Tundra

by Tim Stevens

  Purkiss reached up and tripped the master switch.

  The station shut down around him with an audible hum that spread through the walls like a sigh, the lights and the remaining computer equipment and electrical appliances ceasing their activity in quick succession. Purkiss was surprised by how suddenly the wind outside reared into prominence, now that the static obscuring it was gone.

  The blackness around Purkiss was total.

  He believed Montrose would now do one of three things.

  One: lie low, wherever he was, waiting with his hostage to see what developed.

  Two: return to the entrance corridor and confront whomever it was that had cut the power.

  Three: assume the Spetsnaz forces had arrived and were shutting the station down. In which case, Montrose’s priority would be to get out at all costs. One of the costs would involve killing his hostage.

  It was a risk Purkiss thought unavoidable. Because he suspected Montrose would be listening out for the approach of a helicopter, would accept he hadn’t heard it and that the noise produced by the wind wouldn’t be enough to mask it, and would therefore regard the cutting of the power supply as an act of counteraggression by Purkiss.

  And Montrose would, in Purkiss’s estimation, most likely sit tight. Recognise it was worth waiting to see what kind of counteroffensive Purkiss was mounting, and prepare himself for it, confident in the knowledge that he, Montrose, had the upper hand, because he had Budian as a shield.

  Which meant Purkiss had to find Montrose, somewhere in the depths of the station, in pitch darkness.

  He stood in the dark, his eyes widened to allow the rods in their retinas the best opportunity to absorb the faintest photons of light filtering in through his pupils. The process of maximal adaptation to complete darkness would take twenty to thirty minutes. Purkiss didn’t want to wait that long – Montrose might well decide to escape towards the hangar in that time – but he was prepared to give it ten minutes.

  In Medievsky’s office, he’d checked the spreadsheet for the entry on the twenty-ninth of December. The log stated clearly that Medievsky, Wyatt, Montrose and Haglund had gone out to look for Feliks Nisselovich after he’d disappeared from the station. Yet Clement had been adamant that the search party had comprised only Medievsky, Wyatt and Haglund. It meant, if Clement was both telling the truth and remembering accurately, that the log was wrong.

  Which suggested it had been falsified afterwards.

  Purkiss had taken the biggest gamble of the mission so far, and had told Clement of his belief that Montrose was the person they were looking for. He’d told her quickly what to do: hit him from behind with the trophy on Medievsky’s shelf, causing a plausible injury, so that Purkiss could create the fiction that she was the killer. It was a gamble because if he was wrong, if Clement had been lying all the time, she’d take the opportunity to kill him, and would succeed, smashing the weight of the stainless steel cup against the exposed vertebrae of his neck or simply sliding a concealed blade in between them, severing his spinal cord.

  But he’d been right, and the ruse had worked. His ploy to keep them all at the station until the Spetsnaz arrived had provoked Montrose into showing his hand.

  Before Purkiss’s dark-blinded eyes, details were starting to take form: the expanse of the wall opposite, the shapes of the rows of shelves. As his vision struggled to reestablish itself, his other senses sent out their probing tendrils to compensate, his ears attuning to the creaks and ticking of the walls of the station in the sudden silence, his hands finding substance in the stippled grip of the Walther and the smooth curve of the trigger against his index finger.

  He decided it was time.

  *

  Purkiss opened the door of the room and tossed a box of replacement fuses into the corridor beyond and waited.

  He expected the box to clatter into the corridor and produce a brief echo and then for the black silence to settle once more.

  One second later, the corridor erupted.

  The cacophony sent him recoiling backwards. The light flashed from the left, sparks blazing though the darkness like microsecond flashlight beams. Five successive crashes followed, the insect scream of ricochets overlapping.

  He came back...

  Purkiss thought quickly. Montrose would be as blind as he himself was. But Montrose had two advantages. Purkiss hadn’t been able to see the exact model of the handgun Montrose had drawn and with which he’d shot Medievsky, but he had to assume the magazine was nearly full; in addition, Montrose had the two Rugers. Purkiss, on the other hand, had four shots available to him.

