coffee, and Zlotnik waited until he had gone.

He stood up. ‘I am Serge Zlotnik, the leader of this little group.’ He surveyed their faces. ‘Some of you already know me; those that don’t will soon. I sent for you because I believe you are the best in your respective fields.’ He turned on a projector. ‘I have a task for you.’ They observed a composed head and shoulders shot of a man, obviously taken by a professional photographer. His lined face had dark hair going grey at the temples. The eyes seemed to hold a mischievous twinkle.

‘Meet Alexei Khostov. Age 45, he is thin and stands six foot one inch. Brown eyes. He speaks English, though not fully fluent. He is one of our greatest nuclear design engineers, and he has gone missing.’

‘When was this reported?’ Desny asked.

‘Five days ago. He was drawing up plans for a nuclear powered platform for GazArctic in Severodvinsk.’

‘Were there any signs he was planning to go?’ Desny could not suppress his natural curiosity.

‘He reported the power plant’s specification for shielding had been watered down so much, a nuclear emergency was a distinct possibility. He also made the suggestion that GazArctic skimped on the spec in order to save a lot of time and money in building the platform.’

‘Who did he speak to?’

‘The senior operations manager. We interrogated him, but he knows nothing about Khostov’s departure. However we do know Khostov discussed some of his concerns with a colleague — an American called Nic Tyler who worked for US Shale on the same project.’

Desny turned slightly to glance at Markow, but his expression remained impassive. ‘What information do we have about the company?’

‘GazArctic and US Shale have a multi-billion dollar agreement to extract oil, gas and minerals from the Arctic,’ replied Zlotnik. We believe Khostov’s claims were untrue.’

‘Could you tell us your reasons?’ enquired Desny.

‘Khostov is accusing GazArctic of corruption to cover his embezzlement of 15 million roubles from the company. Nicholas Tyler, his colleague, also stood to gain a considerable amount.’

‘Do you have any evidence of this?’ Desny enquired.

‘There is a 15 million rouble hole in GazArctic’s accounts, and both Khostov and Tyler are missing.’ Zlotnik clicked the projector and a picture of man in his mid-thirties appeared. He had a handsome face with blue eyes, smooth skin and full lips. ‘Fedyenka Leonov, Tyler’s lover and a Russian male model. Leonov revealed under interrogation that Tyler was working with Khostov.

‘You said was his lover.’

‘I did. When Tyler raised questions with his American operations manager, he was sent to inspect the parts being delivered from China. The ship’s orders were to lay over in Tiksi before reaching its destination port. We’re certain Tyler arrived at Tiksi. He was found several days later, frozen to death.’

Zlotnik glanced quickly at Urilenko, before walking around the table, handing out copies of Khostov’s photo and a printed list. He aimed the remote at the projector and the same photo appeared on the screen.

‘This is the man we are seeking; our orders are from the highest authority to find him. He has probably fled to London, a popular destination for dissidents because of the British refusal to extradite criminals. You have copies of the photograph and a list of people who might shelter him in the UK. You will work through the file until you track him down.’

Zlotnik surveyed the room again, pausing to add emphasis on his next words.

‘He must be found at all costs.’

CHAPTER FIVE

As Sean drove along Beneden village green, he admired the half-timbered houses lining the road. He found the Fox Inn nestled between similar houses and checked in. At 7 pm he walked a short distance to the Tyler’s house. An attractive woman of about 35 answered.

‘I’m Sean Quinlan; I called earlier.’

She paused a moment, looking at him in the light from the hallway. ‘You’d better come in.’

He followed her into a spacious kitchen. ‘Tea?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘No thanks. If you’ve not eaten, I thought I could take you to dinner at the pub.’

She turned, a hesitant smile appearing around her lips. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself properly.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Kellie.’ They shook hands. ‘I wasn’t expecting the man from the ministry to turn out to be so..’.

‘Attractive? Bold? Cheeky?’

She laughed. ‘No. I meant, so thoughtful.’

‘And I wasn’t expecting you to be so..’.

‘Good looking? Young? Sexy?’ she supplied.

‘Hm. Perhaps all of the above.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Only perhaps?’

After escorting her to the pub, Sean bought drinks at the bar. They found a quiet table in an adjacent room and Kellie sipped her gin and tonic. ‘What section of the ministry are you from?’

‘The Foreign Office.’

‘Oh. Are you freelance?’

‘No, but I’m often sent abroad. I’m hoping to scale back soon.’

The barmaid appeared, and they stopped to order. Sean laid the menu down. ‘I was sorry to hear about husband.’

Kellie waved her hand. ‘That’s all right.’

‘Can you tell me a little about him?’

‘Well like you, Nic was away a lot. They used to send him out regularly to China and the States.’

‘You mean US Shale?’

Kellie nodded. ‘He used to go about six months at a time.’

‘You were lonely?’

Kellie frowned. ‘I was fine to start with. I worked, and I went to the gym and joined other classes. But you can only do so much of that.’ Her eyes flicked sideways, assuming a distant gaze. ‘The last few years were the worse. I got made redundant. Other jobs were hard to come by, so I stopped working altogether.’

‘You weren’t able to accompany Nic when he went away on business?’

‘That wasn’t part of the culture of the company. I’d go with him sometimes if it was a short trip — conferences and trade shows, for example. But they didn’t like the idea of paying for two people when they only needed one.’

‘What sort of work was he involved in?’

‘Oh, project management, mainly big projects. Like building an oil rig for instance.’ She took a bite of her starter and chewed slowly. ‘They brought in US Shale to partner a Russian energy company. They’re trying to exploit gas deposits in the Arctic, but they have little to no experience of deep water drilling. I think Nic was directing the project management for an exploration platform.’

‘Were you told how he died?’

‘No. He’s based in Severodvinsk and rings every Tuesday evening. When he didn’t ring last week I called him but there was no answer. I rang the company, and eventually spoke to his manager who told me Nic had gone to some godforsaken place in Siberia. I tried ringing him again, several times, but still no reply.’

Another barmaid arrived, cleared the plates and set down the second course.

‘A couple of days later I rang Nic’s boss again. He said they had been trying to contact Nic too.’ She pushed the food around the plate. ‘They were concerned, and I began to worry. Then I got a strange text message.’

‘I’ve not seen the original. Do you mind showing me?’

Kellie looked in her handbag. She handed over her mobile, and Sean squinted at the text.

sorry i cheated

always loved u

am dying

‘When I first saw it,’ she continued, ‘I thought the worst. I still hoped he would be alright, but I knew something bad had happened.’

‘According to the Russian authorities, it was sent some time after he died.’ Sean took a quick glance at Kellie’s face. ‘How could that be?’

Kellie touched the corner of her eye. ‘I don’t know. Maybe someone sent it as a sick joke after they found him.’

They ate in silence for a minute. ‘We might find out more tomorrow.’

Kellie shrugged.

‘What are the arrangements when we arrive?’

Kellie took a deep breath. ‘I’ve engaged a funeral director, one recommended by your department, in fact. They provided a list of people experienced in international repatriation.’

Coffees arrived, and they waited while the waitress cleared away.

Kellie stirred sugar into her cup. ‘There’s an office in Moscow and they’ve organised someone to meet us.’ She fished about in her bag and handed him a business card. ‘It’s all been arranged. They received a copy of the death certificate, signed by a doctor, and the death has been registered.’

‘I’m sorry for all the questions Kellie.’

‘That’s OK. I imagine you have to find out all you can.’

‘Was Nic ever depressed?’

Kellie shook her head.

‘Suicidal?’

‘No.’ Kellie’s response was definite.

‘How did he get on with his colleagues?’

‘We never discussed things like that. Occasionally he would talk if there was a big problem at the office, but normally he didn’t like chatting about work at home.

‘Was he ever concerned about anything to do with the company?’

‘Sometimes he would complain about the pressure and the travelling, but that’s all.’

‘How often would he come home, and how long would he stay?’

‘He had a week’s leave every three months.’

Sean raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not much, even in my job.’

‘That’s how American companies operate, apparently.’

‘Do you know anyone at the Russian company?’

‘Nic would invite one or two people over to stay when they came over to London. He would take them to a show, and we’d put them up here.’

‘Did Nic ever bring a person called Alexei Khostov?’

Kellie frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’

He showed her Khostov’s photo.

Kellie took a long look. ‘No, I’d remember him if he stayed.’

Sean finished his coffee, and smiled. ‘That’s all, thanks.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘..for now.’

Kellie smiled. ‘Shall we go?’

He paid the bill and walked her home. They stopped at the door and she found her keys. ‘Would you like to come in for a nightcap?’

‘No thanks Kellie. We need an early start tomorrow.’

In the street-light Sean caught a fleeting glimpse of disappointment.

* * *

Twenty four hours after leaving Petrovich’s magnificent house in the country, Alexei Khostov stood in central London and gazed at an impressive Georgian red-brick building. It had six floors and an imposing panelled front door with Grecian columns either side. A nearby brass plaque indicated this was the firm of Winfield Mantel LLP. Just the sort of expensive house his friend’s lawyers might occupy, thought Khostov. He walked into the reception area. It looked more like a club than a modern business with a deep pile carpet, big leather settees and armchairs placed around light oak coffee tables.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the young receptionist.

‘Yes. I have an appointment with Susan Hillard.’

‘Your name, please?’

‘Vassily Maskhadov.’

She consulted her screen and picked up the phone. ‘She will be with you in two minutes. Do take a seat.’

In fact she arrived in less than a minute, hardly time to sit and read the first pages of the newspaper.

‘Mr. Maskhadov?’

He started and jumped to his feet, unused to hearing his cover name called out. In front of him was a pretty dark-haired woman. He shook her hand and accompanied her to a tiny lift, only just big enough for the two of them. Susan was excellent at small talk, and by the time they arrived at her office on the fourth floor he was beginning to warm to her.

She poured out tea for both. ‘Before we start, would you be happy to tell me how you got in touch with us?’

‘You were recommended by a friend of mine, Yakov Petrovich.’

‘Ah yes, he is a good client of ours. Now, how can I help?’

‘I have some important documents. I’d like you to look after them for me,’ he said, indicating his black leather briefcase.

‘That’s no problem at all. How long are we to keep them?’

He hesitated. ‘These are crucial files. Before I hand them over, could you tell me what security arrangements you have?’ Pausing, he observed the curious expression on Susan’s face. ‘When I say important, I mean life or death.’

‘Are they legally yours?’

He considered the question for a moment. ‘Yes. I compiled them for a client. Unfortunately I didn’t have a chance to finish them before coming to the UK. I am also the owner — at least until I get an opportunity to give the dossier to my client.’

‘I see,’ Susan replied in a voice which implied she didn’t see at all. ‘May I ask who your client is?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. You mentioned earlier about life or death?’

‘I did.’

She waited, but Vassily didn’t elaborate. ‘Well then Mr. Maskhadov, I can put your mind at rest regarding our security arrangements. Is there anything else you require?’

‘There is one more thing. It’s em, a delicate matter.’

‘Your friend Yakov is aware how discrete we are. We have been established for over a hundred years. We would not still be in business if we didn’t know how to carry out the wishes of our clients, no matter how sensitive.’

He nodded, accepting the reassurance. ‘If I should die before I come back to collect them, I want you to pass them to the police.’

‘Fine, we can certainly arrange that.’

‘Not to the local police station. I want them handed into Scotland Yard with this.’ He opened the briefcase and fished out a letter.

She took the envelope and checked the address. ‘That’s fine.’ She began typing on her computer, talking at the same time. ‘There are some formalities you need to complete and I will give you a client care letter confirming we now work for you. Afterwards I’ll phone for our office manager who can show you the strong room in the basement and take you to our archive store.’ She turned towards him. ‘I hope all that is satisfactory?’

‘Perfectly, thank you.’ Alexei Khostov smiled.

* * *

At the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency headquarters in Virginia, Peter Lint remembered he hadn’t heard from his trainee in a while.

‘What’s happening with your icebreaker Sarah? Did you find where it’s headed?’

Sarah glanced up at her boss as he squatted on the corner of her desk. ‘She’s named LK-80, and she hasn’t stopped yet, so I can’t even guess her destination.’

‘Any clues? Did she meet another vessel?’

Sarah shook her head and pulled up a chart of the northern coast of Russia on her screen. ‘Last time you thought she might be heading for the Pechora Sea. She pointed to the area. ‘But she transited through into the Kara Sea via the Kara strait. That’s when I became curious. Basically the ship has been following the North East Passage. Most countries avoid this route because the channel is ice-free only from August to November.’

‘Whereabouts is she now?’

‘That’s the funny thing. She changed course recently, tracking due north.’ Sarah turned back to her monitor. ‘Right now she’s at latitude 80 degrees, with the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago about 50 miles off their starboard bow.’

‘Where do you believe she’s headed?’

Sarah gestured to the map on the screen. ‘There’s nothing out there for thousands of kilometres. I mean, unless there’s a bunch of tourists on board who want to visit the North Pole.’

Peter smiled. ‘There are some tour operators who take people up there.’

‘What do you think, sir?’

Peter made a face. ‘She could be making for the Lomonosov ridge.’ He leaned over and drew his finger in a line from Russia, through the North Pole and towards Greenland.

‘I read about that,’ she replied. ‘It’s an underwater range. Russia claimed it is part of its continental territory.’

‘Correct, you’ve being doing some homework.’

Sara beamed. ‘The case is still ongoing. But the ridge extends well beyond the 200 mile economic limit from Russia’s border. If they can prove it arises from their continental shelf, they might be entitled to exploit it.’

‘Not until an accord has been signed by all the members of the Arctic Council. If the ship began to mine for oil or gas, Russia would be breaking the terms of its international treaties.’

‘I guess that would stir up many problems for the politicians involved.’

‘Right, Sarah. There’s a lot at stake for the eight member countries.’

‘Ah, sir. One more thing I ought to mention.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve done some research about this icebreaker. She’s brand-new. In fact, she’s the first of a new class of nuclear vessels. I hear the reactor designs are new also, and largely untested.’

Peter nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m aware you’re concerned about the safety aspect. But Russia has led the world for the last 50 years in developing reactors for their Arctic fleets. Are you saying the design is completely different from before?’

‘No, not at all. I just wanted to raise the issue; those reactors are untried.’

Peter shrugged. ‘Each new class builds on a previous class. So far they’ve got a pretty good safety record.’

‘Mm. Let’s suppose a problem developed here.’ Sarah prodded the screen ahead of the last known position of LK-80. ‘There would be next to no help available at such an isolated place.’

He examined the map. ‘I agree — you have a point.’

‘I hope I’m not overstating the issue.’

‘Not at all — you’re doing a good job Sarah. I’ll find out what assets are in the area and pass on the Intel.’

* * *

When the American embassy car came to pick them up, they sat apart on the back seat. Kellie wore an elegant short black dress with a matching lace headscarf. Sean glanced at the chauffeur, trying to gauge if he could overhear their conversation. ‘How did you sleep afterwards?’

‘Not very well.’

Yesterday had been a long day. They were at Heathrow at 5 am for their flight to Moscow. Changing at Copenhagen, they eventually landed at Sheremetyevo International at 5 pm local time. She was chatty to start with, but when they arrived at the hotel she was tired and had wanted only the briefest supper before retiring.

Five minutes after 2 am he heard a knock. He opened the door a fraction.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she said in a low pitched voice.

Sean took in the fetching nightie and the fact she had taken the time to put on some makeup on. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, still holding the door.

‘I’m finding it difficult to sleep.’

For a second he hesitated. If this was a ploy he would tell her to go back. However she sounded genuine enough, and as a representative from the Foreign Office he had his part to play. He moved to allow her in and switched on the light above the writing desk. ‘Drink?’

She followed him in and sat on the bed. ‘Please. Gin and tonic if you have it.’

From her breath, Sean guessed she had already had a couple from the personal bar in her room. He brought out the drinks, taking a diet cola for himself.

‘Are you not joining me?’

‘Early start this morning.’

Kellie groaned and put out a hand to her head. ‘I’m not used to travelling and getting up so early.’

‘You’ll be home later today.’

‘I’m cold.’

‘There’s a spare dressing gown you can wear,’ he said guardedly. He went to the wardrobe. ‘Here.’

She stood up and allowed him to help her into the sleeves, then hugged herself. ‘Would you mind if I stayed tonight?’ she asked in a mild tone. ‘You could keep me warm.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

She gave Sean a searching look. ‘You know I was divorcing Nic?’

‘No. I’m sorry to hear your marriage wasn’t working out. I was a little surprised when we met..’

‘That I wasn’t quite the grieving widow you expected?’

‘I wouldn’t say that in those terms.’

She flipped her hand. ‘But it’s what you thought. I have been, well, fairly faithful to him.’

‘I sense a but.’

Kellie paused. ‘He hasn’t always been true to me.’ The next sentence came out in a rush. ‘Recently he started to go with other men.’

The silence lingered. Sean finished his drink and placed it on the table deliberately. ‘Well, you deserve better.’

‘Do you have someone?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t mean to sound curt, but he was tired.

She picked up her glass and downed it in one go. ‘I’m happy for you.’ She walked to the door and half-turned. ‘I’m just sorry for myself; that's all.’

After she left he went back to bed. His mind was alert now, and he couldn’t stop thinking of Natasha, wondering if she had met up with her family. Picking up his mobile, he tried to work out what time it would be in Italy. He should be entirely focused on his mission; a moment’s distraction might have serious consequences. On the other hand, it was hardly a dangerous assignment.

Sean tapped out a short text before falling into a light sleep.

see u day after tomorr

sean x

CHAPTER SIX

The American embassy chauffeur picked up Sean and Kellie. He drove in silence and Sean noticed the route took them northwest of the Kremlin.

Sean glanced at Kellie. She wore an elegant black dress and a lace veil. When the car slowed he peered out of the window. They were on Tverskoy Boulevard, approaching a red brick church. ‘This must be St. Andrew’s’ he said quietly.

She glanced at Sean. ‘Nic always claimed to be Church of England, though he never attended church at home.’

The limousine drew up to the gate and the chauffeur stepped out to open the door for Kellie. A welcoming committee of three stood in front of them.

One of them, a tall man in a black suit, came forward and introduced himself to Kellie as the funeral director. He presented the chaplain who wore a cassock and surplus. The third man wore a smart suit and was the representative from the American Embassy.

The funeral director indicated the entrance. ‘There will be a short service inside.’ He took Kellie’s elbow and gently steered her to one side. ‘Unfortunately you won’t be able to view your husband as the coffin must be sealed before being taken aboard the aircraft.’

Sean followed the group in. ‘How was he identified?’

The director turned. ‘By Nic’s manager.’ Speaking to Kellie, he said: ‘Afterwards I need you to sign some documents, and then you can accompany the coffin to the airport.’ He looked at the chaplain, and then Kellie. ‘Is there anything else you require? If not, we can proceed in to the church.’

Sean examined the environment before they entered the large wooden doors. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the street. As they made their way inside, the darkness of the vestibule contrasted sharply with the bright sunlight outside. He stopped for a few moments, and Kellie walked on. While he waited for his eyes to adjust, Sean checked the corners of the church. A tall figure knelt in a pew on the opposite aisle, his head drooping from the shoulders. Sean’s pulse quickened.

Elsewhere the church was empty, except for a small group in an aisle near the altar. Sean assumed they were colleagues from Nic’s oil company, coming to pay their respects.

The chaplain entered from the sacristy and began the ceremony. Prayers were said, and at one point a wheezy organ lead the small congregation in hymns. The whole service lasted no more than 20 minutes. Afterwards Kellie was taken into the sacristy to sign the papers.

Sean made his way out, and the embassy representative approached. ‘I’m afraid I have to hurry back for a meeting. Please convey my deep condolences to Mrs Tyler.’

‘I will. There seems to be a lot of confusion over his death,’ Sean observed.

‘Yes, it’s unfortunate’ he replied, offering no explanation.

‘What can you tell me about the circumstances?’

The man transferred his weight from one foot to another as he spoke. ‘Not much. He was found by a reindeer herder several miles from the town. I think it was the next day before they got an ambulance out to him. When they brought him to the mortuary it took a while to locate someone from his workplace.’

‘How did he get to be so far out of the town?’

He squinted at his watch. ‘I can only assume he walked.’

‘That would rather imply he wanted to commit suicide.’

‘Er, yes. I believe it does.’

‘But no suicide note was found.’

‘No, none I’m aware of.’

‘It would be simpler to take an overdose.’

He nodded. ‘It would, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than I’ve told you already.’

‘Just one last question. What was the cause of death?’

The man stared at the ground, as if tired of all the questions. ‘The post-mortem confirmed heart failure following extreme hypothermia. I’m sorry, I really do have to go.’ He shook Sean’s hand and headed for his car.

A few moments later the funeral director appeared with Kellie. ‘I’ve arranged for a cortege to the airport. Mrs Tyler and Mr Quinlan will follow the hearse in our car.’ He indicated a black Zil behind. ‘I’ve placed all your husband’s effects in a bag next to the coffin.’ He faced Kellie. ‘You will need to present both yours and your deceased husband’s passport at the airport.’ He grasped Kellie’s hand in both of his. ‘I’m really sorry for your loss Mrs Tyler. I hope you have a good flight home.’

A shadow fell in front of Sean and he turned. The person at the back of the church was standing nearby. Sean motioned to the director. ‘Please see Mrs Tyler to the car. I won’t be long.’ He watched as the director put a comforting arm around Kellie to guide her.

‘Sean.’ The man’s voice was a bass grumble.

‘Serge.’ Sean nodded, wondering what he knew about his mission in Vienna.

Zlotnik hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind at the last moment. ‘Have a safe journey.’

‘Why are you here Serge?’

‘Do you have him?’

‘Who?’

He looked to one side, as if Sean was already trying his patience. ‘We both know who.’

Sean shrugged.

‘Where is Khostov?’

‘If I knew, you would be the last person I would tell.’ Sean began to walk away.

‘Careful Quinlan.’

The warning tone in his voice stopped him in his tracks.

‘You’re on my patch now.’

Sean faced Zlotnik. ‘One day, Serge, you will lift that head of yours and look up. Who knows what you might see?’

‘I see you are still at the Department. Aren’t you getting too old for this kind of work?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I am. But I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.’

Sean paused, taking in the leonine cranium and the barrel chest hidden under the shabby suit.

‘Do you want to?’

The eyes lifted fractionally to gaze beyond Sean. ‘If I did, you would be the first person I would tell.’

‘Me?’ He was acquainted with Zlotnik for nearly ten years, but they couldn’t be described as close. ‘Why me?’

The big shoulders shrugged. ‘We have a lot in common. We’re both in the same business, we just happen to be on opposite sides of the fence.’ The large head moved slightly and his eyes rested on Sean. ‘We have shared moments in history.’

For a moment a peculiar feeling of kinship crossed Sean’s mind. The man was lonely, but Sean was at a loss as to what actually motivated him.

‘Goodbye Serge.’ Sean turned.

‘We will meet again,’ was Zlotnik’s parting shot.

Sean walked away.

* * *

Desny waited on the lawn in the early morning light. He glanced at his watch, breathing deeply with impatience. Already past seven o’clock, there was still no sign of Khostov. Going inside, he woke the others but left Urilenko asleep with Khristin’s wrist tied to his.

The three gathered downstairs. None had slept well because of the frequent screams from the woman. Yakov, still bound to the chair, slumped forward. His hands and arms were blue where the bonds had been tightened before they went to bed.

Desny nodded to Markow. ‘Time to question Petrovich again.’

As Markow approached they heard noises from the bedroom above. Markow grabbed a handful of Yakov’s hair and lifted his head. He peered into the face. The eyes were shut, the bags underneath puffed and discoloured. Markow felt his wrist. He was still alive — just.

Upstairs Khristin’s sobs and screams cut through the silence. They regarded each other helplessly. Markow gave Petrovich a hard slap with the palm of his hand. Spittle flew from Petrovich’s mouth and he opened his eyes.

‘Khostov isn’t here.’ Markow shouted to get through his confused state.

The cries from upstairs grew louder and more regular.

Petrovich’s eyes swivelled and focused on Markow. ‘Wh-what time is it?’ He appeared not to understand the significance of the screams.

‘Gone seven.’

‘He’s not back until nine!’

Markow delivered another firm jab with his other hand. ‘How is he arriving?’

‘T-train to the local station, then taxi.’

A blood curdling shriek erupted from upstairs.

Desny eyed Markow. ‘Go up and stop that noise. We need to be prepared for when he returns. I’ll scout round the gardens.’

Desny reached the door when he heard the sound of a shot.

All three ran to the bedroom, Desny the first to enter. Over the course of his career as a detective he had seen a lot of dead bodies, but the sight of Khristin’s naked body lying on top of blood-soaked sheets nearly made him vomit. Urilenko stood stripped by the bed, the gun still in his hand. The naked figure was splattered in blood and his face held the fixed smile of an imbecile.

Desny turned away, ran down the stairs and went outside.

Markow ordered Petrov to help him clean up Urilenko. The man acted like a child, allowing them to get him dressed. Downstairs, Markow turned his attention to Yakov. To check for consciousness, he delivered another blow. ‘Where is Khostov?’

Markow had to lean in close to his mouth to pick up Yakov’s muttered reply. ‘He went to the city.’

Markow slapped him. ‘When is he due back?’

The response was slow in coming. ‘Morning.’

Markow hit him again. ‘What did he take with him?’ There was a prolonged pause, and Markow leant in to catch the answer.

‘Briefcase.’

Petrovich’s frame shuddered. Clearly he had given them all he could.

Outside in the gardens, Desny stopped and bent forward, holding his hands just above his knees. He took several deep breaths. If he wasn’t careful, Urilenko would bring down the whole team. Desny resolved to send him back at the first opportunity.

He straightened and began to admire the extensive garden. In Russia grounds like these were for the privileged class only. Even so, Desny thought very few would compare with the beautiful setting that lay before him. He didn’t know the names of many of the plants, but he became enchanted with the palette of colours and the use of greenery to provide a lush backdrop to the borders.

He walked round the lawns in an anticlockwise direction and arrived at the back of the grounds. A gate, set in a stone wall, led to a field beyond. Nearby in the border a miniature mausoleum rose from thick bushes. Desny assumed the six feet tall structure housed the graves of the family’s pets. Perhaps it was one of those English follies he had read about. Desny was amazed the owner had so much wealth he could afford to build the thing. Desny fingered the new padlock. Perhaps Yakov’s pet dog had died recently? The rest of the family were due to follow soon afterwards, he imagined.

Eventually he came out onto the gravel drive. A taxi drew up opposite the gates and he saw Khostov alight. He began walking towards him.

‘Who are you?’ Khostov shouted through the closed gates.

‘Some friends of Yakov and his wife’, responded Desny as he continued to approach.

Khostov turned back to the taxi, and Desny overheard him asking the driver to wait. Desny stopped, aware he might frighten him off.

‘Yakov told us to expect you.’ Though Desny tried to be reassuring, something in the tone of his voice must have alerted Khostov and he climbed back into the taxi.

Desny whipped out his handgun and loosed off a careful shot through the gates. The back window shattered, but Khostov didn’t appear to be hit. The taxi accelerated away. Desny fired again, and the round went wild; the car was out of range.

Desny scribbled the number plate down on a pad and ran back down the drive to the house, shouting to his colleagues as he approached. Inside, they quickly collected everything, packing it into a large bag. Desny ordered Markow to bring Petrovich up to the bedroom where the wife’s body lay, and to finish him off. Desny brought the car from around from the back.

They piled in and Markow took over driving duties. ‘Turn right when you reach the main road.’ Desny pointed, ‘he went off in that direction.’

Five minutes later they realised they had lost the man they were hunting. Markow pulled into a lay-by and slapped the wheel in frustration.

‘Don’t worry’ Desny told Markow in a steady voice. ‘I noted the licence number. The driver should be easy to trace.’

‘Then I suggest we give him a call and find out where he’s taken Khostov’ replied Markow, a smile gradually lighting up his face.

* * *

Sean pushed the door and walked through, impatient to get the debrief over.

Abbott glanced up at the interruption and sighed. ‘I hear you had a chat with Zlotnik.’

‘I’d hardly call it a chat.’

‘What did you talk about?’

Sean frowned. ‘Not much. He asked if we had Khostov. And he gave me a warning.’

‘Oh?’

‘He told me I was on his patch, though I’m not sure why he said that. We were on our way back to the airport.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Mm. This might be nothing, but I got the distinct impression he wished to retire.’

Abbott appeared interested.

‘Was he wanting to defect, do you think?’

‘I don’t know, Chris. He spoke about us being on opposite sides of the fence. He also made a pointed reference to the length of time we’ve both been working for the security services. He said he couldn’t leave, even if he wanted to.’

Abbott shrugged. ‘Maybe he was having a bad day.’ He picked up the Tyler file. ‘Thoughts about Mr Tyler?’

‘The general feeling in Moscow is that Tyler committed suicide. But it was a very long winded way to do it. There was no suicide note, and the car he used hasn’t been found. It all points to an execution.’

‘Meanwhile Khostov has definitely gone missing.’ He faced Sean. ‘We need to find him.’

‘You promised me some leave as soon as I returned from Moscow.’

‘I did, but while Khostov is on the loose we can’t afford to stop looking.’

‘Bloody hell, Abbott. Can’t I even trust you to keep a promise?’ Sean got up and walked towards the window. He regarded the pigeons resting outside on the ledge.

Abbott waited a few moments before responding. ‘We’re still interested in why the Russians are covering up Tyler’s death. Intelligence suspect there’s a link between Tyler and Khostov’s disappearance. He was working with Tyler until Tyler died.’

‘What about the assurance you made before I left? Does that mean nothing to you?’

Abbott sighed for the second time. ‘Look Sean, you understand how things are in the department. If I could spare you, I would — you deserve a break. However, right now we are in a pickle.’ He opened a file. ‘We would offer you an Executive for this phase of the mission.’

Sean scowled. ‘I’m not interested.’

‘Lomax is available.’

Sean laughed bitterly. ‘I’m definitely not interested!’

‘I understand you two had a falling out on your last assignment. Regardless of that, he’s proving to be a top Executive.’

Sean remained silent.

‘You must try to bring a more professional approach, Sean. You should be able to work with anyone.’ Abbott waited several moments, but Sean refused to respond to the bait.

Abbott picked up another file. ‘There is one other possibility for you. He’s a new guy. Very bright. Name of Finch, Alan Finch. Have you heard of him?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, I’ve received excellent reports. He’s an ideal candidate.’

Sean rounded on Abbott. ‘Listen Chris, you are not giving me the right vibes on this mission. First you offer someone you know I can’t work with, and then you propose somebody else who is still wet behind the ears. He’ll get himself killed, or seriously jeopardise the operation. What the hell is this department coming to? Employ monkeys and they’ll shit on you from the tree tops.’

Abbott calmly laid down the file and waited for Sean’s temper to dissipate.

Then the penny clicked. The bastard had provoked him into losing his rag. Now Abbott had him hooked, attempting to rescue a failing mission. ‘Jesus Abbott. Don’t do that again!’

Abbott smiled innocently. ‘What did I do?’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sean pressed the bell again, and examined the first floor window. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and the curtains were still closed. After a minute Sean caught the sound of footsteps. The door opened a fraction, and a baleful eye glared out through a crack in the door.

‘Who is it?’ The voice sounded jaded, as if the owner had been in a smoky club all night.

He probably had, thought Sean. The door opened wider, and he recognised his colleague Daniel, about ten years younger than himself.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ the ragged voice replied. ‘You’d better come in.’

Sean entered and nearly tripped over the pile of unopened mail in the narrow hallway. ‘I gather you had a good night’ said Sean, grinning.

They had met when Daniel was studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. After Sean’s assignment finished, Daniel returned to the University to complete his post graduate degree. Why anyone would want to spend so much time in a lab, Sean couldn’t understand. However Daniel was one of the hottest IT experts the department had access to.

Known as DD because of the alliteration with his surname Davis, Daniel mumbled something about a drink, and Sean entered the small kitchen. He found some mugs and made coffee while DD went upstairs to change. Fifteen minutes later DD came down, appearing fresher and smarter in slim jeans, tee-shirt, hoodie sweat top and green pumps.

‘Got a query for you about text messaging.’ Sean checked to see if he was paying attention.

‘Yeah, go ahead.’

‘A body was found frozen in Siberia. The last thing he did before he died was to text his wife, but she didn’t get the message until several days later. How could you explain that?’

DD shrugged. ‘Sounds like a puzzle for Sherlock. There’s probably a logical answer. If the mobile wasn’t in range of a signal the text would stay on the device. Assuming the phone was cold — really cold — the battery would shut down until it warmed up again. Even then, someone would need to turn the phone back on. If a signal was present, the message would go automatically.’

‘I see’ said Sean. I guess somebody at the mortuary turned the phone on when they were checking the body. It explains a lot.’ Sean dived into his pocket and passed over a photograph of Khostov.

‘Here’s who we are looking for.’ Sean filled DD in on the mission. ‘SIS have been investigating Khostov’s links to friends in London and the surrounding area. They unearthed connections to a friend’s son studying at Oxford and a female cousin working as a shop assistant at a jewellers in Bournemouth. The teams drew a blank. Airports were alerted, but so far they’ve not received any further information.’

DD picked up the photo and studied the face. ‘You want me to look for him?’

‘No-one can find a record of Khostov entering the UK.’

‘He was almost certainly travelling under a false passport,’ he responded. ‘Could he have entered by boat or small plane?’

‘It’s possible’ conceded Sean.

‘If he did, chances are there won’t be any records to search.’

‘Well, what can you do?’

‘I could speak to a couple of my contacts at the Border Agency. I developed some algorithms for them about a year ago, and they owe me a favour or two.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There’s something I’m working on at the moment that might help. Would you like me to show you the site?’

‘A website?’ Sean sounded sceptical.

‘Yep.’ DD pushed the crockery and empty beer cans away to make more space. He brought a laptop down from a shelf and opened it out on the table. ‘Check this.’

Sean noticed the site had a white background and a large banner across the top which read: TRIP WIRE. Underneath were a number of dials. The busy layout reminded Sean of the cockpit of a Boeing 747.

DD glanced apologetically at Sean. ‘The name’s not very original, I’m afraid, but the nuts and bolts behind the interface are the key.’ He pointed to the first coloured dial on the monitor. ‘Just on this dial alone sits a database which monitors several inputs. Let’s suppose the female cousin in Bournemouth makes a telephone call to the student at Oxford. The computer has the cousin’s phone number, plus the student’s mobile. Any call between the two is immediately flagged here.’

‘OK.’

DD assumed Sean wasn’t particularly impressed. ‘The databank also has direct access to the cousin’s nearest telephone exchange. The call triggers a capture, recording the call and presenting the audio here. You click on the call details underlined and the control will play it back for you.’

Sean appeared to be mildly interested.

‘Plus, the site gathers name and address information from the telephone exchange logs and begins to match these with the government’s database. Assume the student is unknown to us when we start. One phone call and his contacts are added to the links. If any call is made to or from his phone, the database picks up the data and displays it here. That also includes any kind of social media interaction — twitter, Facebook, and so on.’

Sean smiled. The more DD talked, the more he liked the dials.

‘If any of these are flagged, either in the site’s own database, or on the government’s, an alert is generated direct to me. The message may be a phone call, encrypted text message, tweet or email containing the particulars of the alert.’

‘OK, I’m beginning to get the idea’ replied Sean.

‘The site doesn’t just cover phone calls, but emails, text messages, even if a target’s mobile phone moves outside a pre-defined area. TRIP WIRE retrieves information from all the government records, plus ports and airport passenger lists, and other databanks if journeys are paid for using a debit or credit card.’

Sean appeared bemused. ‘It must take a great deal of setting up?’

‘That’s the most difficult part.’

‘Suppose a vital call is made before you’ve input the data?’

DD smiled grimly. ‘That’s why I’m spending all my time on automating the setup.’

Sean shook his head. ‘Well I’m impressed. Let’s hope all your hard work pays off.’

* * *

Captain Grigori Burak closed the bridge door behind him and rested his arms against the rail on the forward lookout. He breathed in deeply, savouring the cold air which carried a surprising amount of moisture. The pack ice stretched towards the horizon; behind, a trail of broken ice marked its course.

This moment should have been the pinnacle of his career. LK-80 wasn't pretty, but as Grigori sensed the thrum of the ship’s powerful engines through the deck plates, he experienced a fierce connection to the men who built her. Constructed at the Baltiysky Zavod shipyard in St Petersburg, she had a double hull, like all Arktika-class icebreakers. The outer keel was 5 centimetres thick at the ice-breaking areas, and she sliced through the thickest ice with ease.

But the events of the past month had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he feared it would be a long while before the bitterness faded.

'Sir.' A young rating timidly approached the Captain. Grigori had the appearance and temperament of a bulldog, together with a reputation for being tenacious and determined. It was also well known he had little time for juniors.

'Yes?'

The sailor saluted. 'Sir, the Chief Engineer said he has found an excess of corrosive elements in the primary coolant loop.'

Captain Grigori groaned. The issue they encountered during sea trials appeared to be returning. 'How bad?'

'Not critical, sir. However he said you should be concerned.'

'Right. I'll telephone him immediately.'

Grigori re-entered the bridge and picked up the phone. 'What's this about, Pytor? I believed the glitch had been cured.' Grigori listened as his Chief Engineer launched into an explanation of sealants and the lack of replacement parts. 'What is the status of the second reactor?'

'Down for maintenance.'

Grigori shook his head. He had spent a year preparing for this day, and now they were at sea a tiny issue like this could jeopardise the expedition. 'How long to fix it?'

'Five days, maybe a week.' Pytor's voice sounded tinny over the connection. 'I must warn you Captain that in order to make repairs without taking the main reactor offline, you will need to stay below a speed of 14 knots. Any faster would cause greater pressure in the containment vessel. Coupled with the increased corrosive, the risk of coolant leakage is great.'

Captain Grigori Burak shrugged. Though there were procedures in place to filter out the corrosion products, he would have to keep an eye on the system. In one earlier case the same problem affected the control rod drive mechanisms, and that was something he definitely wanted to avoid.

He left the bridge and descended to Bridge Deck 3 and his office. As soon as he entered he glanced in the direction of the safe, tucked under the desk in the corner. He hesitated, and poured a mug of thick black coffee made from his favourite Strauss beans. Checking his watch, his eyes flicked to the safe again. He had enough time to top up the mug with a little brandy. He thought back to the launch celebrations as he enjoyed the aroma of the hot liquid.

Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff was in the official party to see the icebreaker leave port, and he requested a personal discussion. When they met, the vice-Admiral informed Grigori that he had been selected for an historic mission. He was taking LK-80 on its maiden voyage, and he would find new orders in his cabin. The Admiral gave him a time at which he could open the safe to read them.

Grigori took another sip of the coffee and checked his wristwatch again. The moment had come. He entered the combination and reached in to withdraw a large envelope. The stiff brown paper was stamped with the seal of the Navy of the Russian Federation.

He ripped the flap and took out several sheets of paper, scanning the first. His orders were to navigate LK-80 to a point in the Arctic sea — but to where? He skimmed the remaining pages, and a smile creased his lips.

He stood up, stretching to ease his back. Going to the bookshelf, he pulled out a well-thumbed copy of an old Arktika expedition report from the Russian Arctic and Antarctic Institute. He opened it and read again about Anatoly Sagalevich, Yevgeny Chernyaev and Artur Chilingarov, his personal heroes. They were all awarded Hero of the Russian Federation medals after their voyage.

Grigori trembled at the idea of following in their footsteps. When he returned, he might receive a medal too.

* * *

In the Prime Minister's office in Downing Street, the Foreign Secretary flung his briefcase onto a chair in sheer frustration. 'I've just had the most dreadful meeting with the Russian Ambassador.'

Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown put his papers away and regarded his colleague and friend. 'Care to tell me about it?'

'The man's obnoxious. Overbearing and so hyper-critical. Of all the challenges to this office, he's the biggest thorn in my side.' An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. 'Couldn't we just manufacture an incident and return him to Moscow?'

The PM smiled. 'They might send someone more obnoxious to replace him.'

Howard Stern flopped into an armchair. 'Well I don't think I can go on seeing him like this.'

'What did you discuss?'

Stern rubbed his forehead distractedly. 'Somehow he knows two Russian families in London were murdered. He said he abhorred the use of violence towards the ethnic Russian community, and asked what we are doing. I said the police were going all out to find who is responsible and bring them to justice.' He snorted. 'Justice! I told him they were working on an assumption the murders are being prosecuted by a gang imported from Russia with the intention of torturing and killing people in order to gain information on the whereabouts of Khostov.'

'You said that?' The PM looked horrified.

'Not in as many words,' he replied. 'But I left him with the impression the police believe there is a strong link.'

'I'm not so sure that was a good idea.'

'The ambassador got on his high horse. Denied anyone had been sent from Russia. He made a veiled threat to expel some of our staff from the British embassy in Moscow.'

'I'm not surprised.' Sometimes the Foreign Secretary's boldness astounded the Prime Minister. Nevertheless Howard would not make such an accusation unless it had been finely calculated to bring about a result. But what could he achieve by accusing the diplomat of being a liar?

'It was uncanny how much he knew,' continued Stern. 'Almost as if he is being primed by the person directing the gang.'

'You feel he is?'

Stern frowned. 'He asked me about a firm of London solicitors whose offices had burnt down. They deal almost exclusively with Russian clients.' He glanced at Ashdown and saw the same concern written over his face. 'He would only concede that if a group from Russia were operating in the UK, it must be the Russian mafia or a rogue team. Nothing to do with the government, full stop.'

'How are we getting on with the hunt for Khostov?'

Stern shook his head. 'Not much progress. We know a little about his background. He's divorced with one son. He's a star physicist and Nobel peace prize winner. Currently he's working for a company called GazArctic. You will have heard of them; they're one of the largest energy companies in Russia. They've focused on extracting oil and gas from Arctic fields, both on and off-shore. We're not sure what prompted Khostov to flee Russia, but we suspect he came to the UK with a false passport. We also understand he was carrying some documents with him. SIS reckon they are important.'

'If they despatched a squad to hunt him, can't we arrange for more assets to track him down? I'd certainly like to find him before they do.'

For the first time in the discussion, Stern nodded eagerly. 'I'd like to find him too. However staff resources are over-stretched. The threat from Islamic extremists hasn't diminished. Two plots were uncovered in the last month alone. We have a team dedicated to finding Khostov, but the trail has started to go cold. We know he used a passport in the name of Vassily Maskhadov when he entered the UK, but it appears he’s gone to ground or left the country altogether.'

Ashdown cradled his chin in his hands. 'Do whatever you can. Like you, I think this is important.'

'Well we are acting on another lead, Terrance. A colleague of Khostov's died in Russia in mysterious circumstances. The man was American, married to an English woman. He worked for an American partner to GazArctic, and was found dead in a remote corner of Siberia. The department sent someone to accompany the widow to Russia and retrieve the coffin.'

The PM grunted his approval. 'Keep me posted, Howard.'

The Foreign Secretary got up. Halfway out of his seat, he glimpsed the PM's in-tray. Amongst the pile of papers he spotted a book, and he paused to get a second glance at the title.

Forty degrees below: Traditional Life in the Arctic

'Anything the matter?' the PM enquired.

'Ah no, the bones are getting a bit creaky, that's all.' Howard left the room, his mind working overtime.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sean crunched his way over the gravel drive, following the detective. The house was big, set in a minimum of two acres of cultivated lawns. He counted five bedroom windows facing out. Blue police ribbon fluttered across the front porch in the cold breeze. The detective lifted the tape and Sean ducked under.

'They were killed in the bedroom.' She pushed through the unlocked door and waited for Sean. 'The area downstairs is a real mess.'

The entrance hall looked tidy. Large glass double doors opened out onto the living space. To the right a door led to a walk-in cloak-room; on the left was a loo. Sean went straight ahead to the living room.

The detective followed. 'Husband and wife were tied up on chairs here.’ She indicated two dining chairs, fallen on their sides. Cushions were scattered over the floor and a lampstand lay on its side; glass littered the carpet. ‘There were bruises to their wrists.'

'Tell me about them, Anita.'

