by A P Bateman
King had listened as Daniel had told some other people about the bears on the beach, but it wasn’t why he wanted to go. He had seen another person’s reaction and that had intrigued him.
King watched Daniel, Madeleine and two other people – a man and a woman from the breakfast table – standing beside a guide. The guide was a bearded man in his forties, and he carried a rifle over his shoulder on a leather sling, as well as a pump-action shotgun in his hands. The man looked to be a true Norseman and a round wooden shield and a Viking battle axe would not have looked out of place in his hands, although the modern orange ski jacket wasn’t strictly historically accurate. King watched the man exude calmness as a bear meandered across the dark, grey sand towards them. He raised the muzzle of the weapon, and King suspected the weapon would be loaded with non-lethal bear rounds. A tightly packed beanbag filled with tiny plastic balls. Enough to put a person on their backside in a riot or sting an unsuspecting bear into backing away. King noted the short Winchester lever-action rifle on the Viking’s shoulder, which would suggest that bears didn’t always react well to being stung by a beanbag travelling at four-hundred-feet per second and may need a more permanent persuasion. After last night’s demonstration by the RAF, King reckoned they did not like low-flying Hercules C130 airplanes and 7.62mm gatling guns, either.
King watched the man who was watching them. Even under the considerable bulk of his thermal snowsuit, he could see that he was both fit and relaxed in his movements. King estimated him to be a shade under six feet tall and had earlier noted that he was of slender, athletic build. A runner, perhaps. Not a weightlifter. King thought his mannerisms and demeanour at breakfast to be that of an American. He had a preppy look, loaded his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and fruit and ate with only a fork in his right hand. Nobody from Britain put fruit with eggs and bacon, much less ate with just a fork in a restaurant and the European element were sticking to breads, pastries, and fruit, tearing the former into mouth sized pieces and dipping in their coffee, and eating the latter as a separate course. There was nothing else to distinguish the man as an American, but he had benefited from good orthodontist work a couple of decades before it had become the norm in Britain and Europe, and he looked as if he had a healthy country diet. Corn-fed, milk on tap and servings of beef several times a week. King imagined him playing quarterback in high school, perhaps even a college scholarship. He knew the type. Langley was full of them, and this man looked like he would have been poured into a suit and taken up office within the CIA. Young enough to be dangerous, old enough to have some standing, perhaps promoted above his peers in time to generate a clear career trajectory. King hated him already. A decade younger, on track for better things. All King had done was kill, steal, and deceive for his country. He had been ready, willing, and able. And that had bolstered his reputation, the belief that sometimes, he was the only man for the job. He could barely recount a mission that had gone to plan, or nor was he convinced even that the result had really made much difference in the grand scheme of things. He studied the man resting beside the Kia Sportage hire car, his attention on the small group on the beach, dangerously close to the bears and the frozen shoreline. What games had this young man been sent to play? King wondered whether he would have appreciated a man a decade older than himself advising him to give it all up and run for the hills. Not likely, he thought. He would have slotted the older man right there and then. He smiled at the thought. No, this young American was in play. The pieces were on the board. Britain had King, their American ‘friends’ had this young man, but what of the Russians? He would bet all he owned that the man staring back at him at the airport luggage belt had been Russian. He had the look, whatever the hell that was. But King was seldom wrong when it came to reading people. He knew the foibles that made every country unique. His life’s work had been in reading both people and the situations he found himself in. But he’d read enough here. He could see that Daniel was a player, simply by the fact the American had taken an interest in him, and by that note, the American was a player, too.
The vehicle’s heaters were on full and doing a fair job of clearing his rapidly freezing breath on the windscreen, but as King slipped the pickup into gear, he reached forward and cleared the edges of the windscreen with the back of his gloved hand. Both the rear, offside window and the driver’s window shattered, the headrest erupting in a puff of fibre, sponge, and leather. King heard the gunshot a second later. He already had the engine running and the vehicle in gear, so he floored the accelerator and flung himself across the seat as the pickup slewed across the sand, heading for a polar bear that had been cautiously creeping forwards towards one of the tourist buses. King swung the wheel, missing the beast more by luck than judgement as he chanced a look and headed for the road. The Toyota’s rear wheels sprayed two rooster tails of sand into the air, raining the tourists, buses and guides with stones and sand amid cries of protest and the growling of a fleeing polar bear. As the vehicle slewed onto the frozen dirt roadway, all four wheels gripped and the traction control managed the vehicle, guiding it back into a straight line. King sat up in his seat and focused on the road ahead. The bullet hole that had punched into the rear window was the size of an egg, but the driver’s side window had blown out completely, the bullet having become greatly misshapen after passing through the headrest. So, he knew the direction of the gunman. But he still had no idea who had taken the shot. King glanced at the rifle beside him. Bolt drawn backwards, just three brass shells to call upon. With his thick gloves and zippered pockets, the box of bullets had just as well been back at the hotel.
