'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. T
hey 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!'
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 10