'She discovered Yakov had a yacht moored in Weymouth. Well he did have one, and now it’s gone.’ DD sat on the bed. 'The yacht's called the Anastasia. I've alerted everyone I can think of, including the French. No reports so far, though.'
'Its unlikely Khostov's travelling under his own name. So he might be using his previous alias Vassily Maskhadov, or even Yakov's name if he has his passport. We should alert neighbouring countries as well' he suggested. 'The Channel Islands, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany.'
'OK. Let's assume that Khostov went to France. What's his next move?' Lomax asked.
'He wants to lose himself. Shake off the Russians' replied Sean.
'What would you do?'
'Go to Paris.'
'But Khostov isn't like you Sean,' interjected DD.
Sean glanced at him, smiling at the younger man's temerity. 'What is he like?'
'He's a nuclear physicist, not a soldier or an agent. He's bound to think differently.'
'I admit he has different skills and experience. Even so, Physicists understand mathematics - they have to.'
'What's that got to do with Paris?'
'It's all about probability and risk. If you are in France, you would go where the risk of detection is least. You would stand out more in small towns and villages, whereas the chance of discovery in a big city is minimal. The bigger the city, the smaller the risk.'
Lomax nodded. 'I think Sean has a point DD. We still don't have any leads and there's no harm in going. If he's not in Paris at least we will be closer to him, and Paris has the best travel links in the country.'
DD was not convinced. 'He could have gone to any other French city; Lyon, Marseilles...'
'He could, but we're starting in Paris' said Lomax confidently.
'I just hope I'm wrong' muttered DD.
For the last 24 hours he and Lomax had haunted the train stations, bus stations and metro for any signs of Khostov. Sean’s intuition told him this type of random search in a city of over 2 million souls was going to be fruitless. With no other leads forthcoming, the project was rapidly looking like a disaster in the making.
But Sean would not give up, though he felt exhausted. At the moment he was sipping a strong espresso at a café on the Gare du Nord. Normally he tried to avoid any drink containing caffeine on a mission. Granted the effects were immediate, but they didn’t last. However if he ever needed to be alert, surely the time was now. While checking the passengers, he dashed off a quick txt to Natasha.
sorry delayed
will visit u in states
sean x
He surveyed the crowds passing in front of the window. People of all ages passed by. Khostov only had to change a few items or wear spectacles for example, and Sean could miss him. His mobile rang.
'Got something for you, ' said DD, sounding breathless.
'Give.'
'I went back to my TRIP WIRE software and examined the rules I set up for the application alerts. It covered the names of the two immediate families Khostov stayed with - you know Petrovich and Yakov couples.'
'Yes' said Sean, trying to be patient.
'Well they were set up for where they lived - in London.'
'Did you find anything?' Sean's voice rose a notch in exasperation.
'I thought about it and widened the search area to France. It may be a coincidence, but it’s such an usual name. Yakov is staying at the St. Claude. It's a hotel in central Paris.'
'Right, ring Lomax and tell him I'm on my way.' Sean paused before closing the call. 'Oh, DD?'
'Yep, I'm still here.'
'Well done!'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After its encounter with the USS Montana, chief engineer Feliks Chayka inspected the anchors. These were long spikes driven into the ice, shackled by two heavy chains from the bow. In the fading light Feliks took one more glimpse at the wind-blasted Arctic landscape. He would hate to die in this lonely place. A shiver ran up his spine. He turned up the fur collar of his parka, but that did nothing to stop the icy sense of foreboding.
He clambered up the exterior ladder, eager to return to his cabin and regain some warmth. Once on board he experienced the strength of the wind as it whipped across the deck. He hesitated, changed his mind, and strode purposely up the companionway to Bridge Deck 3 and the Captain's cabin.
Following the collision the Captain had practically retired to his room. Feliks had tried knocking on the Captain's door many times, only to hear a shouted 'Uhodi!'. The Captain refused to have food delivered and lately the commands had turned to swear words and worse.
But this time Feliks was determined. Instead of knocking, he opened the door and walked right in. He was totally unprepared for the scene that greeted him. Captain Grigori sat at his desk, the stubble on his face showing he had not shaved since the collision with the American submarine. A half-full bottle of vodka sat within arm's reach. Feliks' face fell when he spotted several empty bottles scattered around the floor.
Grigori's eyes swivelled round at the intruder. 'I ordered you to go away!'
Feliks frowned. 'Captain, I cannot. I must speak with you. I have been running everything while you have been in your cabin.'
In between fending off increasingly frantic calls from Moscow, the engineer was trying to fix the problem with the reactor. As he predicted, the problems began when the Captain ordered 'full speed ahead' before the collision. The excessive demand for power caused more boric acid to be dissolved in the water coolant circuit. The radioactive corrosive circulated in the primary loop, causing erosion of the control rod drive mechanisms. The core temperature began to rise and Feliks had no option but to regulate the chain reaction to a safe level. Thankfully now the reactor was under control. However he refused to allow the ship to go anywhere until the corrosive material had been completely filtered out. It was time to remind the Captain of his duty.