Ahead of him, shipping containers met the dark, grey beach. King figured Spitsbergen’s crime figures were low. No fence, no security. But the containers would have been the most likely place for a shot to have been taken. King checked the mirror, noted the distance to the buses and guides where he had been parked. It was a long shot for open sights. Nearing four-hundred metres. That was the sort of distance where the shooter would aim for the largest mass of the figure – the solid colour of the target – and not a precision shot, like the head or the heart. The shot had simply been too perfect, passing directly through the space occupied by King’s head less than a second before. King would have estimated the bare minimum of a 3.9x40 scope and a competent marksman behind it. He slowed the pickup, glancing left and right for movement or colour that seemed out of place, and always using his peripheral vision to spot peculiarities and sudden movement.
The frozen dirt track wound past the stacks of shipping containers and skirted the beach once more. King eased the bonnet of the pickup past the outer edge of containers and killed the engine. He stripped off his gloves and tucked them into his jacket and took out the Beretta 92 Compact model that had formed part of his equipment drop the previous evening. It was a traditionally designed semi-automatic 9mm pistol with unmatched accuracy, reliability and durability, and a thirteen-round magazine. King had requested it because of the ergonomics of the controls and large trigger guard, making it a usable weapon in cold climates where fingers were either frozen or gloved.
He took the rifle and worked the bolt before slinging it over his shoulder. Polar bears were still the biggest threat, even with a sniper in the mix. King suspected the sniper would be long gone. No follow-up shot that he’d noticed as he had driven off the beach, and any sniper worth their salt would have either bugged out or taken up an alternative firing point by now. But King doubted self-preservation to be on this person’s agenda. Spitsbergen was a remote and isolated island with only two ways off, both easily policed. The shooter had been willing to compromise their safety to attempt to kill King quite openly. And that meant commitment.
King edged down the side of a shipping container, the pistol in his right hand. His hands were cold, but there was enough adrenalin coursing through his veins to stave off the cold for a while longer. Above him, the perfect shooting platform remained unchecked and while he was moving, he knew there were simply to
o many tactically superior vantage points from which he could be viewed. He backtracked, broke left, and ran down the side of the area, pounding at a sprint until he worked his way around the unfenced compound. Around two-hundred metres later, his heart pounding and lungs heaving with the effort of breathing the cold air, King saw a rusted and broken tractor abandoned next to a single shipping container. He slowed to a walk, checking the open ground and when he reached the machine, he climbed up onto the fragile bonnet and precariously used it as a mounting block to pull himself up onto the top of the container. King rested on his stomach and surveyed the area. He saw the figure in an instant, lying prone and aiming the rifle in the direction of the Toyota, its bonnet only in view to them, the shooter waiting for some movement. A patient man, but ultimately too patient. And then, as if he read King’s thoughts, he turned and stared right at King, uncomfortable that he had waited too long and that his quarry may try to flank him.
King fired the pistol. Not to realistically hit the man, but to put him under duress and stop him from getting the crosshairs of the rifle scope on him. He watched the bullets spark on top of the container, adjusted his aim, and sent another two bullets near enough to the man for him to flinch and recoil. King pocketed the pistol, reached for the rifle strapped on his shoulder, but realised that with the bulky clothing he was too slow and clumsy in his efforts, especially when up against a man whose kit was all laid out in front of him. He watched the man roll with well-practised grace, hugging the rifle close to his chest. When he had changed position, the rifle came out and up to the man’s shoulder ready to aim and fire in an instant. King still did not have the rifle off his shoulder, so he dodged left and saw the muzzle flash of the rifle and the roar of the gunshot followed almost at once. He could see the man adjusting his aim, and he turned and leapt off the container, feeling the force of the bullet in his back and the sound of the gunshot reverberate through the containers as he fell. He landed heavily, his back on fire and curiously, a feeling of numbness filling him inside like icy water. He tried to move, but his head felt ready to explode, and his eyes started to close. He knew he was checking out, and his last thoughts were not of Caroline, nor of Jane, but that he was genuinely shocked that luck and fate had cashed in their chips. He had always won, always survived. But then he guessed that everybody else did, too.
Right up until they didn’t.
Chapter Eleven
Dorset, England
She had moved the cross trainer into the lounge, butting it right up against the window so that she could look out towards the sea as she built on her physio routine. She missed their home in Cornwall, having taken a year’s let on the cottage in Dorset while she rehabilitated, and they both re-evaluated. The Cornish property had been repaired and recently sold; too much had happened there to consider staying. They had made a little money on it and moved on. And now that she had time to reflect, she doubted their lives would ever reach a point where solid roots could grow. The risks were simply always going to be too great. The fact made her sad, but conversely it had made her realise that there was more to life, and that escaping the country with their yacht pipe-dream may be a step closer and not actually a pipe-dream at all.
She was up to fifteen-minutes, twice a day on a light setting with the cross trainer. The movement not only helped with her cardiovascular system, but with her back, legs, and arms, which had all suffered from fractures, breaks and contusions. Not only did she have to rebuild wasted muscle and increase flexibility, but she needed to mend mentally, and for that she needed to be able to control her body once more and get back to full strength.