The Detective checked her notes. 'They were Yakov and Irana Petrovich. Came to the UK eleven years ago. He was forced out of his business in Russia and fled here. Both retired, though Yakov did a small amount of trade supplying machinery to Russia and the Baltic states. A very wealthy couple, as you can tell.'

Sean inclined his head in agreement, trying to imagine how everything might look before the murderers arrived.

'The wife Irana was raped, probably repeatedly, though forensics found DNA from only one man. She was discovered naked upstairs in the master bedroom, killed by a single shot to the head.' Anita took out some photographs from her bag and pointed to the first. It displayed the blood-stained face of Irana with a dark red hole just above the hairline. 'There were many other bruises on her body, but none fatal.' He caught her grim expression. 'Whoever did this treated her body like a carcass.'

She showed him another photo. 'The husband was killed, possibly an hour or two later.' She pulled out the third photo. 'He was tortured the same way as his wife.' The shot showed a close up of Yakov's wrists, still bound tightly. The bonds had cut into his arms and deep bruises went as far as the elbows.

'This is the second double murder you're working on?'

Anita nodded. 'Another ex-Russian couple were murdered less than 48 hours before the Petrovich's. Stefan and Nada Novosi — an almost identical killing. Both bound by their wrists and ankles. The wife was taken upstairs and brutally raped — traces of seamen were obtained on the bed. She was found downstairs, shot in the back. Her husband was shot in the head between the eyes at about 20 feet range. Both couples were killed from the same handgun. The killer is a trained marksman.'

'Thoughts?'

‘At least three men were involved. I've no idea yet if anything was stolen, but in my view this was an execution, not a robbery gone wrong.’

'Access?'

'Tyre tracks suggest they arrived in one car. Footprints indicate one of them stayed outside as a lookout. Given the severity of the bruising, both couples were tortured. It’s possible the women were brutalised first in order to make the husband reveal information. The fact that both couples are Russian exiles, suggests they were targeted, possibly by some kind of Russian gang.'

Sean's mobile rang. He excused himself and walked to the entrance hall.

'It's DD. Got some news for you.'

'Go ahead.'

'A lawfirm in the city, name of Winfield Mantel. Burnt down overnight.'

'What's the link?'

'Well, it's a boutique firm. Most of the work they do is connected with Russia. They have a lot of clients who are Russian émigrés.'

'Right. Where did you get the info?'

'The Section passed it on from SIS.'

'Not from TRIP WIRE?'

'No.' Sean could hear the disappointment in DD's voice.

'OK. Well better luck next time. I'll need to pay a visit.'

Sean closed the call and re-entered the living area. 'I'm sorry, I have to go.'

Anita hesitated. 'I was told to give you all the cooperation I could.'

'I appreciate the time you have given me.'

'It's time which I could be using to catch the killers.'

'Yes.' He frowned. 'You are concerned I might be on the same trail.'

'I am. There's no sense in both of us chasing the murderers.'

'That's not why I am here.'

'Then why?'

'I'm hunting the man they are looking for,' replied Sean.

* * *

As he cleared the harbour and entered the choppy waters of the Channel, Khostov recalled the nightmare taxi ride. Thankfully, when the back window was shattered with a bullet the driver didn’t panic. Instead he drove away quickly and pulled over a few miles further on. When he began to report the incident on his cab radio, Khostov tapped him on the shoulder. He left the microphone when he saw Khostov starting to count out twenty pound notes. On reaching 200 pounds, Khostov thrust the money into his hands and instructed the cabbie to drop him off in the city.

Now Khostov was steering his own course. If anyone had told him 48 hours ago that he would be piloting a yacht, he would have laughed. Khostov had not been on a sailing vessel in his life, and he had never dreamed of going to sea.

He brought the helm to starboard, admitting he was beginning to enjoy himself. The Anastasia was packed with all the latest equipment, and the radar, radio and engine controls were easy to understand and operate. The computer-aided navigation proved to be straight forward and he had no need for sail with such a powerful diesel engine on board.

Khostov whispered a prayer of thanks that Yakov had the foresight to give him details of his “stash cash”. Yakov held the safety deposit box at the bank for emergencies. He had also made the necessary arrangements so Khostov could access the cache.

Khostov recalled how embarrassed he became with his friend's kindness and initially declined the offer. Now he was grateful he accepted. He added a coda to his prayer, fearing his friend had already paid for his generosity with his life.

When he arrived at the bank the staff were very helpful and he found all he needed in the safety deposit compartment. Everything was just as Yakov described: a lot of cash, a small notebook and a set of keys with the label 'Anastasia' — Yakov's yacht. At the bottom he discovered an unexpected bonus — a passport, made out in Yakov's name.

After leaving, Khostov needed time to think. He booked into a hotel near Russell Square, one he hadn’t used before. Feeling reasonably safe in the anonymity of the metropolis, Khostov decided to spend the following day planning. He needed to disappear from the UK and with the keys to the yacht in his hand he held the means to sail to France. Once he arrived on the coast getting to Paris should be easy. He discounted making for any other coastline since this would be beyond his near non-existent navigational skills.

Khostov reflected on the lesson from his recent experience. In future he could not contact anyone for help or ask for a place to stay. Something tugged his memory. There was a district in Paris where his Russian background might not be so much of a problem. At the minute he didn’t remember the name. If he couldn't recall the area, his pursuers would have no chance of finding him.

The following morning he took some of Yakov's pile of notes and visited an up-market men’s clothes shop. He knew the sort of suits Yakov liked and he did his best to search for a match. He bought designer shirts and ties, two pairs of trousers, brown brogue shoes, a jacket and an overcoat. At a specialist outlet he obtained a bright technical jacket, over-trousers and deck shoes. Khostov was shocked at the price — the bill amounted to three months of his salary back in Russia.

The next day he travelled to Weymouth by train, looking at the English countryside, so different from his own. He missed his homeland, and his thoughts turned to his son, Levushka. He was crazy to go without him, but what else could he do?

During the journey, he made a promise to himself. He would arrange for Levushka to join him as soon as he could. Returning to Russia remained impossible, and staying in the UK was dangerous. At some stage he might be forced to leave France and travel to the States. Wherever his ultimate destination lay, he would find somewhere safe and be reunited with Levushka. He acknowledged the Russian authorities would never allow him to leave; Khostov would have to find a way nearer the time.

The first priority would be to avoid drawing attention to himself. On reaching Weymouth he began searching for the Anastasia, finding it after an hour walking up and down the marina gangways. At 40 feet long in white and silver, she must have cost Yakov a mint.

He spent the next 30 minutes familiarising himself with the boat and all the controls. After checking the fuel, he learnt Yakov kept the tanks full. He bought some provisions at a local supermarket, slept in the main berth and cast off at dawn.

He was more than a little concerned about how he would pick his way through the many other yachts to the correct channel to the sea. Ten minutes spent twiddling with the radar controls and overlaying the display with a harbour map made it a snap.

As Khostov kept a lookout for other vessels, he wondered about using Yakov's passport. He was around the same height, but Yakov possessed thinner features. Also Yakov's hair was dark and curly, whereas Khostov's was long, straight and grey. The hotel where he stayed in London recommended an up-market salon and made an appointment for him. Before he went in, he memorised Yakov's picture, and instructed the stylist. The result wasn't as good as he had hoped, but at least they dyed his hair the right colour, cut it and introduced some wavy curls.

He caught a glimpse of his face in the glass above the engine controls. Opening the passport again, he compared the picture with his reflection. He might just get away with it if he sucked in his cheeks.

* * *

Sean walked over purposely towards the cordon, through a snow drift of papers that stirred in the wind. Tape stretched around the lampposts in a semi-circle and a constable stopped him from going any further. In the centre of the carnage stood the shell of a six story office block, smoke continuing to rise from it. A line of police cars, blue lights flashing, barred other vehicles from the square.

He showed his card. The policeman spoke into his radio and let him through. 'Watch your step sir. There's lots of broken glass.'

During his time in Helmand, Sean was provisionally assigned to a United Nations peace-keeping force. The devastation reminded him of Lashkar Gah — bombed out buildings, rubble everywhere, frightened bystanders. In particular the smell brought back some disturbing memories.

The ambulances had long gone. White suited Scene of Crime Officers inspected the debris. A chief fireman stood talking to a senior police officer, together with a woman in a hi-vis vest. They stopped when he approached.

The police chief regarded him, taking in the two days of stubble, the faded tee-shirt, sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. Sean flashed his ID again and he was introduced to the girl.

'This is Tracy Schofield, the person responsible for the office.' She shook Sean's hand.

The officer wrinkled his nose in distaste, either with him or the lingering smell from the building. Sean couldn’t tell which. 'What can we do to help you?'

'I need some information about how this started.' He directed his attention to the fire chief. 'When did you get the alert?'

'The first call came in at 3:46 in this morning. By the time my crews arrived one of the floors was already gutted.'

'Which?'

'The fourth. That’s where we concentrated our efforts.'

'Has anybody been into the building?'

'Fire fighters went in to check for anyone still alive — once I judged it safe. We didn't find anything, and Miss Schofield here confirmed that no-one was inside when the fire began.'

Tracy indicated her agreement.

'Can you say if it was started deliberately?'

The fire chief and the senior policeman exchanged a glance. 'Initial indications are an accelerant was used.'

'Could you show me the site of the fire?'

'It's too dangerous.'

'More dangerous now than when you went in?'

The chief sighed, and signalled to a fireman. A minute later he returned with a helmet and hi-vis vest.

Together they crunched over the rubble and glass. Sean saw a complete telephone handset lying on its side, looking as though it might still work. They began to climb the fire escape.

'Was anyone else injured or killed in the incident?'

The fire chief looked over his shoulder. 'No.'

'How were the police notified?'

'A taxi driver rang 999 after picking up some night club revellers. His route took him past and he spotted flames and smoke.'

The location was obvious. When they reached the fourth floor, Sean noticed the stairwell was blackened from the heat. Burnt paper floated on top of carpets awash with water. The fireman pointed out the ceiling void where the tiles had melted, revealing the concrete flooring above. Cables hung from the remains.

'Is it possible to tell the source of the fire?'

The man escorted him to a darkened room. A single scorched hardwood desk sat inside.

Back outside, Sean questioned Tracy. 'Whose office did that belong to?'

'Harry Boyd. He’s a senior partner of the firm.'

'I'd like to see him.'

A pained expression crossed her face. 'He's working from home. He's very busy, trying to deal with all this.' She raised her hands, indicating the gutted offices around her.

'It's important I meet him.'

For a moment she hesitated. 'OK, I'll send someone with you. There's an office junior called 'Chris' who can take you.'

'Thank you. Please phone ahead to let him know I'll be coming.' Sean took one last look at the charred ruins. 'Best of luck with this, and thanks for your help.'

* * *

Sean glanced at the youth as he drove. 'Tell me about Harry Boyd.'

Chris seemed too distracted to answer immediately. Sean waited a minute before trying a different tack. 'What do you do at the firm, Chris?'

Chris peeped nervously out of the windscreen as they made their way through the streets. 'Collect and deliver the post, mainly.'

'Do you ever deliver post to Mr Boyd?'

'Yep.'

'What's he like?'

'A bit impatient at times. We never had a conversation.'

Sean’s phone buzzed. It was a txt from Natasha.

returning to states today

parents send regards

love nat x

Sean experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. He and Natasha had planned to visit her parents and relatives after they left Venice.

Chris leaned over and pointed. 'At the end of this street, turn right.'

Boyd's home was on a wide leafy avenue with luxurious houses either side. They pulled up opposite the driveway, and Sean studied the large square town house. 'Stay here. I'll be back in half an hour.'

A middle-aged woman answered the door. Sean introduced himself and discovered the lady was Boyd's wife. She showed him into a drawing room. 'You know he's incredibly busy right now?' she asked in a brittle tone.

'I understand. But I'm sure you both appreciate we must to catch the people who caused the fire.'

She asked Sean to wait a moment and left the room. A minute later she ushered him into the Senior Partner’s office.

Boyd sat behind his desk, speaking loudly on his mobile. He was short, nearly bald and in his late forties or early fifties with a jowled, animated face and an overly loud voice. He appeared not to have noticed Sean.

Sean checked his watch. Thirty seconds had elapsed since he entered the room. He reached over, took Boyd's mobile and clicked it off, then tossed it in the waste bin.

'What the hell do you think you are doing?' Boyd shouted.

'Getting your attention' replied Sean equably. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. 'And now I need some information.'

'You have no idea what pressure I'm under. I've already spoken to the police and made a statement. You're wasting my time.'

'Correction, you're wasting my time. I want a list of all your recent clients, particularly if they are of Russian origin.'

Boyd glared at Sean, and then away. 'Jesus Christ!' he seethed as he pulled the keyboard to him. As he tapped in the query, Sean moved behind to view the screen. Five names were displayed, none of them with the surname Khostov.

'What's the time span?' Sean asked.

'The last fortnight.'

'You don't have many new clients?'

'We're a boutique law firm. Small client list, big ticket matters.'

Sean pointed to the one at the top. 'Tell me about him.'

Boyd pressed the button to pull up more details. 'Vassily Maskhadov’ he muttered, reading from the monitor. Came to see us last week. My associate Susan spoke to him. He asked her to copy some papers and keep them until Maskhadov contacted her again. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.'

'Any more details?'

Boyd clicked on an icon and a thumbnail print of Maskhadov's passport appeared.

'How did you get that?' Sean couldn't believe his luck.

'The law on money laundering requires us to retain photographic identification for every new client we take on.' Boyd turned to glare at him. 'Is there anything else — I have work to do.'

'Yes. I need everything including the passport details.' Sean took out a plain card with DD's email address and phone number. ‘Send them over to here. I also need to know how many copies you made of Maskhadov's documents.'

Boyd returned to the computer. 'We always make a copy of the client's documentation and archive it.' He scanned the screen. 'Susan made a second photocopy and sent it to my office.'

'Did Maskhadov ask you to review the documents?'

'No. But I supervise Susan's work, and I always have first sight of her cases. Just to ensure she sets off in the right direction.'

'Last question. Where is all your information coming from?' Sean indicated Boyd's computer.

'There’s a backup data centre, somewhere. We would be sunk without it.'

Judging from Boyd's face the company was already heading that way.

Sean left, pausing before starting the engine. 'I see what you mean about Boyd, Chris. Can you take me to your archive site?'

An hour later Chris spoke. 'The site’s in this industrial estate.’ He peered through the windscreen. ‘Strange!'

A pall of smoke rose over the units. As they turned the corner, a policeman stopped them. Two fire engines were pouring water onto the remains of a warehouse, and a crowd had gathered outside.

'That's our archive store!' Chris yelled.

CHAPTER NINE

'Serge Zlotnik?'

'Speak.'

'It's Desny. We have some bad news.'

'Don't waste my time.'

'We lost Khostov.' Desny dreaded Zlotnik's response. Mentally he had rehearsed what to say. The scientist had gone to ground, disappearing into the milling masses of London's workers, holiday makers and residents. He anticipated Zlotnik would order him to search amongst the Russian community again, but he was not likely to be found there. The police were already on the alert following the murders of the Novosi and Petrovich families.

After a long silence Zlotnik responded, his deep voice icy cool. 'You know this is disappointing to me.'

'We're running out of things to try. He's either holed up in London, or he’s left the country.' Desny was desperate for a lead, and he received it from the last person he imagined.

'Tyler's widow came to collect the body of her husband, accompanied by a British agent. His name is Sean Quinlan; late thirties, 5 feet 11, brown hair, blue eyes. If the British don’t have him already, Quinlan will be looking for him.'

'I'll keep an eye out for him.' Desny didn't sound hopeful — attempting to track an agent was a much taller order than trying to find a civilian like Khostov.

'They will be holding a burial service for Tyler soon. If Khostov is not in custody, I expect Quinlan to be there.'

'Ah, thank you sir.' Desny's mood brightened.

'Don't fail me this time.' Zlotnik's voice carried a distinct warning tone.

The phone went dead.

* * *

'Attention. All crew listen up, the Commanding Officer has an announcement to make.' The XO passed the microphone to the Captain.

Gerry White thumbed the mike. 'I have some good news for you. We’re going to break surface for a few hours.' He heard some muted cheers.

The Montana's mission was a light one: tasked to patrol under the Arctic ice cap on a shakedown after its first refit. Its payload of 40 weapons, including cruise missiles and torpedoes, had been overhauled and its S9G nuclear reactor had been uprated.

The Captain continued. 'We will get some R&R on the ice.' This time the cheering was louder. 'Please don't stray further than the camp guards!' There was laughter. 'You know I like to run a tight ship, so after we blow we will make preparations for an emergency descent. That means no-one is allowed off until we are fully prepared.' Captain White heard several good natured groans. 'The Chief of the Boat is arranging a rota so you will all get a chance to let off some steam. That is all.'

'See to the arrangements would you Thomas?' The Captain eyed his XO. 'And remind the COB to post some men topside with rifles. We don't want to lose anyone.' There was a growing threat from polar bears as the ice-cap shrunk and broke up during the spring months.

Designated SSN-812, the USS Montana was the 12th in a long line of Virginia-class submarines, capable of underwater missions lasting longer than a year. Even so, whenever an opportunity to surface presented itself the Captain took it, believing in keeping the 120 enlisted men and 14 officers active and as free from boredom as possible.

'Shall I take her up?' Thomas asked.

'No harm in going through the procedure again, is there XO?'

'Happy to oblige, skipper.'

* * *

Midway out in the channel, Atlantic waves tossed the Anastasia around like an oak barrel. Khostov observed a lot of shipping traffic, but with the help of the high-spec radar they were easily avoided.

He discovered an AIS receiver, a system for tracking his location and that of other ships. He became fascinated with the display. Each vessel showed on the monitor, together with a little tail indicating its relative track. Khostov imagined they looked like tadpoles.

But while the information was valuable to him, it was also useful to everyone else — including the people chasing him. The AIS transponder on board the Anastasia was constantly broadcasting his position.

He started a search, not really knowing what to look for. After fifteen minutes he found a black metal box bolted to a shelf underneath the main computer screen. Various leads were plugged in and he spotted the power cable and switched it off at the socket.

Khostov inspected the navigation and engine controls to confirm nothing had been affected, heaving a sigh of relief when he finished. That left him with one other problem. Anastasia’s direction was towards Cherbourg, but anyone monitoring his AIS might work out his destination.

He had a few options. Le Harve was closest, or he could alter course for St Malo. Further west lay Roscoff. Khostov checked the fuel gauge. There was enough diesel to motor to France’s west coast. He contemplated the larger seaports on France's Normandy coastline, reasoning they would offer the best links with Paris. Suppose he chose a smaller town instead? That might well delay notification of his embarkation to the authorities and give him a head start.

After landing, he would make for the capital. He would have to change the clothes he bought in London to maintain his cover, but that meant changing his money.

He remembered the name of the district where he might find shelter. Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois was a southern suburb of Paris some 15 miles from the centre. Many of the so-called 'first-wave' émigrés from his homeland went there following the political, social and religious persecutions of a hundred years ago. He would fit in better, and if all else failed he could lose himself in the cosmopolitan city centre.

The decision made, Khostov plotted a course and turned the wheel on the compass bearing.

* * *

Captain Grigori woke up with a start from a deep sleep. He dreamt he was in a formal ceremony and the President of Russia was about to pin the Order of Honour to his uniform. At the moment the medal was fastened, cannons sounded a 21-gun salute.

'Captain.' The knocking on the door grew louder. 'Captain!'

'Yes! Stop that row!'

The Steward entered. 'I was told to request your presence on the bridge.'

'What’s the problem?'

'The lookout has spotted something on the horizon.'

'Right. Give me 5 minutes.' The Captain did not normally want to be called every time they came across a ship. But after reading the confidential directive from Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff, Grigori left special instructions to inform him whenever they sighted a vessel. Nothing would come between him and the objective outlined in his orders.

He dressed quickly. Even though the bridge wasn’t far, he pulled a parka on. A recent polar depression heralded a new weather front from the north. He entered the bridge in a blast of cold air. 'What have you got?'

'We are too far away to get a good view, Captain.'

'Radar?'

The helmsman shook his head. 'Just a blip on the screen, Captain.'

Grigori motioned towards the binoculars. 'Give them to me.'

He screwed them into his eyes, twisting the knob to adjust the focus. After a minute he left the bridge to observe the object from the lookout's position. He stayed a while, then strode back.

'Any change?'

'It's a puzzle, Captain. I find it hard to comprehend how anything so small could travel so far north.'

'Hm. I think I’m beginning to understand,' murmured Grigori.

The man observed the Captain expectantly.

'Come 12 degrees to port. Increase speed to 16 knots.'

The man coughed. 'Captain, the Chief Engineer…'

'I know what the Chief Engineer said,' snapped Grigori. 'But I am the Captain, and I make the decisions.' He glared at the helmsman. 'Is that clear?'

'Yes Captain.'

Grigori went out to the lookout's post. At this latitude it would not get any lighter. He raised the binoculars again, refocused the lens.

'I knew it,' he muttered to himself. 'It's a damn sub!' He returned to the bridge and picked up the intercom.

'Radio operator. Contact Arctic fleet command. Ask them if we are expecting any of our subs in the area. I need an answer fast — a simple yes or no will do.'

'Yes Captain!'

The captain continued to inspect the object of his curiosity. A minute later, the intercom buzzed. He listened for a moment and replaced the mike in its cradle.

'Increase speed to 18 knots!'

There was a stunned silence on the bridge.

'Did anyone hear my order?'

'Er, sir. Yes sir,' the helmsman responded at last.

Grigori understood what he was thinking. Given the state of the reactor, the Chief Engineer had issued a strong warning not to exceed 14 knots. Grigori calculated the situation demanded immediate action. They might have to stop later to repair the corrosion damage, or even shut down the reactor and start up the second.

Either way, he needed to get close straightaway.

* * *

Captain Gerry White clapped his gloved hands together to improve the circulation. A chill wind blew around his position atop the conning tower, but it didn't stop the crew on the ice from enjoying themselves. A group were building a snowman using Brussels sprouts for the eyes and a carrot for the nose, while another party had an energetic snowball fight. Two men at the perimeter patrolled with rifles, providing protection against the odd stray polar bear.

The intercom buzzed, and he picked up the handset.

'Captain, we spotted a Russian icebreaker heading our way. We were told to look out for one in the area. Do you want us to hail him?'

'Distance and direction?'

'Sorry skipper. Distance is just over 5 km. Direction is south-south east.'

Captain White glanced towards the compass point and lifted his binoculars. Bow-on, the ship almost filled the field of view. The hull was painted a deep rust-like red. The vessel had a rhythmic up and down movement as it bullied a path through the icepack.

'No need to Matthew, we'll be able to wave to him in a few minutes. Better warn the crew to keep closer to our boat, in case the ice begins to crack.'

'Yes Captain.'

* * *

Grigori handed the binoculars to the lookout. 'Tell me what you see.'

'A conning tower, Captain. It's broken through the ice!'

'Confirm the designation on the side.'

'Ah, wait a minute Captain. SSN-812.'

'Thank you. Please make a note in the log.' Grigori turned and walked back into the bridge. He picked up the mike. 'Engine room, I want maximum engine speed.'

The helmsman stared at the Captain as though he had left his senses. Seconds later the intercom buzzed.

It was the Chief Engineer. 'Captain, I cannot permit this. I told you not to exceed 14 knots!'

'I know, Pytor. I need full speed immediately, whatever the outcome.'

'Grigori, if you do this you will damage the reactor. I cannot be held responsible.'

'I won’t hold you liable Pytor. You may record your objections in the log. But I must have full power!' Grigori waited for a response.

After a long moment, the Chief Engineer replied. 'Very well, but I will be making a report.'

'Do that later — give me the power now.'

Within seconds, the engine beat increased and LK-80 surged forward into the ice.

'Helmsman, another two degrees starboard.'

The Helmsman scrutinised his Captain, weary about speaking out again. Glancing through the bridge window, alarm overcame the need for obedience. 'Sir, may I respectfully suggest we choose another bearing. This course takes us directly to the submarine.'

'Helmsman, I warned you once. If you persist I will put you on a charge and have you replaced.'

The Helmsman's face was white with raw emotion. 'Sir! We are heading straight for an American submarine! You are putting their lives — and our crew's — into danger!'

Grigori's voice took on the quality of steel. 'Steer another two degrees to starboard.'

For a second there was silence in the room.

The Helmsman turned back to the wheel. 'Two degrees to starboard. Yes sir!'

* * *

By now the snowball fights had stopped and the crew of the USS Montana stood, all eyes on the ice-breaker smashing its way straight for them. Still about two kilometres away, Captain White could make out details of its superstructure without needing binoculars.

The XO took up a position next to the Captain. 'Sir, I don't think he's going to stop,' he said tentatively.

'You're right, he should have altered course by now. Get the COB to order all the men to return immediately. Prepare for an emergency dive!'

'Yes sir!'

The Captain picked up the intercom. 'Sparks, signal the icebreaker. He is making for us. Tell them to change course. Comms, get someone up here to fire off flares. XO?'

'Yes sir.'

'Go below and make preparations for an emergency dive. As soon as the last man is on board, I want this sub to disappear under the ice. Go!'

The Chief of the Boat used the loudhailer to order the men back to the sub. Captain White watched anxiously as the group began to return. The COB hectored them and the walk turned into a sprint. Sailors started to climb the ladder to the deck.

The Captain glanced at the icebreaker. In that short space of time the distance had closed to just a kilometre. The ship appeared enormous.

The intercom buzzed. 'Sir, we've started to reduce buoyancy, but we think the boat's stuck. We'll need some men to clear the ice around the sail.'

'Right XO. I'll see to it.'

The Captain stopped the line of men waiting to descend through the conning tower hatch.

'I want all of you to form a party and free the ice. Grab pickaxes and shovels.' The Captain saw hesitation in their faces. 'Immediately!'

That last urgent command galvanised the men. They all knew the drill, and the men attacked the ice. A red flare ascended into the sky, burning brightly as it floated down on its parachute. Another one went off, and then another. Captain White peered anxiously at the icebreaker. The vessel was so close he could hear the loud hum of its engines.

To wait any longer would put the working party in danger. But to recall them without freeing the ice might mean the sub wouldn’t escape in time. He shouted through the loudhailer. 'Everyone on board. Leave your tools — get back now!'

The men needed no encouragement, and began clambering up the ladder. The last sailor disappeared down the hatch and the Captain followed. He couldn’t help one final backward glance. Now only 200 metres away, the ship continued to bear down on them.

‘Emergency dive!’

'Sir, the ice is still snagging the conning tower.'

The Captain turned to face his XO. 'The ballast tanks are filling, Thomas. There's nothing more we can do.' When they had first broken through, the sail pushed the ice apart. The same ice had refrozen around the conning tower, jammed between the unbroken ice pack and the steel hull.

There was a loud bang and for a split second the Captain thought the icebreaker had crashed into them. The sub lurched downward, and he gave a sigh of relief. The sound was the boat freeing itself from the clutches of the ice-pack. They were going to be clear.

The sub slowly descended below the ice. But LK-80's keel extended six metres below the surface. The hardened steel of the bow smashed into the conning tower. The submarine shunted sideways as the icebreaker rode up over it, thrusting it towards the sea bed.

CHAPTER TEN

'All crew, this is your Captain.' Captain Gerry White covered the microphone and watched as his XO helped the Admin officer to his feet. 'XO, get a party together to tackle that!' Water cascaded down the sail into the control centre.

The Captain eased his shoulder. He had fallen against a console, and the pain in his back was excruciating. He uncovered the microphone. 'We are descending fast. You must contain the flooding and see to the wounded and injured later.' He snapped off the switch. Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he beckoned to his Executive Officer.

'How's it looking XO?'

'We've three reports of major flooding. We're at..' Thomas craned his neck to readout the depth from his console. 'Ninety five metres, still descending.'

'OK. Anything we can do to stop or slow our descent?'

The XO shook his head. 'Everyone's working flat out.'

'What about restarting the reactor?'

'It's too early to say. We have a problem in the main ballast tanks. The Damage Control Assistant has a team looking into it — pressurised air is escaping faster than we can pump it in.'

Captain White considered the options. Whichever way he looked at it, there were no easy solutions. 'Have you got any good news at all?'

The XO paused to assess the various reports coming in before making his reply. 'I'm sorry sir, nothing yet.'

'Well,' Captain White appeared grim. 'At least we are still alive Thomas. We must do our utmost to save this boat and the lives of the crew!'

'Yes sir. Passing 150 metres skipper!'

The Captain compressed his lips. They were on their way to the bottom.

* * *

'Grigori!' The Chief Engineer's shout could be heard above the beat of the engines and the groaning ice.

'Captain, we have to stop!' He was screaming. 'We're losing coolant, and the reactor temperature is rising!'

Captain Grigori continued to stare, eyes glazed, as if he had not understood a word. The engineer approached and shook Grigori, trying to rouse him from his stupor. When the Captain did not respond, Pytor sprinted to the controls and rang for 'Dead Stop'.

Within seconds the engine slowed and eventually stopped. In the silence, the Captain stared strangely at his engineer.

Pytor picked up the phone and issued a string of orders to the engine room, attempting to prevent the reactor from over-heating. When he finished he saw the Captain leaving the bridge. He hurried after him, unsure where he was heading. Pytor felt compelled to follow, afraid that the Captain was bent on more damage and destruction.

Grigori clattered down the companionway to his office on Bridge Deck 3, leaving the door open for the engineer. He headed straight for the Vodka bottle on the shelf above his bed.

'Captain, I am going to report the accident.'

Grigori sat quietly, shaking his head. 'No Pytor, you will not.'

'But there must be over a hundred people on that submarine. Whatever possessed you to try and sink it?'

Grigori refused to answer.

Pytor made to go. 'It’s my responsibility to make a report, regardless of your orders.'

'You may not.'

'Captain, after you I'm answerable to commanders of the Northern Fleet. I know my duty.'

Immediately Grigori shot up and quickly intercepted him before he reached the door. Pytor moved to one side to step past, but Grigori prevented him by grasping the Chief Engineer’s lapel. 'Wait.' Grigori’s intense glare halted Pytor.

He ordered Pytor to sit. In the bottom drawer of the bedside table, Grigori found two tumblers and began to pour out a good measure of vodka into each. 'Come on, sit!' he growled over his shoulder.

Reluctantly Pytor sat and accepted the proffered tumbler.

'To our families.' Grigori raised his glass.

Surprised by the toast, Pytor echoed the words and sipped the liquor.

Captain Grigori Burak swallowed a mouthful of the vodka. 'Three weeks ago two Tupolev TU-160 bombers took off from Engels Air Base in southern Russia. They turned north and flew on a straight course for nearly ten hours.' He mimed the flight with his hands. 'Eventually their route carried them towards the Beaufort Sea where they were met by two Canadian interceptors. Usually the pilots would then turn their aircraft around and head back to their bases.'

Grigori splashed an extra slug into both glasses. 'You are probably wondering how I know all this — an icebreaker Captain.' He gulped another mouthful.

'So' he continued. 'The Tupolevs turned for home.' He waited while Pytor drank. 'So far, so good. Everything as normal.'

Grigori wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 'But something occurred after that.' Pytor was afraid to interrupt, in case Grigori stopped altogether. 'Don't ask me what, I don't know. I suppose they received orders. Whatever occurred, they made for the Alaskan coast. They must have been flying for several hours. I later found out there was a storm in the area.' The Captain gazed at the glasses on the table without seeing them.

Pytor waited for Grigori to continue, but when he didn't, he had to ask the question. 'What happened?'

Grigori let out a big sigh. 'They made a simple navigation mistake and approached too close to the coast. Maybe the storm had something to do with it. Anyway, American fighter jets scrambled and forced them to land.'

Pytor leaned backwards, his mind a whirl of questions. 'What has this got to do with you ramming an American submarine?'

Grigori gulped down another slug. 'The crews are still in American custody. None of this was reported in the news. Perhaps the politicians were negotiating with the Americans about some trade deal, or spy-swap.' Grigori almost spat out the words. 'Just because of a small navigation error, they are incarcerated in an American jail.'

Pytor was appalled. 'Even so Grigori, that should not be a reason for you to send men to their deaths!'

Grigori regarded his Chief Engineer, emphasising every word of the sentence. 'One of the co-pilots is my son.'

* * *

Captain White grasped the mike with difficulty, massaging his shoulder to ease the pain. 'We are at rest on the sea bottom.' He checked the console. 'Though some of you might argue with the word “rest”.' Even through the noise of the work parties, he thought he detected laughter. In fact the word 'crash' would have been a better description as the submarine shook from end to end when the nose impacted on the sea bed.

'We're at 450 metres, well above crush depth and comfortably within rescue parameters.' He observed the organised chaos that was going on around him. 'You all know the drill. Report to the section leader and deal with emergencies on a priority basis. We are on emergency power. My orders are to continue to contain the flooding and see to the wounded and injured. If you suffered bang to the head, bruising or other injuries, you will be seen to as soon as the most critical cases have been treated.' He hung up the mike, and regarded his Executive Officer.

'Any fatalities Thomas?'

'There are reports of three dead Captain,' the XO replied quietly. 'Six others are injured, mostly broken limbs and ribs. Three of those are serious.'

'Right. I want a meeting in the wardroom immediately the flooding is stabilised.'

* * *

Kelly gazed at a row of red brick houses as they slid by the limousine window. 'I want to thank you for being with me. I didn't expect you to come to the funeral.'

'It's the least I could do,' said Sean. 'By the way, a colleague of mine thinks he knows why the txt message from your husband arrived so long after he died.'

Kellie sighed and turned to listen.

‘When Nic sent that last message there was no phone signal. The txt was stored on the phone and the cell shut down with the cold. Nic was brought to the nearest mortuary, and one of the attendants probably switched on his mobile. No doubt he had a good reason — to find out who owned the device. In the warmth, the battery came back to life, and as soon as it found a signal the message went.'

'Oh. Thanks for clearing that up.'

The car slowed and turned in through the entrance to the cemetery. They continued up a single tarmacked drive, passing rows of graves on either side. Eventually they stopped and Sean stepped out into a thin drizzle of rain. He opened an umbrella and held the door open for Kellie. They walked towards the grave where half a dozen people stood.

'Who are they?' whispered Sean.

She returned the whisper. 'I recognise some of them. Work colleagues from Nic's company.'

The vicar began the service and Sean handed the umbrella to Kellie. He moved back a distance and studied the grounds. If any watchers were present, they were doing a good job of concealment. He called DD. 'Any news?'

'The team's in the cemetery office, and there’s a drone up above.'

Instinctively Sean glanced upwards, but he couldn't locate the airborne spy. 'Found anything?'

'Not yet. But Finch is convinced they will be watching.'

Sean cursed. Finch was new, and Sean wasn't feeling generous. His Executive should have been briefed about Sean's aversion to working with so many people from the Service. There were only two exceptions; Sean knew from experience the value an Executive could bring to a mission, and DD had proved his worth in the past. However the extra manpower in this case might turn out to be worthwhile — Sean couldn't be expected to search the surrounding area for the Russian team.

'Where is Finch?'

'In a car, just off the main road. You must have passed him on the way in.'

Sean watched as Kellie lent over to throw a handful of dirt on the coffin. 'Grey Vauxhall?'

'Yep.'

'Keep in touch.' He put away the mobile and joined her as she walked to the car.

She raised the umbrella to allow him to move closer. 'You know I used to hate him?'

'Well, he was cheating on you' replied Sean evenly.

She halted at the limousine. 'I'm beginning to realise he wasn't such a bad man.' Sad eyes searched his face. 'He treated me OK.'

Sean opened the door and they got in. He passed over a clean white handkerchief. 'Not quite what you wanted though?'

Kellie dabbed her eyes. 'I needed more than just companionship. I understood why he wasn't able to give that, and I resented the reason. Now I think he did his best for me. I should have been grateful.'

Sean checked his mobile; it was Finch. 'I'm sorry, something has come up. Can you manage without me?'

A faint smile appeared around her lips. 'I'm going to have to' she replied. 'Thanks for taking me to Moscow and being here today.'

'You're welcome.' Sean stopped the car and climbed out. When the limousine drove off, he spoke into his mobile. 'What have you got?'

'Blue Ford Focus. There’s a photograph from the drone, but it developed a technical fault. Some of our guys are on their way.'

'Right, I'll hang on.' Sean wasn't happy Finch had called in the cavalry; it was all too easy to spook the target. He waited as the cortege left the cemetery grounds, thinking of Kellie and how difficult it would be to start again.

Several minutes passed before Finch came back on the line.

'The Focus has gone. We've lost him.'

* * *

'He's up ahead in the farm.' Finch pointed to a group of stone buildings half a mile away. 'He arrived an hour ago. We pulled back like you asked.'

The farmhouse sat in a quiet village in Staffordshire off the A50. Sean lifted his binoculars in the early evening light. A blue Ford Focus stood in the yard, and behind lay open fields and woodland. 'How did you find him?'

'Motorway cameras picked up the plates and SIS ordered a team to follow at a discrete distance.' Finch paused, embarrassed by the admission. 'They wanted to make sure they didn't lose him again.'

Sean moved the binoculars over the main house. They windows appeared blank, as if dark blinds had been pulled down. An approach from the front meant he would be exposed during the final 50 yards. 'I want everyone to stand down. No police, no SIS, nothing.'

Finch regarded Sean.

‘SIS over-ruled you earlier.' Sean returned Finch's gaze evenly. 'You have to assert yourself; I need you to back me up.' He waited while Finch phoned the order through.

A minute later Finch nodded. 'They're standing down.'

Using as much cover as possible, Sean began a stealthy approach. Before the last stretch in front of the property he struck out to the left, taking a wide a detour to the rear. He crouched and lay flat on the ground. The house backed onto a field, separated by a surrounding stone wall. He crawled slowly until he judged he was opposite the rear entrance.

Sean turned around, sitting with his back to stonework. He removed a handgun from a shoulder holster and checked the magazine, then stopped abruptly. He had checked and rechecked the gun before moving into position. At this critical point in the approach, why did he feel it necessary to check it again? His left thumb began a familiar tattoo against the barrel. Ominously, he felt the first stirring of fear in the pit of his stomach, as his system dumped adrenaline into the blood stream. Why was this happening now?

This was no time for questions, and Sean raised his head gradually to peek over the top of the wall. He checked the building. Everything was still. In his peripheral vision he caught a movement on the road beyond the farm.

Finch was running low, sprinting between cover, coming towards the farm. What the hell was he up to?

Sean whirled around, some sixth sense alerting him to an additional threat. In the distance a faint speck floated in the sky, accompanied by the familiar whump of rotor blades. He wanted to warn me about that, he guessed. Either way, the opposition knew they were blown.

Sean stretched out on the floor again, and crawled slowly towards the back. He kept checking the windows, prepared to shoot at the first sign of aggression. His breath rasped in his throat. A net curtain in an upstairs window twitched. Sean cursed, they were on to him.

He rose and moved silently to the rear wall. Grasping the door handle he turned it gently. It was not locked. The buzz from the helicopter grew louder. The speck had grown large enough to distinguish the type; the Eurocopter EC145 practically screamed police.

The door opened easily. Sean let go of the handle and sank to the ground once more, anticipating a shot at chest level. He pushed the jamb, allowing the remains of the light to fall into the room. An old set of chairs and a dining table nestled against a corner. A couple of tattered armchairs faced a black iron fireplace.

Two shots rang out, coming from the front. They must have spotted Finch. Poor bugger.

A round struck the concrete floor, making a sharp phutt. Sean rolled as a silenced machine gun stuttered, stitching a line of pock marks in the ground. A long arm reached through the gap, grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him in. The door slammed shut and another hand grasped his wrist in an iron grip. Someone wrenched the gun away, sending it spinning across the room. He was hauled to his feet by an immensely strong man whose breath stank of rotting meat. Another person grabbed his arms and zipped them with plastic cuffs.

One of the men barked out a command in Russian. Sean struggled, and the man hit him over the head.

Sean collapsed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The morning after his arrival in Paris, Khostov sipped a coffee in a local café. He felt safer in the busy city having changed some of his money to buy clothes, and was brooding about how to find a new passport. Getting rid of his current identity had to be a priority. Khostov considered his options. The centre of Paris was probably the best place to contact someone. He realised he would have to deal with some shady characters of the Paris underworld. The problem was his cultured upbringing in Moscow had ill-prepared him to make such contacts.

Where should he start? To ask the café owner outright if he knew anyone able to forge a passport would be lunacy. Supposing he enquired about something similar first, but not quite so shady; a visa extension or a travel permit perhaps? But how to approach the right contact without being reported to the police or the security services? Khostov considered the sign advertising free Wi-Fi to customers. The Internet might provide the answer. Using the PC in his hotel lobby would leave traces of his searches on the hotel’s server. By buying his own computer he could maintain his anonymity.

After purchasing a laptop and searching the Internet he found a small company dealing in short stay documentation. They were prepared to help him obtain a Schengen visa which would allow him to travel freely in France and other European countries for a maximum of 90 days. When he checked their address, he discovered they operated from a pokey office in a backstreet.

The permit took two days to come through. When he visited the premises to collect the document, he met a Frenchman with dark hair and a very lined forehead. The man counted the money slowly, occasionally holding the notes up to the light to check for authenticity.

'I need your help with another matter.'

The man regarded him suspiciously.

'You remember I told you I fled my homeland in Russia. I want to be sure if they go looking for me, they won't find me.'

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 'What can I do?' he asked.

Khostov hesitated. 'I want a new passport.'

'You can get that through the normal channels.' The Frenchman tilted his chin towards the exit.

'No, I cannot.' Khostov tapped the visa he had just bought. 'You didn't provide this through the normal channels.'

The lines on the man’s forehead creased even further and he sighed. 'It is very expensive.'

'I have some money.'

'It may take a week or so.'

'I'll wait.'

'I need half now, and half when you have your passport.'

Khostov began to count out the notes.

* * *

Sean regained consciousness in the car, his face bumping on the floor pan where he lay. Two men's feet pressed against his body, preventing him from sitting up. He guessed he was in a 4x4. Given the size and layout of the space it could be a Land Rover Discovery.

They were moving at speed; swinging from side to side, the tyres screeched around the corners. He became conscious of the sound of a helicopter. The engine bellowed, as if the men had just noticed too. Through the Discovery's windows Sean could see a dark sky. Abruptly the daylight disappeared altogether, replaced by flashes of artificial light. They were in a tunnel.

The 4x4 slammed to a standstill. He listened as the driver and front passenger got out. The bodyguards continued to hold him down. One pointing a gun and signalled, indicating Sean should not make a move.

Sean heard a car coming towards them, slowing to a stop nearby. The door opened and the driver got out.

'What's the matter guys? Has there been an accident?'

The bodyguards jerked Sean upright and pulled him out of the Discovery. He glimpsed the other car, an Audi, before being bundled into the back seat. The two heavies sat on each side of him. One of the men forced the Audi driver into their 4x4 and ordered him to drive away.

They waited a few seconds as their Discovery drove off, then took off in the opposite direction. The whole exchange had taken less than 30 seconds.

As the Discovery left the tunnel, the driver found a police cordon across the road. Armed officers knelt behind their vehicles, rifles and hand guns drawn.

He slammed on the brakes and the Discovery screeched to a halt. An officer with a loud hailer told him to get out slowly, placing all firearms on the ground. He was to take five steps away from his vehicle and sit on the road with his hands above his head.

The frightened driver complied. 'I am not armed! Some lunatics stopped my car and forced me to drive this!'

The police reminded him not to get up. The man slumped on the tarmac, relieved that his ordeal was over.

* * *

Though Sean felt groggy and ill-prepared for violence, he didn’t find it hard to understand why the Russians had chosen the farm close to a tunnel. They had anticipated helicopter pursuit.

An hour later they began to slow. The best chance to escape would be when the car stopped, but he was surprised when they picked up speed again. Streetlights flashed past and soon disappeared as they left the built up area. Shortly afterwards they drew to a standstill and one of the men dragged him out of the Audi. The light from a single floodlight cast deep shadows, illuminating a concrete roadway outside a large farmhouse and out-buildings. Another member of the gang held a handgun, but he was too far away for Sean to disable.

Sean’s pulse rate rose rapidly, and he felt an stinging ache in his stomach as adrenaline surged into the bloodstream. For a moment he experienced real fear, then decided to act.

