'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 defec
tor 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 stoppe
d 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?'
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 13