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 rea
ched 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 m
eant 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.
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 8