  Montrose’s second advantage was that he had his hostage, Budian. Which meant Purkiss couldn’t risk even one shot into the dark.

  Purkiss lunged for the opposite wall and found the metal shelves with his hands and tested the strength of the middle one. It held. He hauled himself upwards, using his legs to propel himself so that he sprang froglike, his boots gripping the bottom shelf. He clambered onto the top one and turned and sat, his legs dangling, his torso bent almost double under the ceiling.

  The metal beneath him began to tilt, its moorings straining away from the wall housing them.

  The shelf would tear away from the wall in a matter of seconds.

  He’d left the door ajar, and he watched its vague shape in the darkness.

  With a chunk, one of the heavy-duty screws broke free from the wall.

  The shelf tipped, and Purkiss grabbed its edge with his left hand to steady it.

  Five seconds, at most, and either the shelf would separate from the wall or the degree of slant would be such that Purkiss would slide off.

  The door slammed open and the twin blasts, separated by a second, smashed into the room, illuminating it in strobe splashes.

  An instant after the second one exploded, Purkiss dropped off the shelf and aimed for the snapshot he’d seen in the muzzle flash of the dark head just inside the doorway and slammed the butt of the Walther down and felt it connect a fraction before his feet hit the ground. The head jerked away and Purkiss grabbed in the dark and felt the shape of a body and clawed his left hand upwards, feeling for the face. An instant later Montrose’s arm swung hard against his abdomen and he doubled against the blow but kept his fingers probing for the eyes. He felt teeth dig at his palm, seeking purchase, but they served to orientate him and he seized a lock of hair – he didn’t feel the glasses, Montrose never needed to wear glasses, it was all for show, his mind told him distantly – and wrenched downwards while bringing the Walther up and over with his other hand and finding purchase with its muzzle against the bony protuberance of the flexed neck.

  Purkiss hissed, close to where he judged the ear must be, ‘Stand down or I’ll fire.’

  He saw, now, in close proximity and with his night vision becoming more acute, the side of Montrose’s face, his eye swivelled towards Purkiss.

  Purkiss let go of the hair and dropped his hand and felt for the handgun and prised it out of Montrose’s grip and flung it aside.

  He shoved the almost invisible shape away and backed into the room, the Walther in his extended right hand. He reached up blindly with his left hand and flipped the master switch.

  The light above sputtered and caught, flooding the room with a brilliance that made Purkiss blink. Montrose himself was squinting against the light, his knees slightly flexed, his hands open in readiness at his sides. Beyond him, through the open door, Budian hovered, her expression dazed.

  Purkiss jerked his head at her. ‘Get suited up and wait at the front.’ When she didn’t move, he said, ‘Go.’

  To Montrose he said, ‘Walk backwards through the door and turn to your right. Keep moving.’

  Montrose stepped back carefully, his hands groping for the door to orientate himself. As Purkiss followed him into the corridor he risked a swift glance back up to the entrance. Budian was there, pulling on a snowsuit.

  When Montrose had backed past the next door, Purkiss said: ‘Stop there.’ He
advanced to the door, opened it with his left hand, stepped back and motioned Montrose inside. It was a store room for supplies. Purkiss cast a swift eye over the stacks and the shelves. His attention was caught by box from which a length of electrical flex spilled.

  ‘Get that box down,’ he said.

  Keeping Montrose covered and at a distance of six feet, Purkiss pulled out the flex. Plastic ties would have been better, but he didn’t have time to go hunting for them. To Montrose he said, ‘Turn round and put your hands behind your back.’

  For the first time, Montrose spoke. ‘You’re too late, you know.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Awkwardly, one-handed, Purkiss looped the flex around Montrose’s wrists. ‘But at least you’ll be able to provide some information.’

  ‘You’re assuming we’ll make it to safety before the troops get us.’