Outside, walkers were heading for the steep, crumbling cliffs of the Jurassic Coast and the horseshoe bay below. Caroline had earlier attempted to walk the cliffs but had tried too soon. King had bought her the cross trainer and she now felt close to attempting another hike, but it was far too early to venture outside without the pair of crutches. She yearned to get outside and feel normal again, but now with King on assignment, everything felt far from normal.
Caroline watched the black Jaguar saloon pull into the side of the road and felt a pang of anxiety wash through her stomach, her heart beating faster in a few seconds than it had for ten-minutes on the cross trainer. She stopped pumping her arms and legs, stepped off the machine and felt her legs wobble, not through the exercise or pain, but because of what could now unfold. King had the luck of the devil, but she knew deep down that luck couldn’t last forever. She wiped the perspiration from her face and watched as Ramsay stepped out of the passenger seat. Big Dave remained behind the wheel and she felt the anxiety grow further. She couldn’t wait for Ramsay to make his way up the pathway and steps, and headed out to meet him halfway. Taking a deep breath and wiping a tear from her eye, she opened the door and looked at Ramsay expectantly. Holding herself against the wall and keeping the weight off her right leg.
“Caroline…” Ramsay said, surprised at the ambush.
“Is it Alex?” she managed to say, her lips quivering.
Ramsay looked at her awkwardly. “Can we talk inside?”
“Oh, my god…”
“King’s okay,” Big Dave said loudly, covering the ground in huge strides.
“Well, as far as we know. He’s operational and beyond contact…” Ramsay protested.
“Shut up, Neil.” Big Dave shook his head, then looked at Caroline and smiled warmly. “I knew he’d fuck it up…” He looked back at Ramsay and said, “What the hell’s wrong with you man?” He paused. “It’s about something else. Alright, well now I’m here, I’ll get the kettle on so that you two can have that chat…”
“Thanks, Dave,” she said quietly, the colour returning to her cheeks and the whirlpool inside her stomach starting to subside. “You’d best come in…” She paused, then added. “And for Christ’s sake Neil, spit it out.”
Ramsay shrugged and followed her up the steps. Big Dave closed the door after them and headed into the kitchen while Caroline showed Ramsay into the lounge and sat down, surprised how much the short workout had taken out of her, and how the sudden explosion of emotions had drained what little energy she had left.
“Interpol and the Italian police have uncovered an attempt to recruit an assassin to go after King,” he said matter-of-factly.
Caroline stared at him, the colour draining from her cheeks for the second time in as many minutes. She shook her head, frowning at the thought, thoroughly perplexed. Her expression said it all: she’d thought it all behind them. “But…”
“When both you and King were attacked last year, we know that the Russian element was ultimately handled by Rashid and King, and a hostile takeover by a rival mafia brotherhood in Russia severed that link completely. Likewise, it looks like the Americans took care of their rogue agent. I have unconfirmed hearsay that it was the CIA director settling his account before an incurable illness forces his retirement. King and Rashid put down the Italian mafia hit team, but the family boss is still alive. Again, like the Romanovitch brotherhood, the Fortez family suffered a hostile takeover shortly afterwards. It’s common for rival gangs to strike while the opposition is weakened. Giuseppe Fortez got out with some of his assets intact but left his operation and businesses to the rival mafia family. He now resides on Lake Como and will likely die a wealthy, but unremarkable man. Certainly, the likelihood of heading up a mafia family again are next to nil.”
“I don’t care about the man’s career prospects,” Caroline snapped. “What are we doing about it?”
“We?” Ramsay scoffed. “You’re certainly not doing anything about it. You’re on extended sick leave.”
“Alright, then what are the service doing about it?”
“Firstly, I’ve come to warn you. To make certain that you are extra vigilant. Of course, we’ll have to move you right away…”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No,” Caroline repeated emphatically. “I’m done running.” She paused. “We both
are.”
“Tea up,” said Big Dave walking in with three mugs pinched between his giant hands, spread like they were throttling the life out of the three china mugs. “Popped some sugar in yours, luv, for the shock from the Samaritan here…”
“I think I need it,” she replied, taking the mug, and cradling it between her hands while Dave Lomu sat down. “Thanks.”
“Like I said, we will have to move you,” Ramsay said. “Things caught up with you recently, this time you might not be so lucky.”
“Lucky!” Caroline retorted. “You call what happened to me lucky?” She was about to add that she had lost her baby, but she still couldn’t say it out loud and she was damned if she was going to say it to him.
“No, I just meant…”
“Forget it,” she snapped, cutting him off. “What do you know about this attempt to hire an assassin?”
Ramsay shrugged. “Giuseppe Fortez has no pull and no men so even as a former boss of the Italian mob, he didn’t have anybody to call on for the hit, so he hired a former associate to reach the dark web and trawl for somebody willing to take on the job.”
“Any takers?”
“Not yet. But Interpol are involved because of the international nature. The Italian police…”
“Are as corrupt as Fortez is!” Caroline interrupted.
“… Are assisting Interpol with the investigation and because the associate he hired is based in Switzerland, the Swiss have handed over to Interpol as well. The thought is to create a sting.”
“A sting? Big deal. He’ll argue entrapment. At best he’ll get five or six years, commuted to two or three with good behaviour.”