He seized the man nearest him, swinging him around to block the line of fire and propelled him in the direction of the gunman. The man fired off a wild shot before they connected. Sean went off like a hare, running low, swerving from side to side. He dashed into the farm, hoping to make the dark fields beyond.

He heard the slam of a door as the car started. A high stone wall prevented his immediate escape. Sean increased his speed at the expense of dodging bullets, taking a quick peek over his shoulder. The car filled his vision. He broke left and then right. The Audi overtook him, sliding sideways, tyres squealing through the handbrake turn, pulling up in front of him.

Sean did not stop. Using the door handle as a toe hold, he jumped. His other foot touched down solidly on the roof. A shot rang out and Sean sprang, landing heavily on the ground. As he scrambled to get up he was grabbed roughly by two of them. A third approached. Sean could not see his face, but his breath stank.

Without warning the man punched him several times in the stomach. Sean sank to his knees. He saw another fist coming and rolled with the blow, sprawling on the muddy concrete. They hauled him upright and dragged him towards the main building. His heart fell. There were four of them and they were professionals.

During his early years in the regiment he experienced interrogations using simulated punishment, both as hostage and interrogator. Later in his career when he delivered training to new recruits, he would give simulated torture sessions. The army believed troops hardened to brutalising ill-treatment were more likely to endure harsh questioning and manipulate the facts to mislead their interrogators. In Sean’s experience, men often lied to protect themselves; torture did not guarantee the victim would reveal the truth.

This Russian team would have no compunction in breaking him to find out what he knew. After that the outcome was inevitable. They would kill him.

For the first time in a long while, he felt a profound dread.

* * *

The floor of the wardroom was awash in water. Captain White observed the grim faces under the orange emergency lighting as his officers squeezed past him. When they were all gathered, the conversation died down and the Captain moved to the centre of the crowded room.

'Before I hear your reports, I want to remind you of a couple of things. You are highly trained men. You all have a great deal of experience behind you.' The Captain scanned their faces. 'The task in front of us is going to be tough if we are to escape with our lives.' He paused to give weight to his next sentence. 'But we will make it. Everything you do from now on must be focused on that!'

The officers shuffled uncomfortably as the Captain waited a moment to ensure his message had been received. 'Right, I want a report from each of you about the status of your men and area of responsibility.' The Captain turned to Chief Petty Officer Lambert. 'George, you first.'

The Independent Duty Corpsman was a qualified doctor. He cleared his throat. 'Sir, I'm sorry to report another two fatalities. That makes five dead. Two more are still critical. I've had a dozen with other injuries, mainly broken bones and concussion. There are others with minor cuts and abrasions. I'm using the Crew's Mess as a patient evaluation and treatment area.'

'Thank you George. Do you need anything else — supplies or manpower?'

'No sir, I've managed to get most of the stocks we squirrelled away.' Medical provisions were stashed in several locations throughout the boat to minimise loss from a single incident. 'I don’t need any more help at the moment, though I would like to return to my patients as quickly as possible.'

The Captain waved his hand. 'Go George. Someone will brief you later — and thank you.' He turned to the Chief Engineer. 'What's the status of the hull David?'

'There's still some seepage, but the majority of the flooding is under control.' David Purbeck looked towards his Damage Control Assistant. 'We've a major problem with the main ballast tanks. The vents of the two forward and aft of the sail are damaged and are stuck on open. Without the ability to close the valves we won't get enough buoyancy to lift off the sea bed. The other ballast tanks at the stem and stern of the boat are just operational, but even with these and the trim tanks we won’t have enough buoyancy to lift us off the bottom.'

'What about the reactor?'

'It SCRAMMED automatically when we were hit. That reduced the output for a short time. Normally it would come back online after a fast insertion of the control rods. However the computer activated a full shutdown because so many alarms were triggered.’

'How much power can we expect?'

'About five percent. The fission products are still decaying and they give out some heat. Anything over that and we will need to rely on batteries.'

'How long have we got?' The chief purpose of the battery back-up was to restart the reactor, but at a pinch it could be used for life-support systems.

'Altogether, I'd say there’s enough juice for 40 hrs plus. The batteries provide energy to the carbon dioxide scrubbers to remove dangerous CO2 gas from the air. They can also supply the electrolyser machine to produce oxygen from seawater.'

The Captain glanced at the shocked faces. 'Forty hours is not long David.'

'It's hard to be certain. The electrolyser requires lots of power to replace the oxygen used up by the crew. We could extend it by turning the heating off.'

'What’s the downside?'

'The key problem is the atmosphere inside the sub will cool to the temperature of the surrounding ocean — just above freezing. The crew could wear more clothes, but the biggest issue is the water vapour in the air. It will condense on all metal surfaces and might cause shorting in our electric circuits.'

'Right, we'll take that chance. How long before we can start the reactor?'

David shrugged his shoulders. 'We don't know yet. I am working on it, but I need to set expectations. The fact that it failed to resume automatically means there are significant issues. And if we are going to use the battery for life-support, there might not be sufficient energy left to begin the start sequence. We may have to wait until the sub is returned to Groton.'

Captain White glanced around his officers again. Their faces all told the same story.

'What else you can do?'

'We'll have to inspect the support systems fully and assess what happened to the reactor, sir. It’s essential to check the circuits are functioning properly before we can even try a restart. The checklist alone will take at least 24 hours. Any issues we find during the tests are likely to need the services of our home port.'

'Better get on with it immediately. And keep me up to date, will you?'

The Chief Engineer nodded and hurried out. The Captain turned next to his Navigator.

'What's the story, Jago?'

Jago ran his hands through his short curly hair. 'Comms are a complete mess. Virtually all our communications are routed via the transmission masts in the sail, and the conning tower was crushed by the icebreaker.'

'So no-one knows we're in trouble?'

Jago shook his head. 'We can still receive Extra Low Frequency transmissions because ELF doesn't need an antenna above the surface. We're working on trying to repair the damage to the receivers and masts, but it’s going to take a long time.'

The XO scratched an ear. 'Any possibility of using the dorsal hatchway?' This was a small opening on the upper surface of the sub near the tail.

Jago frowned. 'We've thought about that. If we patch the cables in the ducts we might be able to send up an aerial through the hatchway. As far as we know it's still operational.'

The XO faced the Captain. 'Once we get an aerial up, we should be able to communicate in both directions using HF, UHF or VHF.'

'I agree Thomas.' The Captain made up his mind. 'Make this your first priority Jago. The sooner Groton realises our predicament, the better.' He eyed the remaining officers. 'That's all for now. You've got a lot to do. Let's reconvene in two hours.'

They began filing out of the meeting, but the XO remained behind.

'Yes, Thomas?'

'The icebreaker deliberately rammed us Captain.' The XO could barely conceal his anger. 'All the men will know by now he intended to sink us.'

'I understand,' he replied softly. ‘But we must concentrate on surviving as long as possible for the rescue.'

'We still have some power, sir. We could operate our weapons systems — long enough to target the ship.'

'He can't do any more damage than he already has. And we need all the power for our life support systems. Don't forget your priorities Thomas. Your duty must be to your men first. There will be a reckoning when we get out of this mess. Until then your job is to protect the safety of your officers and crew.'

The XO glanced down at the water sloshing about his feet. 'Yes sir, I apologise.' After a second he looked up. 'Ah Commander, speaking of survival, you left a few things out of your pep talk — like the rescue will take much longer than we've got.'

The Captain eyed his Executive Officer. 'I did leave it out Thomas. But I didn't forget.' He paused. 'I don't want to crush everyone's hopes just yet.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

After identifying a Russian observer at the funeral, DD turned his attention to his pet project TRIP WIRE. It was not working out as he had planned. When he conceived the design he saw himself like a spider, sat on the side of its web, waiting for the slightest tremor to alert him to a lead. But the database he had constructed to find Khostov positively vibrated with alerts— so many he felt overwhelmed.

He had no option but to plead for resources from the police. One force was tasked with serving Internet Providers with warrants to obtain the contents of emails sent by various ex-Russian residents. Another followed up twitter posts referring to the word Maskhadov. So far, all the TRIP WIRE events were perfectly innocent, and DD was starting to regard the web site as a failure. His mobile rang.

'Is this Daniel Davis?'

'Yes, who is this?'

'Detective Inspector Anita Marshall. I’m working on the murder of two Russian couples. I met one of your colleagues, Sean Quinlan.' She paused, uncertain how to continue. 'Do you know him?'

'Yes, of course' replied DD.

'He told me to contact you if any developments occurred.'

'Something's happened?'

'Dorset police rang me after I asked them to check on one of the deceased's assets — a yacht called the Anastasia.'

'OK.'

'She’s normally berthed at the harbour in Weymouth, but now it’s missing.'

'Ah. Thank you for the info — is there anything else I should know?'

'Nope — just that. Thought it might be useful to your, ah, research.'

'Fine, and thank you.'

'Please be sure to let me know if you discover anything relevant to my investigation.'

'I will, and thanks again.' DD pocketed his mobile and mentally began to kick himself. Why hadn't TRIP WIRE alerted him to the missing yacht? Nevertheless, it was a good lead; one he would follow up with the coast guard and local shipping authorities. He would also have to contact French coast guards and police and ensure they sent out a bulletin to all harbour and police authorities along the north coast of France. Once completed, there was nothing else he could do except wait.

So much for the web site, he thought. The idea was great in theory, but when it came to practice it would need more than a few tweaks.

* * *

Captain Gerry White clicked on the intercom to broadcast the message throughout the boat. 'You will all be pleased to learn the flooding has been contained. We also finished pumping out water from the control spaces. The forward section, which took the brunt of the collision with the sea bed, is sealed off.' The Captain didn't mention this was where four of the five deaths had occurred.

He continued. 'Sparks patched up a communication channel through an undamaged hatchway near the tail. No work has been possible on the masts in the sail because the damage was too extensive. We hope to send up a radio antenna in the next ten minutes, so we can report directly to Groton.'

Headquarters were already aware the sub was not able to communicate with them because they were unable to return ELF signals. The emergency would be classified as DISSUB, or Disabled/Distressed Submarine. Privately the Captain thought that wasn't much help to them at the moment. Until they made direct communications with base they wouldn’t be able start compiling a shopping list of requirements for the rescue.

'Yes Thomas?' The XO had come to stand next to him.

'Sir, there's not much time left.' Thomas spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by the crew.

Captain White nodded. 'What is your point?'

'I wondered about the SEIE Mk10.' He was referring to an escape procedure based on a whole body suit called Submarine Escape and Immersion Equipment. This included a one-man life raft and an inner lining to protect against hypothermia.

The Captain shook his head. 'I did consider it. Even if we could find a way through the ice, the suit wasn't designed for the hostile weather in the Arctic. I fear many would die before being picked up by any passing ship. Right now no-one apart from Groton knows we're at the bottom of the sea. So I discounted the idea — unless you think we might stand a chance?'

Thomas thought for a few moments and indicated his agreement. He shivered, more from the grim prospect ahead than the cold in the boat.

Five minutes later he came upon the Captain in the radio room. The communications buoy had been released and the link with the home port was established. The XO overheard the talk on the loudspeaker. 'Hang in there Captain. We've already prepared SRDRS. Should be with you in 72 hours.'

The Captain glanced at Thomas and spoke into the mike. 'Understood. Please make it sooner if you can.' He regarded the XO. 'I know what you're going to say — 72 hours will be too late for us.'

Thomas shrugged.

'Don't give up hope Thomas.'

'Sir, the temperature has dropped to just above freezing. I'm thinking of the men; could we divert more power from the reactor into heating the sub?'

'That would compromise the ability of the scrubbers to remove CO2. And we also need the energy to communicate with base. I recommend you break out the survival suits — at least they will keep the crew warmer.'

'Right, sir. Was there anything else?'

'Groton asked us to stabilise the air pressure inside the sub before they arrive.'

'Sir, I don't think it’s such a good idea. The crew are already frightened. They're not going to be too happy when they learn we're letting air out of the boat when they need every last breath.'

Captain White frowned. 'Headquarters say this is essential in order to minimise the time to transfer crew to the rescue vessel. If we don't do this, many more will die.'

Thomas paused to think. 'I suppose we could release the air out gradually through the valves. No-one might notice.'

'No, I'll talk to the crew and explain what is necessary and why we’re taking this measure.'

'Good luck on that one sir.'

The Captain glared at his XO. 'I shouldn't need to remind you we are all in this together, Thomas. Give the men credit — once I've talked to them, they will understand.'

'Sir.'

'Right now I need maximum cooperation from everyone — especially my second in command.'

'Yes, sir. There is one more thing. It won't help with the build-up of CO2, but it might provide us all with extra oxygen.'

'Go on.'

'The cylinders used to blow the ballast from the main tanks. I'm considering re-routing them to force some air back into the sub.'

'Good idea.' The Captain paused. 'Keep thinking like that XO, and you'll have your own boat before long.'

'Thank you skipper. I'll get engineering onto it straight away.'

* * *

Sean’s first beating lasted an hour.

They struck him with fists, working up to a rhythm. Then they found some rough wooden planks in an outbuilding. One of the men, called Urilenko, took particular enjoyment in causing pain. He stopped occasionally to twist Sean's testicles until Sean thought they would separate from his body. When Urilenko pushed his face up close his acrid breath stank.

They left to rest and eat. Sean's head hung down on his chest. Blood and saliva dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. The attack on his genitals had caused him to pee, much to the amusement of the gang. Through puffy eyes Sean took in the surroundings. He was alone in the stone built kitchen of the farm, tied to a wooden chair. Rubbish lay on the floor — old newspapers, empty tins, pools of water from the leaky roof. The place had obviously not been occupied for some time. A sturdy rough wooden table stood opposite a large open hearth fire. Once this was the heart of a loving home he thought as he spat out a gob of blood. The pain failed to mask an overwhelming sense of dread.

The four came back for a second session. By now Sean could identify the individuals. Desny appeared to be the leader who asked the questions while Urilenko worked on Sean. Desny sometimes referred to Markow, and given his responses Sean guessed Markow had access to Russian intelligence. Petrov stood quietly in the background, observing everything, but not speaking throughout the interrogation.

Urilenko's face was lit up with anticipation. He withdrew a rusty bread knife, presumably one left by a previous occupant. He made cutting motions with it — suggesting he would start by sawing off one of Sean's fingers. As Urilenko advanced, Sean decided now was the time.

'Stop,' he called out weakly. Desny studied Sean as Urilenko grabbed Sean's left hand, forcing his index finger to lie straight on the wooden arm of the chair.

'Stop. I'll tell you whatever you want to know.'

Desny pulled Urilenko roughly away and moved in front of Sean. He questioned Sean directly. 'Why are you looking for us?'

Sean raised his head with difficulty. 'Our police became upset when you killed two Russian couples.'

'How did you find us?'

'We spotted your car at the funeral.'

'Where is Khostov?'

Sean stopped. 'Who is Khostov?'

Desny looked back towards Urilenko. 'Khostov, the Russian traitor who came here.'

Sean shook his head. 'I don't know him. What is he supposed to have done?'

Desny nodded to Urilenko. Urilenko picked up the bread knife again with a big grin. Together they forced Sean to spread the fingers of his left hand on the wooden arm of the chair. Urilenko started to saw at his index finger. His face flushed with the effort and he began to pant with excitement.

Sean closed his eyes and grunted with the pain.

* * *

President Robert Donahue stared angrily at his Secretary of Defence Brindle Harris. 'What are you saying — a Russian icebreaker sank a state-of-the-art American submarine? Why the hell would they do that?'

CIA director Henry Alfred Jones was first to respond. 'We’re still holding eight Russian air crews from the two Blackjack bombers.'

'You're saying the Russians sank one of our submarines because we detained a flight crew?'

Jones pulled a face. 'Maybe. Our submarine was well outside Russian territorial boundaries and on the surface. The ship deliberately aimed for the sub. The Captain is adamant the icebreaker saw them, and altered course to collide with them.

Brindle Harris held up his hands. He had been friends with the President since their college days, but when Donahue was angry there was no room for friendship. Perhaps he could draw Jones into the line of fire. 'What info have you got about the incident?'

Jones gave Harris an annoyed glance. 'We had no warning whatsoever.'

'Then this was a deliberate and provocative action,’ interjected the President, ‘taken by a Russian vessel on an innocent and unsuspecting American warship.' The way the sentence was phrased left no doubt in Harris' mind where he was heading with this.

'Correct,' replied Harris. 'I confirmed it personally when I spoke to the Captain.'

'Who is he?'

'Captain Gerry White. He's been in the navy seventeen years, the last five driving subs. He's as reliable as they come.'

'What have the Russians been saying?'

Harris glared across at the CIA director. 'We don't believe they know anything about the incident.'

'What!' the President exploded.

'It's true,' Jones replied. 'The lines between the ship and the Russian North Atlantic Fleet command should be hot by now, but there's no traffic out of the ordinary.'

'Jesus! They'll know soon enough when I speak to the Russian President. I want you to raise the navy's level of DEFCON. Show them we're taking this seriously.'

Brindle Harris leaned forward. 'I appreciate you need to take some action Mr President, but I think you are forgetting one thing.'

Donahue glared at his Defence Secretary. 'I suppose you are going to tell me?'

Harris coughed discreetly. 'No matter how provocative the act, the Russians can't have any general intention to start a war — otherwise we would know by now. The priority must be to rescue the crew. Time is running out.'

The President took a deep breath and appeared to calm down. 'What's their position?'

'The sub's lying on the sea bed. The latest count is five dead. They've stopped up the major hull breeches, but they're running low on oxygen.'

'How long have they got?'

Harris shrugged. '36 hours, maybe.'

'How many men?'

'116 enlisted crew and 13 officers, not counting the deceased.'

President Donahue blew out his cheeks and paused a moment in thought. 'I'm sorry Brindle. You're right. We should concentrate on the rescue effort. Tell me what we are doing.'

'We're sending submarine rescue equipment and operators. It's called the Submarine Rescue Diving and Re-compression System, shortened to SRDRS.'

'ETA?'

Harris sighed. This was the worst bit. 'The team is based in San Diego with 200 tons of kit. The first problem: it takes 72 hours to deliver.'

'Jesus' muttered the President. 'You said that was the first problem?'

Harris nodded. 'There is an even bigger problem. The kit can be loaded on huge transport aircraft and flown anywhere in the world within 72 hours. But once the kit arrives we need a Vehicle of Opportunity. They call it a VOO.'

'What's that?'

'Basically a ship near the downed sub where all the equipment is installed. A special crane is mounted on the rear, which lowers a pressurised container down to the sub. A tunnel mates with an escape hatch on the sub and sixteen people can go up at a time. The crane lifts the cylinder up to the ship, and the whole process is repeated until everyone is rescued.'

The President pulled a face. 'Sounds really complicated.'

'It's a tried and tested system Mr President. We know it works.'

'Has it ever been tried in the Arctic?'

Brindle Harris opened his mouth, but no words came out.

'And have we got a Vehicle of Opportunity in the vicinity?'

'That's the second problem Mr President. There isn’t a suitable vessel anywhere near.'

'Suitable — what do you mean?'

'The VOO must meet a certain spec. It has to have enough deck space, load bearing capability, stability, etc.'

'Well, what about Russian ones — or vessels from other nationalities?'

Harris shook his head. 'I said this was the biggest problem. There's nothing nearby.'

'There must be plenty of ships in Russian ports.'

'Yes Mr President. But they would need the permission from the Russian President to go to the rescue. Even if we had consent, we think none of them could reach the area in time. The ship that downed USS Montana took several days to get to its current position.'

'Well, what about the icebreaker — is it still in the area?'

'Yes. It appears to have stopped. The ship meets our spec, but we're not sure the Russians would allow it to be used.'

The President drew a deep breath. 'I want an aerial survey — now — to see what's available. And get that Submarine Rescue system on its way.' He looked at the CIA director. 'I want you to make contingency plans. Get a full team working on this now! I am going to phone President Duskin and demand an explanation for this outrageous attack on our submarine. I will also demand to use the icebreaker as a VOO. We'll meet again in the situation room with a full crisis team in 3 hrs.'

* * *

Sean's head slumped forward and he pretended to faint. To make it appear realistic, he was forced to prevent the involuntary gasps and grunts from the pain being inflicted on his injured finger. Curiously he found it easier to manage by completely relaxing his body and letting himself go into an almost trance like state. The sawing continued for several seconds longer before Desny told Urilenko to stop. He ordered a bucket of water from an outside tap.

Within a minute Urilenko returned, throwing the entire contents over Sean's head. Urilenko picked up the knife again, but Desny stopped him once more. He told them to strap Sean face up on the table, and sent Urilenko out for another bucket of water. Urilenko came back with a bowl and a filthy rag he found in the kitchen pantry. He slapped the cloth roughly over Sean's face. At a nod from Desny, Urilenko poured water over the material. Sean's body twitched violently, muffled sounds leaking through the grimy cloth. Desny checked his watch, timing the process. After twenty seconds he signalled Urilenko to halt.

Sean was drowning. A flash memory seared his brain. He was six years old at the swimming pool when a friend dared him to dive for the first time. Most of the other kids had gone in to the changing rooms. One last teacher was gathering up spare towels.

'It's easy,’ said his friend. ‘You just stand on the edge, like so, hold your arms together, jump and dive hands first!' Sean obeyed, but after entering the water he continued to somersault, banging his head on the side of the pool. Two seconds later he was laid unconscious at the bottom.

His friend ran to the teacher who fetched the swimming instructor. Within a minute he was out, coughing up lung fulls of liquid. The first thing Sean saw was a blue sky. His friend was leaning over him, fear and concern written all over his face.

There the memory ended, and reality began. Sean wretched until his sides ached. When he opened his eyes Urilenko was leaning over him. For a whole minute Sean continued to heave until the spasms died down. Urilenko's broad hand pushed his face back and the stinking cloth went over his mouth and nose. Water poured down in a cascade, and within seconds he relived the experience of drowning.

This time he recovered less slowly, knowing that no matter how much training he had had, he could not survive another session.

'OK' he gasped after a full minute recovering. He lent over the side and vomited a yellow watery bile. 'I'm ready,' he said weakly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The situation room in the basement of the West Wing was full. President Robert Donahue viewed the assembled staff; the vice President, joint chiefs and their advisers, and the national security team were all present. The Secretary of Defence Brindle Harris sat on his left, and CIA director Henry Alfred Jones on the right. Everyone had been briefed before the President rose to his feet.

'I spoke to Pavla Duskin thirty minutes ago. He flatly denies their icebreaker was implicated in the incident.' The President clicked a switch in front of him, and they listened as a recording of the conversation was replayed.

'I absolutely deny any Russian vessel was involved in the sinking of the USS Montana.' The Russian President spoke good English, but his voice was raised as if the American President's suggestion was outrageous.

Donahue's calm voice was in direct contrast to his opposite number. 'Mr Duskin, I have hard evidence from the Captain of the submarine, together with detailed digital data. This is proof which you cannot deny.'

'You have my sympathy for the plight of your men, but I will publicly denounce any suggestion Russia is involved.'

'Can I have your assurance you will do everything in your power to help rescue the crew? In particular, we wish to use the deck of LK-80 to position equipment to aid us in the recovery.'

There was a moment's silence before the Russian President replied. 'President Donahue, I cannot let you use our vessels to place your equipment.'

'Why not? May I remind you about the treaty both our governments signed back in 2011? We agreed to assist each other in the event of an emergency situation occurring in Arctic waters.'

'How can I loan you a ship, when you continue to detain Russian airmen? Surely that in itself is contrary to all international laws. I'm afraid this alone breeches any agreements we made in the past.'

'Are you refusing to help us? Over a hundred men's lives are now in danger. If you do not act, they will surely die.'

'President Donahue, please do not deliberately misunderstand me. I said no such thing. Of course we will help you. We are a compassionate country. We might find it difficult to forget, but we forgive easily. As a gesture of peace between our nations I will arrange for the rescue of the crew of your stricken submarine. But it will be organised and handled by Russian sailors on Russian vessels.'

The President leaned forward and switched off the recording. 'He wouldn't budge from that position' said Donahue bitterly.

'They don't have the right equipment for a rescue. And they won't be able to get to site in time.' Harris commented.

Brindle's deputy agreed. 'The Russians will play the waiting game, while proclaiming their offer of help to rescue the men in the submarine. Just look at the Kursk.'

Several heads around the long table nodded, but others appeared puzzled. 'It was a nuclear powered submarine like the Montana,' explained the Chief of Navy Operations. 'Two explosions occurred on board and it sank. The Russians failed to give enough urgency to a rescue, and kept tight secrecy over the event. The President was on holiday and didn't respond to repeated attempts to get him to intervene. All 118 officers and crew died. Later they found that 23 sailors survived the explosions, and could have been saved if the President had accepted foreign help earlier.'

For once, CIA chief Henry Jones found himself agreeing with Harris and his deputy. 'They will spin out their 'rescue'. By the time they are on site, the crew will be dead. The Russians will shrug their shoulders, but in the eyes of the rest of the world they will appear as heroes, beaten by an impossible deadline.'

'May I remind everyone that five men have already lost their lives,' remarked the President quietly. One hundred and twenty nine lives of our seamen are still at risk. I'm now going to give you a few minutes to confer.'

Several minutes passed in hushed consultation. At last Harris turned back to the President. 'We agree that we should continue to send help in the form of the SRDRS. But given the Russian intransigence, not all of us are agreed whether that should be accompanied by the military. In any case we need to create a landing strip on the ice, which will have to be lengthened to accommodate the heavier planes to carry the rescue equipment.'

'Henry?'

'Sir a military force is bound to aggravate the situation. Maybe we should think about using a commercial outfit. And what about the Vehicle of Opportunity? Perhaps we could find a plane large enough to accommodate a suitable size ship, and fly it out there.'

The President caught Harris shaking his head. 'This isn't feasible sir. We’re right up against the clock — every second counts. Our only option is to use the icebreaker as the VOO. San Diego checked the specs and confirms suitability for SRDRS.'

'Sir,' Jones interjected. 'This could provoke the Russians onto a war footing. We’re detaining Russian aircrew and unless my ears deceive me, Russia has offered to rescue our submarine crew. The sight of an armed unit at the North Pole might trigger major hostilities between our two nations.'

Brindle Harris leaned forward. 'There is a larger issue here — our inability to easily project a force in the Arctic. We are not nearly as well-equipped as the Russians. The only military hardware that can operate successfully in the conditions up there are aircraft and submarines. There are hardly any sea going vessels capable of dealing with the ice pack. We couldn't send a carrier group to the Arctic, let alone a few warships. The whole strategy needs to be thought out — but not today. Today American lives are at stake, and every minute we argue we lose time.'

The President considered those present; many were nodding in agreement. 'Very well gentlemen. We will send a military force to accompany the SRDRS to the Arctic. I would prefer we kept the mission low key — no camouflage, just polar whites. We also agree for the establishment of an airfield on the ice.'

'And the idea of using LK-80 for the rescue?'

The President turned to Harris. 'I thought I just answered that question.'

* * *

The bar was full of people, stopping off for a coffee or beer on their way home from work. Khostov waited impatiently for his contact to show. He was sitting at the back of the room, sipping an espresso when he spotted a small man with dark hair coming towards him.

'You're an hour late!'

The contact appeared unconcerned and took a chair. 'I came when I could — I told you it would take longer to get — ' he glanced around to ensure no-one could overhear. 'Your document.'

'Have you got it?' Khostov struggled to keep the tension out of his voice.

'Maybe,' he replied with a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

'What do you mean — maybe?' asked an exasperated Khostov. 'Either you have it, or you don't have it!'

'The man considered Khostov. 'It cost more than I thought.'

'How much more?' Khostov asked uneasily, all too aware that Yakov's money was fast disappearing.

'Five thousand euros.'

Khostov calculated this would just about finish the remainder of his money. He was appalled that despite the large amount of cash he had started with, it had disappeared so quickly. He reminded himself it was only a means to an end.

'Two thousand euros, no more.'

The Frenchman shook his head. 'No monsieur. I will accept four thousand, no less.' He made as if to get up from the table.

'Wait!' Several heads turned at the outburst.

'Monsieur, you must lower your voice.'

'Three thousand euros.'

The Frenchman paused, considering the proposal. 'We meet in the middle. Three thousand five hundred. That is my final offer.'

'OK. Three thousand five hundred.' Khostov reached inside his pocket.

The Frenchman grabbed his arm. 'Not here monsieur.' He nodded towards the door. 'Outside in the park, where no-one can see us.'

* * *

President Donahue pushed his fingers through his blond hair and sighed with exasperation. This was his second and final term in office and he didn't need this crisis, coming on top of all the other domestic issues demanding his attention. He had moved up to the oval office, away from the busy situation room, thinking he might get a better perspective with fewer people. With him were his two closest advisors, Brindle Harris and Henry Jones from the CIA.

'Right, I want to know the plan gentlemen.' He eyed both of them. 'Keep it simple — no military acronyms you're so fond of — they just confuse the hell out of me.'

Brindle glanced at Henry Jones, and began his briefing after receiving a small nod. 'We're calling this operation Project Gold. The rescue mission is being assigned to DEVGRU.' Brindle immediately appeared embarrassed. 'Sorry. Project Gold will be implemented by our Naval Special Warfare Development Group.' Brindle laid out a map of the Arctic on the table and Jones took up the floor.

'The project involves creating an airfield near the downed sub. We begin with flying in reconnaissance units and engineering teams to lay an airstrip. We're going to need two Antonov 124s to transport the SRDRS equipment — that's a lot of kit. The Antonov needs 3,000 m of runway.' Jones drew a line on the map — 'here'.

'That's a considerable length on the ice pack,' commented Brindle. 'At this time of year the pack varies in thickness between one and a half, and four metres. The ice will need to be levelled by snow ploughs first, and a temporary surface of updated perforated steel planking laid on top.'

'How many personnel are going to be involved?'

Jones answered the President's question. 'Initially we estimate at least a company — 200 men. I take it we still haven't got permission to use the icebreaker?'

The President shook his head.

'We'll need a platoon of SEALs to secure the VOO.'

President Donahue appeared thoughtful. 'We're getting as much leverage as possible through the Secretary of State. If necessary I'll talk to President Duskin again.'

'In the meantime are we clear to start landing on the ice?' asked Brindle Harris.

'Agreed.'

As Jones began to roll up the map, Harris turned to the President. 'Supposing the Russians continue to refuse permission to utilise LK-80?'

'We'll deal with that when the time comes.'

* * *

Sean told them that he worked for the counter terrorism section of the metropolitan police force. His remit: to track and apprehend possible terrorist suspects entering the UK. He admitted knowing about Khostov. Speculation amongst command suggested a link between his arrival in London and the death of two Russian families. SIS believed a team was sent from Russia to hunt down Khostov. Sean was ordered to find them.

Desny leaned back. 'Who is your commander? How much do they know about us? Where do they think they are now?' To each question Sean responded confidently and with no hesitation.

'Where is Khostov?'

Sean took a deep breath. 'I don't know. We've been searching for him all over London. We thought he might have left the country. The border police are keeping a watch at air- sea- and ferry ports.'

'Where did Khostov go?'

'If I knew, why do you think I'd be still following you?'

Desny looked around at the rest of the group. Quietly, and in Russian he said: 'We've got all we are going to get from him'. He motioned for Urilenko to release his bonds. 'You and Marlow take him out to the back. You'll find an access cover to the farm's cesspit. Dispose of him in there.' He looked at Markow. 'No funny business — you kill him and put him in the pit. And don't forget to close the hatch.'

Urilenko and Markow dragged Sean out of the building. He sagged in their arms, knowing that shortly he would die. Staggering through the kitchen doorway, he tried to keep upright as they pulled him along. If he resisted they would stop and kill him right there and drag his lifeless body to the disposal point.

When they went outside, the single floodlight at the front highlighted the path to the rear. As soon they rounded the corner the light vanished, leaving only dark shadows. They stopped while Urilenko pulled out a torch. The beam wavered, searching for the cover. Within moments the light illuminated a cast iron plate, about 8 x 8 feet on the concrete. The cover was split in half, each half hinged and with an indent in the centre to assist opening.

While Gavrilovich kept his gun on Sean, Urilenko reached down to pull one side of the iron cover. He strained hard to lift it. At once Urilenko's expression changed, and Sean realised why. As the putrid stench from the pit reached Sean, he gagged with the foul smell. Gavrilovich too bent over, coughing with the pain in his lungs. Sensing the danger, Gavrilovich straightened and stepped back, keeping the handgun trained on Sean.

Sean turned to stare at Urilenko, who was holding his nose and standing next to him. He murmured in a low voice, too soft for Markow to hear. 'A fine stench Mila Urilenko, but not as bad as your own breath,' he said in Russian. 'How did your mother feed you when you were a baby?'

Urilenko's reaction was a mixture of astonishment and fury; astonishment Sean understood Russian and fury at the stinging insult. Sean whispered one last sentence. 'Did she have to hold her nose too?'

Urilenko brought a clenched fist round in a savage punch to Sean's face. The blow never landed. Sean grabbed his jacket, pulling Urilenko towards him. At the same time he moved backwards and twisted him around, holding Urilenko between him and Gavrilovich's gun. Like lovers they fell back into the inky blackness of the cesspit.

* * *

Gavrilovich was astonished at the turn of events. Urilenko seemed to lose all self-control before launching an attack on the detective. The action was so fast Gavrilovich couldn't get off a clear shot. They both vanished below the crusted top of the cesspit.

Gavrilovich moved closer and shone a light. There were violent movements beneath the slimy surface, but if he fired right now he might kill the wrong person.

He waited a full minute until the agitation died down. If the British policeman is victorious, he thought, he will receive a bullet from me. The others might not be happy if Urilenko did not survive, but secretly Gavrilovich considered Urilenko too much of a burden anyway.

Slowly two hands emerged, dripping with slime as they searched to find the ledge. The fingers got a grip and the arms hauled the rest of the body up.

'Mila, is that you?' shouted Garilovich.

The figure snapped back in Russian. 'Fuck off. Help me out of this shit. And tell the others the British copper is dead.'

Garilovich felt relieved and went to assist. Urilenko dripped from head to toe in the oily putrefaction from the pit. Despite the overpowering stench, Garilovich grabbed his arm and helped him to stand up. He looked on as the figure wiped his face. The man took a huge gulp of air.

Garilovich's eyes widened.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sean searched the unconscious form of Garilovich. He found a handgun, car keys and a mobile, and tossed the phone into the cesspit. There was no silencer for the gun and the two inside would expect to hear a shot before Urilenko disposed of Sean's body.

He aimed at Garilovich's head, then stopped. Something prevented him from shooting the man in cold blood. He moved the barrel down to the man's leg and pulled the trigger. The shot wouldn't kill him, but it would certainly rule him out of the game.

Sean coughed up some more filth from the cesspit. Before he muttered the wounding insults to Urilenko he had taken several deep breaths, filling his lungs with oxygen. He made sure Urilenko would block Garilovich's clear sight to him, counting on Garilovich to make no attempt to shoot his colleague. Even so, there was only one way to go — into the pit, bringing Urilenko with him.

The coldness of the liquid was shocking but had the effect of galvanising Sean. All the pain in his body vanished in an instant, replaced with the urgent need to deal with his opponent. Sean had planned his moves; first, a savage blow to the stomach forced the man to exhale explosively. Next a knee to the groin causing him to curl, foetal like. Lastly he tightened his hands around the neck, ignoring the agony from his wounded finger, seeking the pressure points that would cause unconsciousness.

Urilenko soon regained his senses and fought wildly, arms thrashing, legs jerking. But by then he had gulped down a lung-full of the filthy sludge and Sean wasn’t going to let go. Sean increased the tension around the neck, forcing him lower in the tank. Thirty seconds later the struggle was over.

Sean shuffled to the car. The concrete drive sloped down towards the open road. He opened the door on the driver's side, undid the handbrake and pushed the car down the slope. As it gained momentum, he leapt in and turned the key. The engine fired and the Audi surged forwards.

Seconds later he switched the headlights on and floored the accelerator.

* * *

The Cipher clerk at the Russian embassy in Paris checked his screen which showed an incoming call from Serge Zlotnik. The monitor was populated with Zlotnik's details, but the assistant had no need of the data — he already knew who he was. He picked up the phone gingerly. Zlotnik started to speak before the clerk had time to say 'Bon jour'.

'I want to know that the information I give you in this call will be passed on immediately, and without the usual misinterpretation.'

'Yes sir. All our calls are recorded, and if you wish I can get the conversation transcribed.'

'Good.'

'I will email you a copy of the transcription. We’ll include a report on the actions taken as a result of the call.'

'Even better. In a nutshell, we are trailing a defector by the name of Alexei Khostov who may be travelling under the alias of Vassily Maskhadov. Initially he flew to London. I have information from a contact in Brittany he sailed to France in a yacht called the Anastasia. The yacht was in Perros-Guirec for a couple of days and the berth had not been booked or paid for. The British are also actively hunting for this man, but I delayed the French police process of sharing this information with them. However this situation cannot last long.

I suspect Khostov has gone to Paris and I am sending two men to apprehend him. I need the full assistance of the embassy. I want every available member of staff to go out to the major terminals — train stations, bus stations and airports to look for him. I will send photographs and a potted biography of the man to you shortly. You must understand this man evaded British authorities for days and may be disguised. Moscow cyber services are checking every email, text message and notifications. I am making arrangements to fly to Paris today in order to take charge. Until I arrive, the military attaché will be temporarily in command of the investigation.'

'I have all that sir. Is there anything else you want me to do?'

'Just make sure you take this to your ambassador straight away and act on the information immediately!'

'Very well sir. Au revoir.'

The clerk put the phone down with a sigh of relief.

* * *

It was still dark when Sean drew up outside the safe house. He killed the ignition and sat for a minute, inspecting the reversing mirror for tags. Apart from looking like the Return of the Swamp Thing, he stank to high heaven. His mangled index finger bled into the foot-well.

Even so, he couldn't afford to forget his tradecraft. He checked out the parked cars; none were occupied and he hadn’t been followed. The minute also gave him a chance to summon up enough energy to get out of the car.

His legs felt like jelly. 'Oh God,' he muttered. 'I'm getting too old for this.' He levered himself upright. The house was only twenty yards away, but he doubted he could walk that far. Leaning on the car he lurched to the wooden fence surrounding the garden. From there he used the fence posts to help him along the drive to the door.

All the safe houses the Section provided had security combination locks, and Sean had trouble remembering the precise sequence from his briefing notes. After a few attempts he let himself inside and stood on the doormat. He turned on the lights and peeled his clothes off with great difficulty. In the harsh kitchen light he examined his body. Big dark bruises were forming all over. His eyes were burning and his skin was on fire. He wasn’t sure which hurt most, the beating or the chemicals from the cesspit. But above the pain came an overwhelming feeling of relief, so strong he almost sobbed with the intensity of the release. He was out of danger, for now.

He found the bathroom and went straight in the shower. Twenty minutes later he felt a little better. He put on a dressing gown and made his way downstairs.

He was desperately tired, hungry and in pain. Rooting around in the kitchen he discovered a first aid kit and some strong pain-killers. He took four with water and began to examine his left hand. As he washed his index finger under the tap, he saw the bone had a deep groove where the blade of the bread knife had been drawn repeatedly across it. He dried the wound, applied antiseptic and wrapped the finger in a dressing, binding it to his middle finger for support.

Next stop was the fridge. While chewing a cheese sandwich, he reflected on what he had learnt from the Russians. He picked up the phone.

'I want to speak to Margret.' There was nobody in the Section called Margret, but they liked their agents to follow procedure.

'Margret here, what can I do for you?'

Sean swore they sounded more like the Americans every year. 'I have some interesting info for you today.' Without the keywords 'interesting' and 'today', Sean would not have got any further. Now that the Section were aware he was not under duress, they connected him straight to signals. Sean didn't need to tell them his position — they could easily trace the line.

'Murdock, I’ve got some info on the Russian team. There are four of them, names coming up. First is Maxim Desny. He seems to be the leader of the group, possibly police, maybe investigations or detective branch. Second is Yasha Petrov, very quiet, keeps to himself. Speciality unknown, but probably connected with the army. Third is Mila Urilenko. He's a bloody psychopath, but no longer breathing. Fourth is Gavrilovich Markow from FSB. He's alive, but out of the game.'

Sean gave them the location of the farm. 'I overheard them talking. I now know for certain they are being run by Zlotnik. I also know they haven't found Khostov yet.'

'Thanks, we'll get on it straight away.'

'There’s a detective at the Met, name of Anita Marshall. Pass all the details along to her. I need a complete set of clothes, including trainers, a car and a phone. And I need some sleep — don't let anyone disturb me for the next four hours.' This was one of the few luxuries of working in the UK — superb backup and support. He went upstairs, crawled into bed and was asleep in seconds.

* * *

'Wakey, wakey!' Sean's profound slumber was disturbed by a deep raspy voice. He opened his eyes a fraction to see Lomax place a steaming cup of coffee on his bedside table.

'No sleep for the wicked.'

Sean wasn't in the mood for the trite phrases and bonhomie. His finger throbbed; his limbs were stiff and he hurt like hell all over. In particular, his eyes felt as though they had been rubbed with the sandpaper from the bottom of a budgie cage. He struggled up. 'I told them I didn't want to work with you.'

'They sent me anyway,' Lomax smiled. 'Beggars can't be choosers.' He squatted on the bed. 'I've brought you some clothes and a phone,' nodding to a suitcase in the corner of the room. 'I've also got bad news to pass along,' he said in a more serious tone. 'Finch is dead.'

'Bloody hell, I saw him go down' Sean said sadly. 'What was he doing?'

'Warning you. Our friends at SIS cocked up and sent for a helicopter to smoke out the Russians. He was trying to call you off.'

'I told the Section to stand everyone down!' said Sean angrily.

'I know how you like to work, and I hate to say this. Seems you were right all along.'

Sean shook his head. 'Poor bugger. What about his family?'

'They've been told.'

'And the farm?'

'All gone — clean as a whistle. No forwarding address'.

‘Don’t forget to look in the cesspit.’

Lomax got up from the bed, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window to look out. 'I know about Natasha,' he said softly without turning round.

'What do you know?'

Lomax used to be an agent for the Section when he suffered a break down and was invalided out of the service. Before Sean was given his last mission, they brought Lomax back as Sean's Executive. It was a raise in status for Lomax, and for a while it worked well for the two of them. Towards the end of the operation Sean discovered Lomax had been given a separate and confidential briefing in exchange for the promotion. His directive called for the removal of Natasha. Despite Sean's original misgivings, he had grown rather fond of her and had to warn Lomax off. But by following his secret orders, Lomax had betrayed the trust of his agent.

Lomax turned to eye Sean. 'I know she's still alive.'

'And you still work for the company.'

'I've matured somewhat,' Lomax replied quietly. 'I hear she's recovering well'.

'I want to keep it that way' Sean grunted. 'Anyway, how come you know?'

'I always check. Believe it or not, I take an interest in my agents.'

'I hope you remembered my warning. I meant what I said.'

'I — .' Lomax broke off when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He went to the door. 'I brought someone to see you — come in DD!'

Sean smiled. At least here was one face he could trust.

'What's this? It's like a scene from a Noel Coward play!'

Sean laughed and got out of bed with difficulty. When DD saw the bruising on Sean's face and legs, he stopped smiling.

'You two go downstairs and rustle up some food while I get dressed.'

Five minutes later Sean hobbled down the stairs still feeling like he had been in a car crash. While they ate DD brought them up to date.

'A detective contacted the Section, asking for you, Sean.'

'Who?'

'Anita Marshall. She said you’d met.'

'Yep, she’s been assigned to the Yakov murders. What did she say?'

'She discovered Yakov had a yacht moored in Weymouth. Well he did have one, and now it’s gone.’ DD sat on the bed. 'The yacht's called the Anastasia. I've alerted everyone I can think of, including the French. No reports so far, though.'

'Its unlikely Khostov's travelling under his own name. So he might be using his previous alias Vassily Maskhadov, or even Yakov's name if he has his passport. We should alert neighbouring countries as well' he suggested. 'The Channel Islands, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany.'