'Grigori, Moscow will not tolerate your silence anymore!' Feliks caught a glint in his Captain's eye.
'What can they do?' the Captain asked gruffly.
'If you do not respond by eleven hundred hours this morning, they will send a tug and tow this ship back to port.'
'Let them.'
'Captain, that would be the end of your career! Think about your family!'
'I am thinking about my family!' snarled the Captain. 'I've been thinking about them ever since.'
The engineer took a seat. 'Ever since when?'
'Ever since the Americans captured my son.' The Captain pushed the vodka bottle towards Feliks. He found a tumbler and placed it in front of Feliks, waiting until Feliks poured a shot. Grigori raised his glass.
'Budem zdorovy'
'Budem' rejoined Feliks.
Grigori took a quick sip and cradled his drink while looking into the distance. 'You remember I told you the Americans captured my son's plane after they strayed into their territory?'
'I remember every word, Captain.'
'Well at the time the government imposed a total blackout on the news story.'
'No-one was aware he was being detained by the Americans?'
The Captain shook his head. 'No.' He took another sip of the vodka. ‘Four weeks ago, his mother - my first wife - died of cancer. She had been ill for some time. Her family arranged the funeral and approached the government to release our son from duties so he could attend. The government refused. They did not plead with the Americans because they didn’t want to appear weak.'
Grigori leaned over to refill their glasses. 'The family were very upset. My wife was deeply loved by all her family and friends. I miss her.' Grigori's red eyes misted over.
Feliks stayed silent, sensing there was more to come.
'The family protested to the papers. When some reporters went digging they found out the truth. The boy was being held prisoner in an American gaol. They wanted to print the story. The government stopped them and two reporters and the assistant editor lost their jobs over it. I don't blame them, at least they tried.'
> Grigori stopped. He turned to look at Feliks and spoke angrily. 'But I do blame the politicians - on both sides. No humanity, no consideration but to feather their own nest.' Grigori lapsed into silence.
'So the funeral went ahead without your son?' Feliks asked.
There was a long pause and Feliks thought the Captain would not speak again. When he did, his voice was low and full of pain. 'I attended the funeral, of course. And because of the news blackout I had to lie to everyone there why my son could not attend. I told them that he was on an important mission. It was a pack of lies.'
Grigori drained the vodka in one go and slammed the glass down on the desk. 'Now do you understand why my blood boils whenever I see Americans!'
‘Puis-je avoir l'addition s'il vous plaît?’
While waiting for his bill, Khostov considered his appearance in the mirror of the hotel’s reception area. His dyed hair and new clothes certainly made a difference.
The manager returned and Khostov paid with cash.
‘S'il vous plaît pourriez-vous réserver une chambre pour moi?’ Khostov’s French wasn’t good, but at least he was trying.
'Which hotel would you like?' the man asked in English.
Khostov switched to English. 'Perhaps you could recommend one - I'm staying in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois for a few days.'
'Certainly.' The manager moved back to the computer to search for something suitable.
Having made the arrangements, Khostov thanked him and walked towards the metro. As he entered the station, Sean arrived at the St. Claude. He approached the reception and spotted a small busy looking man.
‘Bonjour Monsieur. J'ai un ami résidant ici.’
The manager's eyebrows lifted a millimetre. 'You have his name?'
Sean regarded the French habit of replying to a question in English as rude, but he had no time to argue now. 'Yakov Petrovich.'
'Ah, he has just this minute left!'
'Do you know where to?'
'Yes, I made a reservation for him at the hotel Compte in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. If you hurry you might catch him.'
'Thank you.' Sean turned and shot out of the hotel. He had arrived on the metro and he headed back there at a run. He jumped on the first train heading to the Place d'Italie, looking round constantly for a sign of Khostov. Five minutes later Sean changed at the Gare d'Austerlitz and caught his first sight of Khostov, waiting for a train. Sean noticed Khostov had dyed his hair and glimpsed an expensive suit under a smart coat. He was clutching a briefcase, and looked like a stock broker.
Sean folded his newspaper and followed. For Sean the art of shadowing was in adjusting the distance between him and the target according to the environment and the number of people around. He found the ability to change his external appearance quickly also helpful. Sean wore a reversible coat and had a scarf and woollen hat in his pocket.
At the Gare d'Austerlitz they walked to the main train station. Here Sean became aware of another watcher. The man pulled out a mobile as soon as he glimpsed Khostov and immediately began to tail him onto the next train. Sean followed and after an uneventful half an hour they got off at Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov found a taxi, and seconds later so did the follower.
