He edged higher to peek over the wall. Immediately splinters from the brickwork pierced his cheek. He ducked back into cover; his adversary was closer than he realised and was an excellent marksman. He touched his face, seeing blood on his hand. A strange emotion stole into his mind. Not fear exactly, but a premonition. This mission would take something from him, possibly even his life. Once more he forced himself to put the thought away and concentrate on the reality being acted out now. He stayed low and followed the wall in the direction of the gunshot.
Once underneath a large pine, Sean decided to cross under the shelter of its spreading branches. He held the coping with both hands, jumping so his whole body remained close and parallel to the edge. He landed heavily in deep shadows cast by the tree. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone on the white marble of the gravestones. A road divided the first plot of graves, and others bisected the plots beyond. Time slowed. Sean noticed a gecko climbing a nearby gravestone, seeking warmth. A flick of blue appeared in his peripheral vision. His eyes focused on a grave thirty metres from him. He lifted the gun and took aim.
A figure dashed away left, too fast for Sean to get off a shot. He scrambled to his feet, and set off running. In order to keep Petrov in sight he had to follow the track at right angles, catching the odd glimpse of him between the rows. By the time he reached the end Petrov had disappeared. As he dropped to the ground to take refuge behind a headstone, he heard the thud of a round striking the marble, just where his head had been. Sean revised his view of Petrov - he was exceptionally skilled.
Sean examined the surroundings. Rows of gravestones marched away on either side of the roadway for a hundred metres or more. Outside the perimeter stood a wood. If the Russian got that far it would need dogs to track him through the densely planted shrubs. At that point he could let him go - he wouldn't hinder Sean's main objective to get to Khostov.
He calculated the distances. To prevent Petrov's escape Sean would need to position himself between him and the border. He put his gun away and crouched under the headstone, both hands on the ground, legs tensed behind him as if about to begin a hundred metre sprint.
Suddenly he pushed off, tearing down the roadway, hoping the intervening headstones would protect him from Petrov's gun. Pebbles under his shoes flew into the air as he gained traction. He eyed a particular headstone. When he reached there he intended to change direction and turn left towards the boundary. This was critical because he would have to slow to round the corner, and his trajectory would take him across the gunman's sight lines.
Sean heard a shot and fell heavily on the path.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lomax pushed the heavy oak door and entered the church. He stepped to one side, not wishing to be highlighted in the doorway. He waited quietly, eyes adapting to the dim light, taking in the smell of polished wood and a faint trace of incense.
The church was laid out in a simple style. A row of pews sat each side of an aisle which lead to a plain wooden altar. Statues lined the walls and several religious paintings hung in between.
He scanned the aisle. The church was empty, except for the man he sought, kneeling on the front pew. Lomax took out his gun, checked the safety and crossed lightly into the nave. He could not hear any sounds from outside, only the soft noise of his footsteps. As he drew closer he observed Khostov, hands clasped together in prayer. Lomax glanced back, and then focused on Khostov.
'Alexei.' Khostov didn’t turn. For a brief moment Lomax wondered if they had the right person.
'Alexei.' This time the man turned. Lomax took in the pale tired face, the dishevelled dyed hair and the resignation in his eyes.
'Kill me here.'
Lomax shook his head. 'I'm not here to kill you.' He glanced towards the door. 'But there is someone outside who wants you very badly.' Lomax noticed Khostov’s shoulders stiffen. 'Don't worry, he is being taken care of.' Khostov slumped back against the seat and Lomax slid into the space next to him.
'I used to go to church.' Khostov gestured at the altar. 'One like this in Moscow. I've forgotten how ... comforting it can be.'
'You are safe now. When my colleague returns, we will be free to go.'
Sean's heart rate rocketed and he forced himself to breath more slowly. Apart from the grazes he sustained, he was unhurt. If he hadn’t fallen when he did, he would have caught Petrov’s bullet.
He still had a long row of headstones to negotiate to get to the boundary. They stood square on between him and the gunman and offered greater protection.
Sean stretched out again on the ground, avoiding placing too much pressure on his bandaged fingers. Like a hurdler he counted: one, two, three. Off! He flew along the space between the graves, this time varying his pace to make aiming more difficult for the opposition.
Ping! Gravel lining the roadside burst into fragments. Seconds later Sean felt pain in his lower leg as some pieces entered the calf muscles. He did not stop.
At last he reached the end row and turned towards the distant gunman. He dropped to the ground and crept to the point he had earmarked earlier.
Sean stopped at the third grave which had a smaller headstone. He took off his wind-cheater, draped it over the marble, and crawled away. Sean judged that unless Petrov had changed position, he would be coming up on his right, almost level. He inched across two more rows of gravestones and stopped. Everything now depended on the Russian.