'OK. Let's assume that Khostov went to France. What's his next move?' Lomax asked.

'He wants to lose himself. Shake off the Russians' replied Sean.

'What would you do?'

'Go to Paris.'

'But Khostov isn't like you Sean,' interjected DD.

Sean glanced at him, smiling at the younger man's temerity. 'What is he like?'

'He's a nuclear physicist, not a soldier or an agent. He's bound to think differently.'

'I admit he has different skills and experience. Even so, Physicists understand mathematics — they have to.'

'What's that got to do with Paris?'

'It's all about probability and risk. If you are in France, you would go where the risk of detection is least. You would stand out more in small towns and villages, whereas the chance of discovery in a big city is minimal. The bigger the city, the smaller the risk.'

Lomax nodded. 'I think Sean has a point DD. We still don't have any leads and there's no harm in going. If he's not in Paris at least we will be closer to him, and Paris has the best travel links in the country.'

DD was not convinced. 'He could have gone to any other French city; Lyon, Marseilles…'

'He could, but we're starting in Paris' said Lomax confidently.

'I just hope I'm wrong' muttered DD.

* * *

For the last 24 hours he and Lomax had haunted the train stations, bus stations and metro for any signs of Khostov. Sean’s intuition told him this type of random search in a city of over 2 million souls was going to be fruitless. With no other leads forthcoming, the project was rapidly looking like a disaster in the making.

But Sean would not give up, though he felt exhausted. At the moment he was sipping a strong espresso at a café on the Gare du Nord. Normally he tried to avoid any drink containing caffeine on a mission. Granted the effects were immediate, but they didn’t last. However if he ever needed to be alert, surely the time was now. While checking the passengers, he dashed off a quick txt to Natasha.

sorry delayed

will visit u in states

sean x

He surveyed the crowds passing in front of the window. People of all ages passed by. Khostov only had to change a few items or wear spectacles for example, and Sean could miss him. His mobile rang.

'Got something for you, ' said DD, sounding breathless.

'Give.'

'I went back to my TRIP WIRE software and examined the rules I set up for the application alerts. It covered the names of the two immediate families Khostov stayed with — you know Petrovich and Yakov couples.'

'Yes' said Sean, trying to be patient.

'Well they were set up for where they lived — in London.'

'Did you find anything?' Sean's voice rose a notch in exasperation.

'I thought about it and widened the search area to France. It may be a coincidence, but it’s such an usual name. Yakov is staying at the St. Claude. It's a hotel in central Paris.'

'Right, ring Lomax and tell him I'm on my way.' Sean paused before closing the call. 'Oh, DD?'

'Yep, I'm still here.'

'Well done!'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

After its encounter with the USS Montana, chief engineer Feliks Chayka inspected the anchors. These were long spikes driven into the ice, shackled by two heavy chains from the bow. In the fading light Feliks took one more glimpse at the wind-blasted Arctic landscape. He would hate to die in this lonely place. A shiver ran up his spine. He turned up the fur collar of his parka, but that did nothing to stop the icy sense of foreboding.

He clambered up the exterior ladder, eager to return to his cabin and regain some warmth. Once on board he experienced the strength of the wind as it whipped across the deck. He hesitated, changed his mind, and strode purposely up the companionway to Bridge Deck 3 and the Captain's cabin.

Following the collision the Captain had practically retired to his room. Feliks had tried knocking on the Captain's door many times, only to hear a shouted 'Uhodi!'. The Captain refused to have food delivered and lately the commands had turned to swear words and worse.

But this time Feliks was determined. Instead of knocking, he opened the door and walked right in. He was totally unprepared for the scene that greeted him. Captain Grigori sat at his desk, the stubble on his face showing he had not shaved since the collision with the American submarine. A half-full bottle of vodka sat within arm's reach. Feliks' face fell when he spotted several empty bottles scattered around the floor.

Grigori's eyes swivelled round at the intruder. 'I ordered you to go away!'

Feliks frowned. 'Captain, I cannot. I must speak with you. I have been running everything while you have been in your cabin.'

In between fending off increasingly frantic calls from Moscow, the engineer was trying to fix the problem with the reactor. As he predicted, the problems began when the Captain ordered 'full speed ahead' before the collision. The excessive demand for power caused more boric acid to be dissolved in the water coolant circuit. The radioactive corrosive circulated in the primary loop, causing erosion of the control rod drive mechanisms. The core temperature began to rise and Feliks had no option but to regulate the chain reaction to a safe level. Thankfully now the reactor was under control. However he refused to allow the ship to go anywhere until the corrosive material had been completely filtered out. It was time to remind the Captain of his duty.

'Grigori, Moscow will not tolerate your silence anymore!' Feliks caught a glint in his Captain's eye.

'What can they do?' the Captain asked gruffly.

'If you do not respond by eleven hundred hours this morning, they will send a tug and tow this ship back to port.'

'Let them.'

'Captain, that would be the end of your career! Think about your family!'

'I am thinking about my family!' snarled the Captain. 'I've been thinking about them ever since.'

The engineer took a seat. 'Ever since when?'

'Ever since the Americans captured my son.' The Captain pushed the vodka bottle towards Feliks. He found a tumbler and placed it in front of Feliks, waiting until Feliks poured a shot. Grigori raised his glass.

'Budem zdorovy'

'Budem' rejoined Feliks.

Grigori took a quick sip and cradled his drink while looking into the distance. 'You remember I told you the Americans captured my son's plane after they strayed into their territory?'

'I remember every word, Captain.'

'Well at the time the government imposed a total blackout on the news story.'

'No-one was aware he was being detained by the Americans?'

The Captain shook his head. 'No.' He took another sip of the vodka. ‘Four weeks ago, his mother — my first wife — died of cancer. She had been ill for some time. Her family arranged the funeral and approached the government to release our son from duties so he could attend. The government refused. They did not plead with the Americans because they didn’t want to appear weak.'

Grigori leaned over to refill their glasses. 'The family were very upset. My wife was deeply loved by all her family and friends. I miss her.' Grigori's red eyes misted over.

Feliks stayed silent, sensing there was more to come.

'The family protested to the papers. When some reporters went digging they found out the truth. The boy was being held prisoner in an American gaol. They wanted to print the story. The government stopped them and two reporters and the assistant editor lost their jobs over it. I don't blame them, at least they tried.'

Grigori stopped. He turned to look at Feliks and spoke angrily. 'But I do blame the politicians — on both sides. No humanity, no consideration but to feather their own nest.' Grigori lapsed into silence.

'So the funeral went ahead without your son?' Feliks asked.

There was a long pause and Feliks thought the Captain would not speak again. When he did, his voice was low and full of pain. 'I attended the funeral, of course. And because of the news blackout I had to lie to everyone there why my son could not attend. I told them that he was on an important mission. It was a pack of lies.'

Grigori drained the vodka in one go and slammed the glass down on the desk. 'Now do you understand why my blood boils whenever I see Americans!'

* * *

‘Puis-je avoir l'addition s'il vous plaît?’

While waiting for his bill, Khostov considered his appearance in the mirror of the hotel’s reception area. His dyed hair and new clothes certainly made a difference.

The manager returned and Khostov paid with cash.

‘S'il vous plaît pourriez-vous réserver une chambre pour moi?’ Khostov’s French wasn’t good, but at least he was trying.

'Which hotel would you like?' the man asked in English.

Khostov switched to English. 'Perhaps you could recommend one — I'm staying in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois for a few days.'

'Certainly.' The manager moved back to the computer to search for something suitable.

Having made the arrangements, Khostov thanked him and walked towards the metro. As he entered the station, Sean arrived at the St. Claude. He approached the reception and spotted a small busy looking man.

‘Bonjour Monsieur. J'ai un ami résidant ici.’

The manager's eyebrows lifted a millimetre. 'You have his name?'

Sean regarded the French habit of replying to a question in English as rude, but he had no time to argue now. 'Yakov Petrovich.'

'Ah, he has just this minute left!'

'Do you know where to?'

'Yes, I made a reservation for him at the hotel Compte in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. If you hurry you might catch him.'

'Thank you.' Sean turned and shot out of the hotel. He had arrived on the metro and he headed back there at a run. He jumped on the first train heading to the Place d'Italie, looking round constantly for a sign of Khostov. Five minutes later Sean changed at the Gare d'Austerlitz and caught his first sight of Khostov, waiting for a train. Sean noticed Khostov had dyed his hair and glimpsed an expensive suit under a smart coat. He was clutching a briefcase, and looked like a stock broker.

Sean folded his newspaper and followed. For Sean the art of shadowing was in adjusting the distance between him and the target according to the environment and the number of people around. He found the ability to change his external appearance quickly also helpful. Sean wore a reversible coat and had a scarf and woollen hat in his pocket.

At the Gare d'Austerlitz they walked to the main train station. Here Sean became aware of another watcher. The man pulled out a mobile as soon as he glimpsed Khostov and immediately began to tail him onto the next train. Sean followed and after an uneventful half an hour they got off at Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov found a taxi, and seconds later so did the follower.

Sean scanned the rank, but there were no more taxis. However several bicycles were propped up against the station wall and Sean found one without a padlock. The bicycle looked like it had been made during in the Second World War, but it worked. Sean wheeled the ancient bike into the road and began to pedal like mad.

After a minute he realised pursuit was hopeless. He stopped and asked a pedestrian about the location of the Compte. The man gave him directions, and Sean phoned Lomax the details.

* * *

When Sean arrived, he noticed the car immediately, parked discretely outside the hotel. The wipers were switched off even though it was raining. Sean approached from the passenger side, knowing that Lomax would recognise him in the wing mirror.

They sat in silence, watching the road and the approach to the hotel. A car drew up and parked a little way from the entrance. The exhaust pipe vibrated because the driver had left the engine running. A man got out and Sean pointed him out to Lomax.

'Maxim Desny. One of the two remaining Russian crew. He's come to relieve the watcher.

'Good' grunted Lomax.

'You go.' Sean nodded towards the hotel. 'They don't know you.'

Lomax stepped out and opened a large umbrella, lowering it to cover his face. At that moment, Desny burst out of the hotel, barging into Lomax on the way. Lomax turned and walked back briskly.

The Russian's car took off in a hurry — tyres squealing and burning rubber on the asphalt road. Sean had moved to the driver’s position and made an urgent 180 degree turn, slowing briefly to let Lomax into the passenger seat. He allowed the Russian to gain a lead, then followed at speed.

* * *

At thirteen, Alexei Khostov became an agnostic. He was being bullied at school and wanted to show his tormentors that he could be just as disapproving and sceptical as they appeared to be. For a while the scheme worked and Alexei got out of the habit of attending church. He had never entered one since then.

Now he stood facing the Notre Dame de la Dormition, the Russian Orthodox Church of Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov marvelled at its beauty, an elegant white facade topped with a blue onion-dome on the roof.

He had come straight from the hotel, wanting to visit the place where so many of his countrymen and women were buried. Perhaps part of him craved sanctuary, but the safety it offered was illusory. Even so, the church seemed to beckon to him. He passed under an ornate portal and walked along the short path towards the entrance. There he admired the painting of the sleeping Mary before mounting the steps to a large arched doorway.

At that moment he heard the roar of an engine. A car, driven at high speed, executed a ninety degree turn. Two men got out and raced up to the gateway. One stopped and withdrew a gun, taking quick aim at Khostov. Khostov crouched and heard a bang. The slug bit into a wooden post behind him. Regaining his wits, he quickly pulled on the huge oaken door and ducked inside.

* * *

When Sean saw the Russian car in front accelerate rapidly, he knew they had almost reached their destination. No point in hanging back any longer, he thought, and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Up ahead he saw an archway to a Russian Orthodox church. Two members of the Russian gang were already running along the path to the front door.

Sean quickly sized up the width of the gateway, changed down a gear and pushed the revs into the red. Lomax pulled his seat belt tighter and yanked out a handgun from an inside pocket. Both wing mirrors snapped off as they lunged through the gap, followed by a short metallic tearing sound. Two seconds later they reached the steps.

The first man turned, a horrified expression on his face. In the last fraction of a second he jumped to one side. The second Russian was not as lucky, and the bonnet caught him behind the legs. As the car mounted the steps, the man was lifted up and crushed against the huge oak door of the church.

Lomax and Sean exited fast. Sean signalled to Lomax to follow Khostov, indicating he would go after the second man.

* * *

The tall pine trees which surrounded the church cast dark shadows. Wherever Sean placed his feet the subdued crackle of the dry forest litter gave his position away. He stopped and listened, hearing the rain falling through the branches and the distant sound of traffic. Something told him Petrov wasn't going to give up easily.

He recalled some information he had read years ago in a tourist brochure. The graveyard held many famous Russians: writers, painters, and even a Nobel peace prize winner. He remembered a picture of Putin making a visit to pay his respects to the fallen children of mother Russia. A thought flashed through his mind. How ironic would it be to die amongst all the great and good of Russia, while hunting down one of its sons.

Sean scanned the environment. The cemetery was big and had a number of large headstones. Between the graves mature trees gave his opponent plenty of concealment. He moved back to the church, careful to make no noise on the concrete path. Beyond a low wall he saw the tops of some gravestones. He stretched out on the path and slowly crawled to the boundary. Once at the wall, he sat with his back to it and checked the surroundings again. The situation was uncomfortably similar to the approach he had taken at the farm where Finch had fallen. Immediately he checked the thumb of his left hand. It was still, but the right hand which held the gun was visibly shaking.

There was no sound from the person he was hunting; Petrov was talented. At some point in his career Sean knew he would meet someone better than himself. With his shaky gun-hand, today might be the day.

He edged higher to peek over the wall. Immediately splinters from the brickwork pierced his cheek. He ducked back into cover; his adversary was closer than he realised and was an excellent marksman. He touched his face, seeing blood on his hand. A strange emotion stole into his mind. Not fear exactly, but a premonition. This mission would take something from him, possibly even his life. Once more he forced himself to put the thought away and concentrate on the reality being acted out now. He stayed low and followed the wall in the direction of the gunshot.

Once underneath a large pine, Sean decided to cross under the shelter of its spreading branches. He held the coping with both hands, jumping so his whole body remained close and parallel to the edge. He landed heavily in deep shadows cast by the tree. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone on the white marble of the gravestones. A road divided the first plot of graves, and others bisected the plots beyond. Time slowed. Sean noticed a gecko climbing a nearby gravestone, seeking warmth. A flick of blue appeared in his peripheral vision. His eyes focused on a grave thirty metres from him. He lifted the gun and took aim.

A figure dashed away left, too fast for Sean to get off a shot. He scrambled to his feet, and set off running. In order to keep Petrov in sight he had to follow the track at right angles, catching the odd glimpse of him between the rows. By the time he reached the end Petrov had disappeared. As he dropped to the ground to take refuge behind a headstone, he heard the thud of a round striking the marble, just where his head had been. Sean revised his view of Petrov — he was exceptionally skilled.

Sean examined the surroundings. Rows of gravestones marched away on either side of the roadway for a hundred metres or more. Outside the perimeter stood a wood. If the Russian got that far it would need dogs to track him through the densely planted shrubs. At that point he could let him go — he wouldn't hinder Sean's main objective to get to Khostov.

He calculated the distances. To prevent Petrov's escape Sean would need to position himself between him and the border. He put his gun away and crouched under the headstone, both hands on the ground, legs tensed behind him as if about to begin a hundred metre sprint.

Suddenly he pushed off, tearing down the roadway, hoping the intervening headstones would protect him from Petrov's gun. Pebbles under his shoes flew into the air as he gained traction. He eyed a particular headstone. When he reached there he intended to change direction and turn left towards the boundary. This was critical because he would have to slow to round the corner, and his trajectory would take him across the gunman's sight lines.

Sean heard a shot and fell heavily on the path.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lomax pushed the heavy oak door and entered the church. He stepped to one side, not wishing to be highlighted in the doorway. He waited quietly, eyes adapting to the dim light, taking in the smell of polished wood and a faint trace of incense.

The church was laid out in a simple style. A row of pews sat each side of an aisle which lead to a plain wooden altar. Statues lined the walls and several religious paintings hung in between.

He scanned the aisle. The church was empty, except for the man he sought, kneeling on the front pew. Lomax took out his gun, checked the safety and crossed lightly into the nave. He could not hear any sounds from outside, only the soft noise of his footsteps. As he drew closer he observed Khostov, hands clasped together in prayer. Lomax glanced back, and then focused on Khostov.

'Alexei.' Khostov didn’t turn. For a brief moment Lomax wondered if they had the right person.

'Alexei.' This time the man turned. Lomax took in the pale tired face, the dishevelled dyed hair and the resignation in his eyes.

'Kill me here.'

Lomax shook his head. 'I'm not here to kill you.' He glanced towards the door. 'But there is someone outside who wants you very badly.' Lomax noticed Khostov’s shoulders stiffen. 'Don't worry, he is being taken care of.' Khostov slumped back against the seat and Lomax slid into the space next to him.

'I used to go to church.' Khostov gestured at the altar. 'One like this in Moscow. I've forgotten how… comforting it can be.'

'You are safe now. When my colleague returns, we will be free to go.'

* * *

Sean's heart rate rocketed and he forced himself to breath more slowly. Apart from the grazes he sustained, he was unhurt. If he hadn’t fallen when he did, he would have caught Petrov’s bullet.

He still had a long row of headstones to negotiate to get to the boundary. They stood square on between him and the gunman and offered greater protection.

Sean stretched out again on the ground, avoiding placing too much pressure on his bandaged fingers. Like a hurdler he counted: one, two, three. Off! He flew along the space between the graves, this time varying his pace to make aiming more difficult for the opposition.

Ping! Gravel lining the roadside burst into fragments. Seconds later Sean felt pain in his lower leg as some pieces entered the calf muscles. He did not stop.

At last he reached the end row and turned towards the distant gunman. He dropped to the ground and crept to the point he had earmarked earlier.

Sean stopped at the third grave which had a smaller headstone. He took off his wind-cheater, draped it over the marble, and crawled away. Sean judged that unless Petrov had changed position, he would be coming up on his right, almost level. He inched across two more rows of gravestones and stopped. Everything now depended on the Russian.

Still crouching, Sean pulled out his gun. Awkwardly he picked up a pebble left-handed and tossed it towards the gravestone with the coat. The stone hit the ground with a tiny clink, but Petrov was not going to be fooled so easily.

Sean remained stationary. Surely he must be desperate to find out where the sound came from?

A slight movement on Sean's left indicated the Russian had moved after all. He leant out slowly from behind a headstone. From that angle he could not spot Sean's jacket because the gravestones in the row in front obscured the view. The man shifted back behind cover. Sean waited another minute and Petrov lent out again, this time from the opposite side. Sean had him covered and watched as Petrov sighted his handgun. He should be able to see the jacket now. Petrov loosed off a shot and Sean pulled the trigger.

The man slumped. Sean took aim at the man's gun arm as it lay on the ground, and squeezed the trigger again. The sleeve twitched, but no sound came from the body. At last Sean judged it safe to approach. He saw his first round had entered the man's throat. Not pretty, and there was a lot of blood. Sean felt for a pulse.

There was none.

* * *

Major Pierce looked at the sky. The weather forecast was not good, but he wanted to see for himself. The wind had strengthened and he could feel the ice particles it carried, stinging the exposed skin of his face. It was nearly dark. He was mildly surprised and found the short days took some getting used to at this latitude.

He trudged across the packed ice towards the six huge huts lining the edge of the runway. Giant diggers and snow ploughs were still working on clearing the airstrip. As soon as they had levelled a section it started to build up again, driven by a fierce wind from the approaching storm.

Pierce was thankful all the larger cargo planes had landed the day before. They brought in generators, prefabricated huts, fuel, men, provisions — and even a helicopter. There were over 200 technicians, admin, support staff and soldiers to guard the base, and all of them were there to backup Major Pierce and his team.

He opened the door of the first hut and entered. This was the Command and Control centre, the hub of Project Gold. The building was subdivided into sections, and Pierce headed for the radio facility. He slapped the duty officer on the shoulder. ‘Any news from HQ, Tony?’

Tony removed his headphones and looked up at the big man. ‘No change about permission to use the VOO. Apparently State have been lobbying the Russians hard, but they’ve been equally hard in response.’

‘What about aerial reconnaissance?’

‘They found three vessels altogether. There’s a small icebreaker taking tourists back from the pole, and two trawlers travelling along the North-East Passage, but nothing qualifies for the SRDRS spec.’

‘What about widening the search area?’

Tony shook his head. ‘There’s nothing suitable within 300 kilometres from here.’

‘OK. Log that Tony. Tell them we’re about to start work on the roadway for the loader to take the SRDRS.’ They would have to lay more steel matting to move all the rescue equipment to a point where it could be loaded onto the icebreaker. He checked his watch. ‘You also need to let them know about the weather — the forecast is for another storm front moving in and it could hamper our efforts.’

‘Yes Major. So you think we’ll have to requisition LK-80 by force?’

Pierce frowned. ‘It’s looking very much like that Tony.’

‘Oh Major, I forgot to give you this.’ He handed him a piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’

‘An update to our orders, sir.’

The Major glanced at the message. Amongst the military jargon it contained only one important sentence: “Employ any and every means to rescue the crew of the USS Montana without use of excessive force.” Major Pierce grinned at the wording. To him this was carte blanche.

He turned back to Tony. ‘I want a briefing of all team members at 1600 hours.’

* * *

Sean’s mobile pinged.

‘How are you feeling?’ Lomax asked with faux cheerfulness.

Sean touched the plaster on his face, a souvenir from Paris. The doc had patched up the finger, though the whole of his left hand and leg still throbbed. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Well throw some clothes on. They’re ready to begin debriefing Khostov. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’

Lomax arrived early and breezed into the flat. ‘How does it feel to have another mission under the belt?’

Sean regarded Lomax, refusing to answer directly. ‘Where are we going?’

Lomax shrugged. ‘Northwood.’

Sean grunted. It was where he trained and inducted into the service. Later in his career he returned occasionally to train recruits for the Section. Now it belonged to the PJHQ, headquarters to a tri-service organisation controlling British armed forces for the Royal Navy, NATO and the EU. Sean closed his eyes for the rest of the short journey.

When they arrived they were let into the gate by two Royal Marines from the 43rd Protection Group. A Sargent escorted them to a newly renovated brick-built block and showed them into an office with a tall ceiling. Coffee, tea and croissants lay on a side table.

Sean saw Khostov sitting at a wooden desk, looking every inch the eminent scientist. He was eating a croissant and sipping coffee from a mug. He rose to shake their hands, bowing slightly from the waist.

A fourth man entered the room. Sean recognised him as Daniel Cramer.

‘Ah, I’m glad you’re getting acquainted,’ Cramer remarked, smiling.

He looked innocuous in a grey suit and shiny black shoes, but Sean knew that beneath the good manners and cultured voice was a steely personality. The Section’s chief interrogator shook hands with Khostov, and nodded towards Sean and Lomax.

‘It’s nice to see you enjoying breakfast — do you prefer our croissants to the ones in Paris?’ he asked, half-jokingly. Cramer poured himself a coffee and settled into a chair. He brought out a small recording machine and set it on the table. ‘Please don’t be offended — I record every briefing. You wouldn’t believe how tedious my voice sounds to me when you’ve listened to as many recordings as I have.’

He retrieved a pad and pencil from his briefcase. ‘I want to understand why you wanted to come here. I will need to go back to where you were born, your education and career, and particularly your recent employment. Now I won’t understand everything to do with your work — I’m not a nuclear physicist — so I may ask you to explain various points in more detail. Are you OK with all of this?’

Khostov nodded, and they continued. Three hours later Cramer had brought them up to date on his background. They discovered that Khostov was divorced and had a 15 year old son called Levushka. Cramer also learnt about his work at the Joint Institute for Nuclear Research in Dubna and his recent friendship with Nic Tyler. Cramer suggested they broke for lunch.

An hour later they were back, and Cramer began the second session.

‘Why did you come to the UK?’

‘I feared for my life.’

‘Tell us why.’

‘I told you about Nic. We were great friends. He worked for US Shale on a joint project to build the next class of Floating Nuclear Power Platforms. I was co-opted to help with the design work on the reactors.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nic came to me one day with specifications he had for some parts they had ordered for the reactor. He wanted me to check that they were the right specification.’

‘And?’

‘And they looked fine to me. But Nic was still concerned. He told me in confidence that the manifest he’d received from the shipping company didn’t tally with the spec he had ordered.’

‘Where were the parts from?’

‘China, mostly. He told his boss, and he must have spoken to someone at GazArtic.’

‘What happened then?’

‘The cargo was already on the way. They decided to halt the ship at the nearest port, and sent Nic to inspect the manifest. He was to check if the parts were the right spec, and to telephone us with the result.’

‘Which port?’

‘Tiksi. It’s the main port of the Laptev Sea.’

‘Did you hear from him?’

‘He never telephoned.’ Khostov looked at Cramer intently. ‘And he never came back.’

‘What did you conclude?’

‘He was murdered, obviously.’

‘By whom?’

Khostov shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’

‘But you must have an idea?’

‘Yes, perhaps. It’s not unusual to discover on big projects like this that someone is fiddling the books, raking off millions, and sometimes thousands of millions of roubles.’

‘Is that why you came to the UK?’

‘Yes. I realised at once that whoever killed Nic would start looking for me.’

‘Leaving your son behind?’

Khostov paused, absentmindedly supporting his chin with his arm.

‘Alexei,’ said Cramer. ‘You fled Russia in fear of your life. Didn’t it occur to you he would be next on their list?’

‘No.’ The word came out in a strangled voice. Khostov gazed up at Cramer. ‘I am ashamed to say that I..’

‘You forgot about your son?’

Khostov bowed his head. ‘In the heat of the moment, yes.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I can’t explain it. The fear of what they might do when they caught me was overwhelming. I couldn’t think of anything else, except escape.’

‘You wanted asylum?’

‘Not at first. I thought I would be safe with friends.’

‘But you brought some collateral with you?’

‘Collateral?’

‘You know, insurance that might protect you.’

‘Ah, yes. Yes, I did.’

Cramer flipped over a page of his notes. ‘You brought a copy to a firm of solicitors. Winfield Mantel LLP?’

Khostov looked surprised. ‘Yes, how did you know that?’

‘We discovered the fact after Winfield Mantel was burnt down to the ground.’

Khostov examined the floor. ‘I am sorry.’ He looked up. ‘I asked them to keep another copy.’

‘Yes, I expect you did. Their archive store across the river was gutted.’

Khostov let out a deep sigh.

‘I must say, you don’t look too concerned.’

Khostov shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘You have another copy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

Khostov considered the little group. ‘You have all been good to me. He looked at Sean. ‘You saved my life in Paris.’ He turned towards Lomax. ‘And you kept your word. I am beginning to understand why many of my countrymen come to London to live.’

Cramer glanced at Sean and Lomax, then back to Khostov. ‘You know we are here to help you. What is it you want?’

‘A new identity for me. And my son, Levushka.’

There was absolute silence in the room. Cramer scrutinised Khostov’s face. ‘You want us to bring your son out of Russia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you think we should go to the trouble, just for some specification documents?’

‘The papers didn’t contain just the specifications for the FNPP. They contained other information as well.’

‘About what?’

‘Something I have been working on for a long time. You could call it a personal crusade. I have seen so many of these projects fail simply because a politician in the party machine siphons off most of the money before it gets to the right place.’

Cramer pursed his lips. ‘Someone was taking bribes on this project?’

Khostov nodded in agreement.

‘Who?’

Khostov was silent for several moments. ‘I am not prepared to say right now. Get my son, and I will tell you. You will have proof of this when I reveal where I have hidden the last remaining copy.’

‘But what is in this for us?’

Khostov placed his coffee mug deliberately and turned to Cramer. ‘With this information you could bring down the Russian government.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘It’s for Captain Burak. What shall I say?’

Feliks was expecting the phone call. ‘The Captain is indisposed. Give it to me.’ He grabbed the handset from the duty officer. ‘Chief Engineer Feliks Chayka speaking. Who is this please?’

He knew damn well who they were. The polar whites worn by the intruders did little to mask their country of origin. He had observed them the previous evening from the bridge. First there were a few planes, making tentative approach landings on the ice no more than five kilometres from their position. Within an hour they had erected landing lights so that more aircraft could land.

Some of the ice-breaker’s crew joined him on the bridge when the word got out. They passed the binoculars around so they might all get a glimpse of the Americans. Soon afterwards they heard the diesel engines of tractors and snow ploughs, levelling the ground and extending the short runway. Larger cargo aircraft began to arrive and they watched as lights were positioned, lighting up more and more of the airstrip. It reminded Feliks of the anticipation he felt as a boy when floodlights were first erected at his local football stadium FC Chelyabinsk.

‘Colonel Grey. I understand your Captain is unable to speak, is that correct?’

Feliks listened carefully. At some point in the future he might be required to repeat the conversation word for word — in a court martial. At least he had managed to intercept the call, fearing that if the Captain became involved there would be an international incident. International incident! Feliks scowled.

Felix had no wish to explain why his Captain could not come to the bridge. ‘The Captain is indisposed at the moment,’ he said in his best English. Can I be of assistance?’

‘Possibly. May I ask who you are?’

‘Chief Engineer of the ice-breaker LK-80. What do you want?’

‘We would like permission to visit your vessel to speak with you.’

Feliks looked around at the sailors on the bridge. If his Captain not been so ill he would have taken the call and refused them permission. But the question confounded Felix. What on earth did the American’s want with them? He felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. What should he say? If he declined he might be accused of an international diplomatic snub. If he granted permission, the Northern Fleet might view his agreement as a capitulation.

‘Em, of course. You would be welcome.’ Felix tried to sound enthusiastic but inside he was reeling. Their presence could not be a coincidence. But what were the Americans up to? If they wanted revenge they could have blown the ship out of the water by now. Why were they asking to visit his ship in such polite terms?

‘How many of your personnel can we expect?’

‘Myself, Lieutenant Colonel Markus Cooke and our helicopter pilot.’

‘Very well, I’ll ensure the landing area is clear of ice.’

Felix replaced the mike. He imagined the scene at his court-martial. They would ask him why he had not informed them earlier about his Captain’s incapacity. Why did he grant permission for the Americans to board his ship? The questions would not stop until he was sentenced. Felix hung his head. He would still need to inform his Captain, but he realised with a moment of clarity that his personal future was bleak in the extreme.

He made his way down to the Captain’s office, fully expecting the door to be locked. When he knocked gently, there was no answer and he was surprised to discover the door opened freely. Captain Grigori Burak sat at his desk and turned to meet him.

‘I see you have been talking to the Americans.’

Startled, Felix took a step back. ‘They called, wanting to speak to you. They are sending two of their senior officers.’

‘So you agreed to let them on board?’

Expecting Grigori to object and launch into a rant, he replied defensively. ‘I felt I couldn’t refuse.’

‘Then we had better make them feel welcome.’

Felix didn’t like the way a sly smile spread slowly over the Captain’s face.

* * *

The tea lady handed Sean a mug overflowing with coffee and proceeded to mop his table with a cloth that had seen better days. He stared at the rag.

‘Are you alright dear?’ she asked in concerned tones.

Sean drew a deep breath and held it for a few seconds.

‘You look awfully pale. Should I fetch the doctor?’

He exhaled slowly. ‘It’s OK. Perhaps you could wipe another table now?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

She moved away and he took another deep breath. It was the cloth; it reminded him of the waterboarding. That in turn triggered the schoolboy incident in the swimming pool. Both hands were trembling, and he glanced at the waitress to see if she had noticed.

He hadn’t wanted to offend her. Agents, toughened by training and previous experience occasionally returned suffering from PTSD or other stress related disorders. More often they would come back physically damaged, and sometimes they didn’t return at all. The tea lady must have seen her fair share in the Section café.

Shortly after Khostov’s thunderbolt announcement regarding his son, things went quiet. It had given him time for some rest and relaxation and a chance to phone Natasha. Sean recalled how distant she had been when they last met. He told her he had asked for early retirement and they were considering his request. He didn’t tell her it would take six months before he could leave. She told him she had changed jobs and was about to move. The conversation was polite, but much of the warmth they had before was missing.

The telephone on the counter rang, and the tea lady answered. She came over to his table. ‘Mr Abbott is waiting for you in room 603.’

During the pause in the mission Lomax had disappeared, presumably to cook up the ingredients for the next phase. Sean was about to find out what it might entail. When he entered he saw Lomax and Abbott seated, wearing serious expressions. He dropped into the nearest chair. ‘You’re going to tell me we must get the kid back.’

Abbott nodded. ‘Correct.’

‘In God’s name why? We have Khostov.’

‘It was never just about Khostov.’

‘You know what? You people piss me off. Why can’t you be straight with me?’ He glanced across at Lomax. ‘When you briefed me on the mission it was about Khostov and his work. Now you have him you want to send me back for his son?’

‘Bit of a bummer, eh?’ Abbott smiled, handing him a picture of a young lad.

Sean sighed, realising his anger was not helping anyone. From experience some missions twisted and turned like a snake before reaching a conclusion. This was going to be one of those cases.

He considered the photograph. The snapshot showed a youth in a checked shirt and narrow jeans standing in front of a flock wallpaper. The kid was plainly embarrassed.

‘That was taken by Khostov. But we found a lot more on VK.’ He passed over a folder.

Sean spread out the photos on the desk. ‘VK?’

‘VK.com. It’s the Russian equivalent of Facebook. I believe it’s very popular all over the former Soviet Republics too.’

Sean poured over the prints. Khostov’s son Levushka was in nearly all of them. There were many snaps of him with his friends, at parties, drinking at a bar, in his bedroom with posters of rock bands adorning the wall.

‘Where do we find him?’

‘Khostov thinks he’s moved in with his ex-wife. She lives and works in Moscow. Obviously she and the boy will be watched, 24 hours a day. Khostov believes the authorities let him continue with his education, rather than placing him under house arrest. Khostov’s reputation means he operates in the highest circles of government and he rubs shoulders with some of the most important members of the politburo. He reasons they won’t do anything to harm Levushka — so long as Khostov keeps quiet about what he knows.’

‘How will I tell we’ve got the right person and not a look-a-like the Russians planted in his place?’

‘After Khostov’s divorce, when Levushka was seven, Khostov bought him a puppy to take the lad’s mind off their breakup. He was called Petra. The dog only lived a year afterwards — it was run over on a busy road.’

‘Access?’

‘Lomax is still your Executive. He will arrange that.’

‘Ex-fil?’

‘You’ll have to play that by ear. Obviously when the boy goes missing they will be watching all exit points around Moscow. I’ll leave it up to you both to sort something out.’

‘Anything else?’

Abbott shook his head. ‘I appreciate this is a tough assignment, Sean. We’re all behind you — don’t forget that.’

Sean grimaced. He had heard that one before.

* * *

The interior of the submarine was damp with moisture. Droplets formed, coalesced and ran down the walls. The XO wiped a finger across the surface of his console. Some of the dampness was turning to ice. Many of the men on the downed submarine USS Montana had their arms wrapped around themselves to keep them warm, even though they all wore survival suits. Most were shivering, and their breath fogged the air.

Captain Gerry White beckoned to his XO. ‘What’s your view, Thomas?’

Thomas realised the Captain was referring to the crew. He gestured to a group of men sat on the floor. ‘Not good, Captain. They know HQ are making a big effort to rescue us. But Groton is a long way away, and the men realise we are running out of time.’

‘According to your calculations, how much time have we got?’ The Commander was naturally concerned for his men, but he wanted to see if his second in command had fully grasped the situation.

‘Ten hours. I don’t think they will reach us in time.’ Thomas sounded despondent.

‘And the rescue team’s ETA?’

‘18:50.’ Thomas looked at his watch. ‘But don’t forget, they need to install a lot of equipment on board ship before they can start the process. I reckon that will take around twelve hours alone.’

The Captain looked thoughtful. ‘As much as that?’

‘They’ll be working in extreme conditions of cold and wind, and driving snow and ice. They have to send down an exploratory module to check where and how we are lying on the seabed. Say another two to three hours inspection. Then maybe an hour for the first rescue pod.’

The Captain indicated his agreement. ‘So how long until the pod arrives?’

The XO eyed the Captain, wondering at all the questions. ‘Sixteen hours, minimum. There will be casualties before then, possibly some deaths before they get here.’

‘Is there anything else you think we could be doing?’

The XO shrugged. ‘Perhaps we should all conserve more energy by lying down and not talking?’

The Captain looked sideways at Thomas, unsure if the remark was intended as a jibe. ‘Let’s suppose they arrive on time. The rescue party will use the Escape Trunk to evacuate the crew. I think we should be getting some of the men ready.’

‘If you say so Captain.’

‘You have reservations?’

‘The escape trunk can hold 22 men. But the rescue pod capacity is a maximum of 16. Obviously you will put the most seriously injured men first?’

The Captain agreed.

‘But would you want to raise their hopes so early? They will have to sit there for at least 16 hours.’

‘Good point, Thomas. But I want the crew to know that help is on the way. By making preparations now, everyone will comprehend that fact. A psychological boost is what we need right now — even if we have to wait a day.’

‘Ah, I understand sir. Point taken Captain.’

‘Good. I would like the first 16 all suited up, and moved in preparation. We can’t afford to lose a minute — once they start to evacuate the men, we’ll need to get the next sixteen ready, and so on. Can you see to that for me?’

‘Yes sir. And Captain?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry if I sounded so negative just then. It won’t happen again.’

The Commander acknowledged his apology. ‘OK, let’s get a move on.’

* * *

Sean parked the hire car on Rozanova Street. Five minutes later, Lomax slid into the passenger seat.

‘What have you got?’

Sean sensed Lomax was enjoying this phase of the mission. He flicked a look at DD, sitting quietly in the back. Neither of them appeared to share Lomax’s enthusiasm. ‘I‘ve been watching the flat where Levushka is staying. It’s near the Begovaya metro stop in Khoroshevskoye. The block has seven floors and theirs is on the 2nd floor. There’s only one entrance and exit at the western end.’

‘Security?’

‘A concierge with video intercom and a guard patrols at night.’

‘Access?’

‘A tall fence surrounds the flats and there’s an underground garage.’

‘That’s not much to go on.’

‘We only arrived last night, Lomax. What do you expect?’

Lomax remained silent.

Sean turned back to continue his observation of the street. Traffic patterns appeared normal and none of the pedestrians were taking an unusual interest in the car. ‘I followed Levushka this morning to school.’

‘Yes.’

‘They took him in a black Mercedes. There’s a driver and two men and Levushka sits in the back between them. They went to the English Universal School in Beregovaya Street next to the Tushinskaya metro stop. The traffic was so bad it took them an hour. The guards get out first. They survey the environment and when they think it’s safe they accompany him in and stay until it’s time to come home. When they arrive back they use a remote to operate the gates to let the car through.’

‘Could be a way in.’

‘I’ll check it out,’ piped up DD from the back. ‘But I’ll need to be around when they use the remote. I should be able to scan the codes it uses, but I’ll have to place a receiver unit somewhere close where it can pick up the Wi-Fi signals.’

‘When the gates opened I could see beyond into the underground car park,’ Sean continued. ‘There must be a lift because they don’t come out again.’

Lomax turned to question to DD. ‘Routine and habits?’

‘We know Lev likes the night life — his dad told us that. I plan to follow him at the weekend. The guards never leave his side, so Lev has to feel smothered. Maybe they’ll let him out to a bar, or even a nightclub. If so, I’ll tail him — I’m bound to stand out less than you two.’

Lomax rolled his eyes. ‘Khostov’s ex?’ The question was directed at Sean.

‘Nina. She’s a doctor. Travels in her own car — a white Volkswagen Golf. She has a surgery in Koptevo north of the city centre. She leaves the flat about 7 am. Levushka leaves around 8 am.’

‘What’s the best time to make the snatch?’

‘The nightclub sounds good — if he’s allowed out.’

‘DD?’

‘I agree. Apart from everything else it will be dark in there. Also the volume of the music systems could cover any loud noises.’

‘The nightclub it is, then.’

* * *

In the darkness three Rigid Inflatable Boats slipped from the ice into the cold Arctic waters. Each RIB carried 8 US Navy SEALs, helped by 4 special warfare combatant-craft crewmen known as "swicks".

The boats quietly traversed the open stretch of water between their base and the icebreaker. Despite a biting 20 knot wind each crewman was warm under his parka, black camouflage gear and wet suit. Over their shoulders they carried FN SCAR STD assault rifles fitted with 13″ barrels for close-quarter fighting.

Major Pierce whispered into a mike concealed in his hood and the speed of the RIBs reduced to a mere 5 knots. The 470 HP Twin Caterpillar 3126 Diesels were capable of going much faster, but Pierce wanted to maintain a stealthy approach for as long as possible.

As they closed in on the icebreaker Pierce signalled to slow down. He pointed towards the stern of the ship, and the following RIB peeled off in that direction. The first and last RIBs beached on the ice 200 metres from the bow of LK-80.

Major Pierce jumped out. Standing upright, his tall frame seemed to fill the night sky. Before he could signal the command, everyone got out and the swicks began dragging the heavy boats up onto the ice.

The SEALS pulled on their rucksacks full of kit, and three men from each boat grabbed padded grappling irons and ropes. They checked their rifles and gave the Major the thumbs-up. From the water to being ready on the ice had taken just two minutes.

Pierce raised a pair of night binoculars to his eyes, checking the status of the ship. No lookouts had been posted. He checked the position of the RIB at the stern of LK-80. The men in that boat indicated they were all ready with their grappling hooks. He whispered into his mike, and Pierce’s team set off across the short stretch of ice to the icebreaker.

As they moved closer, Major Pierce noticed that the crew of the ice breaker had left an outside ladder in place. He shook his head. This was going to be easier than he thought. He motioned for one squad to approach the ship from the other side. That team would not have the luxury of a quick ascent, but it was essential that they boarded the boat from all points together.

When the squads reported ready, he whispered quietly into his mike.

‘All teams, go!’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Some news from London.’ Lomax twisted so he could see both Sean in the driver’s seat and DD in the back. ‘GCHQ picked up a couple of transmissions, and have just decoded them. It appears Zlotnik is getting nervous about the possible abduction of Levushka. The boy’s movements are to be curtailed.’

‘When will it come into effect?’ asked Sean.

‘At the weekend.’

‘That blows our plan to take him.’ DD sounded aghast at the news.

‘We’ll have to bring the kidnap forward. It has to be tomorrow.’

For a minute they considered their options in silence.

‘We’ll have to do the snatch after Nina has left for work,’ said Sean slowly.

‘That might work in our favour. The rush hour will be well underway,’ replied Lomax. ‘I’ll lead. There’s bound to be some opposition.’

‘I still think the odds are too high. Remember they have a chauffeur, two heavies that stay with him at college, and one more in the flat. Those are just the ones we know about.’

‘You’ll be there too.’

Sean pulled a face. ‘The chances are stacked too highly against us.’

‘Working together we could take out three easily enough,’ replied Lomax. ‘I’ll be the straw man.’

‘It feels wrong — too rushed.’

‘There’s no option — unless you have a better plan?’

Sean thought for a moment. ‘I go first.’

Lomax looked at him steadily. ‘Your job is to get the boy to London. I need you to be ready to grab him when the time comes. I go first.’

‘Lomax, let’s not disagree about this — I’m the bloody agent after all!’

‘There will be no argument. You’ll have to trust me on this. Besides,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’m the bloody Executive.’

For a fleeting second, Sean felt relieved. With Lomax leading the charge, the chances of getting a serious case of the jitters would be reduced. But how effective was he going to be if he was already starting to think that way?

* * *

The helicopter jinked in the airstream as snowflakes whipped furiously past the cockpit. Hail rattled against the Perspex screen like the sound of thousands of tiny pellets. The radio crackled.

‘LK-80 to helicopter. The landing area is clear.’

The pilot raised his voice to be heard over the wind and engine noise. ‘Thank you LK-80. We will approach from leeward. Would appreciate some help with securing the copter once we’re down.’ He glanced at his passengers, the highest ranking officers of the mission. Although used to flying in atrocious conditions, he would not have ventured out in this extreme weather. The commanders insisted, and he had no option but to obey. He took a deep breath, preparing for the tricky touchdown.

