Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2)

by Dominic Conlon

‘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 clicke
d 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.