Still crouching, Sean pulled out his gun. Awkwardly he picked up a pebble left-handed and tossed it towards the gravestone with the coat. The stone hit the ground with a tiny clink, but Petrov was not going to be fooled so easily.
Sean remained stationary. Surely he must be desperate to find out where the sound came from?
A slight movement on Sean's left indicated the Russian had moved after all. He leant out slowly from behind a headstone. From that angle he could not spot Sean's jacket because the gravestones in the row in front obscured the view. The man shifted back behind cover. Sean waited another minute and Petrov lent out again, this time from the opposite side. Sean had him covered and watched as Petrov sighted his handgun. He should be able to see the jacket now. Petrov loosed off a shot and Sean pulled the trigger.
The man slumped. Sean took aim at the man's gun arm as it lay on the ground, and squeezed the trigger again. The sleeve twitched, but no sound came from the body. At last Sean judged it safe to approach. He saw his first round had entered the man's throat. Not pretty, and there was a lot of blood. Sean felt for a pulse.
There was none.
Major Pierce looked at the sky. The weather forecast was not good, but he wanted to see for himself. The wind had strengthened and he could feel the ice particles it carried, stinging the exposed skin of his face. It was nearly dark. He was mildly surprised and found the short days took some getting used to at this latitude.
He trudged across the packed ice towards the six huge huts lining the edge of the runway. Giant diggers and snow ploughs were still working on clearing the airstrip. As soon as they had levelled a section it started to build up again, driven by a fierce wind from the approaching storm.
Pierce was thankful all the larger cargo planes had landed the day before. They brought in generators, prefabricated huts, fuel, men, provisions - and even a helicopter. There were over 200 technicians, admin, support staff and soldiers to guard the base, and all of them were there to backup Major Pierce and his team.
He opened the door of the first hut and entered. This was the Command and Control centre, the hub of Project Gold. The building was subdivided into sections, and Pierce headed for the radio facility. He slapped the duty officer on the shoulder. ‘Any news from HQ, Tony?’
Tony removed his headphones and looked up at the big man. ‘No change about permission to use the VOO. Apparently State have been lobbying the Russians hard, but they’ve been equally hard in response.’
‘What about aerial reconnaissance?’
‘They found three vessels altogether. There’s a sm
all icebreaker taking tourists back from the pole, and two trawlers travelling along the North-East Passage, but nothing qualifies for the SRDRS spec.’
‘What about widening the search area?’
Tony shook his head. ‘There’s nothing suitable within 300 kilometres from here.’
‘OK. Log that Tony. Tell them we’re about to start work on the roadway for the loader to take the SRDRS.’ They would have to lay more steel matting to move all the rescue equipment to a point where it could be loaded onto the icebreaker. He checked his watch. ‘You also need to let them know about the weather - the forecast is for another storm front moving in and it could hamper our efforts.’
‘Yes Major. So you think we’ll have to requisition LK-80 by force?’
Pierce frowned. ‘It’s looking very much like that Tony.’
‘Oh Major, I forgot to give you this.’ He handed him a piece of paper.
‘What’s this?’
‘An update to our orders, sir.’
The Major glanced at the message. Amongst the military jargon it contained only one important sentence: “Employ any and every means to rescue the crew of the USS Montana without use of excessive force.” Major Pierce grinned at the wording. To him this was carte blanche.
He turned back to Tony. ‘I want a briefing of all team members at 1600 hours.’
Sean’s mobile pinged.
‘How are you feeling?’ Lomax asked with faux cheerfulness.
Sean touched the plaster on his face, a souvenir from Paris. The doc had patched up the finger, though the whole of his left hand and leg still throbbed. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘Well throw some clothes on. They’re ready to begin debriefing Khostov. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’
Lomax arrived early and breezed into the flat. ‘How does it feel to have another mission under the belt?’
Sean regarded Lomax, refusing to answer directly. ‘Where are we going?’
Lomax shrugged. ‘Northwood.’
Sean grunted. It was where he trained and inducted into the service. Later in his career he returned occasionally to train recruits for the Section. Now it belonged to the PJHQ, headquarters to a tri-service organisation controlling British armed forces for the Royal Navy, NATO and the EU. Sean closed his eyes for the rest of the short journey.
When they arrived they were let into the gate by two Royal Marines from the 43rd Protection Group. A Sargent escorted them to a newly renovated brick-built block and showed them into an office with a tall ceiling. Coffee, tea and croissants lay on a side table.
Sean saw Khostov sitting at a wooden desk, looking every inch the eminent scientist. He was eating a croissant and sipping coffee from a mug. He rose to shake their hands, bowing slightly from the waist.
A fourth man entered the room. Sean recognised him as Daniel Cramer.