Chief engineer Feliks Chayka watched as the copter approached. He saw the machine turn into the wind, side-slipping to reduce height. A sudden squall drove the machine sideways and the pilot made quick adjustments to keep it on course. As it descended towards the after-deck, a gust of hail and snow blew the copter downwards, nearly snagging the undercarriage against the ship’s rail. Feliks shouted instructions to the deck hands. They quickly attached lines and dragged it back towards the centre of the deck. Without further ado, the pilot cut the engines and performed a hard landing on the helo-pad.

As soon as the crew had secured the copter, Feliks moved under the slowing rotors. Two men dressed in Arctic whites descended and Feliks went forward to meet them. There was a shouted exchange. No-one could hear each other in the cacophony so they followed him inside.

The saloon was a large space where lectures, presentations and socialising took place. Once inside, Feliks motioned for a seaman to telephone the Captain to let him know the men had arrived. The Americans appeared anxious about the time they might have to wait. ‘He will not keep you. I will make introductions when the Captain arrives,’ promised Feliks.

‘We were under the impression that your Captain was indisposed.’

Feliks flushed with embarrassment and flapped his hand. ‘It was just a temporary condition. He is much better now, thanks.’ Feliks hoped that Grigori would appear soon; otherwise he would be made to look like a fool. He set about offering drinks and the door opened. The pilot joined the group having just checked the helicopter. Less than a minute later Captain Grigori entered the room.

‘I see you are enjoying our meagre hospitality!’

Feliks noticed the Captain’s sly smile and couldn’t help wondering what had caused the sudden change in mood. He was glad he had persuaded the Captain to have a shave and shower before the meeting. It wouldn’t do to show the officers just how far the Captain had let himself go.

Feliks gestured to the Captain. ‘Captain Grigori Burak.’ He was astonished when Grigori formally straightened his back and inclined his head sharply in salute.

The officer bobbed his head, returning the salute. ‘I am Colonel Grey. This is Lieutenant Colonel Markus Cooke, and this is our pilot Chip Greaves.’

Grigori checked that everyone had a full glass, and raised his own. ‘A toast to our two countries. May we always continue to work towards peace!’

There was an awkward silence, and the Americans appeared not to know how to respond. At last Lieutenant Colonel Cooke took a step forward and cleared his throat. ‘Thank you Captain for agreeing to meet. I’m sure you realise the importance we are giving to rescue the crew of the USS Montana.’

‘It was a very unfortunate accident. The navigator concerned has been disciplined and will face a court martial on our return to port. In the meantime, Colonel, I understand your concern for those trapped in the submarine.’ Grigori glanced at Feliks, as if looking for support. ‘Unfortunately we are having problems with our main reactor and are unable to move; otherwise my ship is at your disposal. We will do anything we can to assist you in your efforts, absolutely.’

Colonel Grey looked quickly at his Lieutenant. Their last briefing had left them in no doubt that the Russian government had refused permission to use their ship. What could account for this change of heart? The Colonel sighed with relief. ‘We’re really grateful; your help is sorely needed. How long do you think it will take to get your reactor going again?’

Captain Grigori turned to look at Feliks. Feliks shrugged his shoulders, understanding the game Grigori was playing. He needed to exaggerate the time. ‘Several days, I’m afraid. Our primary coolant is contaminated.’

Colonel Grey nodded, beginning to understand the game too. ‘What about your backup reactor. Is that broken too?’

Feliks was surprised at the American’s knowledge. He felt the pressure as all eyes turn to him.

‘Not broken Colonel, no. But we have a shortage of fuel rods and we didn’t want that to stop our… expedition.’

‘So I suppose that it wouldn’t be possible to transfer the fuel rods in the working reactor to the backup?’ enquired the Colonel.

For a moment there was another expectant silence in the room. Then Feliks looked up, for a moment on safer ground. ‘We could, but that would take longer than to filter the coolant.’

The Colonel sighed, and then got up and walked over to the door. He opened it and immediately the temperature dropped as the bitter wind found its way in. Stepping outside he beckoned to an unseen shape, then re-entered the room.

‘Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Major Robert Pierce.’

A huge figure in Polar whites filled the doorway.

‘LK-80 is now under our command.’

* * *

‘Het.’ Feliks shook his head.

Major Pierce inclined his chin to one of the SEAL team. The man took a step forward, un-holstered his assault rifle and pointed it at Feliks. Before Feliks could say anything, he fired. The shot pinged off the steel bulkhead of the cabin, missing him by inches.

‘We have two nuclear specialists here. We don’t need you, but we don’t want to cause any unnecessary deaths. Work with us Feliks, or we will put you over the side.’ The voice was delivered in such a bored matter-of-fact tone; Feliks knew he was telling the truth. His shoulders slumped; knowledge of the boat’s reactors was no longer a bargaining counter. There was no way out of the situation. For now he would have to do what they asked.

‘We need enough power to traverse to this location.’ Major Pierce slapped a chart down on the table and indicated a position with the tip of a pen. To drive home the point, he circled the area. ‘Here, within 20 metres.’ Pierce wrote out the exact coordinates next to the circle. ‘Do what you have to do.’

Feliks started towards the door, intending to make a start. A brawny SEAL stepped into his path, blocking the way.

‘Oh I forgot,’ continued Pierce in his flat voice. ‘The nuclear engineers will be with you at all times, backed up with Chris here. He has instructions to kill you if the experts do not agree with any actions you make. You have five minutes from now to start engines.’

A thousand thoughts whirled through Feliks’ head. Five minutes! It would take longer than that just to bring the core up to an operating temperature. The thought of that filled him with dread; they had no idea of the consequences!

They escorted him to the reactor hall and he talked to the American engineers. He told them about the previous problems they had had, the snags during sea trials, and the subsequent corrosion issues in the primary circuit. The two moved away to discuss the difficulties without being overheard. Feliks could see them arguing, while the burly SEAL called Chris looked on uneasily. After a long period of heated discussion they returned.

‘We’re going to ask for some expert assistance to be drafted in. In the meantime you should begin a scheduled start.’

* * *

Captain Grigori looked around his room for a means of escape. The Americans had confined him to his cabin after the take-over of his ship. He tried the door, but it was locked from the outside. His internal phone had been ripped out and his mobile removed — not that he would ever get a signal at this latitude.

Grigori sighed and made straight for the drinks cabinet. He opened the door and counted the bottles, wondering if the Americans had taken any when they searched his cabin. When he was younger he used to drink heavily, but as his career took off he drank less and less. He began to realise he needed to maintain a clear head to make progress. But the funeral of his ex-wife and the detention of his son triggered a profound switch back to the bottle. He was ashamed of his increasing need for vodka.

All bottles were present and correct. Tentatively he reached in and unscrewed the top of one, savouring the moment before the first sip. The choice was stark; he could accept his ship was in the grip of the enemy and carry on drinking, or he could do something about it. He took one more swig, then deliberately screwed the cover on.

No-one knew LK-80 better than himself. For months he had supervised the construction in the yards, yelling at the welders when they produced sub-standard work, forcing them to go back and do the job properly. He had scrutinised every stage of the building of the keel and superstructure against the plans. The only area where he lacked detailed knowledge was in the design and integration of the ship’s nuclear reactors. He understood the basic principles, but the actual processes of fission were beyond his comprehension. Everything that flowed from that — from the tolerances required to machine the parts to the safety and backup systems — he relied on the expertise of Feliks and his team of engineers.

When the primary reactor had started to give problems during sea trials, he looked to Feliks to provide him with answers. And when he failed to resolve the issues quickly, Grigori metaphorically shrugged his shoulders. If Feliks couldn’t fix the teething problems, then no one else could.

But when it came to the construction of the rest of the ship, Grigori was proud of his knowledge. He headed to the toilet in his cabin — a luxury. His fellow officers had to make do with communal lavatories. But because of the budget the small room was not provided with an electric extractor system. Instead, the square window over the toilet was hinged along the top to supply natural ventilation.

Grigori rarely opened the porthole because the cold air was less welcome than any lingering odour. As he checked the casement lock, he felt rather than heard the rumble of the ship’s engines. They were moving, even though Feliks had expressly forbidden it!

With a new sense of urgency, he swung the porthole out on its hinge. It opened just enough for him to crawl out. He returned to the cabin and strode to the wardrobe. Scratching his head, he inspected the contents. A suit and white shirt for the odd formal occasion hung on a hanger, along with a couple of sweat tops and some jeans. Underwear, thermal socks and a knitted bobble hat lay on a shelf. Some old gloves were tucked away in a drawer. He picked out a pair of patterned socks and turned them over. They were a present from his deceased ex-wife two Christmases ago.

They would have to do. He stuffed the clothes into a holdall, knowing that if he were to put them on inside the cabin he would be unable to squeeze through the porthole. He found his flashlight in the tiny bathroom and paused one more time opposite the sideboard containing the vodka. Reaching in, he grabbed a bottle and put it into the bag. As he returned to the toilet, a plan was beginning to form.

* * *

Grigori clicked on his flashlight. The beam travelled over the steel walls of the cupboard which was no more than three feet wide by six foot long. Though tall enough to stand up, Grigori sat on top of an overturned mop bucket. He took a sip of vodka from the bottle. It was cold despite the extra clothes he had put on from his bag. For now this equipment locker on Bridge Deck 2 would have to do.

He needed to get to the radio room on Bridge Deck 4, aft of the bridge on the starboard side. The only approach was through the bridge which would be manned by American soldiers. There were two entrances to the bridge, one from each side of the ship. He had to think of a way to distract their attention for five minutes, so he could get off a message.

He surveyed the locker in the flickering light from his flashlight. A collection of brooms leaned against a corner. Some old discarded fire hose lay in another, weighing down a pile of hessian sacks.

Grigori took a second swig and started to screw the top back on. He paused and checked the label. Eighty percent proof. The plan might work, but it would mean having to part with the vodka. He clicked the flashlight off and shrugged in the dark.

As he opened the door to look out, a gust grabbed it and tried to wrench it from his grip. Grigori wedged it against his foot. The deck appeared to be deserted. He eased through, holding on to the jamb with both hands. Immediately he heard what sounded like a rivet gun coming from the stern.

With his back to the cabins, he worked his way up to Bridge Deck 3 without being seen by anyone. Grigori thought that most of the crew would have been herded into one of the larger salons below deck where they could be guarded by just a few soldiers.

The wind was still a problem; it could cause his diversion to fail. But as he had no other plan he felt forced to give it a try. He moved over to the port side to position himself directly underneath the bridge.

He placed the bundle of hessian sacks on the deck below his own cabin. Next he removed the vodka bottle from the inside of his thin coat. Taking one last precious sip, he poured the rest of the alcohol over the sacks.

He fished in a pocket for a cigarette lighter. Shielding the old fashioned guard, he attempted to get it to work. Each time the wind prevented a flame from forming. He sheltered the lighter under his coat, trying again and again for a light. Eventually he got a steady flame, nearly setting light to his clothes. He leaned over and put the light to the heap of sacks.

Waiting a second to ensure the spark had taken hold, he shouted ‘Fire!’ The sacks burst into a blaze, but he worried that the fire would die out too quickly. He scurried over to starboard side and hid behind the companionway. A soldier emerged, calling to his comrade to fetch a fire extinguisher. When the man appeared, Grigori shot up the ladder. The bridge was clear.

Grigori scooted in and peered around the radio room door. He offered up a silent prayer. It was empty.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The mammoth icebreaker came to a grinding halt, hard up against the pack ice. Men hurried down the starboard ladders and hammered in two steel poles. Once complete, they caught lines from the bow and stern and secured them to the posts.

Feliks was glad to escape from the control room. It was only a question of time before the control rod seals leaked. Even so, the reactor’s temperature remained steady. He took refuge on the helicopter deck, closely followed by his American minder. They watched as teams of engineers below begin clearing a space on the middle deck. Twenty feet away, a man dressed in full Arctic gear spoke into a walkie-talkie. He appeared to be directing the men on the ice where a large collection of vehicles and cranes had gathered a short distance from the ship.

Feliks staggered towards him, head-down, fighting his way against a gust of hail. ‘Are you going to load your equipment in these conditions?’ He had to shout to make his voice heard over the gale force winds.

The man glanced at him briefly and barked into his set. When he finished he turned back to Feliks. ‘We don’t have any choice.’

‘I’m the chief engineer on LK-80’ Feliks said, holding out his hand.

‘Dan — I’m the program manager.’ They shook. ‘I’m responsible for getting all the equipment on board and making sure everything works as it should.’

‘They are still alive?’ Feliks nodded to the water under the stern.

‘Yep. I heard there are over a hundred.’

‘That’s fantastic news!’ Feliks feared Grigori had killed all the crew.

‘Five people are dead down there. What happened?’ The man regarded him warily.

Feliks shrugged his shoulders, understanding the unspoken accusation. ‘I was below decks. I think someone made a big mistake.’

The man’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

Feliks motioned at the crane and the vehicles. ‘You brought a lot of gear. How do you stop the weight falling through the ice?’

Dan looked away, and then back at Feliks. ‘Steel matting.’ He pointed to the road they had created. ‘The lattice spreads the load and once frozen into the surface the roadway becomes much stronger than ordinary ice.’

The wind dropped a little and Dan barked further orders into his handset. More matting was rolled out towards LK-80 and a big derrick trundled forward on huge rubber tyres. Feliks stayed, ignoring the cold, fascinated by the developments taking place. Something of the engineer in him was impatient to learn how the Americans would set about the rescue.

Now that the frantic work was finished, deck hands positioned flood lights around the outside. A harsh acrid light lit the open space. Workers set to, and the sparks from their arc welders chased the deep shadows away. The gantry closed up alongside and Dan pointed as the first items of gear were lifted on-board. ‘The whole is called the Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System. We call it SRDRS, for short.’ He waited as a great A-frame unit was hoisted aboard. ‘This is one of the most important sections. Basically it’s a crane which will be bolted to the after-deck. It’s part of the Assessment/Underwater Work System.’

‘Called AUWS I expect,’ Feliks responded.

Dan smiled. ‘You got it. All of the equipment sits on reinforced steel templates which we bolt or weld to the deck. The various pieces of kit are then positioned on top of the templates and bolted into place. That’s how we get the necessary structural integrity.’ Dan shouted into the walkie-talkie as the wind took hold of a particularly large steel section and swung it around. Two deck hands dodged in to clip lines and steadied the piece.

‘Dangerous stuff,’ remarked Feliks.

‘You can see why it’s so important to clear the deck,’ Dan replied.

‘Why are some items painted yellow?’ enquired Feliks.

‘Ha ha — I don’t really know!’ laughed Dan. I suppose the kit is easier to spot in these types of conditions.’

As Feliks looked on the team of engineers began the job of bolting the structures. Dan continued his running commentary. ‘To recover and rescue personnel from a disabled submarine, we have a Pressurised Rescue Module. He looked sideways at Feliks.

‘PRM?’ offered Feliks.

‘Correct. It’s a tethered, remotely operated submarine rescue vehicle — like a horizontal cylinder with hemispherical ends. You’ll see it in a minute when it’s taken on board. We send it down to survey the DISSUB.’

‘Hang on, DISSUB?’ asked Feliks.

‘Disabled/Distressed Submarine. We need to find out how the DISSUB is lying, what damage she sustained, and whether the access hatches are free.’

‘Do you have video?’

‘Yep. Navigation, video and propulsion are mounted externally.’

‘Can you communicate with it to the sailors in the submarine?’

‘You bet. Often it’s the first contact they have with the outside world.’

‘So, once you know where its lying, and they know you’re here — what happens next?’

‘We mate the PRM with a free access hatch, and take up to 16 personnel at a time.' Dan indicated the yellow crane, now bolted to the deck plates and overhanging the taffrail. ‘The A-frame hauls the PRM up. We transfer the men out and we go down for the next group.’

‘Supposing the pressure inside the submarine is too high?’

‘Our PRM handles that too, though we would need to transfer the crew under pressure to a decompression chamber. But we know the pressure inside has been adjusted to atmospheric.’

‘So when does the action start?’

Dan looked out over the deck. ‘We have to position your ship immediately over the DISSUB. While we’re doing that, the guys will be double checking everything to make sure we can begin the rescue as soon as we arrive.’

Feliks was impressed by what he had seen. You had give the Americans their due.

* * *

The operator pushed the lever forward, and the powerful lights of the Pressurised Rescue Module moved, picking out the seabed through the dense plankton.

'Anything yet Jim?'

Jim shook his head in response.

'Timings?'

Jim checked the readout on the screen. 'We're looking at over twenty minutes to get down.'

He turned his attention back to the computer. 'We should be coming up on the rear dorsal fin any minute now.' He pressed the joystick over to the left, and a grey mound appeared in the video feed. Another nudge, and the camera traversed slowly; the dark smudge filled the monitor. He altered a dial, and the display zoomed out to show a huge cowl, covering the submarine's propeller.

'Spot on Jim! Now can we see how she’s resting?'

'Right boss.' Jim glanced at the display. 'She's at 450 metres.'

'That's only just inside their theoretical crush depth.'

'Yeah. I bet they were shitting themselves on the way down.'

'Show some respect Jim.'

'Sorry boss.' As Jim repositioned the PRM over the downed sub he continued his running commentary. 'She's canted slightly to port… the rear escape hatch appears good — clear of debris and intact.' He adjusted the zoom to get a better view of the hatchway and the surrounding hull. 'Yep, looks fine. I'm moving up to the bow. Some dents to the exterior, but nothing… wait!'

'What have you got?'

'Take a look at this boss.' Jim pointed at the monitor. It showed a tangled mess of steel where the conning tower should have been.

'Good God! Take the PRM up a bit so we can get a better assessment from above.'

Jim tapped the keys, releasing a little ballast. The image drifted away. 'Got a current here.' Jim made careful adjustments to the external thrusters and the picture steadied.

'Looks like someone stomped on the sail!'

Jim's boss was grim. 'Somebody did. Can you make contact with the crew?'

'Yep, but I really should do a full check of the hull integrity first. I need to find out how much of a hit the forward section took.'

'OK. Give me a shout when we're ready.'

Jim's boss pulled a piece of paper and pen towards him. He murmured to himself as he made notes. 'Twenty minutes the first occasion — that includes the time to locate the sub. Let's say subsequent descents take 15 minutes now we know where it's located. Docking, transferring crew and un-docking will take about quarter of an hour each time, and the journey up is another 15 minutes.'

He added up the total. 'That makes 45 minutes for a round trip. Then we hoist the PRM onto the deck and transfer the crew. We’ll have to arrange for the wounded first, which will delay things. Say, 30 minutes to disembark the injured. We might get that down to 20 minutes on later trips.'

He drew a second column. 'There’s a total of 134 crew. We know five died, so they have to come last. Let me see.' He jotted more figures, and glanced across at Jim.

'I make it nine trips to get them all out. Say a minimum of 10 hours at least, providing there are no delays.'

Jim assented. Both were accustomed to holdups; shifting currents, movement of the submarine and the weather top-side had all delayed previous operations. Often the only thing they could do was to wait out until the situation stabilised. Jim worried about the increasing strength of the wind across the deck.

'What's the status?'

Jim pushed back from the console. 'Pretty much what we expected. The bow took the brunt of the impact with the sea bed. You can tell from the pictures.' Jim thrust some photographic stills across the table. Several showed the front of the sub driven hard in to the sea floor, as if it had tried to bury itself.

'That's bad' remarked the boss. 'Thankfully there's a lot of sediment down on the bottom which should have provided a bit of a cushion.'

'Yeah. Even so, they would have felt it,' replied Jim soberly.

'Let's give them something to cheer about Jim — let them know we’re here.’

* * *

Sean watched the road from his car, parked across the street from the flats. It was 7:55 am and the mother had left for work an hour ago. He turned to Lomax. 'Coast clear.'

Lomax got out of the car, opened the boot and took out a carpet bag. He moved towards the gate and tipped out his collection of home-made hedgehogs. He had fashioned the tyre puncture spikes by hammering inch-long nails into short pieces of dowelling. Slinging the empty sack away, he drew a gun from an inside pocket. Holding it close to his side and pointing to the floor, he calmly checked his wristwatch. It would be a pity if another car came out now, before Levushka and his guards arrived.

He didn't have long to wait. As the electric gate swung open, Lomax moved, keeping one step behind them.

Sean got out. One or two pedestrians were about, too far away to be a threat. He walked over to the spot where he estimated the Mercedes would come to a halt. The car came through the gate, accelerating as it turned right into the road.

Things started to happen fast. Sean heard a distinct 'pop' as the tyres hit the hedgehogs. Nevertheless the car kept on going, spikes flying off in all directions as the rubber spun. The car passed Sean. He could see the boy sandwiched between two men in the back. The Merc weaved against the kerb, but Lomax was already on the move. He held his gun out, running at the vehicle. It mounted the pavement and stalled. As he approached, the driver restarted the engine and the car jerked forward a few metres.

Lomax dropped to a crouch as the chauffeur opened his door and rolled out. Even before he stopped rolling he let off a round which went wide. Lomax aimed from a crouching position and shot him. The man dropped immediately.

The back doors flew open and Sean lined up the sights at the guard on his side. He was unable to fire for fear of hitting Levushka.

The second man crawled out of the Mercedes, letting off several rounds at Lomax. One of them must have connected, because Lomax fell.

Sean caught the drumming of leather shoes on hard ground. He glanced behind as two men appeared through the gate. Diving into his car, he closed the door fast. They hadn't seen him; their eyes remained focused on the gun-play on Lomax's side.

The man who shot Lomax ran to the Mercedes and got into the back to ensure the boy stayed put.

One of the men who had just appeared returned to the gate and kicked away the remaining hedgehogs. The other headed back down to the garage, appearing a minute later with a second car. They drew up behind the Merc, and the driver got out, waving his gun to ward off a second attack. They dragged Levushka out of the Merc and forced him the back of the second car, and drove off at speed.

Sean glanced at the fallen body of Lomax. There was no time to pick him up. He turned the key in the ignition and accelerated after the second car.

* * *

Despite the flashing blue light clamped to the roof, the car containing Levushka got bogged down in a traffic jam. Those in front didn’t have enough room to manoeuvre and get out of the way.

Sean was not surprised. In a city of over 11.5 million inhabitants he had had first-hand experience of Moscow’s rush hour. He swerved off into a side street, parked quickly and jumped out.

While the cars were at a standstill, he ran along the pavement to move ahead of the target. He crossed the road diagonally, making a line towards the car. Sean was confident he had not been seen by anyone inside.

He retrieved his gun and dropped to the ground, taking aim. Squeezing the trigger, he put a hole in the nearest front tyre and then holed the second. There was no point in shooting the driver since the car’s screen was security glass and would stop any of the rounds from his handgun. It was also quite possible the tyres were self-healing, but it was the best he could do.

Sean crouched low and retreated rapidly. Even with the silencer, some might have heard the sound above the noise of the traffic. Any astute motorist would have felt the rounds thudding into the wheel rims.

Sean reached the pavement and found a doorway with an excellent view. He checked the busy pavements to see if anyone had noticed. There were some puzzled glances from pedestrians nearby, but no-one was taking a particular interest in him.

The traffic began to creep forward and the car crawled on flat tyres. The driver halted as realisation dawned. He put on his hazard warning lights and cars behind started to flow around him.

From his observation point Sean saw the chauffeur speaking into his mobile. Cautiously he stepped out, drawing his gun and holding it pointed down, along the seam of his jeans. Sean drew a bead through the driver’s window and shot him. The man went down and some pedestrians screamed as they realised what was happening.

Sean darted into the moving traffic, dodging between the cars until coming abreast of the stationary car. He leaned in through the driver’s open window and placed his gun inside, over the top of the driver’s seat. At the last moment he glimpsed the bodyguard with his arm around Levushka, gun pressed against the boy’s head. Sean stopped.

Sweat beads lined the furrows on the man’s face. Sean let his gun hand dip behind the front seat. The bodyguard motioned for Sean to drop the gun altogether. Without changing his expression, Sean fired.

The round punctured the seat and entered the man’s gut. Surprise registered on his face. Sean wrenched his gun; it came away easily.

He studied Levushka. The boy was in shock, some of the bodyguard’s blood covering his clean white shirt. Levushka dabbed the stain helplessly. Sean ran round and yanked the rear door open. Reaching in, he pulled the boy out by the jacket.

‘Get the chauffeur’s mobile.’

Levushka looked puzzled.

‘Now!’ barked Sean.

Sean went back into the car to retrieve the dying bodyguard’s phone. Levushka crouched next to the fallen chauffeur, searching through the man’s jacket. He found the phone and lifted it high so that Sean would notice.

‘Good. Let’s go!’ Sean yelled in Russian. He sprinted through the stationary cars, away from the scene. A moment later, Levushka raced after him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

At 30,000 thousand feet the SU-271B barrelled through the clouds. The pilot switched his Heads Up Display (HUD) to present the output from the Forward-Looking Infra-Red pod mounted on the wing. The image, overlaid with a visible-spectrum picture, was pretty much as the Russian expected — blank. Still 1000 kilometres from the source of the radio message, the aircraft was too far away for the cryogenically cooled sensors to make out any thermal signatures.

He checked his instruments. Flying blind in an Arctic storm was no picnic; the airframe shook violently and was being thrown about the sky — and so too was his stomach. But the all-weather SU-271B was more than up to the job; its design was based on the most successful fighter-bomber in the Russian air force. The immensely capable model, fondly nicknamed as Platypus because of its distinctive nose, was classified as super-manoeuvrable.

The pilot thumbed a switch on the console to listen again to the exchange he had first heard during his briefing. The communication was fleeting, most of it obscured by static.

‘LK-80 to base. Our ship has been …. by American… We are being …. Request immediate assistance to … Captain Bur…’

A meteorologist explained that the cause of the poor signal was undoubtedly due to a developing storm in the region. Nevertheless, when the message was confirmed, senior military personnel became involved. They wanted to send a squadron of fighter jets to investigate, but in the end the gale force winds were a deciding factor and only one plane was tasked to reconnoitre. The pilot grinned, believing they had instructed only one aircraft in order to minimise the potential loss of a fleet of very expensive warplanes.

One hour and five minutes later the SU-271B arrived in the vicinity, and the HUD showed several thermal traces. These were grouped around six large structures, with many smaller sources dotted in-between. The plane moved on and three kilometres away the HUD displayed a ship.

He leaned forward, flipping a switch which threw up a revolving 3D drawing of LK-80 alongside. Comparing the two images side by side, there was no doubt he had found the right vessel. ‘Platypus One to LK-80. What is your situation?’

On board ship the radio operator listened as the pilot repeated his message. Major Pierce nodded, and Feliks stepped forward to pick up the mike. As he was about to speak, Major Pierce pulled back his Parka to reveal a huge sheathed knife hanging from his belt.

Feliks cleared his throat. ‘Platypus One, Feliks Chayka speaking. I’m chief engineer of LK-80. Our situation is difficult.’ He looked uncertainly around the waiting men. ‘The reactor is partly shutdown because of a technical problem and the long range radio on the bridge is temperamental.’

‘I received a garbled report from LK-80 requesting assistance. Who initiated contact?’

Feliks stared at the microphone, and regarded Major Pierce nervously. The big man drew his finger across his throat, indicating Feliks should terminate the connection.

‘We’re not sure Platypus one. I have to go now — I need to attend the reactor.’

‘Please put Captain Burak on the line.’ The speakers conveyed no empathy in the pilot’s voice.

‘Ah, he is indisposed at present. Suffering from food poisoning. I am in charge until Captain Burak makes a recovery.’

The speaker was silent for a moment. ‘What are all the heat signatures I’m getting? I guess there are several hundred camped out on the ice, less than 5 km from you.’

Feliks glanced apprehensively at Major Pierce. ‘I am aware Platypus One. They are part of an American rescue effort. Our Captain offered the ship as a base of operations for their downed submarine.’

‘Your request to provide assistance to the Americans was turned down. Why did you disobey your orders?’

Feliks swallowed. ‘We had many radio communications problems. I was not aware you forbade our help. Captain Burak decided that aiding the rescue would be the best course of action in the long run.’

‘Right. I shall report your actions. Is there anything else you need?’

Feliks glanced at Major Pierce. He shook his head. ‘No, nothing at the moment.’

‘Another Flanker will arrive soon to supply radio communications with base. Platypus One out.’

‘Thank you Platypus One.’ Feliks saw Major Pierce frown as he replaced the mike.

* * *

The sonar-phone bleeped but no-one picked it up. Many were suffering from a lack of oxygen, with most sitting and some lying full length on the floor of the submarine. Eventually the XO reached for the phone, his actions slow and laboured. He listened for a second before passing it to the Captain. ‘It’s the rescue module, for you.’

The Captain held the handset to his ear, trying desperately to keep focused. After a minute he replied with a terse ‘thank you’ and handed the phone back.

At the same time they heard clanging noises from above. Captain White assumed the Pressurised Rescue Module was attempting to mate with the exterior hatchway of the escape trunk. A ragged cheer went up from the subdued crew. The Captain had previously decided that the first group of men in the trunk should be able-bodied. He expected the PRM would lower oxygen cylinders and medicines, giving the sick some immediate relief and making preparations for their rescue easier.

The sounds continued, followed by a sharp hiss of escaping air. For a few moments silence descended. Every man listened out for the sound of the access hatch being opened. Then they heard it — the slight hiss as air pressure in the submarine and PRM equalised and the clang of the hatch being secured. There was another, stronger cheer.

The group in the escape trunk reached up to take the cylinders of oxygen and portable CO2 scrubbers as they were lowered down to them. Two minutes later a man descended from the hatchway and crawled over recumbent bodies into the body of the sub. He crossed to where the Captain and XO sat, backs propped against the bulkhead. Crouching, he saluted smartly.

‘Navy Diver Peters, sir.’

Captain White struggled to sit upright. ‘We’re mighty glad to see you, Peters. What do you want us to do?’

‘I see you’re ready for us. Once the first party are aboard the PRM please could you get the second group together? If you have any injured, include them. Use the sonar phone to let the doc know top-side what kind of injuries to expect. Turn-around time is about an hour. I’m leaving a medic with full kit down here. Is there anything more you need from us?’

‘No, thank you Peters. Let’s get moving.’

After a sign from the Captain the sixteen men waiting in the chamber began to climb the ladder to the cylinder above. When all had left, both hatches were closed and locked. On a signal the PRM detached itself from the dock, and the crane on LK-80 hauled the cylinder up from the depths.

‘Thank God, Captain’ said the XO.

‘Let’s thank him when we’re on the surface’ responded the Captain.

* * *

Levushka looked down at the clothes he was wearing. The blood stains on his shirt and jacket had dried, leaving a lurid red sash splashed across his chest.

Sean studied the youth. He had lost the pale complexion from earlier, but still looked bewildered by the events of the morning. They were in a safe house, and a member of the Embassy and a doctor were present. ‘The doctor will examine you, just to check that you are OK. Then you can have a shower. Is that OK?’

Levushka bowed his head and submitted meekly to the doctor’s inspection. After several minutes he packed away his BP monitor and stethoscope and handed Levushka some pills. He spoke to Sean. ‘He’ll do. I’ve given him some Valium which should ease the symptoms of shock. Physically he’s fine.’

‘Thanks Doc. Glad to hear the news.’

Sean spoke to Levushka in Russian. ‘Lev, the doctor says you’re OK.’

‘I know what he said,’ Levushka replied irritably in good English. ‘And I’m not a cripple.’

‘I’m Sean. I was sent by your father Alexei to ask if you would come to the UK to be with him.’

There was no reaction from Levushka. Sean looked at the man from the Embassy. He shrugged.

‘Well, why don’t you grab a shower, and we’ll talk afterwards?’ There’s a fresh set of clothes in the bedroom upstairs.

While Levushka was in the shower, DD turned to Sean. ‘Do you think Lomax will be OK?’

‘He’s as tough as old boots.’

DD cleared his throat. ‘He looked dead to me.’

‘No, I caught a good view. He was breathing when I saw him.’

‘Will they, you know, kill him?’

Sean pondered the question. ‘I don’t think so. He’s too valuable to them.’

‘Will they torture him?’

‘Probably. He felt they would take out the first one to shoot. That’s why he led the charge.’

‘You mean, he deliberately sacrificed himself?’ DD sounded incredulous.

‘Yep. You were there when we argued about it. You know how adamant he was. I was to escort Levushka to the airport. He said I was the agent and that he had seniority.’

‘Bloody hell. I didn’t realise you were tossing a coin to see who would get killed first!’

There was a moment’s silence before Sean spoke again. ‘I’m depending on you to get us through airport security. Can you do it?’

‘I have an idea.’

‘It had better be a bloody good one, then.’

Before DD could respond, Levushka entered the room.

‘You look much better,’ Sean commented. The clean clothes helped, and there was more colour to his cheeks. Sean glanced at DD. ‘If you need to make any preparations, I suggest you leave now.’

‘Good idea, boss,’ said DD, already moving to the door.

Sean turned back to Levushka. ‘Come and sit here.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Some time ago, Alexei bought you a dog. Do you remember that?’

Levushka started pulling a small thread in his sweat top. He nodded slowly.

‘Do you remember the dog’s name?’

The young man nodded again. ‘What’s that got to do with seeing my father?’

‘Your father told me about the dog. He said you would remember his name — do you?’

Levushka raised his eyes to Sean. ‘Petra.’

‘Thank you. And what happened to Petra?’

‘He died in a road accident. Some kid racing his car.’

‘You passed the test’ said Sean lightly. ‘Seriously, your Dad would like to see you, but only if you want to go.’

The lad shrugged his shoulders. ‘When?’

‘Now — straight away. Soon they will discover you have gone missing. Then they’ll be on the lookout for you at the airport. I’m sorry, but if we don’t move now, you may never get out.’

‘I see. Will my mum be allowed to come?’

‘Not for a while. Maybe when this blows over, she could come and visit.’

‘Can I send her stuff — you know, email, Facebook, that kind of thing?’

‘Yes, you should be able to do that. But we have to go now.’

* * *

The call came from the Russian air-force headquarters based in Zarya, some 20 km north of the centre of Moscow. Vladislav Kamenev, the Deputy Prime Minister, was asleep in bed. Vladislav grabbed his dressing gown and went into the empty bedroom next door, so as not to disturb his wife. He glanced at the clock: 01:13 am. The caller updated him on the situation in the Arctic, and he knew he would not get any more sleep that night.

His first reaction was to phone the President immediately. Instead he paused a moment to consider the circumstances. The crisis was coming to a head and now the Kremlin had a perfect excuse to avenge the American’s detention of their air crews. Vladislav picked up the handset. After a three minute wait he was put through to President Pavla Duskin.

‘What exactly did the pilot say?’ Duskin’s voice was calm.

‘American forces are using the icebreaker to rescue members of their submarine.’

‘In spite of my orders?’

‘Yes. The pilot didn’t get to speak to the Captain; instead he talked to the chief engineer. He said that they had radio problems, and didn’t receive the order. Anyway, the Captain offered his ship.’

‘I want an emergency meeting at the office. First Deputy Chiefs, Chief of Staff, Deputy Chiefs and principle aides and advisers. Have the Press Attaché standing by. Let’s say 2 am.’

The Deputy Prime Minister checked his watch. It would be very tight to get everyone there in time, but the President did not have to worry. He had access to a helicopter, while all the others would come in by road.

The meeting lasted an hour and was drawing to a close. Vladislav shuffled his papers as everyone began to leave.

‘I’d like you to stay.’ Duskin’s request appeared more of an order. ‘I wish to speak to the American President. Then we shall see what stuff they are made of.’

Vladislav put down his file ruefully and yawned involuntarily.

‘Am I keeping you from your bed?’

Vladislav made a show of looking at his watch. ‘No, Mr President. I am normally at work at this time in the morning.’

The President laughed. ‘What time is it in Washington?’

‘About six-thirty in the evening.’

‘Then let us see if Donahue can be persuaded to break off his dinner engagement to talk to us.’

Vladislav turned on the speaker to the conference phone on the table. Together with the help of the Presidential Administration secretary they connected to the secretary at the White House. When he explained the urgency of the call, there was a pause of several minutes before the American Secretary of Defence came on the line.

Vladislav spoke in English with a slight Russian accent. ‘Good evening Mr Harris. I am pleased to make your acquaintance again. However I think our wishes were not made clear. President Duskin wants to speak with your President. We indicated the need is an urgent one.’

‘Hello Vladislav. No, your request was understood. You wish to speak to the President. I regret to say that he is unavailable at present. Perhaps you could indicate the nature of the discussion, and I might be able to help?’

President Duskin leaned towards the microphone. ‘Mr Harris, you will gather I am in the same room as my colleague. I’m afraid we have little time. Unless we contact your President in the next five minutes, we will close this communication.’ The President noted the time. ‘The consequences of missing this opportunity would be dire.’

‘Just a second, Mr President. I will see what I can do.’

The conference phone went dead, indicating the Americans were transferring the connection. Within two minutes, the President was on the line.

‘Good morning Pavla. I understand you wanted to speak to me urgently?’ The calm and assured voice of President Donahue oozed from the speakers.

‘We do, Robert. We have a situation developing in the Arctic. When we last spoke I denied you access to our ship LK-80 to rescue the crew of your submarine. I told you that we would engage our own teams and make our own arrangements to save the men.’

‘That is correct, Pavla. However, when we contacted the Captain he offered the unconditional use of his ship for the rescue mission. We believed that circumstances had changed and his offer had the full weight of the Russian government behind it.’

Vladislav saw his President colour briefly.

‘I doubt the he made such an offer. If he did, he had no right. I am stunned by the unilateral action you have taken. It just shows how aggressive your American military really are.’

‘President Duskin.’ Donahue’s voice grew more clipped. ‘Our rescue team are there only after the most cordial of invitations from the person in charge. Perhaps you have forgotten that it was your icebreaker that caused the accident in the first place that has already resulted in the death of five men and the potential deaths of a hundred and twenty nine more.’

‘President Donahue. Your occupation of our ship is intolerable. You have created a major international incident, especially when we are already in the process of sending equipment and men to the site.’

‘Our submarine was deliberately rammed by the Russian icebreaker. If that is not a major diplomatic incident, what is? In any case,’ Donahue continued mildly, ‘the rescue is already underway.’

The Russian President’s tone became icy. ‘Unless all American personnel are removed from LK-80 and the nearby base, we will send warplanes to bomb the base, and troops to retake the ship.’

‘Is it not better to continue to get the crew out now rather than delay any further?’ Donahue’s voice reverted to its previously calm tones. ‘Also I’ve been informed that a depression is building in the area. If we leave the rescue any longer we’ll have to wait until the storm blows over. This could be another 3 or 4 days, by which time all the crew of the submarine will be dead.’

‘I will not permit your military to occupy LK-80.’ President Duskin’s voice held no room for negotiation.

‘Pavla. Please don’t be so hasty.’ Donahue paused to lend emphasis to his next words. We all remember what happened to the Kursk.’

Duskin stood up, barely containing his mounting anger. ‘I want your men out now — storm or no storm,’ he shouted.

There was a moment’s silence. Vladislav could hear the American President’s sigh from thousands of miles away.

‘All personnel will be removed from the ship within 12 hours. The base will be cleared in the following 12 hours. That is the best offer we can make.’ Donahue ended the call.

President Duskin leaned forward in astonishment, jabbing the button to confirm the Americans had closed the call. He whirled round at Vladislav. ‘I want more planes in the air. Keep a constant watch on the activities of the Americans. If they are one minute over the 12 hour period, you have my permission to bomb them back to ashes.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DD arrived at the Domodedovo International Airport after a three hour long taxi ride. Even before he entered the building his luggage, consisting solely of his rucksack, was scanned by security. They asked him to open the laptop they found inside and start it. He was happy to oblige, knowing they would be unlikely to spot DD had a dual boot system. DD booted up into an innocuous operating environment, and the man let it pass.

DD entered the terminal, noticing straight away just how busy it was. Endless numbers were weaving their way with heavy baggage through the concourse, giving the impression of being totally disorganised.

But the airport halls, production areas and checkpoints were monitored by 24-hour video surveillance systems through a centralised control centre. Dog handlers were evident, used to detect drugs and explosives. DD knew the measures had only been implemented after several serious incidents at the airport.

He joined a long queue at passport control. Having accumulated three stamps on his passport, he was eventually let through. Before continuing he stopped to check his mobile. There were no calls, but he took the opportunity to open up an app on the phone.

Queueing seemed to be a free-for-all; many pushed past to get to the top of the queue. But the screening system was good; DD’s keen eyes spotted a gas analyser and a SafeScout 100 scanner. The latter used a millimetre wave scanner to identify any hidden objects.

He managed to get through without incident, and found a table in the coffee shop. Having paid an exorbitant price for a latte, he opened his laptop and paid another fee to join the café’s Wi-Fi. This network was encrypted, ensuring the connection would be more difficult to trace. Taking a sip of coffee, he checked the screen — it had already recognised his phone via Bluetooth. From the laptop he was able to see all the information his phone had collected during the time he had queued through passport control and security.

The app he activated earlier was a Bluetooth hacking program. The actual details of the program were secret, but DD knew it was capable of pairing with other Bluetooth devices, supplying all the necessary credentials and accepting pairing requests on the devices it targeted. The process took moments, but once the correct protocols were exchanged, the program could take control of the person’s phone. The app would then export all relevant data onto DD’s mobile and move on.

DD’s first action was to transfer all the contact information he had gathered to his laptop, and import it into a database. He used the next five minutes to search the database for a suitable target, and learn about the target’s contacts. DD could track the target’s home land-line, and match it to a contact with the same number. Most likely this was the target’s wife or partner.

He then placed a call with a small department in Harrogate, West Yorkshire. The section was part of the government’s GCHQ network, based in Gloucestershire. Having supplied the correct identification, and sent a double-encrypted pass-code from his computer, he was put through to a Russian specialist.

‘I’m about to make a play; standby.’

‘Ready to go.’

DD tapped the shortcut on the phone’s screen which dialled the target’s mobile. A couple of seconds later, he watched as one of the uniformed border officers reached for his mobile. DD touched a second key, seamlessly connecting the Russian specialist in Harrogate to the target. DD listened to the exchange. Although he was not fluent, he had sufficient grasp of the language to understand the general thrust of the conversation.

‘Is this Mr Ilyushin?

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘Dr Kovrov, Bezrukov Clinical Hospital. I’m afraid your wife Olga has been taken ill.’

There was a short pause as the target struggled to grasp the news. ‘How seriously — where is she?’

‘Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?’

‘Yes.’

DD saw the man place the phone on a side table, and pull out a notepad and pen.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Take this down.’ The specialist gave him a phone number formatted as a local Moscow number, so the target would not get suspicious. ‘Call this number, and they will put you through to the intensive care unit where Olga is being looked after.’

This was DD’s cue to press another button on his computer screen. The effect was to immediately drop the link between GCHQ and the target and then render the target’s phone useless. The man tried to ring several times on his mobile, evidently unsuccessfully. Eventually he picked an internal phone and dialled from there.

From now on DD would not need to intervene; GCHQ would do all the heavy lifting. The number the target was using would be redirected straight away to their communications centre, and once they had a link they could use a wide range of program tools to explore the telephone network at the airport. When the target replaced the handset, GCHQ’s software could keep the connection open. They could even upload bespoke viruses onto the system at their leisure, without anyone becoming suspicious.

DD wiped his forehead with relief.

* * *

Captain Grigori shivered, pulling his thin clothes tight around his chest. During the last ten minutes the wind had died away. The snow stopped falling, the air became clear and the temperature dropped like a stone.

The Americans realised he had a radio and they came looking for him. But Captain Grigori Burak prided himself that no-one knew the ship as well as he did. While the soldiers searched, Grigori kept moving one step ahead. When he heard them getting close he moved from the equipment locker on Bridge Deck 2 to the forepeak locker. Later he had to shift to the steering-flat and finally the forward anchor chain locker. Then they seemed to give up and he returned to his original hideaway where it was marginally warmer and roomier.

He had been stupid not to realise they would search for him, but the reward was worth it. The short wave transmitter he stole could be key to his salvation. Instead of returning to his homeland, branded a coward for sending an unprotected submarine to the bottom of the ocean, he would be a hero. They would welcome him back as the man who singlehandedly fought the American aggressors, providing the military with the intelligence they needed to return the ship to his command.