  ‘We?’ said Purkiss. With the gun still in his right hand, and for the first time not aiming directly at Montrose, he began to tie the flex. ‘Sorry, I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m not taking you along. A prisoner would just slow us down.’ He tightened the first knot. ‘They’re going to find you here, tied up like a Christmas present, and you’ll be back in Moscow before you know it, in a nice warm cell in the Lubyanka. They’ll do a far better job extracting information from you than I ever could.’

  Purkiss had known Montrose would make his move sooner or later, and had decided to trigger it with the provocation most likely to do the job. He jerked his head aside as Montrose snapped his skull back, felt the man’s heel attempt to rake his shin. Purkiss brought the stock of the Walther down hard on the mastoid process below Montrose’s ear. Montrose sagged and Purkiss let the dead weight slide to the floor.

  He moved more quickly, with both his hands now unencumbered, and trussed the man’s arms and legs so thoroughly his limbs were barely visible beneath the layers of flex. Purkiss found a chamois cloth and stuffed it in Montrose’s mouth, securing it with duct tape.

  One of the boxes contained stationery. Purkiss chose a notebook and a ballpoint pen and wrote in Cyrillic lettering: This man is Ryan Montrose. He is involved in the extraction of nuclear-armed missiles from the lost Tupolev aircraft. The location of the aircraft is near the so-called Nekropolis, the abandoned research site ninety kilometres north-west. Montrose will have associates working to remove the missiles. The location must be identified immediately and quarantined.

  It was the best he could do. It was all he knew that would be of use to the Russians. The FSB man he’d spoken to on the satellite phone, Wyatt’s handler, had said the location of the aircraft wasn’t known. Purkiss didn’t know why he’d said that, because the Nekropolis had clearly been shut down as a result of the Tupolev’s crashing nearby, which meant the authorities knew where it was. Could it be that the FSB man was being kept out of the loop?

  It didn’t matter. Purkiss had to assume the man genuinely was unaware of the plane’s location. In which case, it was possible the troops were being sent to Yarovsky Station but not to the Nekropolis. Which meant Montrose’s colleagues, whoever and however many of them there were, would probably even now be working on the wreck, removing the missiles.

  Purkiss took hold of Montrose’s ankles and hauled him into the corridor. He left him in the middle of the floor, and tucked the folded note between the coils of flex.

  Budian stood by the main door, fully suited up. Purkiss strode across, pulling his own balaclava back on and fitting the goggles. She gazed at him, her eyes dull with shock. He glanced her over. She seemed unhurt, at least physically.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Twenty-seven

  Captain Anatoly Aleksandrov listened to the final report in his earpiece – outbuildings clear – and allowed the adrenaline surge to ebb a degree, not enough that fatigue could get even close but sufficient to allow himself a moment’s reflection.

  Around him, in the entrance corridor, his men moved like spectres through the haze of gas still hissing from the CS canisters. Two of the men, their faces made insectoid by the snouts of their gas masks, hoisted the trussed body like pallbearers. The gag had been ripped from the choking mouth as soon as it was evident the bound man was still alive. He was being carried face down, to spare his lungs in case he vomited, and Aleksandrov glimpsed the red, swollen face, the spew of drool and nasal mucus.

  ‘Sir.’ Another man strode over and handed Aleksandrov a folded slip of notepaper. ‘This was attached to him.’

  They’d hit the station eight minutes earlier, fast and hard, compensating with speed for the inevitable warning of their arrival that had been broadcast by the noise of the Mi-26 helicopter. Ten men, each equipped with AN-94 assault rifles fitted with grenade launchers. Aleksandrov had studied and memorised the floor plan of Yarkovsky Station during the flight, and went in through the front door with four of his men, dispatching two to the vehicle hangar and the other five to the rear of the main complex on either side.

  Eight minutes later, the complex was secured.

  Apart from the bound man in the entrance hall, who seemed to have rolled some way down the passage judging by the thin trail of blood on the floor, and three corpses, one in the deep-freeze room and one twisted on the floor near the entrance and one inside the generator shed, there was nobody there.

  The Ural truck listed on the station’s inventory of vehicles was gone, as were three Arctic Cat sleds.