‘Ah, I’m glad you’re getting acquainted,’ Cramer remarked, smiling.
He looked innocuous in a grey suit and shiny black shoes, but Sean knew that beneath the good manners and cultured voice was a steely personality. The Section’s chief interrogator shook hands with Khostov, and nodded towards Sean and Lomax.
‘It’s nice to see you enjoying breakfast - do you prefer our croissants to the ones in Paris?’ he asked, half-jokingly. Cramer poured himself a coffee and settled into a chair. He brought out a small recording machine and set it on the table. ‘Please don’t be offended – I record every briefing. You wouldn’t believe how tedious my voice sounds to me when you’ve listened to as many recordings as I have.’
He retrieved a pad and pencil from his briefcase. ‘I want to understand why you wanted to come here. I will need to go back to where you were born, your education and career, and particularly your recent employment. Now I won’t understand everything to do with your work - I’m not a nuclear physicist - so I may ask you to explain various points in more detail. Are you OK with all of this?’
Khostov nodded, and they continued. Three hours later Cramer had brought them up to date on his background. They discovered that Khostov was divorced and had a 15 year old son called Levushka. Cramer also learnt about his work at the Joint Institute for Nuclear Research in Dubna and his recent friendship with Nic Tyler. Cramer suggested they broke for lunch.
An hour later they were back, and Cramer began the second session.
‘Why did you come to the UK?’
‘I feared for my life.’
‘Tell us why.’
‘I told you about Nic. We were great friends. He worked for US Shale on a joint project to build the next class of Floating Nuclear Power Platforms. I was co-opted to help with the design work on the reactors.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nic came to me one day with specifications he had for some parts they had ordered for the reactor. He wanted me to check that they were the right specification.’
‘And?’
‘And they looked fine to me. But Nic was still concerned. He told me in confidence that the manifest he’d received from the shipping company didn’t tally with the spec he had ordered.’
‘Where were the parts from?’
‘China, mostly. He told his boss, and he must have spoken to someone at GazArtic.’
‘What happened then?’
‘The cargo was already on the way. They decided to halt the ship at the nearest port, and sent Nic to inspect the manifest. He was to check if the parts were the right spec, and to telephone us with the result.’
‘Which port?’
‘Tiksi. It’s the main port of the Laptev Sea.’
‘Did you hear from him?’
‘He never telephoned.’ Khostov looked at Cramer intently. ‘And he never came back.’
‘What did you conclude?’
‘He was murdered, obviously.’
‘By whom?’
Khostov shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’
‘But you must have an idea?’
‘Yes, perhaps. It’s not unusual to discover on big projects like this that someone is fiddling the books, raking off millions, and sometimes thousands of millions of roubles.’
‘Is that why you came to the UK?’
‘Yes. I realised at once that whoever killed Nic would start looking for me.’
‘Leaving your son behind?’
Khostov paused, absentmindedly supporting his chin with his arm.
‘Alexei,’ said Cramer. ‘You fled Russia in fear of your life. Didn’t it occur to you he would be next on their list?’
‘No.’ The word came out in a strangled voice. Khostov gazed up at Cramer. ‘I am ashamed to say that I ..’
‘You forgot about your son?’
Khostov bowed his head. ‘In the heat of the moment, yes.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I can’t explain it. The fear of what they might do when they caught me was overwhelming. I couldn’t think of anything else, except escape.’
‘You wanted asylum?’
‘Not at first. I thought I would be safe with friends.’
‘But you brought some collateral with you?’
‘Collateral?’
‘You know, insurance that might protect you.’
‘Ah, yes. Yes, I did.’
Cramer flipped over a page of his notes. ‘You brought a copy to a firm of solicitors. Winfield Mantel LLP?’
Khostov looked surprised. ‘Yes, how did you know that?’
‘We discovered the fact after Winfield Mantel was burnt down to the ground.’
Khostov examined the floor. ‘I am sorry.’ He looked up. ‘I asked them to keep another copy.’
‘Yes, I expect you did. Their archive store across the river was gutted.’
Khostov let out a deep sigh.
‘I must say, you don’t look too concerned.’
Khostov shook his head. ‘Not really.’
‘You have another copy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
Khostov considered the little group. ‘You have all been good to me. He loo
ked at Sean. ‘You saved my life in Paris.’ He turned towards Lomax. ‘And you kept your word. I am beginning to understand why many of my countrymen come to London to live.’
Cramer glanced at Sean and Lomax, then back to Khostov. ‘You know we are here to help you. What is it you want?’
‘A new identity for me. And my son, Levushka.’
There was absolute silence in the room. Cramer scrutinised Khostov’s face. ‘You want us to bring your son out of Russia?’
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 15