He opened the door and peeked out. There was no-one on deck. The small window of calm was over; wind speed was increasing, picking up frozen hail and flinging it horizontally across the deck. He peered up through the squall, imagining the flash of a wing-tip. It might be a Russian aircraft. He listened carefully; seconds later he heard the sound of a jet engine growing louder as the plane descended below cloud cover. Twin vertical fins mounted at the rear and a flattened nose-cone at the front told its own story; she was Russian.

Grigori switched on the radio set, his fingers blue and stiff with the cold. He would have preferred to use it in the relative protection of the locker, but he believed the reception strength would be stronger from an open space.

He turned the dial to the plane’s frequency and pressed the transmit button. With dismay, he realised the battery was almost dead.

‘LK-80 to Platypus Two.’ Grigori had to shout above the wind. ‘Are you receiving me?’ After two attempts, a burst of static came from the head phones.

‘Platypus Two. Please confirm your identity.’

Grigori felt a surge of adrenaline. Now he would bring hell and damnation onto the heads of the Americans. ‘Captain Grigori Burak of the icebreaker LK-80.’

‘Go ahead, Captain.’

‘We have been boarded by US soldiers.’

‘What is your position?’

‘I am in hiding. Battery is low. I want you to take back my ship.’

‘Conserve your battery. I will ask for orders.’ The pilot took the aircraft up through the cloud ceiling.

‘We have only seven minutes of loiter fuel left,’ warned the co-pilot.

The pilot clicked the mike on his headset. ‘Platypus Two to base. I have confirmation LK-80 has been forcibly taken by US military. Captain Burak has managed to evade capture, but his radio battery is almost gone. What are your orders?’

‘Message acknowledged. We will respond.’

Nearly five minutes passed, and the pilot spoke to his co-pilot. ‘Get onto base and find out what they are playing at.’

The co-pilot clicked his own mike. ‘Platypus Two to base. We have two minutes of loiter fuel remaining. If you are unable to give alternative instructions in that time we will return home. Please acknowledge.’

‘Message acknowledged. Reconnoitre the American base before you return.’

‘Will do.’ He turned to the pilot. ‘Better make it quick,’ he said, tapping the fuel gauge.

The pilot switched to the plane’s intercom. ‘How many hours of the deadline remain?’

‘The Americans have four and a half hours remaining from the twelve we agreed to.’

‘So why are we being asked to reconnoitre?’

‘No idea.’

The pilot toggled the radio mike to speak to base. ‘Wind speed is increasing. Ground visibility is zero. We are unlikely to get a good look at the encampment.’

‘Do it,’ came the brutally short reply.

The pilot glanced across at the co-pilot who appeared resigned to the last minute command. Reluctantly he nudged the joystick to overfly the base. The co-pilot prepared the sensors to capture as much information from the fly-past as possible. As the warplane descended the airframe started to shake in the turbulence. The pilot held the stick steady, and at his command the co-pilot operated the avionics, gathering and recording a wide range of the electromagnetic spectrum from the sensors.

At the end of the run-past, and without waiting for an order, the pilot pulled the stick up and headed on a bearing for home.

‘Platypus Two. We have an urgent message.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘We have just received a directive from Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff. His orders are to turn back and bomb the American base.’

* * *

The lady checked her computer screen and updated it to indicate the couple had checked in. ‘No luggage?’ she asked in English as she handed the passports back.

‘No, thank you.’ Sean tucked both documents into a pocket.

‘Gate 14, but you will have to be quick. There is a long queue at passport control, and your plane takes off in an hour.’ The lady returned the boarding passes.

Sean put an arm around Levushka’s shoulder and steered him towards the queue. Sean was thankful he had stopped to disable Levushka’s three bodyguards in the car. That must have delayed headquarters by at least half an hour. However, it wouldn’t be long before an onlooker reported the abduction to the police. They joined the line, while Sean mulled over the probabilities. He wondered how many minutes it would take for the message to filter through the police bureaucracy to the right department.

The queue grew shorter. Behind the glass a bored official barely glanced at each passport as it was thrust over the counter. About to inspect the next person’s passport, the man’s phone rang and Sean watched him pick up the handset. He listened for a minute, inspected his computer, and replaced the phone with hardly a word. There was something about his manner which suggested he had been alerted to the abduction.

Sean slipped out his phone and dashed off a quick txt to DD. Now the official was scrutinising each passport more closely the queue went down more slowly. Five minutes later Sean was almost at the counter, sensing butterflies in his stomach. For a moment he grew angry with himself; Levushka appeared calm, yet the experienced agent escorting him was having kittens.

The man’s eyes widened fractionally as Sean placed his passport on the counter. The official scanned the papers again and regarded Sean and at Levushka standing beside him. Before he could return to his screen, Sean produced three other documents. The first was his entry/exit visa; the second, a power of attorney document signed by Khostov to allow the boy to travel; the third was a copy of his birth certificate showing Khostov was the father. Unhurriedly the official verified the papers and frowned. All three had been crafted by the Section, so there should be no problems with them.

‘Please step to one side.’ The officer stepped out of his cubicle and signalled to the waiting policeman.

Sean looked around. The alert was out and his options were strictly limited. Behind him the column stretched back, and two other guards lounged outside an office. The policeman was nearly here. If Sean attempted to escape with Levushka, they would catch him within seconds.

The phone rang in the cubicle, and the officer ducked inside to answer it. Sean couldn’t hear the conversation. The police officer arrived and stood calmly, surveying Sean and Levushka with an interested expression.

The phone conversation finished and the official examined his monitor. When he came out he spoke rapidly to the policeman. He nodded to Sean and returned to his spot. Sean raised his eyebrows in mute query.

‘I apologise for the interruption Mr. Ingram,’ the official said courteously. ‘You may go — and have a good journey.’

It took another twenty minutes to clear security, but there were no further holdups. When they were through, Sean spotted DD packing up his laptop. Pretending not to know each other, they walked to the gate. When they were in the line, Sean turned to DD.

‘Meet Levushka.’

DD shook hands. ‘Sorry about the scare.’

‘How the hell did you manage it,’ Sean asked quietly.

‘I got a colleague to put a call through on their internal system. He pretended to be one of the senior managers at Passport control. Said that the instructions he had been given were incorrect, and they should ignore them.’

‘As simple as that?’ asked Sean disbelievingly.

‘Well, no. It happens more often than you think, apparently. But we followed it up with an official looking email to his terminal. Once he saw that, he had the authorisation he needed to cover his back.’

‘Bloody hell. Don’t leave it so late next time!’

* * *

Platypus Two carried six KAB 500KR missiles which were un-powered glide bombs. Each had a nominal payload of 500 kg of explosive and were designed for small ground targets. In normal conditions the pilot could take out the American base easily, but as if to remind him of the difficulty, the warplane dropped steeply in a down-draft. It was going to be near impossible to bomb the base accurately.

‘I want you to take command of bombing duties,’ he told his co-pilot.

‘Understood. You know our satellite navigation communications link is playing up?’

‘Most probably the storm cell. It looks like ground radar is being affected too.’ A high altitude pass was out of the question, and the pilot began to descend into the clouds. He had a sick feeling in his stomach. With the link down he would have to rely entirely on inertial guidance instrumentation. He steadied the aircraft as best he could. The lower he went the more buffeting the airframe took, until he reached a point where they were being constantly jolted in the high winds. His look-ahead and ground radar were virtually useless.

Through gritted teeth he spoke to his colleague again. ‘For the first run you let three go off at timed intervals, half a second between each.’

‘Understood.’ The co-pilot flipped the arming switches.

‘Get ready.’ The plane continued to shake violently.

The co-pilot studied his instruments and pushed the button. ‘First bombs away!’

They both felt the plane lighten as each bomb left its hardpoint. The pilot pulled the stick up sharply to get above the weather.

The co-pilot checked the fuel level. ‘We’ve exceeded our loiter time.’

‘We’ll have to complete a second run. If we go home with unused ordnance there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘We could ditch them on the way back.’

The pilot shook his head. ‘No. Don’t forget about the armaments control recorder. He turned to regard his colleague seated next to him. ‘This time we’ll approach from a different angle. Also, I want to extend the interval to one second between bombs.’

‘What about the fuel?’

‘We’ll have to pick an alternative airfield.’

They descended through the clouds again. The buffeting was less violent and it was easier to estimate the distance of the American base.

‘Get ready.’

The co-pilot double checked his instruments and pushed the button. ‘Bomb away!’

The aircraft jolted as the missile left its hardpoint.

‘Second bomb away!’

There was a longer pause. A red light blinked on the console. After a second the pilot asked, ‘What’s the holdup?’

The co-pilot checked the readouts frantically. The last bomb still remained on its hardpoint. He toggled the arming switch, then jabbed the firing button again. After a slight hesitation, the bomb released.

‘Bomb away!’

‘Good. Let’s go home.’ The pilot pulled back the stick and set a course for the mainland.

On board LK-80 the freezing rain obscured Captain Grigori’s view of the American base. But the sound of the Russian jet could be heard above the storm. It was turning back. Shortly afterwards he counted three explosions coming from the direction of the base.

They had bombed the Americans! Grigori strove to find the warplane through the mix of sleet and hail, but it was impossible. However, the jet appeared to be turning towards him because the engine noise increased. A minute later he heard another explosion. Thinking that the bombing had finished, he started to make his way to the equipment hatch where he could crawl inside to hide and get warm.

The whole ship lifted up. Smoke and debris hurled upwards in a geyser from the middle deck. Grigori shouted into his radio for the pilot to stop.

‘LK-80 has been hit, repeat, hit!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘Get that chief engineer and bring him to me,’ barked Colonel Grey to one of the SEALs. They were in the aft saloon. Alarms rang throughout the ship and the Russian crew were showing signs of agitation. The SEAL dived into the crowd and pulled out Feliks Chayka.

‘We may have to abandon ship,’ said the Colonel. ‘I want you to prepare all Russian hands. You will need to issue life jackets, remove covers from the lifeboats and ensure all your crew are accounted for. They should present themselves to their assigned lifeboat section and be checked off. They should wait there until further orders. The situation is urgent — can you do that?’

‘Yes Colonel. But what about your men?’

‘I will make alternative arrangements for them.’

Feliks wondered what they might be but didn’t have time to ponder. He hurried out to the bridge where he could use the tannoy to warn the crew.

Colonel Grey turned to Major Pierce from the SEAL group. ‘Bring the RIBs alongside the ship. Alert everyone else on board we may have to abandon ship. They should be ready to evacuate immediately I give the order — but not until I give it. Then come back here. Understood?’

Pierce didn’t even bother to reply, disappearing quickly from the room.

‘Cooke. Contact base. Find out what has happened there. Tell them we have taken a hit and are preparing to leave the ship. Oh, if they are in good shape, ask them if they can patch me through to the White House.’

‘Sir!’

The public broadcast speakers burst into life with orders in Russian for the crew of LK-80 to muster to their stations.

Colonel Grey caught a SEAL, about to leave the saloon. ‘Find the SRDRS program manager. Tell him to report to me immediately!’

‘Sir!’ The man wheeled smartly and double timed to the door. Even in the heat of the crisis Colonel Grey found time to admire the SEALs alertness and crisp reactions to orders.

Lieutenant Colonel Cooke re-appeared. ‘I’ve made contact with base. It came under attack from a single Russian warplane. The strike was unprovoked. Altogether five bombs were released, but luckily there were no direct hits on the huts, and no fatalities. All the bombs were way wild of the target.’

‘Good. What about the patch to the situation room?’

Cooke spoke into his handset. ‘Putting you through now.’ He handed over the phone.

In a few short sentences Colonel Grey summarised the situation, adding ‘we need backup Mr Secretary.’

‘Tell me what you need.’ The voice of the Secretary of Defence, Brindle Harris, was faint but unmistakable.

‘We will need air cover in case there’s another attack. The next time there could be a squadron or more — who knows.’

‘Right, anything else?’

‘Yes.’ He checked his watch. ‘There are still four hours to go before the Russian deadline expires. Why did the Russians renege on the agreement?’

‘We don’t know. The raid came as much as a surprise to us as it did to you.’

‘Perhaps you could put pressure on the Russians to call off any new strike? We’re still bringing up men from the USS Montana.’

‘You bet we will be doing just that, Colonel. Keep me up to date.’

‘Yes sir, and thank you sir.’

Grey handed the phone back to Cooke, and looked up as the SRDRS program manager arrived. ‘Dan. Sitrep please.’

‘We were about to send the PRM down again. We’ve had to call a halt when we took the hit.’

‘How many more trips?’

‘Three more sir. If it wasn’t for the bomb, we would be finished in about three hours. Now we have to assess the equipment to see if anything got damaged. As far as we can tell, nothing is broken but we’ll have to determine if the A-frame was strained beyond the allowed tolerances.’

‘Colonel Grey frowned. Could we continue anyway?’

‘We might lose the whole PRM, and sixteen people inside it, if we continued without checking.’

Grey sighed. ‘Right, Dan. As quickly as you can please.’

By now the saloon was almost deserted. Major Pierce arrived with one man in tow.

‘What have you got here Pierce?’

‘Thought you should hear what he has to say. He’s one of the two experts looking after the reactor.’

Grey nodded and turned to the man. ‘I gather you had a lucky escape?’

‘Yes sir. We were in the reactor control centre when the bomb dropped. The room was untouched, but the bomb pierced the steel deck of the reactor hall. My partner is in there assessing the damage.’

Grey drew his fingers through his hair. ‘What’s your opinion?’

‘Well the bomb plunged through several levels, but stopped short of holing the hull. We think the ultra-strong steel outer plates prevented a breech.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes sir. We’re still examining the systems in the Nuclear Power Plant, so the full extent of the situation won’t be known for some time. However, what we do know is that the effect of the bomb exploding in the confined space has damaged at least one of the reactor’s safety systems.’

‘Could you be more specific? Will we have to abandon the ship?’

‘At some point we might have to.’

‘In the next hour or two?’

The engineer nodded. ‘The reactor seals had already been damaged by toxic contamination. We put in an urgent request for expert help to be flown out.’

‘Expert help? But you’re the expert.’

The man hunched his shoulders. ‘We’re the experts when it comes to American built Pressurised Water Reactors. The Russian versions are different.’

‘They can’t be that different, surely?’

‘Yes they can sir — especially the backup safety systems. We don’t have any experience of them. They’re, ah, largely untried and we certainly don’t have enough time or experience to understand them, let alone operate them.’

The Colonel stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘We could cause the reactor to go into meltdown.’

‘You mean, it could explode?’ The Colonel’s face lost some of its colour.

‘No, Colonel. But the end result might be the same.’

‘Jesus, man. Make sense. Why can’t you just shut the thing down?’

‘When the missile dropped, the first safety system activated automatically. Normally it would force the absorber rods into the core and quench the nuclear fission process.’ The engineer curled the fingers of one hand into a fist, leaving a small hole. He used two fingers on his other hand to slide them in. ‘However the explosion caused several of the control rods to be bent out of alignment and they could not be forced down their guide channels.’ Withdrawing the fingers, he curled them and tried to reinsert them, demonstrating how they became blocked.

‘Sir, the reactor cannot be SCRAMMED, meaning that unless one of the other safety systems are operated successfully, the temperature will continue to rise and it will reach meltdown.’

‘What happens then?’

‘The Uranium fuel rods will melt. That would happen at about 2,700 degrees Celsius — just over half the surface temperature of the Sun.’

‘Good God. I suppose at that temperature it would melt through anything.’

‘Correct. After a period it would melt through its containment vessel. But it wouldn’t stop there. It would burn through the floor plates and the bilge, and carry on through the hull of the ship.’

‘What would happen then?’

The man avoided eye contact. ‘The molten uranium would react with the seawater. There would be a huge explosion producing a radioactive steam cloud that would cover most of the Arctic. Some of the fallout would be dispersed by the wind, but the strength of the explosion would force most of the contamination into the high atmosphere. It would come down eventually and settle on the ice and waters of the Arctic Ocean.’

Colonel Grey was quiet for a moment. ‘How bad would the explosion be?’

The engineer thought for a second. ‘Two of the biggest explosions from a meltdown came from Chernobyl, and the second from the Fukushima Daiichi plant which suffered multiple meltdowns. In both cases when the melt burned through containment it sank into the earth to a depth of about 50 feet.’

‘Yes, but what is your point?’ asked Grey impatiently.

‘The point is that the explosions occurred when the melt reacted with the small amount of groundwater in the soil. In this particular case there is only water underneath the keel, so the explosion would be much greater.’

‘How much bigger?’

The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can only begin to guess. We could be looking at a detonation creating a hole in the Arctic ten to twenty kilometres wide. But that isn’t the worst part.’

Colonel Grey was visibly struggling to keep calm. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Most of the nasty contaminants like strontium-90, americium-241 and various plutonium isotopes didn’t escape at Fukushima because the plant had good containment structures. Once the melt reaches the seawater under LK-80, there will be no containment.’

‘Oh God. How long would the fallout last?’

‘The half-life of strontium is nearly 30 years.’

Grey was stunned into silence.

‘Perhaps now you understand why we need an expert on this reactor.’ The engineer lifted his eyes to regard the Colonel. ‘We need the person who designed the safety systems to stop it happening.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘The reactor temperature is rising rapidly.’ The engineer inspected his watch. ‘We have about three hours.’ He caught the horrified look on the Colonel’s face and added, ‘we can pump some seawater into the primary coolant loop, which might delay things.’

‘For how long?’

‘Twelve hours, maybe a little longer. We’re not sure. Unless we talk to the man who designed the reactor, we are all going to die.’

* * *

At the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency, Peter Lint was about to go for his lunch when a colleague caught him. ‘Call for you sir.’

Lint frowned ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s from the CIA’s Special Activities Division.’

Peter signalled he would take it in one of the offices surrounding the open plan work area. He closed the door carefully, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation.

He picked up the handset. ‘Go.’

The person at the other end gave a brief background to the rescue of USS Montana, and the plight of the reactor in LK-80.

‘Wait a moment.’ Peter went to the window and beckoned to his assistant. As soon as she entered the room he briefed her, then turned back to the phone.

‘John, I’m putting you on conference. I have Sarah Giles here. She knows more about LK-80 than I do.’

‘Hello Sarah,’ said the caller. ‘This is urgent and top secret. Tell me what you know about this ship.’

‘It’s an Arktika-class icebreaker,’ replied Sarah without hesitation. ‘That means it’s nuclear powered, has a double hull up to 5 cms thick in places. Let me see.’ She tapped the tablet she had brought with her. ‘Length 150 metres, beam 50 metres, draft 6 metres; it’s a monster. It has two power plants, type KLT-80C, which are pressurised light-water reactors. Top speed is 25 knots. Crew is normally 14.’

Peter regarded Sarah with surprise; she was on the ball today.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I’ve been tracking it since it left port in Arkhangelsk. It began by following the North-East Passage, but turned north on a heading for the pole. That raised some questions here; hence our interest.’

‘Good. Now for the most important question. We need to know who designed the reactors in that ship. It’s vital we track him down urgently.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Sarah tapped her tablet. ‘The reactor was designed by NuclearAtomProm. It’s a state-owned Russian holding company.’

‘And the chief designer?’

‘Sir, this might take a little while longer. Hold on please.’ Sarah moved to the terminal on the table and began to tap queries on the keyboard. Peter Lint watched the clock as it ticked off a full minute and a half.

‘Got it sir!’ Sarah said triumphantly. ‘He is Alexei Khostov. He works at the Joint Institute for Nuclear Research in Dubna, Russia.’

‘Thank you Sarah. I have to go now, but I will speak to Peter later.’

The line went dead. Peter moved around the table so he could see Sarah properly.

‘Sarah.’

‘Yes sir?’

‘That was remarkable. I’m really surprised — and delighted — at how you handled that call.’

‘Thank you. I promised you I would study hard.’

* * *

The place stank. A potent mixture of urine, vomit and excrement assailed Lomax’s nostrils. He had the cell to himself, and sat with his injured leg resting full length on the steel bed frame. The thin blanket underneath was the only item in the room that wasn’t bolted to the floor. From time to time he could hear Russian voices swearing and the metallic clink of chains.

The sound of footsteps approaching sent a shiver up his spine. The bolts were withdrawn with a resounding clang, and his interrogator entered. He was a tall man with a large lopsided head, and he carried a metal tray. Stooping to lay the tray on the table, he sat on the only chair.

‘I hope you are feeling better.’

Lomax sighed. ‘Yes, thank you Serge.’ A white coated medic had inspected his wound and removed the bullet. ‘The doctor wasn’t very forthcoming. Does he speak English?’

Serge Zlotnik smiled. ‘His English is excellent. You have a complaint?’

‘He’s really good. I watched him. He’s skilled in cleaning and stitching injuries; just not very talkative.’

‘Well, he told me that the round tore through the calf muscle, and narrowly missed your fibia. Your body will repair the damage to the blood vessels and muscle fibre, but you must keep the wound clean and dry.’

Lomax gazed around at the walls, opening his hands out as if to say ‘how will I do that in this place?’

‘Lomax.’ Zlotnik’s deep voice took on an air of sincerity. ‘Haven’t we already treated your leg? You must realise we will look after you in here.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

Zlotnik sniggered and lent over to pat the bandage. ‘You will survive.’

‘What time is it? The guards stole my watch.’

‘You are wondering if Sean Quinlan and the boy succeeded in escaping?’ Zlotnik checked his watch. ‘Don’t worry. He will be picked up at the airport.’

‘You don’t have them?’

Zlotnik smiled. ‘I must go now.’ He glanced at the table. ‘And don’t forget your food — you’ll need your strength.’

Lomax returned the smile.

Zlotnik paused at the door. ‘You know the old Russian saying: “Eat breakfast yourself, share dinner with a friend, but give supper to your enemy.”’

‘But I am not your enemy.’

‘And this is not your supper. Eat the breakfast and I will be back for you.’ Zlotnik closed the door gently after him.

Lomax poured a cup of strong black tea from the pot. He understood there would be dark times ahead, having been through a similar process before. They would start with a formal interrogation. When they became dissatisfied with his answers they would change to more aggressive strong-arm treatment. And when that failed they would do the stuff they shouldn’t — the dreadful water-boarding and other tortures he sometimes dreamed about.

He was not overly concerned. Years before he was forced to retire from the service following a breakdown. Soon afterwards his sister informed him she had cancer. He cared for her throughout the treatment. Somehow he managed to cope. Surprisingly, nursing her gave him a new strength. He squinted at the clothes they’d put out for him. The colour reminded him of the nurses’ uniform at his sister’s hospital.

His mind drifted back to when he started at the Section. Then he was considered to be one of the toughest agents, and was proud of his hard-earned reputation. At the time he felt indestructible, but when the breakdown occurred he found himself staring down the blackest pit in hell. Somehow the news of his sister’s illness reminded him that however bad things got, others were worse off. She died after a couple of short months, and though the grief was painful, he found his old self again.

Now he faced a bleak future of pain, exhaustion, and loss of dignity. Yet he hoped that in the forthcoming interrogation he would never again lose the core that kept him from his true self.

The bolts on the door flung open with a crash. He was about to find out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

‘Excellent job.’ Sir Anthony congratulated Sean while shaking his hand. ‘Do take a seat.’ He indicated a chair. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear father and son were reunited. They’re both really glad to see each other.’

Sir Anthony was a senior civil servant connected with the Section. Sean wasn’t sure about the exact nature of the relationship, and rarely encountered him in the department. However his presence indicated something big was occurring.

‘Has Khostov given you the goods?’

‘Yes. It turns out that while he was staying in London with Yakov Petrovich, he left the documents in a kind of monument in the garden. It’s where the family used to bury their dogs and other pets. So the Russian gang sent to find Khostov were probably within yards of the information they were looking for.’

‘I appreciate it’s early days Sir Anthony. But are they as valuable as we thought they might be?’

‘Hard to say Sean. Translation experts are studying them, and then we’ll gain some political insight into what they can tell us.’

‘And Lomax?’

‘We’re working on that.’

‘You appreciate he baited the trap himself, so I could get to Levushka.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ replied Sir Anthony testily. ‘I’ve got a sizable section of the Foreign Office on his case. We’re trying to arrange a spy swap.’

‘I saw him go down’, Sean replied. ‘Do you know how he is?’

Sir Anthony sighed. ‘Sorry to bark at you like that; we’re all under a lot of stress here. No, we don’t have any info on his condition. But you can be sure we’ll keep the pressure up to get him repatriated.’

‘OK.’ Sean lent back in the chair. ‘I guess there’s nothing more you can do.’

Sir Anthony shook his head. ‘I wish I had better news..’.

‘So I’m done?’

Sir Anthony cleared his throat. ‘Not quite.’ He observed the concern on Sean’s face. ‘I understand the Section has asked a lot from you, and you have delivered everything we wanted.’

‘There’s always a but.’

Sir Anthony dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘I don’t feel I have any right to ask for anything more, so you are free to withdraw at this point.’

Sean sat back, stunned. He had never been given the option to withdraw from a mission when there was obviously still something left to achieve.

‘I can’t ask you.’ Sir Anthony glanced at his watch. ‘But there is someone I want you to talk to.’ He picked up the desk telephone and spoke into it. ‘Is everything ready? Right, put him through.’

He handed the phone to Sean.

* * *

‘Leader-one to base.’

‘Receiving.’

‘We are on approach. Please confirm you are prepared for us.’

‘We are ready, Leader-one. Runway is lit. Keep strictly to the airstrip as we have ice fragmentation either side.’

Two of the Russian bombs had blown holes in the ice half a kilometre away. The displacement caused fissures to appear, dangerously close to the steel matting that formed the landing strip.

The first F-35 Lightning II warplane lined up for approach, powered down the glide path and landed without a bump. The plane continued to taxi to the end where the waiting ground crew signalled the pilot to a cleared area. Leader-one spooled down his jet and went through the landing check-list. He got out in time to see Leader-two come into land. Undoing his helmet, he waited until the second pilot finished his post-flight checks.

‘Freeze your nuts here.’

‘Another day in paradise Jimmy.’

They were shown to the nearest hut where the door was being held open. They were blown in by a squall.

Leader-one waved a nonchalant salute to the base commander.

‘We thought there would be more than just two planes. Where are you fly-boys from?’

‘Elmendorf AFB, sir. We’re the spearhead for the 90th Fighter Squadron. We’re expecting two squadrons of warplanes as soon as we can get enough KC-135 tankers up.’

‘I heard your Lightnings were dogged by technical issues recently. Something to do with an engine blade problem?’

Leader-one waved the remark away. ‘Dealt with a long time ago, sir. We got you some real firepower now. What do you want to do with us?’

‘I want six aircraft in the air at all times. Rotate off the runway. I want the rest on three shifts, so we can put 20 or more jets up on five minutes’ notice.’

Leader-one raised an eyebrow.

The commander noticed, but said nothing.

‘Mission orders sir?’

‘You are to protect and defend this base and the icebreaker. We’re expecting some company. I hope you boys are up to a little rough and tumble?’

‘You bet, sir. We’ve not come all this way just to chill out, pardon the pun sir.’

* * *

Sean settled into the cream leather seat of the BAe HS125 jet, and Alexei sat opposite.

‘How did they treat you?’ Sean was curious to find out if anyone had removed the kid gloves during his de-briefing.

‘Your people have been very kind to me.’ Alexei Khostov bowed his head, revealing an unruly head of silver hair. ‘I know you were instrumental in bringing back my son.’

Sean looked through the oval window as the green fields receded below. ‘It cost us a good man.’

‘You must believe I am very grateful. I thought I might never see Levushka again.’

‘You might not see him again.’

The aircraft began to level out. They were flying to RAF Lossiemouth in Moray, Scotland. While they were in the air another transport aircraft based at RAF Brize Norton was also on-route to Lossiemouth, for their onward flight.

Khostov looked directly into Sean’s eyes. ‘It is enough he is safe in England.’ His gaze was so intense Sean could feel the raw intellectual power of the man, as though he was examining his conscience and motives.

‘He was safe in Russia.’

‘But we would not have had the brief time we had together. Is that not more important?’

At that moment Sean could not help thinking about Natasha. How many brief moments had they shared together?

‘For you?’

‘No, for both of us.’

The conversation lapsed. In the silence Sean recalled the moment he took the phone call Sir Anthony had arranged. As soon as he heard the voice Sean knew it was the Foreign Secretary, Howard Stern, head of British security services. In Sean’s extensive experience with the Section he had never known an agent having a dialogue with someone at that level. He should be honoured, but in reality he only felt tired.

The conversation began well. After the usual pleasantries Stern had commented on Sean’s previous mission. ‘I was astonished at what you achieved in the States. You not only helped to prevent an escalation of hostilities between the US and Russia, but managed to retrieved a huge cache of hi-tech American hardware.’

But Sean had experienced this type of flattery before. ‘I had help.’

‘I think you are doing yourself a disservice. I know it wasn’t a single-handed operation, but I must say just how impressed I was that you and the team carried it off.’

‘The Executive on that mission is currently undergoing torture in a Russian cell. I hope you will do everything to get him out.’

‘Of course. We are doing our best. You have my word on that.’

For once the sincerity in his voice overcame Sean’s natural cynicism. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to fill you in on the bigger picture. Then you will understand what I am going to ask you to do.’

Howard Stern briefed Sean on the background of Russia’s declining income from oil and America’s ambitions for the high north. ‘Are you aware of the recent events in the Arctic, Sean?’

‘No. I’ve been busy.’

Stern chuckled and briefly sketched in developments. ‘Your assignment may impinge on the politics of the situation. The PM is meeting his American and Russian counterparts tomorrow as part of the annual energy summit. He perceives an opportunity to broker private peace talks between the two countries, so each can save face. But in order to get them to a private session he needs a lever. This is where you come in.’

‘I’m listening.’

There is a major problem with the nuclear power plant on board a Russian ship. We received an urgent request from the Americans.’ Stern paused. ‘The PM wants you to escort Khostov to the icebreaker where his expertise can be used to resolve the problem, and allow the Americans to continue with their rescue efforts.’

There was a long silence.

‘Sean, are you still there?’ Stern sounded worried.

‘Sir, do you appreciate what lengths we went to, to find Khostov and bring him back to the UK? Including returning to Russia for his 15-year-old son?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you know how many people died in this operation? The Russians murdered at least five people in the UK, including two innocent couples and my original Executive.’

‘Sean, I know all this. I wouldn’t be asking you directly if I didn’t think you were the man for the job. There’s something else you don’t know.’

‘Go on.’

‘The icebreaker is nuclear powered. Its reactor is about to go into meltdown. The resultant explosion will contaminate the whole of the Arctic for the next thirty years. And we’re running out of time.’

There was another long silence before Sean responded. ‘How much time have we got?’

‘Ten hours.’

Sean paused, feeling breathless and a little dizzy. The assignment sounded hugely complex with many unknown factors which could stop the mission in its tracks. He doubted if anyone could achieve success if they were given 48 hours, never mind 10.

‘Sean, I appreciate this is a huge undertaking. You are perfectly entitled to decline. We will find someone else to carry on. But I must have your answer now.’

The plane rocked as it descended, jolting Sean’s thoughts back to the present. ‘Do you have to deal with politicians in your country?’

‘Yes, unfortunately. I would advise you to stay clear, if you can.’

Sean scowled. ‘It’s already too late for that.’

The plane landed smoothly, and Khostov and Sean were driven across the airfield. As they approached the take-off runway, the driver pointed out the only aircraft standing ready on the tarmac. ‘There’s your transport!’

They couldn’t miss it. The A400M Atlas was huge, a military version of the commercial European Airbus.

‘It’s been fitted with additional tanks from a previous exercise. That more than doubles its normal range. Should see you OK for six and a half thousand kilometres.’

‘Will we have an escort?’ asked Sean. ‘I heard we could expect trouble at the other end.’

‘We’re sending two of the new Lightning II war birds. They won’t join you until later.’

‘Who is based here?’

‘617 squadron, sir. That’s the old Dambusters squadron, if you remember. They were disbanded a few years back, but reformed again last year.’ The driver glanced at Sean. ‘Don’t worry sir, you’ll be safe with them.’

He deposited them on the tarmac where they were greeted by the Load master for the Atlas. He walked them up the rear ramp of the plane, and pointed to a large pile of equipment.

‘Special Arctic clothing and parachutes. You can kit up when you’re in the air. We’ve been told to take off as soon as you arrive, so make yourself comfortable and strap in.’

* * *

President Pavla Duskin was the last to arrive in Vienna for the summit. Because of the mounting tension with the US he had decided to stay at the Russian embassy in Reisnerstrasse where he could use their secure communications facilities. His first task was to contact his deputy.

‘Dimitry, what is the position?’ The encrypted line was clear, with a slight hollow echo.

Dimitry sounded apologetic. ‘It appears that your orders have been countermanded, Pavla. One plane has attempted to bomb the American base on the ice.’

‘Who gave the order?’

‘Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff. I have spoken to him. He says he gave LK-80 secret orders to proceed to the Lomonosov ridge. Were you aware of his plans to start a drilling operation there?’

‘Ah yes, I did know. But I’m surprised he brought the plan so far forward. I wasn’t expecting the project to begin until summer.’

‘He told me the drilling platforms were ready and he needed a presence on the ridge until they arrived. But he wouldn’t say why he countermanded your command.’

‘I suspect he was protecting his pet project. And now he’s sent a message to the Americans!’ Duskin chuckled. ‘I bet they’re buzzing about like hornets around a nest.’

Duskin’s predecessor planted a titanium flag on the sea bed above the Lomonosov ridge in 2007, claiming the territory for Russia. Duskin planned to follow through with a mining venture later. He knew the Arctic communities would object strongly, but he was in no mood to compromise. ‘How is progress with setting up a base?’

‘You may recall we re-established a military complex on the island of Kotelny a few years ago. It’s part of the North Siberian Islands. We’re strengthening the installation with aircraft and supplies.’

‘Why not closer to the icebreaker?’

‘There’s a storm in the area, Pavla. The Americans were able to lay their air strip before the depression moved in.’

‘What’s next?’

‘In two hours we declare a protection zone around the ship. To back that up we’ll have…’ Dimitry referred to a list. ‘Two fighter squadrons with MiG-29s; two bomber squadrons using the Su-24M; one assault squadron flying the Su-25 and 1 intelligence squadron. All operating out of Kotelny.’

‘Any signs the Americans are leaving?’

‘No, Pavla. More aircraft are arriving at their base, even as we speak.’

‘They promised they would be all gone by now! Dimitry, I want you to take back control of the ship. Use all means to achieve that end.’

‘We will need to deal with the American forces to do so. Are you authorising me to do that?’

‘Dimitry, have I not just told you?’

‘Very well, Pavla.’ One thousand two hundred miles away Dimitry put the phone down, his face a mask of disgust and fear. With no written orders he was being ordered to wage war. If it all went badly wrong he had no doubt the President would blame him for misinterpreting orders. But if he didn’t carry them out he would be hounded out of office.

Dimitry sat for a few moments, thinking through the conflicting tangle of impossible demands and loyalty to his office. Maybe there was a way to show he was carrying out orders, yet not implement them in full. He would need a little time to work out the details, but in the meantime his President expected him to execute his command.

If that was what he wanted, who was Dimitry Kamenev to refuse?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Inside the Airbus the Load-master handed Sean and Khostov mugs of coffee. Khostov put the internal phone back on its cradle.

‘That was a long conversation. How are they doing?’

Khostov sighed. ‘OK. I’ve advised them what they should do.’

‘Is it helping?’

‘Yes, I think so. They understand the concepts, but it is difficult to describe what procedures they should follow at the end of a phone. How long before we arrive?’

‘About five hours. You should get some sleep if you can. You won’t get a chance once we land.’

Khostov gazed at the vast empty belly of the plane, taking in the constant vibration and drone of the four Europrop TP400-D6 engines.

Sean laughed. ‘When you’ve been in as many aircraft as I have, you learn to sleep just about anywhere.’

‘I suppose you don’t often fly normal commercial flights,’ observed Khostov dryly.

‘Not really. I started by flying helicopters for some of our elite soldiers.’

‘What happened?’

‘After a year or two they asked me to join them on the ground.’

‘And did you?’

Sean eyed Khostov. ‘I did. But it’s a long story.’

Khostov opened the palm of his hands. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’

Sean drew a hand through his hair, unsure where to start. ‘I trained for the SAS.’

‘I have heard of them, your Special Air Service. They’re widely admired in Russia — though no-one in the military would admit to that.’

‘After a bit, I found I enjoyed the company. Sure, the work was difficult, but the blokes I met would do anything for you in a fight.’ Sean laughed. ‘They’d steal your food and your brew if you weren’t looking, but when it came down to the wire, they would give their lives to protect you.’ Sean reflected a moment. ‘And you would do the same for them.’

‘When I talk to some of my friends in the military, they tell me it is like a family.’

‘That’s how it was for me. I guess that’s why I stayed on so long. Then one thing led to another, and I wound up working for a clandestine part of British Intelligence.’

‘You sound like you’ve been there a while.’

‘Too long.’

‘Did you ever think about retiring?’

Sean hesitated. ‘Actually yes. I plan to leave sometime in the next six months.’

‘That will be a big step, no?

‘Yes. But now I’ve given my notice, I’m looking forward to it.’

‘So there is somebody — to go to?’

Sean reached for the St. Christopher medal in his pocket. Before he left he had called Natasha, but there was no answer on her mobile. Maybe she was in the middle of moving, and too busy to return his calls. He felt guilty at not being there to help her with the move, but he was puzzled she had not contacted him by now. ‘I don’t mean to be rude Alexei, but I do think you should try to get some rest.’

Khostov waved his hand in the air. ‘I had a rest at your wonderful place at Brampdon Manor. It’s like an old fashioned English hotel,’ he mused. ‘I felt I was on holiday after an exciting adventure.’

Sean glanced at him sideways to check if he was being serious. He was. ‘Well your little adventure nearly got you killed. And two men in Paris died coming after you.’

Khostov appeared crestfallen. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t intend to make little of your efforts to protect me. Those people were evil.’

They sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments, and Sean turned his attention to the job ahead. ‘How does something like a meltdown happen?’ Sean asked.

Khostov looked at Sean carefully, as though he were leading him to a trap. ‘Why do you ask?’

He shrugged. ‘Just curious really.’

Khostov took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten, then faced Sean. ‘Accidents happen. More often than not the cause is human error. You know, I have worked in nuclear physics all my life. That’s why I’ve devoted a lot of my career into making these systems safer — safer for the operators, and for the general public.’

‘So what went wrong here?’

‘People, Sean. Greedy, grasping, penny pinching people. I designed a complete safety backup system for this type of Pressurised Water Reactor. In order to shave costs from the project and to increase output power, the manufacturer removed the steel cladding. To compensate, the water jacket surrounding the core had to be increased in diameter. The water acts as a neutron-absorbing shield. But if the water is lost in an accident, the operators will receive a fatal dose.’

‘I see’ remarked Sean sombrely, not really understanding.

Khostov surveyed the large cargo bay. ‘That’s not the worst of it. These types of reactors are more complicated and expensive to build than conventional ones. Because it’s more complex, we have to take greater precautions when it comes to safety. So we develop several safety systems. The idea is that if there’s a problem with the first one, the second comes into play. And if that doesn’t work, the third one becomes operational, and so on.’

‘How many did you design into it?’

‘Four. Then some accountant took a look at the project cost and put a pen through the fourth. They had no idea what they were doing. With one stroke they shaved over 50 million roubles.’ Khostov brought his gaze back to Sean. ‘And probably cost the lives of countless people.’

‘At my briefing I was told it might cause a lot more deaths — nearly the whole of the Arctic could be contaminated.’

Khostov paused. ‘Yes and no.’

Sean regarded Alexei. ‘Which is it?’

‘It is true that if the melt were to react with the salt water, there would be an enormous explosion which would send radioactive elements into the atmosphere. But the engineers I spoke to managed to partially operate the second safety backup system. We have a little more time.’

‘How much?’

‘A few hours.’ Khostov shrugged. ‘We should arrive before then.’

’Supposing you’re not able to fix the second system?’

‘I will have to implement the third mechanism. It contains an aqueous solution of cadmium-nitrate which can be fed directly into the core.’

‘You don’t sound sure it will succeed.’

‘It’s awkward and needs several hours for mounting and start-up. It is very complex, and hasn’t been tested exhaustively.’

‘So it could fail?’

Khostov nodded. ‘In reality, it probably will.’

‘Jesus, Alexei. You’re not giving me much confidence.’

Alexei studied Sean. ‘I am telling you the truth. I am also saying, in all modesty, that I am the only person on the planet who has a hope of making it work.’

* * *

The British PM chose an anteroom in the Finanzministerium for the meeting. While he was in Vienna for the summit, he knew that most of the real business would be conducted in rooms such as this one — away from the Baroque elegance of the hall where ministers from the wealthiest seven countries of the world discussed mutual and global energy issues.

There was a knock and the PM’s bodyguard looked for approval to allow the person in. A man entered and handed two envelopes to the British PM. As he turned to leave, Terrance Ashdown motioned for him to stay.

Ashdown believed he knew what was in the envelopes. The day before he had issued invitations to the President of America and the President of Russia. In the letter he requested a private meeting for this evening. The PM thought the Russian response would be a polite refusal, but he was confident of the American President’s acceptance. After all, had he not agreed to the loan of Khostov?

He opened the Russian envelope. As expected it contained a courteous answer, declining his request. He opened the second letter, and his face fell. The text was longer, more flowery and apologetic. But the content was the same; the American President declined, citing pressure of work.

The PM sighed. While he had not expected Donahue to renege, the PM was prepared. He opened a drawer in the desk. Inside were four envelopes placed in two piles, separated by a thin pink ribbon. The PM chose the left pile, and handed both letters to the waiting messenger. ‘Please deliver these to the named recipients immediately.

They contained a much more strongly worded missive; the PM’s request for a meeting was not optional. Unless both Presidents attended he would announce a press conference where he would tell the world what dirty tricks Russia and America had perpetrated to secure their interests in the Arctic.

The PM sat back, regarding the ornate grandfather clock. It was a big gamble, and he still didn’t have all the information he needed for the meeting. Ashdown fretted; he was reliant on the security service to provide a significant bargaining counter before 8 pm. He reached for the telephone.

* * *

The Presidents look at each other coldly, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. They were punctual, but the Russian President was already checking his wristwatch.

‘I won’t keep you long, gentlemen.’ The PM contemplated the two men. ‘You both have had success in leading your respective nations, and I compliment you on your efforts. But some recent developments have given me grave cause for alarm.’

He checked to see he had their attention. ‘I believe that both your countries are making a ‘land grab’ for the Arctic. I have certain documents that prove beyond doubt that both your governments have engineered a confrontation in the Arctic in order to establish your right to extract hydrocarbons there.’ The PM gestured to the table where three files lay. They were coloured blue, red and black.

The PM picked up the blue file and flicked it open. He quickly scanned the first page, and then picked up a TV remote. He switched on a large flat-screen TV on the wall. It came up showing a map of the Arctic, with all the countries surrounding the Arctic sea. He pointed to an area off the most northern part of Norway.

‘This is the village of Ny-Ålesund on the Svalbard archipelago. It’s the only pure British research station in the whole of the Arctic. They have been researching cosmic rays for some years.’

The PM saw both Presidents looking at each other, no doubt wondering where all this was leading. ‘I will get to the point gentlemen. As part of this research, the scientists there make recordings of several regions of the electromagnetic spectrum, included the frequencies on which the Russian satellite navigation system GLONASS broadcasts.’

The PM turned to President Donahue. ‘I’m sure you know that this is the Russian equivalent of your GPS system, and it’s used by the military for navigation and tracking.’

The American President nodded.

‘Normally these frequencies are discarded by the researchers — they are more interested in extra-terrestrial particles. But nearly two months ago a researcher noticed a distinct change in the way the GLONASS signal was being transmitted. He sent the recordings on to an expert — Professor Ian Watkins at the University of Edinburgh. To cut a long story short, the Professor became intrigued. He ordered some heavy-weight computing power to try and “crack the code.”’

Both Presidents appeared to be puzzled and bemused by Ashdown’s introduction.

‘Well gentlemen, I can tell you now that the Professor succeeded.’