  As his men carried the trussed captive through the open doorway, the door itself having been smashed off its hinges in the assault, Aleksandrov read the note.

  He read it a second time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

  He took out his phone handset.

  ‘Tsarev.’ The General answered before the end of the first ring.

  Aleksandrov debriefed quickly. He read out the note, verbatim.

  At the other end, the General deliberated in silence for five seconds. Then he gave his orders.

  ‘Understood, sir,’ said Aleksandrov.

  He emerged from the station into a storm of white, the snow whipped into a swirling funnel by the spin of the colossal helicopter’s eight rotor blades. The trussed man, Ryan Montrose if the note was to be believed, had already been carried into the rear. Ducking beneath the air current produced by the rotor, Aleksandrov made his way to the Mi-26 and climbed up into the cargo bay. Its vast, warehouse-like space was ridiculously large for the twelve men it had ferried to the station, but the helicopter had been the vehicle which both was most immediately available and had the required flying range.

  Plus, the cargo bay carried a GAZ Vodnik, a high-mobility infantry vehicle mounted with a KPVT heavy machine gun that was capable of traversing the extreme terrain of the Siberian far north.

  Inside the bay Aleksandrov’s men had become individuals once more, their gas masks discarded. He summoned Nikitin, his lieutenant, with a flick of his fingers. Over the roar of the engine and the staccato thwup of the rotor he shouted: ‘A change of plan. You’re in charge. You’ll go north-west with the chopper.’

  Aleksandrov gave his orders, as General Tsarev had relayed his.

  Nikitin had served with Aleksandrov long enough that he felt confident to express his opinions. ‘Sir, wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to lead the assault to the north-west? Politically, I mean?’

  ‘No. You can handle the mechanics of the operation, no question. The political angle lies in the other direction, with the fugitives. I feel it in my gut.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Nikitin was already beckoning behind him. ‘Guys, let’s move the truck out.’

  Aleksandrov hopped out and stood back and watched as the GAZ Vodnik was steered down the ramp.

  *

  Eight twenty-two p.m. in Yakutsk.

  The time seared itself on Lenilko’s memory for the remainder of his life. All the clocks in his office were of the analogue variety. Digital might afford more accuracy, but Lenilko never got the same sense of immediacy, of reality, from a sequence of four numbers bisected b
y a colon as he did from the almost grand sweep of hands round a dial.

  The phone rang and he picked it up and General Tsarev said: ‘The station is secured. My men found three bodies, two of them shot dead recently, the other frozen and locked away and possibly a suicide. One man remained, alive, tied up. Otherwise... they’ve gone.’

  The mid-afternoon greyness beyond the windows pressed in on Lenilko.

  Tsarev continued, ‘You told me it was a containable situation. One that a rapid intervention at Yarkovsky Station would put an end to.’

  Lenilko said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘It seems there are complications. My group commander found a note on the surviving man. It said the terrorist activity was centred on an abandoned research site ninety Ks from the station. The note urged immediate action to prevent the extraction of nuclear material from the site.’

  Lenilko closed his eyes.

  As if Tsarev had somehow detected the action, he remained silent until Lenilko cracked his lids a fraction.

  ‘What did you tell our President?’

  ‘I told him precisely what I told you, General. That there was a terrorist cell operating at Yarkovsky Station, that my usual line of command had potentially been compromised, and that the station needed to be quarantined and its personnel terminated with immediate effect.’

  Tsarev said, his words almost hidden behind the rasp in his damaged voice, ‘I acted on the direct instructions of our President. I had no option, as a senior member of the military, other than to obey. As such I am legally blameless. Morally, however... there lies the problem. I put in motion a course of action which may well turn out to be part of a spectacular bungle, one which could put nuclear warheads into the hands of a group of people who will use them against us, or against the United States, or Europe, without compunction.’

  This time Lenilko didn’t reply.

  ‘I’ve notified the President’s office,’ Tsarev went on. ‘Also the Chief of the General Staff, and the Director of the FSB. This is beyond any favour I owed you, Semyon Vladimirovich. This is too big.’