Sean scanned the rank, but there were no more taxis. However several bicycles were propped up against the station wall and Sean found one without a padlock. The bicycle looked like it had been made during in the Second World War, but it worked. Sean wheeled the ancient bike into the road and began to pedal like mad.
After a minute he realised pursuit was hopeless. He stopped and asked a pedestrian about the location of the Compte. The man gave him directions, and Sean phoned Lomax the details.
When Sean arrived, he noticed the car immediately, parked discretely outside the hotel. The wipers were switched off even though it was raining. Sean approached from the passenger side, knowing that Lomax would recognise him in the wing mirror.
They sat in silence, watching the road and the approach to the hotel. A car drew up and parked a little way from the entrance. The exhaust pipe vibrated because the driver had left the engine running. A man got out and Sean pointed him out to Lomax.
'Maxim Desny. One of the two remaining Russian crew. He's come to relieve the watcher.
'Good' grunted Lomax.
'You go.' Sean nodded towards the hotel. 'They don't know you.'
Lomax stepped out and opened a large umbrella, lowering it to cover his face. At that moment, Desny burst out of the hotel, barging into Lomax on the way. Lomax turned and walked back briskly.
The Russian's car took off in a hurry - tyres squealing and burning rubber on the asphalt road. Sean had moved to the driver’s position and made an urgent 180 degree turn, slowing briefly to let Lomax into the passenger seat. He allowed the Russian to gain a lead, then followed at speed.
At thirteen, Alexei Khostov became an agnostic. He was being bullied at school and wanted to show his tormentors that he could be just as disapproving and sceptical as they appeared to be. For a while the scheme worked and Alexei got out of the habit of attending church. He had never entered one since then.
Now he stood facing the Notre Dame de la Dormition, the Russian Orthodox Church of Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov marvelled at its beauty, an elegant white facade topped with a blue onion-dome on the roof.
He had come straight from the hotel, wanting to visit the place where so many of his countrymen and women were buried. Perhaps part of him craved sanctuary, but the safety it offered was illusory. Even so, the church seemed to beckon to him. He passed under an ornate portal and walked along the short path towards the entrance. There he admired the painting of the sleeping Mary before mounting the steps to a large arched doorway.
At that moment he heard the roar of an engine. A car, driven at high speed, executed a ninety degree turn. Two men got out and raced up to the gateway. One stopped and withdrew a gun, taking quick aim at Khostov. Khostov crouched and heard a bang. The slug bit into a wooden post behind him. Regaining his wits, he quickly pulled on the huge oaken door and ducked inside.
When Sean saw the Russian car in front accelerate rapidly, he knew they had almost reached their destination. No point in hanging back any longer, he thought, and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Up ahead he saw an archway to a Russian Orthodox church. Two members of the Russian gang were already running along the path to the front door.
Sean quickly sized up the width of the gateway, changed down a gear and pushed the revs into the red. Lomax pulled his seat belt tighter and yanked out a handgun from an inside pocket. Both wing mirrors snapped off as they lunged through the gap, followed by a short metallic tearing sound. Two seconds later they reached the steps.
The first man turned, a horrified expression on his face. In the last fraction of a second he jumped to one side. The second Russian was not as lucky, and the bonnet caught him behind the legs. As the car mounted the steps, the man was lifted up and crushed against the huge oak door of the church.
Lomax and Sean exited fast. Sean signalled to Lomax to follow Khostov, indicating he would go after the second man.
The tall pine trees which surrounded the church cast dark shadows. Wherever Sean placed his feet the subdued crackle of the dry forest litter gave his position away. He stopped and listened, hearing the rain falling through the branches and the distant sound of traffic. Something told him Petrov wasn't going to give up easily.
He recalled some information he had read years ago in a tourist brochure. The graveyard held many famous Russians: writers, painters, and even a Nobel peace prize winner. He remembered a picture of Putin making a visit to pay his respects to the fallen children of mother Russia. A thought flashed through his mind. How ironic would it be to die amongst all the great and good of Russia, while hunting down one of its sons.
Sean scanned the environment. The cemetery was big and had a number of large headstones. Between the graves mature trees gave his opponent plenty of concealment.
He moved back to the church, careful to make no noise on the concrete path. Beyond a low wall he saw the tops of some gravestones. He stretched out on the path and slowly crawled to the boundary. Once at the wall, he sat with his back to it and checked the surroundings again. The situation was uncomfortably similar to the approach he had taken at the farm where Finch had fallen. Immediately he checked the thumb of his left hand. It was still, but the right hand which held the gun was visibly shaking.
There was no sound from the person he was hunting; Petrov was talented. At some point in his career Sean knew he would meet someone better than himself. With his shaky gun-hand, today might be the day.
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 14