Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2)

by Dominic Conlon

  Sean turned to look at Khostov. He appeared relieved, a small smile playing around his lips. ‘Do you think it worked?’

  Khostov turned to gaze through the window. ‘I don’t know. We’ll only find out after lots of tests.’

  They settled back in their seats, and Sean gingerly removed Grigori’s document from the water-tight pouch of his survival suit. The paper was untouched by the soaking he had taken when trying to free the helicopter. He scanned the pages, puzzling over the Cyrillic. ‘Perhaps you could help me Alexei, my Russian is a little rusty.’ He passed the manuscript to Khostov with his good hand.

  Khostov smiled. ‘It’s the least I can do for you.’

  The British Prime Minister put down the newspaper and rose to greet Presidents Donahue and Duskin. They were back in the same meeting room, and Prime Minister Ashdown began with an apology.

  ‘I know it’s the last day of the summit and most of the other leaders have left for their respective countries. I really do appreciate your cooperation in remaining behind for a chat.’ The PM gestured to the newspaper. ‘I see that speculation is mounting as to why the Presidents of America and Russia are meeting with me.’

  ‘It’s also mounting with me,’ replied Donahue stiffly. ‘I can’t see any other reason for us to meet. We’ve all said what needs to be said.’

  The PM paused. ‘Perhaps.’ He studied the Russian President. ‘I’ll come to the point. I have information on good authority that your order to send an ice-breaker into the northern Arctic was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.’ The PM smiled at the unintentional pun. ‘Your Russian icebreaker was intended to be the first in a series of ships. Following that, you planned to send a floating nuclear power platform which would in turn provide the energy required for a deep water rig to extract oil and gas at depth.’

  The Russian President rolled his eyes and looked hopelessly at the American President.

  ‘I know this, because I have the secret orders transmitted to Captain Grigori of the icebreaker LK-80.’

  The PM switched on the TV, showing a copy of the orders in Cyrillic script. He scrolled through the pages, stopping at one in particular. ‘You will note the co-ordinates: ninety degrees north, zero degrees west. The co-ordinates of the North Pole.’

  President Donahue looked on bemused, and thankful the PM was pointing the gun at the Russian President for a change.

  ‘Few know that the North Pole is directly over part of the Lomonosov ridge, an area your Russia scientists have argued belongs to Russia as an extension of the Russian continental shelf. Russia has been trying to claim this territory for many years.’ He observed the Russian President. ‘Your government supported an expedition to plant a titanium flag there on the sea floor, way back in 2007. The men who accomplished that mission were brought back as heroes.’

  The PM fingered the black file. ‘If you thought this information would be deeply damaging to your position, then the contents of this file are much worse.’ He regarded the American President. ‘You too.’

  He indicated the chairs. ‘Please sit gentlemen.’ Both Presidents eyed each other and sat. ‘You have a choice facing you today concerning my initiative to develop the Arctic in a sensitive and environmentally friendly way.’

  He turned so he could see them both. ‘Or I will let the world know what’s in this file.’

  He pushed the folder deliberately to one side. ‘I require both your nations to pledge their support for an environmentally friendly and sustainable development of the Arctic. I will give you a year from today to negotiate and settle on a new treaty with members of the Arctic Council - Canada, Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. The treaty will put the indigenous peoples of the far north first, followed by the wild life and environment. The committee will setup a procedure to approve and licence developments from any nation who wants to drill for oil, gas or minerals, making these principles paramount. A licence will only be granted if 6 out of the 8 countries agree. A member cannot vote for a licence on its own behalf. The 200 nautical limit of economic development will be relaxed only at the discretion of all 8 member states.’

  The PM placed a single page of printed copy in front of each President.

  President Donahue sighed. ‘Terrance, I’m tired of your blackmail. What do you say Pavla?’

  The Russian President paused in thought. Ashdown drew the black folder towards him and opened the cover. Inside were about eight pages of closely typed notes. He flicked over a page, drawing his finger down the margin. ‘Very well.’

  ‘What do you want in exchange?’ President Duskin interrupted.

  The PM snapped the file shut. ‘The money paid for development licences will be used by the Arctic council solely to improve the safety and livelihood of the Arctic communities and wildlife.’

  ‘Well I can’t see us agreeing to such a treaty in 12 months. It will take years to iron out the details,’ responded President Donahue.

  ‘No!’ replied the PM firmly. ‘You both agree today, or you don’t. I strongly suggest you read the memorandum of intent you have before you.’

  The Presidents bent to study their copy. After a minute President Duskin looked up. ‘I don’t really see a problem here Robert. It will mean we both get a chance to develop the resources we all know lie under the ocean floor.’

  ‘We still haven’t settled on country borders in the far north, after years of negotiation.’

  Duskin waved his hand. ‘This is more important Robert. If we agree on this, I am sure we would come to some arrangement on boundaries.’