Donahue looked at his watch. ‘I’m sure this is very fascinating to a technical audience, but I do have an immanent appointment.’

The Prime Minister held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, I am coming to the point. The Professor found that for a short period of time, and limited to an area in the high Arctic, GLONASS signals were faked.’

Ashdown used the remote control to play a video on the large wall-mounted TV. It showed a track, arching from southern Russia to the Arctic. ‘This is the path taken by two Tupolev TU-160 bombers from Engels Air Base six weeks ago.’ The PM studied the Russian President. ‘We know them as Blackjacks in Europe and America. They turn north and fly on a straight course for almost ten hours. Their route carries them over the Barents Sea, past our listening post on the Svalbard Islands, across the geographic North Pole, and then South towards the Beaufort Sea.’

The PM paused and pointed to western Canada. ‘We know that two CF-18 fighter-interceptors scrambled out of Canadian Forces Base Cold Lake in northern Alberta. They met up with the Russian planes over the Beaufort Sea, 200 km north of the mouth of the Mackenzie River. I’m told that normally the Russian and Canadian pilots would wave at each other, and then turn their planes around. They’re only there to check each other’s air defences.’

The PM pointed to the trail. ‘The “Blackjacks” change course towards Russian soil. After several hours, for some unknown reason, the Blackjacks turn again on a heading to Alaska with orders to test American air defences. The weather is bad with a raging Arctic storm which has lasted the best part of three days.’

The PM indicated Alaska territory on the map. ‘NORAD radar picks up the deviation, and Eielson AFB is notified. However the Americans are slow to respond, and eventually put up two F16s from the base.’

The PM scrutinised both of them. ‘Everything I have said is documented, and I will make this available to you both. Remember, the Russian planes were operating within storm clouds, and the navigators cannot see any ground reference points.’ The PM checked to ensure Donahue was taking in the message. ‘Then the Americans transmit new satellite signals, created by their own systems at the same time as blocking the Russians satellite navigation GLONASS system. The pilots think the storm is blocking their signals, and their equipment automatically turns to a new frequency. From their instruments they know they are well outside American territory.’

The PM showed the path of the bomber planes looping back towards Alaska. ‘The dotted line marks the path the pilots believe they are following — look how much nearer their actual track is.’

Pavla Duskin crossed to the TV to get a better view.

‘When the Blackjacks cross the Alaskan 12 mile boundary, the F16s order them to land at Eielson.’ The PM eyed the Russian President apologetically. ‘I don’t have cockpit recordings, more’s the pity, but I imagine the language would be ripe. I also understand that one of the Blackjacks tried to turn back, but was eventually persuaded to follow the F16s to base.’

Ashdown noticed President Donahue’s face had gone pale. He resumed the story. ‘They are both escorted to Eielson and land safely.’

‘I want that documentation now’ demanded Duskin.

‘Not yet, Pavla. The point is, those signals were falsified for a very specific reason — to lure Russian planes overflying the Arctic into straying across American airspace.’

Robert Donahue appeared dumbfounded, shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe this is true.’

The Prime Minister turned to him. ‘I can assure you that the Professor’s work has been checked and double-checked by his peers. The signals were changed at a time when Russian aircraft were in the area.’ The PM addressed them both. ‘In such a way as to give a false reading to those pilots.’

‘Are you saying that we deliberately deceived Russian bombers?’

The Prime Minister turned to the American President. ‘Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt.’

* * *

The A400M Atlas descended to 15,000 feet and the load-master returned to prepare Sean and Khostov.

‘Gentlemen, we still have a depression over the landing zone, so we will have to drop you well clear. Even so, you’ll find the winds are gusty and visibility is not good.’ He turned to Khostov. ‘Have you parachuted before?’

‘No.’ Khostov looked helpless.

Sean clapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’ He winked at the load-master. ‘I need to deliver this fragile package right side up.’

He checked Khostov’s harness and rigging line and gave the thumbs up. In turn, the load-master double checked Sean’s parachute.

The bay door began to open, and immediately a freezing wind filled the interior.

‘Here,’ shouted the load-master, clipping a black box, the size of a match-box, to their webbing. ‘It’s a homing beacon, so the Yanks can find you.’

The ramp was now fully open, and snow blasted into the cabin. They hustled along the ramp.

‘What do I do?’ Khostov’s voice quavered.

‘Don’t worry about your chute,’ explained Sean. ‘It will open automatically. I’ll be right behind you. When you get near to the ground, make sure you put your legs together, and bend them at the knees. Don’t try to resist the ground when you meet it. It’s perfectly alright to fall — just remember to keep your legs together and your knees bent.’

The load-master listened to his helmet speaker, then gave the thumbs-up sign. Sean leaned over Khostov and shouted in his ear. ‘Time to go.’ With that, he pushed him off the ramp and they both dropped into the void.

The airstream hit Sean immediately and within seconds he lost sight of Khostov. Frantically he twisted round, looking for any sign. Seconds passed, and he caught a brown smudge in the periphery; Khostov had not fallen as far as he imagined. He pulled the chute cords to bring him closer, but the unexpected changes of wind direction didn’t help. Eventually he positioned himself above and to the side of Khostov so he could watch him land.

They descended slowly, but their speed over the ground was too fast. He saw Khostov land hard, legs straight and apart. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten to take Sean’s advice. He was dragged along by the wind, his body flopping behind his chute like a puppet.

Sean landed, kept upright and began running as soon as he touched down. He stabbed the release buckle and shrugged off the harness. The parachute was whisked away in an instant. Turning, Sean ran back.

Khostov lay still, face down on the ice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The PM put the phone down.

‘I apologise for the interruption, gentlemen. That was a member of my security service.’

He turned to both of the Presidents. ‘Unfortunately this is turning into a bit of a marathon. You may terminate the meeting whenever you wish. I have kept you much longer than I intended.’

When both Presidents showed no signs of leaving, the Prime Minister Ashdown indicated some nearby armchairs. ‘Very well, let’s sit, shall we? My legs are not what they used to be.’

The PM waited a moment, then picked up the red file. He made a show of scanning the first page, giving the impression he was recalling the contents. He pressed the remote to display a still photograph of Khostov on the big TV screen.

‘This is Alexei Khostov, an eminent nuclear physicist. He left Russia and came to London several weeks ago.’

Ashdown studied Pavla Duskin. ‘We were puzzled why your government sent a team of people to the UK to hunt him down. As a direct result, four innocent men and women were murdered in London, before Khostov fled to France.’

The Russian President shrugged indifferently. ‘A gross lie.’

‘We can prove this,’ responded the PM, flipping a page. ‘Here is a copy of the report from our security services confirming the DNA of two of the group at both murders.’

‘Any evidence is fabricated.’

Ashdown’s eyebrows rose a fraction, plainly indicating his incredulity. ‘We tracked Khostov to France, and managed to extract him from the clutches of the remainder of the gang before they could shoot him dead.’

There was an uneasy stillness as both Presidents absorbed the information.

‘Khostov is now at a safe location,’ continued the PM. ‘In exchange for the return of his son from Russia, he has provided us with the real reason why he has been hunted so vigorously by your security apparatus.’

Prime Minister Ashdown flicked over a page in the file. ‘The phone call I received was from a team of translators. They deciphered the documents Khostov hid when he defected to us. They tell us why you wanted Khostov so badly.’

Pavla Duskin jumped up and regarded President Donahue. ‘Alexei Khostov was once a great scientist for Russia. Unfortunately he grew to like fame too much, and craved to become even more famous. He liked the good life, the lavish dinners and expensive cars. He is wanted in Russia because he embezzled 15 million roubles to sustain his lifestyle. But I repeat we did not send anyone to hunt him down, as you so crudely put it.’

‘Alexei Khostov,’ interjected the PM, ‘was a well-respected figure in Kremlin circles. Khostov was brought in to advise on the design of the reactor for your Floating Nuclear Power Plant program. Secretly he also wanted to find out about the embezzlement of millions of roubles from the project. He discovered the scam was achieved by setting up a shell company. Money was funnelled through a series of bank accounts to one person, someone at the top echelons of power.’

‘Your claim is preposterous. The man is a scientist, not an undercover agent.’

Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown smiled. ‘It was precisely because he was such a highly respected scientist he agreed to join the project.’

Duskin remained tight lipped.

‘All the money found its way back to one man,’ continued Ashdown. ‘And that man is in front of me now.’

The silence in the room was profound.

‘At least you have the decency to look stunned,’ barked Ashdown.

The Russian President smiled grimly. ‘I am stunned by the scale of your ignorance and the impertinence of your accusation. You have no proof of this whatsoever.’

The Prime Minister turned over another page. ‘There you and I differ. But it would be an interesting exercise, would it not, to see what the media and the press make about these claims. The story would run for a long time if they were fed small pieces. And there would be only one outcome.’

There was another protracted silence.

‘I need both of you to think about what I said. We will meet again in two hours’ time when you will have considered what is at stake. In the meantime, gentlemen, I bid you good evening.’

The Prime Minister collected the three coloured files and left the room. The Presidents eyed each other, gauging the other’s reaction. For a moment there was a hostile silence between them.

They both turned and walked out.

* * *

‘Well done Thomas!’

Captain White clapped his XO on the back. Thomas had honed the process of preparing the sailors for the rescue module down to a fine art. As soon as one group entered the Pressurised Rescue Module, Thomas was readying the next for the escape chamber. The second party took the longest because they included the injured. Two sailors required stretchers and that took up valuable room as well as making it awkward to manoeuvre them up the vertical shaft into the PRM. There had been a long delay when LK-80 was bombed, but apart from that the shuttle worked like clockwork.

For those remaining in the submarine, the conditions were much improved. The rescue pod brought fresh oxygen cylinders and more portable CO2 scrubbers, so the air became breathable. But their rescuers were not able to do much about the cold. Thomas encouraged those outside the escape hatch to move about and exercise in an effort to keep them warm. Whenever Thomas spotted any member of the remaining crew suffering seriously, he brought them to the front of the queue for the next trip to the surface.

Captain White was genuinely pleased with how his XO had moved about the men, checking to see if they needed anything, swapping a story here and there and keeping their spirits up. He made a mental note to recommend Thomas for a medal of commendation when he returned to Groton.

Once on board LK-80, each man was briefly checked by a medic before being transferred to a RIB, then to the base camp, and from there onto a waiting cargo plane. Two air round trips had already been made, each carrying a group from the submarine and part of the base personnel to safety. The plane stood on the runway, waiting for the last party.

The submarine looked almost empty with just 17 sailors left. They would need two more visits by the rescue capsule to return all the crew topsides. Captain White tried not to think about the five bodies laid out in the medical bay. Thomas volunteered to remain behind with the Captain, so they could man-handle the bodies into the PRM for the final transfer. It would make the journey to the surface a touch grim, but the Captain felt it would be only fitting to accompany the seamen who had lost their lives.

* * *

Sean switched on the homing beacon and rummaged in his rucksack.

Khostov had landed badly, his ankle either broken or sprained. Sean found a small first aid kit which the RAF had thoughtfully included. Using a bandage, he bound the ankle to Khostov’s other leg, temporarily immobilising him. He would have a more thorough check when they reached the American base.

Here on the ground the wind had quietened, but visibility remained poor. Sean thought about helping to carry Khostov towards the Americans, but he knew they were already on their way. He decided it would be better to conserve energy, and struggled to get Khostov into a survival bag.

While waiting he gazed up through the falling snow. He could hear several aircraft patrolling above. Less than five minutes later the Americans arrived on Skidoos. One of the machines pulled a sled, and Sean helped to move Khostov onto it, and hopped on to the spare seat.

Twenty minutes later they approached the military camp. When they arrived, soldiers lifted Khostov into a hut. The medic examined Khostov’s ankle, and Sean was handed a hot mug of coffee.

A big soldier beckoned and they moved to stand outside of Khostov’s earshot.

‘I’m Major Pierce.’ He began to brief Sean on what to expect. ‘Most of the submarine crew have left. The Russians have imposed a deadline to evacuate the ship and our base. He looked at his watch. We should be finished in the next two hours, but we’ll leave a skeleton team on board LK-80 to look after the reactor. Everyone else will be evacuated. One plane is standing by for the remainder.’ He pointed towards the cargo carrier.

‘What about the air cover?’

‘They’ll stay aloft until we go.’

‘What’s the latest on the reactor?’

‘The engineers managed to delay a meltdown for now.’ Major Pierce nodded towards Khostov. ‘Thanks to him. They hope when he arrives he’ll stop it happening altogether.’

‘Then the sooner we get over there, the better.’

‘No-one’s keener than me to sew up this job.’

They moved back to Khostov, and the medic glanced up. ‘He has a sprained ankle, is all. I’ve bound it to a plastic heel support, so he should be able to move OK.’

‘Right,’ said the Major. ‘Let’s get you over to the ship.’

He accompanied them to a steel jetty erected on the edge of the ice and helped Khostov onto a waiting RIB. The journey to LK-80 was short. When Khostov noticed the steepness of the ladder, he glanced briefly at Sean. Major Pierce caught the look. ‘Allow me, prof.’ He bent, directing Khostov to grip his shoulders. Without a second’s hesitation he carried Khostov piggy-back style up the steep rungs. Sean watched in admiration. The big man was climbing the ladder with Khostov on his back faster than Sean could with a rucksack.

When Sean and Khostov reached the deck, they saw a group of sailors being led to several RIBs on the port side. The men were wearing shiny metallic survival blankets, accompanied by American troops.

‘From the submarine?’ queried Khostov.

Major Pierce nodded. ‘I’ll take you to the plant operations room.’

Entry was aft of the Bridge on Bridge Deck 4, through a set of double doors. Major Pierce keyed in a number to the external combination lock and held the door open for Khostov and Sean.

The room was huge, the height of two decks. Sean was overwhelmed by the number of controls which ran around the three walls opposite. The panels were covered in a multitude of dials and switches, which extended out into the room at desk height. A harsh light illuminated the space, giving the impression they had entered an operating theatre. Two men dressed in white overalls were tending a console.

They turned as Major Pierce approached. He introduced Sean and Khostov.

‘I’ll leave you three to get acquainted,’ said Sean. ‘Meanwhile perhaps Major Pierce here could give me a quick tour of the ship?’

The Major nodded agreement and they left Khostov in a huddle with the two nuclear engineers.

* * *

The movement was so quick Sean almost dismissed it. He stopped in his tracks, and held up his hand. Behind him, Major Pierce paused too. Silently Sean pointed to the port side, and the Major quietly crossed the deck. Sean marvelled at how quickly the big man moved. He would be an incredible asset to the Section. Together they crept forward, keeping low. Sean climbed the companionway up to Bridge Deck 3. Although he couldn’t see Pierce, he knew he was doing the same on the port side.

When Sean stepped onto the deck, he spotted the wraith again — this time in human form. The man appeared to be swaddled in layers of odd clothing. A couple of old sacks tied around the middle completed the strange picture. He slunk into a cabin. Sean caught sight of Pierce opposite and signalled for the marine to follow. Seconds later the Major joined him and they observed the man through the window.

He was bent over a safe, twiddling the combination. They watched as he withdrew a large brown envelope and stuffed it beneath the sacks and other layers he was wearing. Sean nodded, and Major Pierce opened the door silently. Sean followed him in.

The effect was almost comical. The man did a double take, then looked towards the exit. Sean could see the cogs whirring. The door represented his only means of escape — could he make it past the two of them?

‘Who are you?’ His voice was barely a whisper.

‘What’s more to the point — who are you, and what are you doing here?’ Sean responded.

‘This is my cabin.’ The man gazed around the walls. ‘And I am the Captain of this ship.’

‘And the packet?’

The Captain’s face fell. Perhaps he thought they hadn’t seen him tuck the envelope into his clothes.

‘Give!’ Sean held out his hand.

Reluctantly the Captain handed it over. Sean noted the red seal had already been broken. He opened the flap and withdrew several sheets of parchment-like paper. The writing was in Cyrillic. He showed it to Major Pierce, who shrugged his shoulders. Sean scanned the text for a few moments. ‘These look like orders.’

The Captain nodded.

‘So you can..’

The ship shuddered as a loud explosion ripped through the midsection.

‘Keep an eye on him,’ Sean told Pierce. ‘I’m going to check what that was about.’

Sean ran up the companionway to the reactor operations room. Khostov and the two American engineers stood outside.

‘What the hell happened?’

Khostov’s face was pale. ‘I was pumping out seawater from the primary circuit when the seals went. I’m surprised they lasted as long as they did. Between the reactor core and the containment vessel the neutron-absorbing shield is now empty.’

‘What does that mean?’

Khostov shuddered. ‘The explosion you heard was some of the material finding its way into the secondary coolant system. When that happened, it vented explosively. I’ve failed to reduce the temperature in the reactor.’

Sean shook Khostov by the shoulders. ‘Tell me, what does it mean?’

Khostov’s sigh was long and deep. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do to stop the core reaching meltdown.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Major Pierce and Captain Grigori joined the group. They moved inside the operations control room, and shut the door against the freezing cold.

‘How long do we have?’ Pierce asked.

‘A couple of hours,’ Khostov responded.

‘That doesn’t leave us much time to evacuate the ship. We’ll have to halt the rescue of the remaining crew from the submarine and get the hell out.’

‘Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as that,’ Sean replied. ‘Tell him, Alexei.’

Khostov cleared his throat. ‘When the uranium melts, it will burn right through the ship and through the hull. When it meets the seawater there will be a huge eruption as the molten uranium reacts. Enormous quantities of radioactive steam and debris will explode into the sky. The radioactive material will be carried by the winds all over the Arctic. A large part of the Arctic, the people and the wildlife they depend on, will become irradiated for a long stretch.’

Pierce stared at Khostov. ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘I was brought in to try and stop this happening.’ Khostov glanced helplessly towards the two American engineers. ‘I tried my best, but the odds were against me all along.’

‘What about this third safety system you were talking about,’ asked Sean.

Khostov shook his head. ‘We inspected it before the seals went. In theory, it’s still possible to start the process, but it would take longer than we’ve got to implement it.’

‘Even with the three of you working on it together?’

Khostov avoided making eye contact. ‘Even with the three of us. It’s too complicated, and we don’t have enough time.’

‘Then we must leave,’ said Pierce emphatically.

‘You leave,’ replied Khostov firmly. ‘I’ll stay.’

‘So your remains can be spread over the top of the world?’

‘I’ll continue on the cadmium-nitrate backup. It’s just possible I could get enough into the reactor to stop it from burning through the containment vessel.’

‘You have to be shitting.’

Sean thought Pierce’s vocabulary was limited, but he certainly knew how he felt. Sean held up his hand. ‘Wait. We’re not thinking straight about this. What about you two gentlemen — do you have any other ideas?’

The engineers eyed one another, then turned back to Sean. The leader responded. ‘No, there isn’t anything else. Khostov’s right, a blast is inevitable.’

Now it was Sean’s turn to use a ripe phrase. ‘Bollocks. There must be a way to put it off. Think!’

Silence descended on the group.

They waited a minute, but no-one offered a solution. ‘OK. If we can’t stop an explosion happening, is there something we can do to minimise the effect?’

‘Like what?’ asked Pierce.

‘Like — I don’t know.’ Sean paused. ‘Suppose we scuttle the ship. What do you think, Alexei?’

‘If the core made contact with the seawater on the ocean floor, the explosion would be better contained than on the surface. The depth of the sea bottom is what?’

They gazed expectantly at the captain.

‘About 500 metres,’ Grigori responded.

‘So the pressure on the seafloor would be around… 50 atmospheres. That’s fifty times the compression than at the surface — it might work!’

‘Even so, we would be annihilating the USS Montana,’ said Pierce.

‘Nearly everyone has been taken off,’ answered the lead engineer. ‘If we don’t do anything, they would die anyway.’

‘True. Right Captain.’ Pierce regarded Captain Grigori. How do we scuttle her?’

Grigori looked startled. ‘Are you sure that’s such a good idea? She’s the first of her line!’

Pierce fixed Grigori with a penetrating stare. ‘Do you really want to remain here when the core makes contact with the seawater?’

Grigori’s shoulders slumped. ‘There are scuttle valves at eight points around the ship. You would need to turn on five of them to make sure she went down quickly.’

‘How long would it take to sink it?’

Grigori shrugged. ‘It takes a while to open them. Depending on how many we open, maybe six to ten hours.’

Major Pierce gawked at him. ‘Are you shitting me? We’ve only got two hours left!’

* * *

At the American base, the radar operator spotted movement on the scope. ‘Incoming 200 nautical miles!’

‘Course and speed?’

‘950 km per hr. Russian warplanes are heading straight for us. ETA 23 minutes.’

‘Numbers?’

‘Difficult to say sir, with all the clutter from the storm. I’d guess a squadron at least.’

‘Right, get the interpreter here at the double. I want to speak to these boys before they arrive. And order the squadron up to meet them. Fingers off triggers until I say.’

The commander thumped the desk. Why was this happening, just as they were about to wrap things up? Maybe he could delay them with some smooth talk.

‘Interpreter, contact the leader of the flight. Let him know that we are packing up to leave. We’ll be gone in 30 minutes.’

The man threw him a sharp look. No-one was going to believe that.

‘Just do it!’

‘Sir!’

They waited a minute for a response. The commander flipped the speakers on, so they could all listen in. The lead pilot responded in English.

‘Storm flight to base. The deadline has expired. We don’t understand how you expect to be gone in 30 minutes.’

‘Tell him sixty minutes.’

‘Storm flight to base. You already lied, and you are lying again.’

They could hear the click as the leader ended the conversation.

‘Bloody hell! Try them again, and give me the mike.

‘Base to storm flight. We are on a peaceful operation to rescue the crew of our submarine. I repeat we are here on a peaceful operation.’

They listened, but there was no response.

The flight leader of storm flight clicked the intercom to broadcast to the rest of his squadron. ‘No further communication with the base, unless it is through me. We do not want the Americans to realise we have one hand tied behind our backs!’ The leader was referring to orders handed down by Dimitry Kamenev, the First Deputy Chief of the Presidential Administration; under no circumstances were they to make the first move. ‘Let the Americans think we are about to attack!’

‘Commander!’ It was the second radio operator. ‘Sentinel squadron want to know how much force they should employ to interdict Storm Flight.’

‘Their orders were clear. They are to protect and defend. Use any necessary force to comply.’

The commander turned back to the microphone. ‘Base to storm flight. I am recording this conversation. I am asking you to turn around. Under no circumstances should you attack our base or our aircraft. The base is home to the crew of USS Montana who have just been rescued from their disabled submarine. Any attack by you will harm non-combatants.’

Silence.

‘Base to Storm Flight. I repeat we have non-combatants on the base. Do not attack. We have comprehensive video of the base. Any action you make will be filmed. This conversation is also being recorded. Do not attack!’

‘Commander. Sentinel squadron are on an interception course. They report that Storm Flight has split, one section going north, the other south. Looks like they are attempting to circle the base.’

The commander thought for a moment. ‘No missiles fired?’

‘No sir.’

‘Right. Pull back Sentinel. They are to resume duties to protect and defend. But be prepared!’

The commander clicked the button on the microphone. ‘Base camp to Storm Flight. You should be aware icebreaker LK-80’s nuclear reactor is no longer stable. Any interference with LK-80 will not only halt the rescue process, but may also create a nuclear incident. I repeat, a nuclear incident. This conversation is being recorded. Please acknowledge.’

Silence.

* * *

‘Wait!’ Sean dashed to the door and stood outside, gazing into the sky.

‘You hear that!’

Most of the party regarded him in puzzlement, but Major Pierce was already nodding in agreement. He knew what Sean was thinking.

‘Look up there!’ Sean pointed to the American warplanes, hurtling high above them. ‘Just a few well aimed bombs from them would sink the ship a lot faster than we ever could.’ He glanced at the Captain for confirmation, but Grigori’s face held a horrified expression.

‘We need a radio. Grigori — a radio!’ Sean grabbed him. ‘Show us where!’

‘There’s one on the bridge,’ said Pierce.

‘Let’s go.’

They raced up the companionway and burst through the doors. Pierce pointed to the radio room behind, and they ran through. The set looked like it had been salvaged from a tanker decades ago, but it still worked.

‘What frequency do we contact them on?’ asked Sean.

‘We don’t. We have to communicate with base, and they issue the instructions.’

‘OK.’

Pierce set the frequency, and flicked the microphone switch. ‘LK-80 to base. Major Pierce here. Acknowledge immediately. This is urgent. Respond immediately.’ There were several seconds of static before they caught a faint voice.

‘Base to LK-80. What is the issue?’

Pierce briefed the base about the reactor meltdown and the consequences if the resultant explosion occurred on the surface. ‘We need to sink the ship urgently. A detonation on the seabed will be better contained. Divert two of your aircraft to bomb the ship!’

A burst of static caused the response to be lost.

‘Say again base, I’m losing you.’

‘Ah, LK-80 we have our hands full here. We’ve been joined by Russian fighters.’

Major Pierce squinted at Sean. ‘At times like this I wish I wasn’t in the military.’ He turned to the mike. ‘Write this down, this is important. Bombers are to avoid mid-ships. Otherwise you will make the problem worse.’

‘Base to LK-80, please say again. Reception is very bad.’

Pierce repeated the instructions. ‘Put two aircraft up from reserve. We need time to stop the rescue module and clear the ship.’

‘About 30 minutes?’ He checked Sean’s reaction.

Sean nodded agreement.

‘LK-80 to base. Commence bombing run at 13:37 precisely. Please acknowledge.’

The sound of static filled the room.

* * *

President Donahue and President Duskin entered the ante-room at the pre-arranged time, some fifteen minutes before the meeting with the British Prime Minister was due.

‘Have you any idea what Ashdown wants from us, Pavla?’

‘No, none. But he is cunning and crafty. I feel he has something more up his sleeve that he is not telling us.’

‘He is also extremely well informed. I imagine he’ll want the air crews from your two bombers released.’

‘Why would he want that?’

President Donahue shrugged. ‘I think he wants to use the incident as a lever of some kind.’

‘Did you know about the deception using fake GPS signals?’

Donahue paused before replying. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You looked surprised when Ashdown mentioned it. I guessed you didn’t.’

‘We have a few more minutes.’ President Donahue gestured to a chair and they both sat. He chose his next words carefully. ‘Khostov made some claims about corruption you had a hand in. Were they true?’

‘No.’ The denial was flat and immediate, brooking no argument.

‘I see.’

‘Tell me Robert, is this all a big bluff?’

Donahue pretended to consider the question, but felt it was uttered simply to divert attention from his previous query. He shrugged. ‘Who knows? But if it is a bluff, right now Ashdown holds the upper hand.’

‘We are both being forced to play his game, and we don’t understand what the stakes are.’

‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the PM is holding us to account? I mean, it’s not like his country is in the same league as ours.’

‘You know Robert, there is an old Russian saying: a bad peace is better than a good quarrel.’

President Donahue smiled. ‘That reminds me of an old Yiddish phrase: a bad peace is better than a good war.’

‘Well I suppose we should get down to business,’ Duskin said, indicating a change of mood. ‘Why did you occupy our vessel?’

‘To rescue the sailors trapped on the bottom of the sea,’ replied Donahue testily. ‘It was our only option. Remember the incident was first caused by your ship ramming our submarine.’

‘Robert. This was not a deliberate sinking, but an accident. And you snubbed our offer of a rescue. To make matters worse your military established a camp nearby and are patrolling the area with war planes.’ President’s Duskin’s voice rose. ‘Why should we take this lying down?’

‘The presence of Russian war planes are hampering the rescue work,’ replied Donahue heatedly. ‘American fighters were ordered to ensure they are protected while transferring the crew from the submarine.’

Both men rose to their feet, facing each other. At that moment the door opened and the British Prime Minister entered the room.

‘Gentlemen, I’m glad to see you are getting on so well. Shall we go in?

* * *

‘They want to speak to you.’ The XO handed the set to Captain White. While the Captain talked to the program manager on the surface, the XO glanced round the inside of the rescue module. Five body bags lay stacked two deep on the floor. Around the cramped interior the Captain and Thomas were the only two living ones aboard. They had lifted away from the USS Montana some twenty minutes ago. Thomas was looking forward to breathing fresh air again — even if it was going to be thirty below zero.

The Captain hung up the handset, his face ashen.

‘What’s the matter Captain? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

The Captain’s shoulders slumped. ‘There’s a major problem with the reactor on board the ship. It’s gone into meltdown. They want to sink the ship to prevent the fallout.’

‘OK Captain, but how does that affect us?’

‘They have to do it now.’

‘You mean, before we’ve got off?’ Thomas was incredulous.

Captain White laid a hand on his XO’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry Thomas.’

‘But we’re ten minutes away from the surface! Surely they can wait that long!’

The Captain lowered his head. ‘It’s fifteen minutes Thomas, and they can’t wait.’

‘Captain, I have a wife and two children!’

‘I know Thomas,’ the Captain replied sorrowfully. ‘If they delay any longer, they told me the explosion will wipe out all life forms from the Arctic for the next generation.’

‘Give me that phone!’

Thomas snatched it from the Captain. ‘I want to speak to the base commander immediately!’

‘Sorry sir, I have to go now. I’m really very sorry.’ The voice was clear but distant.

‘Just one minute please!’ Thomas paused to regain his composure. ‘If you do this, you are condemning the Captain and me to certain death. You are passing a death sentence on us, when your only reason for being here was to rescue the crew and officers of the USS Montana. Have you no pity man?’

‘I’m sorry sir.’

‘You may not realise this, but I have a family at home. A lovely wife and two children, aged 8 and 9.’

There was a long pause. ‘Hang on sir, I need to talk to the base commander.’

Thomas held the phone away from his ear, and turned to the Captain. ‘They’re checking to see what they can do.’

‘You have a lot to live for Thomas, so I’m not going to say anything — except this. The rescue mission was always going to be risky. We endured much while waiting for them to arrive. I admire your resolve, and the way you encouraged your men. Perhaps you should recognise our time has come. Realise and prepare.’

‘I’m not giving up without a fight Captain.’

The phone buzzed, and Thomas listened to the brief message. He replaced it carefully, and looked his Captain squarely in the eye. ‘They’re going to expedite our rescue. The program manager will remain to see to the crane. As soon as we are winched aboard we are to go straight to the lifeboat. We are to leave the bodies behind.’

Captain White lifted his head. ‘Very well Thomas. But if it doesn’t work out, just remember what I said.’

* * *

Sean planned to join Major Pierce and leave the ship with Khostov. The harsh crackle that boomed through the radio speakers almost drowned the voice. He waved the others away, knowing they needed to get off urgently.

‘…immediately…’

The message seemed to repeat. Sean twiddled with the frequency dial, hoping to catch some more.

‘…begin…’

The static drew Sean in. While the speakers repeated the announcement, he would not leave. He caught one more word the next time round.

‘…will…’

Sean couldn’t explain why, but he knew the message was important.

‘…bombing run…’

Bloody hell!

Sean ran to the lookout post outside the bridge. The skies were grey, the wind gusted strongly, but he still couldn’t see anything. Then he heard the shrill sound of jet engines, coming towards him on full throttle. Barrelling out of the cloud was a single F-35, already screaming for height. Sean watched it cross the ship and disappear into the clouds. A fraction later the bomb hit.

The Joint Air-to-Ground Multi-purpose missile was packed with a lethal shaped-charge capable of penetrating the most advanced armour, and a second delayed detonation blast fragmentation warhead. Although he couldn’t see it, he certainly felt the strike and the secondary explosion. The blast brought a deep rumble inside the mid-section, and the deck plates jumped in sympathy, throwing Sean onto his back.

He crawled to the side and stared out over the water. The first RIB was powering towards the ice.

A thousand questions raced through his mind, not least as to how he was going to get off the ship. Sean smacked the rail in frustration. Why the hell had the Americans decided to bring the bombing run forward?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The program manager experienced a jolt as the bomb landed, and was thrown to the deck. A second later the winch stopped. Dan checked the readout — the motorised winch had registered a stress reading in excess of its specification and had automatically cut out. Dan pressed the reset button helplessly, knowing that the built-in safety feature would prevent a restart for at least ten minutes.

He turned to stare at the ship over his shoulder, searching for the point of impact. He couldn’t find it. The awful realisation that there was nothing more he could do burned a pit at the bottom of his stomach. He whispered a quick prayer for the men below, and ran towards the rail for the last RIB.

In the rescue module both men felt a bump and the PRM stopped its gentle ascent.

‘What was that?’ asked the XO.

‘I don’t know Thomas, but it doesn’t sound good.’

Thomas picked up the handset. ‘Hello, what’s going on?’

There was no reply. ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’

There was no answer.

‘I think they’ve abandoned us,’ said Thomas.

The Captain took the phone from his XO, listened for a few moments and replaced it on the cradle.

Thomas regarded his Captain. ‘Did you hear what I just said? They’ve left us.’

‘Do you remember what I said, Thomas?’ Captain White placed a fatherly hand on Thomas’ shoulder. ‘Just think — nearly all the crew got away. I hope they arrive home safely.’

‘But what about us? You don’t understand my wife. She will go to pieces when she hears about me. And as for Emma and Georgina…’

The Captain noticed Thomas’ eyes moisten. ‘Sit down Thomas. I want to tell you something.’

For a minute they sat in silence, then Captain White began. ‘My children were older than yours. A boy, Peter, and a girl Zara. Peter married when he was thirty. His wife is a lovely girl. We still spend time with her.’

‘What happened to Peter?’

‘Two years after he married he got cancer. His wife was pregnant, and Peter died a year afterwards. I thank God he was able to see his son.’ The Captain sighed. ‘My wife and I spent a lot of time with Elaine and her son. I was granted a year’s leave of absence to do what I could.’

‘I’m really sorry. I knew you had some family difficulties, but I didn’t realise what they were.’

‘The point I’m trying to make Thomas, is this is something we all understand. But we cover it up, pretend it isn’t there. We will all die. But it was very hard when our son died before, well, before us.’

Thomas pulled a tissue out and wiped his eyes. ‘Yes, I see that.’

The Captain inhaled deeply, then breathed out slowly. ‘Right now there is nothing you or I can do to change anything. Now, wouldn’t it be better to go as the men our families know us to be?’

* * *

Sean raced into the bridge and around to the radio room at the back. He pressed the radio’s send button.

‘LK-80 to base camp. Cease bombing run. Repeat, stop your bombing run; personnel are still on board.’

He listened as the static filled the space, then repeated the message twice. About to repeat it for a third time, he stopped when he heard a whistling sound. The ship jolted as a second JAGM penetrated the power generation spaces aft of the reactor hall. He felt the deck tilt to starboard. There was no doubt the second bomb had holed the hull.

‘LK-80 to base camp. Cease bombing run. We have been hit and personnel are still on board.’

There was no response. Sean abandoned the radio and ran to the bridge lookout, grabbing a pair of binoculars from the plot table on the way. He scanned the sea; the last RIB was almost at the jetty on the ice. Sean screwed the focus ring, trying to make out who was in the boat. He spotted Major Pierce, Captain Grigori and the program manager Dan.

No-one had thought to check his whereabouts. Now he was marooned on a sinking ship, set to explode in a vast radioactive cloud.

* * *

‘Storm Flight 3 to Storm Flight leader!’

The leader of the Russian fighter wing dabbed his microphone button. ‘Report.’

‘Instruments detected an American warplane arming weapons system. I have him on visual.’

‘Give me a running commentary Flight 3 — can you see the target?’

‘He appears to be lining up on the ship.’

‘Not possible, Flight 3. American military vouched they are protecting their base and have no intention to launch an attack. I also confirmed this through military command.’

‘I’m telling you he is beginning an assault! My instruments indicate launch of an air-to-ground missile.’ There was a burst of static. ‘LK-80 has been hit! I repeat, LK-80 has been hit!’

The flight leader’s jaw clenched in a show of disbelief. He turned to his co-pilot sat alongside. ‘Contact the base. Find out what the hell they are playing at!’ Jabbing his mike, he resumed the exchange with Storm Flight 3. ‘Get photos and videos of the action. Keep up a running commentary!’

‘The Lightning has completed the first bombing run. It’s headed into clouds, ascending fast! I’ve lost visual, and my radar is unable to track it.’

‘The American base,’ interjected the co-pilot. ‘They’re saying they received a request to annihilate LK-80 from the Russian specialist on-board. He said the reactor is unstable and they must sink the ship!’

For the second time in as many minutes, the leader of Storm Flight couldn’t believe his ears. He clamped his jaw shut. The Americans plainly thought the Russian pilots were stupid. They were using their superiority in the air to run rings around his squadron. His ear-piece crackled with the next report from Storm Flight 3. ‘A second bomb has been released…impacting mid-ships.’

That was enough for Storm Leader. No matter that his own orders were to hold back, he was now the local commander and had to make his own judgement. Decision made, he jabbed the microphone. ‘Storm leader to Storm Flight. American planes have bombed LK-80. They are playing us for fools. They claimed peaceful intentions, yet they assaulted an unarmed Russian ship!’

He switched to the plane’s internal net and spoke to his co-pilot. ‘Contact base. Inform them what has happened. Tell them we are retaliating.’ He clicked the microphone on his headset.

‘Storm leader to Storm Flight. Take the American warplanes out of the sky!’

Flight leader manoeuvred to gain height and engaged his weapons systems.

* * *

Sean ran to the other side of the ice-breaker, searching for any means of escape. He used the binoculars to scan the surrounding seas, hoping for some kind of flotsam he might use. There was nothing but the iron steely waves. Perhaps there was something he could throw overboard? He began to hunt in the nearby cabins.

A minute later he became resigned to his fate. He looked out again across the Arctic sea as the freezing wind burned his skin. His graveyard would be this harsh landscape. He had come a long way and survived many life-threatening events in his career. Whenever he contemplated death he imagined it would be quick, at the hands of an assassin or a sniper’s bullet. He always believed he would die in the dirt or a gutter somewhere far from home, but never in such a strangely beautiful place.

He turned back to the ship, unwilling to give up just yet. As he crossed Bridge Deck 4, he paused opposite the double doors of the reactor control room. Something about the entrance and the room that lay beyond gave him the shivers. A sixth sense made him stop and approach. The doors stood slightly ajar and he pushed them open and peered in.

Bright lights illuminated a figure bent over one of the control room panels.

‘Khostov?’

The man jerked upright and twisted around. ‘Sean. I’m glad to see you.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you leave?’

‘I told them I needed to try and contain the core.’

A loud rumble sounded somewhere deep within the superstructure.

‘And can you?’

‘No.’ Khostov breathed the word so quietly Sean hardly heard him.

‘Was there ever anything else you could have done?’

Slowly Khostov shook his head.

‘Then why did you stay?’

‘I felt I had to. I designed the safety circuits.’

‘But you have a boy, waiting for you back in England.’

‘And you have a girlfriend. Yet you’re still here.’

A moment of utter understanding passed between them. Sean sympathised with Khostov’s desire for atonement, but another roar from the guts of the ship interrupted them. The floor tilted, wrenching his thoughts to the present. ‘We have to get off.’

‘What about the lifeboats?’

‘All gone.’

‘The American RIBs?’

‘Gone.’

‘Contact the Americans. Let them know we need assistance. Perhaps they might send a helicopter over to take us off?’

‘I tried the radio, but I can’t reach them.’

‘Then we are lost.’

As if to emphasise their predicament the deck lurched with the impact of a third JAGM, closely followed by a deafening blast from the delayed secondary explosive.

* * *

The leader of Sentinel Flight stared at his instruments in horror. They were lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Sentinel One to Sentinel Flight. We are under attack! Take evasive action. Do not fire back!’

He yanked the stick up savagely, and the g-forces began to drain blood from his head. Breathing quickly in his mask, he knew that if he didn’t get enough oxygen in the next few seconds he would lose consciousness. Normally this would not be critical for a short time, but he needed to keep his situational awareness intact. He pulled the stick back further and the airframe clawed the cold air for height. Right now the aircraft was vertical, acting just like a rocket, powering upwards towards thinner atmosphere.

He clicked his mike. ‘Base, we are under attack. Get all our assets up in the air! Use whatever you have to keep the Russians from bombing the airfield. If one bomb damages the runway, we are done.’

An insistent bleep started, and he observed several air-to-air missiles released by the Russian warplanes. He checked to confirm his Electronic Counter Measures was engaged. Now he would find out for real just how good the electronics were.

He rolled out of the ascent less than a minute after pulling the stick back. From a height of 60,000 feet, he studied the Barracuda electronics warfare package. The suite overlaid radar with infra-red tracking functions and electronic countermeasures, providing an aerial map of the battle below.

It was a complex and fast moving picture. The two squadrons of MiG-29s were the biggest threat; they had almost the same operational ceiling, but a smaller combat radius. As a short range fighter, they would have to leave the stage early. But what made the plane interesting was their ability at infra-red tracking. The R-73/AA-11 air missiles they carried were linked to the pilot’s helmet-mounted sights, meaning they would not need to use radar to key in a target — they could do that more quickly and simply by looking at it.

The pilot was less worried about the squadron of Su-24M. Although the Russian plane was faster, the F-35 supplied a better acceleration and a much higher ceiling. He realised that his big advantage — the F-35’s low visibility to radar and infra-red — had already been lost. By putting distance between his team and the Russian’s, he hoped to bring the advantage back into play. The MiGs were much more visible on radar, which would enable Sentinel squadron to get a shot off before the MiGs could re-acquire them.

The Russians had already loosed air-to-air missiles, and Sentinel leader caught an F-35 on the scope on its way down. He thumbed the microphone on the Russian’s frequency. ‘Storm Flight, break off your engagement. DO NOT FIRE!’

Another track arched across his visor, indicating the Russians had fired another missile. They must be deliberately ignoring his order. ‘Break off, break off. You are not under attack.’

The co-pilot clicked his mike. ‘Captain, Base says Storm flight saw us bombing the ship. They think we started the attack.’

‘Understood.’ The Captain clicked the mike to broadcast on the Russian frequency. ‘Storm Flight, break off your attack. We were directed to sink LK-80 by your own advisor. The ship’s reactor is about to explode. We were tasked to sink LK-80 to minimise the fallout. I repeat, break off your attack. LK-80 is being sunk at the request of your nuclear physics expert.’

For a second there was a lull in the fighting. Then the Captain saw a red trail in his visor.

The Russians had fired again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘That’s it,’ muttered Sean.

‘What?’ queried Khostov.

‘The helicopter, you talked about a bloody helicopter. It may be still there.’

Sean recalled seeing the machine while Khostov was attending the reactor. It seemed such a long time ago, but was probably less than an hour. Major Pierce had brought him on a quick tour of the ship and Sean glimpsed it tethered at the aft end of the bow deck. In all the excitement he believed someone would have flown it to base, but he couldn’t see the deck because the reactor hall was in the way.

‘Come on!’ Sean grabbed Khostov and pushed him towards the door. They staggered as an explosion ripped through LK-80, coming from the steam turbine or power generation area. Sean pushed him through the doors and they raced down the companionway to the bow deck. Emergencies were wonderful for showing where a person’s priorities really lay, thought Sean. Khostov’s strapped ankle didn’t seem to be holding him back at all.

Already seawater slopped over the steel plates. Immediately Sean felt the numbing cold as it soaked his boots. He continued to pull Khostov after him. Although the man possessed the same sense of urgency, he was too slow to be left to his own devices.

By the time they rounded the clinic at the corner, they were knee deep in seawater and the ship had a pronounced list. But there in front of them stood the helicopter, tied to the deck by four lines. Sean breathed his thanks. ‘Get in!’ Sean opened the door and shoved him through, then set about undoing the lines. The first three were easy to unhook, even under water, because they were slack. But the fourth was under tension, and impossible to release. Sean looked around for something to help. He recalled they had passed a fire extinguisher and axe on their way aft, and he returned to the fire station, wading through water a foot high. He broke the glass with his elbow, pulled out the axe and ran back.

Sean saw Khostov sitting helplessly in the cockpit. Knowing it could take up to a minute for the engines to reach full thrust, he left the taught line in place. Wading around the other side, he dragged open the door and climbed in. As he went through the start-up procedure, he glanced at his passenger, pale and shivering.

‘Do you know how to fly this?’ Khostov asked through chattering teeth.

