Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2)

by Dominic Conlon

  ‘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 work
ing 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.’