  President Donahue sighed again, and turned to address his host. ‘Terrance, I don’t want you to ever force me into a position again. Is that clear?’

  The British PM smiled. ‘Of course not, Robert. That’s a promise.’ He produced a pen from an inside pocket. ‘Now if you would both care to sign at the bottom?’

  The Presidents signed their own copy, then swapped papers and signed again. Ashdown added his signature to both copies as a witness. ‘Perhaps you have enough time to join me in a toast?’

  The PM fetched glasses from a side counter. ‘Pavla, could you remove the cork from the champagne, and Robert, would you be so good as to help?’

  When they were each holding a glass, Ashdown raised his. ‘To the Arctic.’

  They chinked glasses. ‘Oh. There is one small matter I nearly forgot.’ The PM regarded the Russian President. ‘I want something for myself. You are holding one of my agents.’ He faced President Donahue. ‘And you have two Russian air crews.’

  Ashdown paused for their attention. ‘I need all of them brought home safely to where they belong.’

  The President Donahue shook his head and pursed his lips. He looked at the Russian President and saw a small inclination of his head.

  ‘Very well.’

  Ashdown turned to the Russian President, the question plain on his face.

  ‘I agree too.’

  After both Presidents left, the PM wandered over to the window and gazed out at the peaceful gardens below. How ironic to be in Himmelpfortgasse, site of the last exchange of spies between Russia and America. He thought about the deal he had just engineered.

  According to his calculations about four million people who depended on the Arctic for subsistence would benefit. He sucked in his cheeks. While their future was not assured for ever, they would continue to survive, perhaps even prosper, in the medium term.

  He thought of his close friend Howard Stern, the Home Secretary. How proud he would be to learn that Ashdown had helped a people, living on the margins at the top of the world. Thanks to him, the subjugation of Native Americans or the internment of Russian dissenters in the Gulags would not be repeated in the Arctic.

  He opened the black file again and the lines of tension in his face relaxed into a smile. The document consisted of eight pages of typed notes. The Presidents had only the briefest glimpse of the manuscript with the Downing Street logo stamped on each sheet. But if they had vi
ewed it more closely they might have been shocked to learn it contained nothing more than a summary of the latest cabinet minutes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Murdock was on duty, puffing on a fag. It looked like someone had persuaded him to use the e-cigarette kind, though. Eleven years ago Murdoch was on an assignment in the Far East when a sniper caught him in the sights. The result was a shattered tibia, but he refused to retire. They found him a job in the communications department on the fourth floor. He kept watch over all ongoing operations, verifying codes and ciphers, and routing secure incoming calls to their proper destination. However he declined to give up his smoking habit, and rather than remove him, they removed the smoke alarm.

  ‘Hi mate.’

  Murdock twisted round, taking in the battered face, the bloodshot eyes and the bandaged fingers. ‘Judas Priest, Sean. You look like you’ve just escaped from the mouth of hell!

  ‘I feel like that too.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping tabs on your antics in the Arctic. Sounded a bit hairy towards the end. Still, nice to have you back.’

  Sean hesitated. ‘I wonder if you could do something for me, off the record?’

  ‘Anything pal.’

  ‘This has to stay between you and me. I don’t want anyone here to find out.’

  Murdock lifted his shoulders. ‘You know me, Sean. Ask away.’

  ‘It’s about the girlfriend. She went back to the States, and I haven’t heard from her. I’ve tried ringing her mobile and land line, but there’s no answer. She changed jobs recently, and I don’t know the name of her new company. Could you find out?’

  ‘Sure, mate. Put what you know on some paper for me, and I’ll get to work.’

  Sean left for the cafe, after writing out Natasha’s details. He nursed a coffee while his mind wandered, going over and over the possible reasons for her silence. Maybe she had decided she wanted nothing more to do with him. Perhaps she had bought a new mobile, to avoid the prospect of having to talk to Sean.

  An hour later, the door opened, and Murdock walked in. Sean admired the way he ambled over to his table; no-one would guess he was wearing an artificial leg.

  ‘Hi, did you find her?’

  Murdock avoided eye contact. ‘Sean, let’s find somewhere quiet to talk.’

  Two doors along they found an empty office, and Murdock closed the door quietly behind them.

  ‘I’m getting bad vibes, Murdock. What did you find out?’

  Murdock waved to a comfy chair. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Stop, Murdock. I need to know what you found out.’

  ‘It’s bad news, Sean. She’s dead.’

  An involuntary groan escaped from Sean’s mouth. ‘It must be a mistake.’

  Murdock shook his head. ‘I spoke to a friend in the FBI. After a search of his files he put me in touch with the special agent dealing with her murder.’

  Sean searched Murdock’s face for any hint this was a bad joke, but there was only sadness in every line of his expression. At that moment, Sean felt something go inside. He had counted so much on seeing her again, on being with her when he finished at the Section. She had survived a sniper’s bullet, and was recovering so well. He never imagined she would die. ‘How did it happen,’ he asked quietly.

  ‘A drive-by. Two on a motorcycle. The pillion passenger stitched her with a semi-automatic.’

  Sean moved to the chair slowly and sat. He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I’ll find them Murdock.’

  Murdock sat opposite. ‘No, Sean.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry mate, but they were professionals. The FBI, with all their resources, don’t stand a chance of finding them. You haven’t a hope in hell.’

  Sean was quiet for a whole minute. When he spoke, his voice was a little stronger. ‘I have two things they don’t have, Murdock. Determination, and time. You probably didn’t know, but I’m leaving the Section. I have limitless determination, and now I have limitless time.’

  Murdock bowed his head, unwilling for Sean to see the scepticism on his face.

  ‘Mr Moore?’

  ‘Si.’ The man’s brown eyes looked Sean over warily.

  ‘I hope you got my message?’

  ‘Yes, you are Mr Quinlan.’

  ‘Call me Sean, please.’ Sean held out his hand.

  The man declined to shake. Instead he stood to one side to allow Sean past. ‘Come in.’ He followed Sean into the cool interior of the house. ‘Adriana,’ he shouted. ‘Come, see. It is Mr Quinlan from England.’ He showed him into a large sitting room with a sea view.

  Sean stood awkwardly for a moment. ‘The view is beautiful. But how did you come to be here?’

  ‘You wonder why a Spanish man is living in Italy? Well, I married Adriana and she comes from Genoa.’ He turned and shouted down the hall. ‘Adriana, Mr Quinlan is here. You are keeping our guest waiting.’

  He turned to Sean. ‘She has not been very well, you understand, since the news.’

  A few moments later she came in, and Sean immediately noticed the resemblance. Natasha had the same eyes, the same oval face, the same silky smooth skin. Sean had no doubt this was her mother. He also noticed she had applied a small amount of fresh makeup, probably the reason for her late entrance.

  When she held her hand out towards him, the gesture was familiar. He felt a sickening sensation in the bottom of his stomach. She leant forward and air-kissed his cheek, studying him for a second. ‘You know?’

  Sean looked from one to the other. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Please sit down.’ Adriana indicated the sofa and Sean sat as requested.

  ‘I’ve only just found out. I was away, out of contact. When I got back I tried ringing Natasha’s phone, but there was no answer.’ Sean felt his words running on. ‘A friend helped me trace her. I’m really very sorry.’

  Adriana put out her hand and touched his arm. ‘It is all right, Mr Quinlan.’

  ‘Call me Sean.’

  ‘Yes. We have known for three days now. We did try to contact you.’ She glanced at her husband.

  ‘We did,’ confirmed Rodrigo. ‘But we had no phone number and no address.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Natasha did have my number, but I guess she didn’t tell you. That would be my fault. In my job I’m not supposed to give my number out to anyone.’ Sean rubbed his forehead. ‘I made an exception for Natasha. She and I were, well..’

  ‘Going to be married.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Despite the sadness evident in her eyes, Adriana smiled. ‘You shouldn’t be so reserved, Sean. Of course we knew! When Natasha was here, she was full of the news. She told us you had resigned from your job to be with her.’

  ‘She did?’ Sean looked stunned. ‘Over the last few weeks we exchanged a few texts, and a brief call here and there. But I didn’t think she was going to accept my proposal.’

  ‘Oh Sean,’ responded Adriana. ‘She was so happy! She couldn’t stop talking about it, and making plans. She showed us pictures of you both in Venice.’

  Sean put a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes. He sighed deeply. ‘I’m glad she was so happy. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.’

  Adriana ordered Rodrigo to go and make some coffee. She got up and sat next to Sean, putting a friendly arm around his shoulders. ‘When we heard the news that Natasha had died, we were in shock. We still are. We will never get over it. I can see it came as a shock to you too.’

  Sean nodded in agreement, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘What we cannot understand is why she was murdered. If she died of natural causes, we could take that better.’

  Rodrigo entered with a tray, and busied himself with setting out the cups on the coffee table. He looked up. ‘Do you know why, Sean?’

  ‘I only know what the police told me. That she was shot on her way back from work.’

  ‘She had been at the new company less than a week. I wondered if there was a connection between her death, and your job?’

  Sean ca
ught the look Adriana gave her husband. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else, but I don’t see how there could be. My last assignment was thousands of miles away.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I expect your friends or relatives might be at risk, because of what you do.’

  Sean’s thoughts reeled. A familiar sense of dread returned to the pit of his stomach.

  Sean’s first sight of Lomax was at Heathrow. He came hobbling through the lobby with the aid of a walking stick. He had lost a lot of weight. His complexion was pale and his eyes bloodshot.