‘I used to fly them in the marines. Remember?’

The ship lurched with a new explosion that seemed to originate directly underneath, and the deck tilted further. Sean planned to get the engine to the lift-off point before leaping out and hacking the last remaining tether, but before that happened, the line snapped.

Sean pulled the stick back, but it was already too late. Without enough power he couldn’t pull away from the sucking action of the seawater. The machine began to slide along the deck. By now the level had risen above the bottom of the doors. They were not water-tight at the best of times, and seawater leaked into the cockpit. The copter continued its relentless slide until it hit the bow rail and swung round.

Sean knew from experience that the moment a rotor touched the water it would break up. While they were stuck, the angle of the deck steepened, and it would only be a matter of seconds before the blades made contact.

‘Here, hold this,’ Sean commanded Khostov, giving him the stick. ‘Keep it pulled back.’

Sean pushed the door open against the press of water. He grabbed the axe and jumped out into the freezing seas, held his breath and ducked under the machine. It was difficult to see anything in the swirling chaos. Sean ran his hand along the underside until it met the ship’s rail. There was no doubt; the undercarriage had caught in the railing.

Sean grasped the strut and pulled. No good. He swung the axe, but it was hopeless.

It wouldn’t budge.

* * *

Sentinel leader observed the red trail crossing his visor, indicating the release of a Russian air-to-air missile. Another American plane had been hit, and the squadron was taking a hammering. He surveyed the battlefield picture again. US warplanes, scattered over the sky, were retreating from the onslaught.

‘Bandit on tail. Advise.’

He estimated Sentinel three was ten kilometres from his position. Another red trail traversed his field of view. He clicked the mike.

‘Take him out Sandy.’

‘Roger.’

Sentinel three applied emergency boost to the Pratt & Whitney F135 engines, and began a random weave pattern to try and confuse his adversary, and force him to apply more power. He checked the heads-up display inside the visor helmet, waiting until he was sure the Russian plane had reached near maximum speed. Then he hit the controls in a manoeuvre known as ‘viffing’.

The F135 engine was considered to be the most powerful ever installed in a fighter aircraft. In this version, the exhaust was capable of being deflected downward at the tail. Over 50,000 lbf of thrust was now being vectored through the nozzle, creating a huge break on the jet’s forward speed. The pursuer overshot rapidly, frantically scanning for the missing F-35.

‘Bingo one,’ Sentinel three breathed as he touched the button to launch an AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile. The Amraam’s solid-fuel rocket motor accelerated the missile to Mach 4. Less than a second later it contacted the MiG-29 and blew it out of the sky.

Immediately Sentinel 3 performed a high loop, coming behind another MiG. He blinked. The targeting software in his helmet acquired the Russian and launched an Amraam in the same split second.

Sentinel leader watched as the MiG vanished from his screen. He couldn’t stop an involuntary whoop.

‘Take that, Mother Fucker!’

* * *

Sean came up for air, holding the ship’s rail under the water. He breathed twice, deeply, and ducked under again. Placing his legs square against the stanchion, he heaved. It still refused to give. He felt the vibration from another explosion through the soles of his feet. The ship made a sudden lurching movement and canted over more steeply.

Sean knew this was the moment. If he didn’t release the undercarriage now, he never would. He gripped the strut with renewed force, pushing hard with his legs, pulling with his arms. Nothing else mattered; Sean was oblivious of everything except the pain.

The strut moved slightly and despite the numbing effect of the ice cold seas, a sudden and excruciating pain shot up his arm. He knew immediately what had happened; his index finger had snapped where the bone had been weakened by the saw cut, courtesy of Urilenko. Now his left hand was useless. With one last exceptional effort he hauled the ironwork with his right hand. It gave way suddenly and unexpectedly. He was so surprised it took several moments to realise the helicopter was free. Using the deck, he propelled himself to the surface and gasped for air.

He wiped his eyes. Where the hell was the copter? The tail pivoted overhead. Sean realised that the whole aircraft was swinging in a slow circle, just feet away from the deck. He waited, timing his leap, and jumped onto the fuselage while grasping the door latch with his uninjured hand. The aircraft swung round, Khostov unable to control the machine. Sean lent in to reduce the centrifugal force, slipped open the cockpit door and threw himself in.

‘Let me have it now.’

Khostov turned to look at the man beside him, water pouring from his clothes.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ was all he could say.

* * *

Both Presidents entered the room on time and were greeted by the British PM.

‘Sit down gentlemen.’ Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown indicated two chairs. ‘I’m sorry I had to bring the meeting forward, but we are in danger of being overtaken by events in the Arctic.’

‘Pleased to help in any way I can, Terrance,’ responded President Donahue. He noticed a single black file lying on the table behind them and wondered if the Russian President had observed it too.

‘I believe things are getting out of hand. I have evidence that both American and Russian war planes were ordered into the Arctic, and may be engaged in a confrontation.’ He eyed President Duskin. ‘I’m not sure how much our colleague Pavla understands what is at stake?’

President Duskin’s face remained fixed. ‘Perhaps if you were to explain, I might be able to tell you.’

‘Well it’s certainly disturbing news, I’m afraid.’ Ashdown looked closely for signs Duskin was conscious of the events he was talking about. ‘There is a very high probability that a huge explosion of toxic radioactivity will occur on the icebreaker, LK-80. The fallout is likely to be greater than ten times that of Chernobyl and Fukushima put together. You should be aware the British Government has sent a professional to investigate, at the request of the American State Department.’ Ashdown nodded towards President Donahue, and waited for the reaction.

The Russian President cleared his throat. ‘I am conscious that the American military forcibly boarded LK-80 when it was going about its lawful business.’

The PM leaned forward. ‘Were you informed that the reactor on board your ship is about to explode?’

The silence gave him his answer. The Prime Minister regarded the American President. ‘The expert decided the best way to minimise the fallout was to scuttle the ship once everyone had been evacuated. He called on American air support to sink LK-80, and this fact was made known to your squadrons. Your warplanes chose to ignore the message and opened up an attack on US planes.’

Pavla Duskin’s face reddened. ‘My understanding is that this was a deliberate attempt by American forces to get rid of the evidence of their occupation of our vessel.’

‘No, Pavla. Your own expert, Alexei Khostov — the most authoritative nuclear scientist in Russian — has said that sinking the ship was the only way to reduce fallout from the blast.’

Duskin waved his hand dismissively. ‘Khostov is a renegade scientist. You are working together to discredit Russian interests. You British always side with your American cousins. It is only natural for a dog to follow its master.’

Ashdown’s lips drew back into a taught line. ‘That is not what is happening here, Pavla. I wish to bring you both to a point of mutual understanding. Regardless of the outcome, unless you both rein in your forces and co-operate in dealing with the crisis, I will place the cause of the eruption squarely on both your shoulders. An investigation will prove me correct, and at the very least you will both lose office. There is a strong possibility you will face prosecution by the international community for your intransigence in the months to come.’

Robert Donahue looked at Ashdown sharply.

‘Yes, I do mean both of you,’ repeated Ashdown.

Duskin leaned back with an amused smile. ‘You play the unbiased negotiator, but I still believe you are in league together.’

The PM fingered the black file. ‘I haven’t yet had an opportunity to discuss the content of this file. I am much more concerned that instead of fighting each other, you should work together to resolve this crisis. You have a straight choice: recall your planes immediately, or I will organise a press conference and blow the whole sorry story to the world.’

The Prime Minister stood and picked up the phone. ‘Geoffrey, I want to arrange a press conference one hour from now.’ He replaced the handset and turned to face them. ‘Well gentlemen, what will it be?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

From the outset of the attack, the dedicated processor aboard Sentinel One assessed the precise location, speed and trajectory of each warplane engaged in the dogfight. Using the sensors on-board the squadron’s airplanes, it also tracked every missile fired on both sides. Thus it was aware of the type and quantity of remaining armaments.

The result of the calculations, which lasted one five hundredth of a second, was a Tactical Battlefield Plan (TBP). The plan united the firepower of the American flight, with a central computerised ‘situational awareness’ hub. Though tested many times over the deserts of New Mexico, the program had never been implemented in hostile conditions — until now.

The TBP was constantly being updated during the early phase of the conflict, but acted only in passive mode. Sentinel leader decided that the time was right, and leaned forward to activate TBP. The switch was protected by a cover which he lifted to depress the button underneath. TBP switched from passive to active mode. Its first priority was to extricate the most vulnerable American warplanes, and the computer issued a rapid series of commands to the rest of the flight.

Each pilot received a set, allocating a grid reference and guidance on how to attain the position, and when. It was up to each navigator to ensure their aircraft reached that point at the pre-determined time. They knew that other nearby warplanes would be covering their movements.

Each crew manually assigned their weapon’s system to operational control of the TBP, reporting ‘Weapons free!’ to Sentinel One. Now all the American warplanes fought as one, under the unified command of the computer on board Sentinel One. All the flight’s sensors, including thermal and radar, fed into the TBP, and the entire arsenal of the squadron came under central control.

The computer made constant adjustments as its human operators strived to achieve the electronic orders. Once they reached their station, it issued another command string, the equivalent of FIRE! Five planes unleashed Amraams, chasing Russian tail. Seconds later three struck their targets, and the remaining two Russian warplanes fled.

Stage two of the plan executed immediately. This phase was designed to begin eliminating key elements of the opposition’s assets. Ten warplanes from Sentinel flight targeted three MiG-29s and two Su-24Ms. Ten pilots did their best to respond quickly and accurately to locate themselves at the correct RDV. At the appropriate instant, each plane released a missile, catching four of their targets. The last Su-24M turned tail, narrowly avoiding oblivion.

The battlefield computer commenced phase three of the operation without pause, marking the beginning of the end. The TBP determined the next group of Russian planes assigned for destruction, based on their threat level. Up to this point, the American attack proved to be so devastating, the Russians did not have time to regroup and form a coherent counter-attack. Storm Flight scattered to the winds.

Seconds later an emergency recall message was broadcast to the whole of Sentinel wing. They were commanded to cease the attack and stand down. Unfortunately, the order came too late to stop another four of the Russian flight number being pursued by missiles and eliminated seconds later.

* * *

Sean looked back to where LK-80 used to be. There was no sign of her now.

On board the ship inside the reactor hall the core meltdown continued as LK-80 slowly sank. Fuel rod casings collapsed with the heat which approached 2,500 degrees centigrade. Uranium fuel pellets, Zirconium alloy sleeves and steel inner lining puddled on the floor of the containment vessel. The mix of radioactive and non-radioactive elements was now called a corium — one of the rarest forms of matter on the planet. The closest material it resembled was molten lava from a volcanic eruption — but it was twice the temperature of the hottest lava ever ejected by a volcano.

The corium quickly eroded the containment and the incandescent sludge dropped slowly onto a concrete bed, specially constructed to limit a potential meltdown. Complex reactions with the concrete commenced as the sludge burned a firepath through the metre thick wall. Gravity helped to speed the reaction since the ship was no longer sinking on an even keel. A thick crust formed on top of the lava-like melt, adding to the weight of material. The layer provided a thermal shield against the surrounding atmosphere, and kept the nucleus from cooling.

Above Sean the sky was quiet; the dog-fight was over. He shivered violently; his Arctic survival suit was soaking and his hand hurt like hell. A marine hustled him and Khostov to the waiting C-17 Globemaster. As soon as they climbed on board, the aircraft taxied to the airstrip.

Sean observed the occupants of the huge airplane. They were mostly US military, plus the remainder of the crew from USS Montana. He spotted Major Pierce near the front and raised his good hand in a friendly wave. The marine who had accompanied them distributed two gas masks and motioned for them to put them on. He slipped the elastic cord over his head and arranged the seal over his face, before checking Khostov’s.

LK-80 continued to descend and passed the 300 metre mark. Enclosed spaces within the living areas, the steam turbine hall and power generation room started to implode with the external pressure of the ocean. During the descent the corium had grown in size and weight while eroding the last of the concrete bed. One hundred and forty tons of the melt dropped on to the deck plates and burned through the two centimetre internal steel hull in less than five minutes.

Here it encountered water for the first time in the form of bilge, slopping between the inner and outer hulls. The outcome was devastating. The melt vaporised the water, causing an explosion which punched a hole through the outer hull. As the vessel descended below four hundred metres, seawater rushed in, meeting the corium head on. An enormous blast occurred, vaporising the ship and the sea for half a kilometre in diameter. The sudden and intense transfer of heat caused the water to separate into its constituent elements of hydrogen, oxygen and super-heated steam. Well above the auto-ignition point of the mixture, the ball combusted in an altogether bigger eruption.

The corium experienced a heat spike, and as the sea filled the vacuum it met the thermal barrier generated by the nucleus. There the saltwater boiled off into superheated steam, pushed ever closer to the incandescent core by the weight of the surrounding Ocean. The whole cycle began again, causing another large detonation as the hydrogen ignited in the oxygen-rich mixture.

Sean could hear a rumble even above the roar of the aircraft engines. It sounded like a vast train coming to a halt and he felt the effects as the big aircraft became airborne. The entire plane staggered with the force of the blast. The pilot recovered, and Sean shot a look through the port hole.

Dark clouds scudded in the sky and it appeared to be raining out there. Two kilometres away the sea erupted. An expanding sphere of superheated steam and vapour rose violently from the depths. He could hardly believe his eyes as an immense dome formed over the ocean.

The aircraft turned away, still clawing for height as the leading edge of the compression wave hit. The aircraft dropped 300 feet vertically and a collective groan of fear echoed around the interior. Now nose down, the plane continued to dive to the earth. Some people began to assume the crash position, heads bent forward, arms covering their heads. Sean stared out of the window as the ground rose up to meet them. Oxygen masks popped from the overhead lockers, and some of the passengers emitted loud screams.

Sean held his breath and gripped the seat in front of him. A certain sadness settled over him, and an odd thought flashed through his mind. To have come all this way, to have achieved so much, just to die in the closing moments of the mission. Hardly fair, but then that was the price he had to pay for getting his kicks. Almost immediately he was overcome by shame; hundreds of other people were bound to the same fate, and his first instinct was for himself.

The pilot applied maximum thrust and the airframe vibrated with the complex forces battling for the lives of the passengers. Slowly, the nose began to rise, barely two hundred of feet above ground. The aftermath of the compression front gave the huge aircraft a boost in forward speed, and they rose quickly away from the certainty of imminent death.

Sean turned to look at Khostov. He appeared relieved, a small smile playing around his lips. ‘Do you think it worked?’

Khostov turned to gaze through the window. ‘I don’t know. We’ll only find out after lots of tests.’

They settled back in their seats, and Sean gingerly removed Grigori’s document from the water-tight pouch of his survival suit. The paper was untouched by the soaking he had taken when trying to free the helicopter. He scanned the pages, puzzling over the Cyrillic. ‘Perhaps you could help me Alexei, my Russian is a little rusty.’ He passed the manuscript to Khostov with his good hand.

Khostov smiled. ‘It’s the least I can do for you.’

* * *

The British Prime Minister put down the newspaper and rose to greet Presidents Donahue and Duskin. They were back in the same meeting room, and Prime Minister Ashdown began with an apology.

‘I know it’s the last day of the summit and most of the other leaders have left for their respective countries. I really do appreciate your cooperation in remaining behind for a chat.’ The PM gestured to the newspaper. ‘I see that speculation is mounting as to why the Presidents of America and Russia are meeting with me.’

‘It’s also mounting with me,’ replied Donahue stiffly. ‘I can’t see any other reason for us to meet. We’ve all said what needs to be said.’

The PM paused. ‘Perhaps.’ He studied the Russian President. ‘I’ll come to the point. I have information on good authority that your order to send an ice-breaker into the northern Arctic was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.’ The PM smiled at the unintentional pun. ‘Your Russian icebreaker was intended to be the first in a series of ships. Following that, you planned to send a floating nuclear power platform which would in turn provide the energy required for a deep water rig to extract oil and gas at depth.’

The Russian President rolled his eyes and looked hopelessly at the American President.

‘I know this, because I have the secret orders transmitted to Captain Grigori of the icebreaker LK-80.’

The PM switched on the TV, showing a copy of the orders in Cyrillic script. He scrolled through the pages, stopping at one in particular. ‘You will note the co-ordinates: ninety degrees north, zero degrees west. The co-ordinates of the North Pole.’

President Donahue looked on bemused, and thankful the PM was pointing the gun at the Russian President for a change.

‘Few know that the North Pole is directly over part of the Lomonosov ridge, an area your Russia scientists have argued belongs to Russia as an extension of the Russian continental shelf. Russia has been trying to claim this territory for many years.’ He observed the Russian President. ‘Your government supported an expedition to plant a titanium flag there on the sea floor, way back in 2007. The men who accomplished that mission were brought back as heroes.’

The PM fingered the black file. ‘If you thought this information would be deeply damaging to your position, then the contents of this file are much worse.’ He regarded the American President. ‘You too.’

He indicated the chairs. ‘Please sit gentlemen.’ Both Presidents eyed each other and sat. ‘You have a choice facing you today concerning my initiative to develop the Arctic in a sensitive and environmentally friendly way.’

He turned so he could see them both. ‘Or I will let the world know what’s in this file.’

He pushed the folder deliberately to one side. ‘I require both your nations to pledge their support for an environmentally friendly and sustainable development of the Arctic. I will give you a year from today to negotiate and settle on a new treaty with members of the Arctic Council — Canada, Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. The treaty will put the indigenous peoples of the far north first, followed by the wild life and environment. The committee will setup a procedure to approve and licence developments from any nation who wants to drill for oil, gas or minerals, making these principles paramount. A licence will only be granted if 6 out of the 8 countries agree. A member cannot vote for a licence on its own behalf. The 200 nautical limit of economic development will be relaxed only at the discretion of all 8 member states.’

The PM placed a single page of printed copy in front of each President.

President Donahue sighed. ‘Terrance, I’m tired of your blackmail. What do you say Pavla?’

The Russian President paused in thought. Ashdown drew the black folder towards him and opened the cover. Inside were about eight pages of closely typed notes. He flicked over a page, drawing his finger down the margin. ‘Very well.’

‘What do you want in exchange?’ President Duskin interrupted.

The PM snapped the file shut. ‘The money paid for development licences will be used by the Arctic council solely to improve the safety and livelihood of the Arctic communities and wildlife.’

‘Well I can’t see us agreeing to such a treaty in 12 months. It will take years to iron out the details,’ responded President Donahue.

‘No!’ replied the PM firmly. ‘You both agree today, or you don’t. I strongly suggest you read the memorandum of intent you have before you.’

The Presidents bent to study their copy. After a minute President Duskin looked up. ‘I don’t really see a problem here Robert. It will mean we both get a chance to develop the resources we all know lie under the ocean floor.’

‘We still haven’t settled on country borders in the far north, after years of negotiation.’

Duskin waved his hand. ‘This is more important Robert. If we agree on this, I am sure we would come to some arrangement on boundaries.’

President Donahue sighed again, and turned to address his host. ‘Terrance, I don’t want you to ever force me into a position again. Is that clear?’

The British PM smiled. ‘Of course not, Robert. That’s a promise.’ He produced a pen from an inside pocket. ‘Now if you would both care to sign at the bottom?’

The Presidents signed their own copy, then swapped papers and signed again. Ashdown added his signature to both copies as a witness. ‘Perhaps you have enough time to join me in a toast?’

The PM fetched glasses from a side counter. ‘Pavla, could you remove the cork from the champagne, and Robert, would you be so good as to help?’

When they were each holding a glass, Ashdown raised his. ‘To the Arctic.’

They chinked glasses. ‘Oh. There is one small matter I nearly forgot.’ The PM regarded the Russian President. ‘I want something for myself. You are holding one of my agents.’ He faced President Donahue. ‘And you have two Russian air crews.’

Ashdown paused for their attention. ‘I need all of them brought home safely to where they belong.’

The President Donahue shook his head and pursed his lips. He looked at the Russian President and saw a small inclination of his head.

‘Very well.’

Ashdown turned to the Russian President, the question plain on his face.

‘I agree too.’

After both Presidents left, the PM wandered over to the window and gazed out at the peaceful gardens below. How ironic to be in Himmelpfortgasse, site of the last exchange of spies between Russia and America. He thought about the deal he had just engineered.

According to his calculations about four million people who depended on the Arctic for subsistence would benefit. He sucked in his cheeks. While their future was not assured for ever, they would continue to survive, perhaps even prosper, in the medium term.

He thought of his close friend Howard Stern, the Home Secretary. How proud he would be to learn that Ashdown had helped a people, living on the margins at the top of the world. Thanks to him, the subjugation of Native Americans or the internment of Russian dissenters in the Gulags would not be repeated in the Arctic.

He opened the black file again and the lines of tension in his face relaxed into a smile. The document consisted of eight pages of typed notes. The Presidents had only the briefest glimpse of the manuscript with the Downing Street logo stamped on each sheet. But if they had viewed it more closely they might have been shocked to learn it contained nothing more than a summary of the latest cabinet minutes.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Murdock was on duty, puffing on a fag. It looked like someone had persuaded him to use the e-cigarette kind, though. Eleven years ago Murdoch was on an assignment in the Far East when a sniper caught him in the sights. The result was a shattered tibia, but he refused to retire. They found him a job in the communications department on the fourth floor. He kept watch over all ongoing operations, verifying codes and ciphers, and routing secure incoming calls to their proper destination. However he declined to give up his smoking habit, and rather than remove him, they removed the smoke alarm.

‘Hi mate.’

Murdock twisted round, taking in the battered face, the bloodshot eyes and the bandaged fingers. ‘Judas Priest, Sean. You look like you’ve just escaped from the mouth of hell!

‘I feel like that too.’

‘I’ve been keeping tabs on your antics in the Arctic. Sounded a bit hairy towards the end. Still, nice to have you back.’

Sean hesitated. ‘I wonder if you could do something for me, off the record?’

‘Anything pal.’

‘This has to stay between you and me. I don’t want anyone here to find out.’

Murdock lifted his shoulders. ‘You know me, Sean. Ask away.’

‘It’s about the girlfriend. She went back to the States, and I haven’t heard from her. I’ve tried ringing her mobile and land line, but there’s no answer. She changed jobs recently, and I don’t know the name of her new company. Could you find out?’

‘Sure, mate. Put what you know on some paper for me, and I’ll get to work.’

Sean left for the cafe, after writing out Natasha’s details. He nursed a coffee while his mind wandered, going over and over the possible reasons for her silence. Maybe she had decided she wanted nothing more to do with him. Perhaps she had bought a new mobile, to avoid the prospect of having to talk to Sean.

An hour later, the door opened, and Murdock walked in. Sean admired the way he ambled over to his table; no-one would guess he was wearing an artificial leg.

‘Hi, did you find her?’

Murdock avoided eye contact. ‘Sean, let’s find somewhere quiet to talk.’

Two doors along they found an empty office, and Murdock closed the door quietly behind them.

‘I’m getting bad vibes, Murdock. What did you find out?’

Murdock waved to a comfy chair. ‘Sit down.’

‘Stop, Murdock. I need to know what you found out.’

‘It’s bad news, Sean. She’s dead.’

An involuntary groan escaped from Sean’s mouth. ‘It must be a mistake.’

Murdock shook his head. ‘I spoke to a friend in the FBI. After a search of his files he put me in touch with the special agent dealing with her murder.’

Sean searched Murdock’s face for any hint this was a bad joke, but there was only sadness in every line of his expression. At that moment, Sean felt something go inside. He had counted so much on seeing her again, on being with her when he finished at the Section. She had survived a sniper’s bullet, and was recovering so well. He never imagined she would die. ‘How did it happen,’ he asked quietly.

‘A drive-by. Two on a motorcycle. The pillion passenger stitched her with a semi-automatic.’

Sean moved to the chair slowly and sat. He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I’ll find them Murdock.’

Murdock sat opposite. ‘No, Sean.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry mate, but they were professionals. The FBI, with all their resources, don’t stand a chance of finding them. You haven’t a hope in hell.’

Sean was quiet for a whole minute. When he spoke, his voice was a little stronger. ‘I have two things they don’t have, Murdock. Determination, and time. You probably didn’t know, but I’m leaving the Section. I have limitless determination, and now I have limitless time.’

Murdock bowed his head, unwilling for Sean to see the scepticism on his face.

* * *

‘Mr Moore?’

‘Si.’ The man’s brown eyes looked Sean over warily.

‘I hope you got my message?’

‘Yes, you are Mr Quinlan.’

‘Call me Sean, please.’ Sean held out his hand.

The man declined to shake. Instead he stood to one side to allow Sean past. ‘Come in.’ He followed Sean into the cool interior of the house. ‘Adriana,’ he shouted. ‘Come, see. It is Mr Quinlan from England.’ He showed him into a large sitting room with a sea view.

Sean stood awkwardly for a moment. ‘The view is beautiful. But how did you come to be here?’

‘You wonder why a Spanish man is living in Italy? Well, I married Adriana and she comes from Genoa.’ He turned and shouted down the hall. ‘Adriana, Mr Quinlan is here. You are keeping our guest waiting.’

He turned to Sean. ‘She has not been very well, you understand, since the news.’

A few moments later she came in, and Sean immediately noticed the resemblance. Natasha had the same eyes, the same oval face, the same silky smooth skin. Sean had no doubt this was her mother. He also noticed she had applied a small amount of fresh makeup, probably the reason for her late entrance.

When she held her hand out towards him, the gesture was familiar. He felt a sickening sensation in the bottom of his stomach. She leant forward and air-kissed his cheek, studying him for a second. ‘You know?’

Sean looked from one to the other. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

‘Please sit down.’ Adriana indicated the sofa and Sean sat as requested.

‘I’ve only just found out. I was away, out of contact. When I got back I tried ringing Natasha’s phone, but there was no answer.’ Sean felt his words running on. ‘A friend helped me trace her. I’m really very sorry.’

Adriana put out her hand and touched his arm. ‘It is all right, Mr Quinlan.’

‘Call me Sean.’

‘Yes. We have known for three days now. We did try to contact you.’ She glanced at her husband.

‘We did,’ confirmed Rodrigo. ‘But we had no phone number and no address.’

‘I’m sorry. Natasha did have my number, but I guess she didn’t tell you. That would be my fault. In my job I’m not supposed to give my number out to anyone.’ Sean rubbed his forehead. ‘I made an exception for Natasha. She and I were, well..’

‘Going to be married.’

‘Yes.’

Despite the sadness evident in her eyes, Adriana smiled. ‘You shouldn’t be so reserved, Sean. Of course we knew! When Natasha was here, she was full of the news. She told us you had resigned from your job to be with her.’

‘She did?’ Sean looked stunned. ‘Over the last few weeks we exchanged a few texts, and a brief call here and there. But I didn’t think she was going to accept my proposal.’

‘Oh Sean,’ responded Adriana. ‘She was so happy! She couldn’t stop talking about it, and making plans. She showed us pictures of you both in Venice.’

Sean put a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes. He sighed deeply. ‘I’m glad she was so happy. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.’

Adriana ordered Rodrigo to go and make some coffee. She got up and sat next to Sean, putting a friendly arm around his shoulders. ‘When we heard the news that Natasha had died, we were in shock. We still are. We will never get over it. I can see it came as a shock to you too.’

Sean nodded in agreement, not trusting himself to speak.

‘What we cannot understand is why she was murdered. If she died of natural causes, we could take that better.’

Rodrigo entered with a tray, and busied himself with setting out the cups on the coffee table. He looked up. ‘Do you know why, Sean?’

‘I only know what the police told me. That she was shot on her way back from work.’

‘She had been at the new company less than a week. I wondered if there was a connection between her death, and your job?’

Sean caught the look Adriana gave her husband. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else, but I don’t see how there could be. My last assignment was thousands of miles away.’

‘Nevertheless, I expect your friends or relatives might be at risk, because of what you do.’

Sean’s thoughts reeled. A familiar sense of dread returned to the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Sean’s first sight of Lomax was at Heathrow. He came hobbling through the lobby with the aid of a walking stick. He had lost a lot of weight. His complexion was pale and his eyes bloodshot.

‘You look positively fit.’

Lomax looked at Sean. ‘You look how I feel.’

‘You didn’t see a doctor?’

Lomax waved his hand dismissively. ‘Nothing they can do for me. Anyway, I need a beer.’

Sean guided him towards the car, and drove to the Filey Brigg. When they were seated, he bought a pint for Lomax and a diet cola for himself. ‘I don’t suppose you want to talk about it.’

Lomax’s eyes told him the answer. ‘Not really. If you need to know the gory details, I can’t remember most of it.’ He took a big pull, wiped his mouth and set the glass down deliberately. ‘It’s strange. For days I dreamt of doing that — drinking a pint. And now that I’m here, with one in front of me, it isn’t as I expected it. It doesn’t taste as good as I imagined. It’s as if reality has faded into the background.’

‘You’re probably still in shock. I expect they put you through the mill.’

‘I didn’t get much sleep. I do remember that — and the pain.’ Lomax took a sip of beer. ‘They forced me into stress positions for long periods. Floodlit the cell; played loud Russian marches at random intervals so I couldn’t sleep. Every two hours or so they sent guards to drag me out into the interrogation room.’

‘And I thought the Russians were more sophisticated these days.’

Lomax eyed him warily. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. They gave me the full treatment; beatings, electric shocks, and eventually water-boarding.’

‘I’m sorry Lomax, I didn’t mean to pry.’ Sean went to the bar for another round.

‘I don’t suppose you know who was behind the interrogations?’ he asked when he returned.

‘As a matter of fact, I do. It was Zlotnik.’

Sean slammed his glass onto the table. ‘Bastard!’

‘Steady on. I’m still alive.’

‘But my girlfriend isn’t.’

‘What? Natasha died?’

‘She was murdered. A professional job, four days ago. I’ve just got back from seeing her parents. I’m going to Italy again in a week for the funeral.’

‘Oh. I am sorry.’ Lomax leaned against the seat back. ‘Ah, I see what this is about. You imagine Zlotnik might be behind it. But why would he? She was a non-combatant.’

‘She was the only person in the world who was close to me.’

‘But why would he do that? She had nothing to do with business.’

Sean swung round to look at Lomax. ‘Because we stole the one person he wanted. We took Khostov from him, and as if that wasn’t good enough, we returned for his son.’

Lomax stared at Sean. ‘But how would he know about Natasha?’ He sipped his beer. ‘Oh God, I think I’m beginning to see.’ Slowly and carefully Lomax replaced the glass on the table. ‘You believe it was me. You think I gave him her name.’

‘Did you?’

Lomax massaged his temple. ‘I don’t know Sean. In the end I lost track of the questions they asked, and what I told them. They could have asked me to dance, and I would have tried to give them a tango. I was unconscious a lot of the time, but they wouldn’t let me be. They woke me at regular intervals by pushing my head into a bucket of water and holding it there. Then they would start with the questions again, over and over until I said something. Anything.’

‘So you could have told them?’

Lomax stared out of the window, trying to recall the harrowing details. ‘There were several times when I longed for death. I told him a lot of things. I could have told him about her.’

Sean got up abruptly.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to get one more drink. And when I return you and I are going to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘About going back to Russia.’

* * *

‘Before we go, would you come for a walk with me?’ Natasha’s father indicated a path.

Sean walked alongside Mr Moore, noticing their shadows beneath them. They were in the hills above Finale Ligure, with the sun high overhead. He caught glimpses of the sea and the town lower down the slopes as they wound their way through the graveyard.

Mr Moore took him gently by the arm. ‘You have been very quiet, Sean.’

‘Yes.’

‘You have hardly said anything to Adriana. I understand you are mourning, just as we are. Nevertheless, I think there is something else that makes you so quiet.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I know your wife — and you — need time to grieve.’

‘You wanted to leave us with our thoughts. It is kind, and may I say, very English.’

Sean smiled briefly.

‘Perhaps you also feel responsible?’

They stopped.

‘Why?’

‘Because you were unable to prevent what happened. Because you were not with her at the end.’

Sean sighed. ‘You are very perceptive. I did — I do feel guilty.’

They resumed the walk, and Mr Moore continued. ‘I am sorry for being so abrupt when we first met. I blamed you for the death of my daughter.’

‘You don’t blame me now?’

Mr Moore’s eyes flicked briefly to Sean. ‘No. Adriana made me see sense. She said a year ago you prevented some really bad men from having her murdered.’ He faced Sean. ‘You saved her life.’

Sean nodded, not wanting to elaborate.

‘We would not have seen her, except for you. She lived another year, thanks to you.’ He grasped Sean’s shoulders. ‘So I don’t blame you, and you should not feel guilty.’ His eyes began to water.

‘But I do, no matter what you say.’

Mr Moore sighed. ‘You know it was so lovely to see her. She spoke about how you first met in the States. I have to tell you, she was not especially impressed by you, at least, to start with.’

Sean halted and turned to Natasha’s father. ‘Mr Moore, I loved your daughter. I would have done anything for her. I just regret I wasn’t there to stop her being killed.’

‘I sense your anger, Sean.’

‘Mr Moore, I am not just angry. I intend to seek justice for the man responsible.’

A look of real concern passed over Mr Moore’s face. ‘I gathered from Natasha you are an exceedingly capable individual. Are you planning to bring him to justice, or to administer it yourself?’

Sean remained silent.

Mr Moore shook his head sorrowfully. ‘No-one but her father could want more. But justice administered by the courts. It’s not your job to dispense it.’

When Sean didn’t reply, Mr Moore gestured to the church, the town below and the sea. ‘See this lovely land Sean. Is it not beautiful? Yet this country has more blood spilt because of greed and revenge. Don’t become one of those people. Please.’

They stood for a moment in silence. Finally, Sean responded. 'Mr Moore, I want to thank you and Adriana for your hospitality. But I can’t promise anything.’ He turned and made his way back down the path to the graveside.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘Beer?’

Lomax shook his head. ‘I’ve work to do.’

Sean appraised his Executive. He had lost the walking stick, and there was more colour to his complexion. ‘Really? We could talk here, or at the pub.’

Lomax was silent for a moment. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘Right, pub it is then. Your round, I think.’

Lomax drove, and Sean was pleased to find he had regained some of his old form. They found a table, and Lomax brought the drinks over. He set the glasses down, taking in Sean’s pale complexion and listless expression, not to mention the fingers of his left hand bound with splints. ‘You still look like shit.’

‘Cheers.’ Sean raised his pint. ‘You look even worse.’

Lomax sat. ‘Listen Sean. Whatever you’re planning, you need to reconsider. You want revenge; I understand that. But this kind of thing is never done in the Service. It is strictly business only. You’re trying to make it personal, but you don’t appreciate the consequences.’

‘The Section sanctioned me to take out Zlotnik when he was in Vienna. Why shouldn’t I do it now he’s back in Moscow?’

‘Come on, Sean. The Section might have given you the nod a few months ago, but even they had to call it off when oversight found out what they were up to.’

Sean lifted an eyebrow.

‘Just imagine.’ Lomax sounded exasperated. ‘What would happen if someone in the FSB, or the FSO decided to react and go after you? The thing would soon escalate into a private war that no-one could stop. That’s why you were always taught never to take things personally.’

‘You said yourself that Natasha was a non-combatant. How personal is that?’

‘I know. But that’s all the more reason why we shouldn’t get involved.’

‘I am involved, full stop.’

Lomax took a sip of his beer and tried a different tack. ‘What about your job in the Section?’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, you like working there? Once they find out what you’re up to, they’ll hang you from the rafters. You’ll be out of there so fast you’ll be lucky to leave with a pension.’

Sean sipped his larger. ‘I don’t care. I was leaving anyway.’

‘You don’t care? Then you bloody should!’

Sean took another sip of his drink. ‘I’m finished anyway.’

Lomax drew back. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I can’t cut it any longer, Lomax. I started to get the shakes.’

‘Jesus, Sean. What are you — iron man? We all get the jitters.’

‘Not during the middle of the action.’

Lomax sat back. ‘It can happen during the action — we all get it sometime or other.’

‘Not like this.’

‘Oh.’ Lomax regarded Sean. He had changed since he heard the news about Natasha. Lomax couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He had lost confidence, certainly. And he was more introverted and taciturn than usual. Obviously it had affected him much more than Lomax had first thought. That set him thinking. ‘When did you first notice?’

‘About six months ago.’

‘That would be about the time you and Natasha started to get serious.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Ah.’ Lomax hit his hand on the table with a sharp tap. ‘You silly bugger. Any amateur psychologist could tell you what’s been causing the tremors. I expect you thought it was fear — or worse, cowardice?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’ll say it again, Sean Quinlan. You’re a daft bugger. You started to feel real fear only when you knew Natasha cared for you, and when you cared for her. It’s not cowardice, it’s just human bloody nature!’

Sean shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make a difference anyway, I’m still going.’

‘Listen Sean. It might be worse than you think. Suppose they send another team after you from Russia? They would hunt you down. And don’t believe for one minute the Section would protect you. They’d be more likely to support the Russians if they spotted a vendetta developing.’ He saw Sean wasn’t really listening; the bleak eyes were set in a pale determined face. He’d seen that look before; nothing would persuade him to change his mind.

‘I’ll need some help.’

‘Jesus, Sean. Do you want to get me into trouble too?’

‘Will you come?’

Lomax looked away. In truth he felt guilty since he had given the Russians the name of Sean’s girlfriend. But what Sean was asking might well cost him his newly acquired job at the Section. He took another swallow from the pint, wondering how to say no. That answer never came.

‘Very well, I’ll go with you.’

Sean slapped him on the back with his good hand. ‘Great!’

‘But remember, Sean. The only reason I’m going is to keep you out of trouble while you’re there.’

* * *

‘Call on line two. President Donahue for you.’ The secretary slipped out of the Prime Minister’s office, closing the door gently behind him.

The PM picked up the phone.

‘Terrance, good to speak to you again.’ President Donahue’s voice boomed down the connection.

‘Hello Robert. How’s the weather north of you?’

‘Ha ha. You always get straight to the point. The contamination is low, thank God. We’re monitoring the sea, the currents, the air, and high atmosphere. Radioactivity in the Arctic is just above background. The level in the ocean itself is higher, but nothing like what we were expecting.’

‘I’m glad to hear that Robert. Our own observation stations are reporting the same, so that is reassuring. One of our oceanographers tried to explain it to me — something about the Arctic Ocean being a basin, a sort of inland sea. It looks as if the pressure at the seabed contained the worst of the fallout, and the Ocean is keeping the radioactivity to itself, for now.’

‘Khostov certainly knew the best way to contain it.’

‘I agree.’

‘Speaking of Khostov, we were wondering how he was making out?’

‘Ah, I see. I know his son has started school here and he has begun to settle in. It seems that Alexei is enjoying work here too.’

‘He’s definitely an impressive character. We thought he might like an opportunity to get experience on some advanced projects we have going.’

‘You’re welcome to try Robert. I can’t speak for him, but he doesn’t seem to be the sort that would be easily persuaded by money.’

‘No? Maybe we could arrange a sabbatical at some point?’

‘Perhaps. How is progress with the treaty?’

‘Great. We’ve been meeting in secret with the rest of the council, and we’re pleasantly surprised by the level of consensus. Some of them are welcoming the initiative with open arms.’

‘So you are on track to complete by the deadline?’

‘Well, not so fast. We’re expecting a lot of resistance from the Eco-lobbyists.’

‘How much of a problem will that be?’

‘Not that much, really. Once we conclude the meetings with the council, we’ll open it up for a public debate. We’ll explain the benefits to everyone, and the Eco lobby will condemn it. The global warming groups will jump on the band waggon, and after they’ve had their say we’ll sign the accord. We’ve tabled meetings in six months’ time and we’re very hopeful that heads of agreement will be signed then.’

‘That’s excellent news, Robert. I’m really pleased.’

‘A great deal hinged on your late intervention. If you hadn’t exposed the evidence that the Russians were already planning to mine oil and gas at the North Pole, it could have all been for nothing.’

‘I have to thank you for playing your part too, Robert. If you hadn’t objected to the idea as strongly as you did, the Russian’s wouldn’t have fallen for it. You’d make a good actor.’

Ashdown caught the familiar sound of a chuckle down the line. ‘We’ve had enough actors in the White House. But I do want to remind you of one promise you made.’

‘Yes?’ Ashdown replied.

‘You promised never to put me in such a position again.’

‘Robert, you have my word as a politician.’ Smiling, the Prime Minister replaced the phone.

* * *

Sean placed his eye to the Dragunov’s scope. He could see Serge Zlotnik sitting alone in the restaurant by the window. He came here every evening at the same time and sat at the same table. Sean knew, because he had followed him for three days, establishing his patterns and routes.

Sean couldn’t help the feeling of déjà vu; but this time it was just a bit too simple. He had spotted the office block on the second day, and getting to the empty rooftop unseen was easy. He lay on a mat, with a cheap mobile phone alongside.

God knows where Lomax had acquired the rifle, but it was the best old fashioned long gun the Soviets ever made. Lomax had kept his promise to deliver him safely, and was staying in the background until he completed the shot. Whatever else Sean felt about him, at least he followed through when he said he would.

Sean gripped the curved magazine with the free fingers of his left hand. It held a total of ten rounds but with a range of less than one and a half kilometres, he knew he would only need one cartridge. Each contained a tungsten alloy at its centre, surrounded by a copper jacket. He would have to shoot through the window. The soft copper would disintegrate on contact with the glass, but the hardened centre would continue. If the slug so much as touched Zlotnik, he would die.

The restaurant was top class and the wine list was superb. He thought that at those prices they ought to be. Soon Zlotnik would be ordering his meal, and Sean wondered how he earned enough money to pay for it all, coming here day after day. Sean stirred uneasily; something was just not right. As he lay prone on the mat his mind was in a whirl. The tungsten steel-rimmed glasses filled his field of view. He wondered at the irony; shortly his tungsten bullet would smash through those spectacles, ending his life forever.

Adjusting the sights, he focused on a white napkin on the table cloth. Now there were no nerves; no annoying tics betrayed the nervousness of the last six months. Here in his sights was the person who ordered Natasha’s death. But the question still gnawed his consciousness. Why did he do it? Was it really out of revenge because Khostov had been snatched from his grasp? Zlotnik was a professional, and professionals in his game rarely acted out of a sense of personal anger.

Sean had heard the rumours in the Section: a mentally ill Zlotnik, becoming more psychotic over time, looking for any opportunity to kill. But no-one knew for sure what his motivation was. Sean shook his head in despair. Even a man like him must have been aware of the suffering he caused.

Sean returned to the scope and glimpsed a wine waiter approaching the table. After a short exchange, he came back to show him the bottle before pouring it into his wine glass. Sean watched fascinated as Zlotnik looked at the glass, without touching it and without commenting. The waiter, concerned, bent forward to speak. Sean zeroed in on the bottle. It was a Merlot from a top Israeli boutique vineyard, Clos de Gat.

Sean reached out and pressed a key on the mobile, sending the pre-entered text message. Returning to the rifle sight, he watched as the waiter removed the glass and came back with a bigger balloon glass. He poured out a little of the fine wine. Zlotnik swirled the glass, looking carefully as the Merlot coated the sides. He put it to his nose and breathed in deeply, sipping once. As he replaced the glass, he glanced at his mobile.

Sean saw him lift the phone to read the message.

‘Give supper to your enemy.’

He could not possibly see Sean at this distance, but he must have sensed he was nearby.

For a moment Sean recalled Natasha’s father, pleading with him at her grave not to take justice into his hands. He touched the St. Christopher’s medal in his pocket. It was the only thing he had left of Natasha. He remembered her, the way she relished life, the way she loved him. She would not want him to kill anyone, especially out of revenge.

Very deliberately Zlotnik lifted the glass to savour the wine a final time. Before tasting, he raised the glass in salute.

Sean recalled his last conversation with Zlotnik in Moscow, outside the church of St. Andrew’s. Then, he thought the man was seeking to defect. But Sean was wrong, and now he knew the truth. That one simple action meant Zlotnik wanted to die. That was why it had been so straightforward to track the man, so easy to get him in the cross-hairs. By murdering Natasha, Zlotnik had guaranteed Sean would be his executioner.

Sean lined up the sight on the man’s forehead and held his breath.

Gently, he squeezed the trigger.

Content

Dominic Conlon
Arctic Firepath

DEDICATION

DISCLAIMER

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE