by A P Bateman
“Shit, I don’t know how to play this,” said Big Dave.
“Can Noventa type? What’s wrong with him?”
“No, we had a struggle for possession of the blade, he lost. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Soon?” Ramsay asked tersely.
“Ever. I punched him in the face and his neck didn’t agree with it.”
“Bloody hell…”
“Dave, listen,” Caroline said clearly into the phone. “Thorpe’s on the way over to check for watchers. You don’t want to let her know what’s happened…”
“Caroline!” Ramsay snapped. “We’re a bloody team!”
Caroline shrugged, glaring back at him. “Then tell me she’ll be okay with Dave killing our lead asset…”
Fortez: It seems curious they would seek you out.
Noventa/Big Dave: Nah, I think it shows they know their shit.
Fortez: Shit?
Noventa/Big Dave: Stuff. Know their stuff.
“Christ, he’s only typed three lines and it even sounds like him,” Ramsay commented and then said into his phone, “Tone it down, you don’t sound anything like Noventa.”
“Sound? I’m fucking typing here!” Big Dave snapped back at him.
“It’s your digital signature, it reads like you, and not him…”
“Bollocks…”
Fortez: I think I’ll pass.
“No…” Durand said quietly.
Noventa/Big Dave: That’s a mistake.
Fortez: It is mine to make.
Noventa/Big Dave: Consider me out. I’m closing down the site and wiping the emails. You’re on your own, old man. They’ll likely come for you in your sleep. They aren’t the type of people to mess with, and I had to agree to them taking the contract to leave the meeting alive. They’ll think you stiffed them, and that’s what I’ll say when they come for me. You’re on your own.
“Bloody hell!” Ramsay screamed. “Dave, what the hell are you doing?” he shouted into his phone but was met with the sound of the calling ending abruptly.
“Wait,” Caroline said. “He’s gone all in. Cards on the table…”
Fortez: You dare to threaten me?
Ramsay and Durand stared at the screen, but Caroline walked back to her chair, her leg aching terribly. She sat down carefully, dropping the last few inches, and breathing out heavily. She started to count quietly. “One… two… three… four…”
Fortez: Noventa?
“Five… six… seven… eight…”
Fortez: Noventa, are you there?
“Nine… ten…”
Noventa/Big Dave: I’m here.
Fortez: OK. Do it. I’ll send the details through. But if there’s a problem I’ll hold you responsible…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Aurora Project Rigs
100 miles south of Svalbard Archipelago
King left Grainger in his office and made his way down to the dive centre to check on his kit. He felt aggrieved at having Daniel’s pistol taken from his own pocket on the ship. He hadn’t noticed anything obvious, anybody to stand out amongst the crowd. Newman, the man he had down as CIA, hadn’t been in the rec-room at the time, or at least King had not spotted him, and the man who had attempted to stare him down at the airport hadn’t been seen since. Although he was sure he had been the gunman at the storage site, for the simple reason that Newman and Daniel had been on the beach. But ultimately King felt no further ahead, and somewhere out there someone had been armed at his expense. Twice.
The dive centre was located on the lower deck, but still a hundred feet above the ocean. The entire floors, or more accurately the open decks of the platform were constructed from galvanised steel grating to allow for the huge waves and to make scrubbing down easier. Dive tanks were chained up inside a cage and both dry-suits and wetsuits hung from solid-looking racks in an open-fronted metal shipping container. A door led off to a briefing room and shower room, and there were clipboards hanging on hooks, which King supposed were dive logs, as well as bunches of keys with floats on them which King presumed were for the stack of RIBs, or Rigid-hull Inflatable Boats on the lift platform below. Above him, the ceiling was the same heavy-duty grating that he stood on. He was aware of somebody’s presence above but could not make out whether they were male or female. He was sure they were watching him but doubted they would have any better view of him than he did of them. There was at least forty feet between them. Turning his attention back to his two cases that had been stacked alongside others, he ignored whoever was above him and crouched down beside the cases and checked on the locks.
The sound of the silenced gunshot was unmistakable. The clang of a bullet striking the grating, the ‘phut’ of the moderated gunshot and the clatter of the ejected shell casing on the metal floor came all at once, and King heard the ricochet of the bullet as it zinged out to sea. He dived to his right, but the shooter anticipated this, and the second gunshot came instantly, but the bullet was thrown off its well-aimed course by the metal grating. King darted left, then right and threw himself into the briefing room. Behind him, another ‘phut’, another clatter, and another ricochet. King searched for a weapon, but only found three sheathed diving knives hanging up from their rubber leg straps. He snatched one out of its sheath and held it by its hilt, the blade facing downwards in a classic stabbing grip. This way he could still punch, parry and stab, as well as hook at his opponent. He edged back outside and could hear hurried footsteps on the steel grating of the staircase. King readied himself and walked collectedly to the edge of the platform, his legs gently lowering and shifting into a fighting stance from years of practice and instinct. Thirty percent of his weight on his front foot – ready to kick or avoid being swept – with seventy percent of his weight on his back foot – to drive the power of the kick home. He moved, shuffling left foot forward, so that he could have all his power behind the knife when he twisted his hips into it – like a reverse punch in karate – the move that the martial art was renowned for. Finally, his left hand led the way, ready to block or jab or grab, so he could follow up with the diving knife and its eight-inch surgical steel blade.
King estimated the running footsteps were merely a pace or two away, so he made his move, edging out from the corner to greet his attacker head-on. The man rushed on and King caught his arm and scythed the blade towards him but registering the panic upon the man’s face just in time to pull his arm back.
“Rashid!” he snapped. “What the hell?”
“King!” Rashid replied breathlessly, his face pained. “You’re okay?”
King looked at his friend and colleague, pulled him around the corner to stop them both being exposed to the gunman. Above them, the grate flooring had given way to solid sheet steel – the floor of part of the solid super-structure. “Yes, I’m fine. Did you see the shooter?” King was glad to see his friend. The fact Rashid was here lifted his spirits immensely. Rashid was ex-SAS and the youngest solider of Pakistani descent to become an officer in the British Army promoted from an NCO. Prior to his passing SAS selection and officer training Rashid had been a sniper and had proven himself to be a world-class shot. He had certainly been there for King in the past, covering him on several missions.
“See him? I wrestled the gun off him…” He held up a silenced Makarov pistol. King could not be sure if it was the same weapon he took from Daniel, but it looked identical. King noticed Rashid’s other left hand was nursing his groin. “But he kicked me in the balls and ran. It was lucky I kept hold of the gun when I fell and it put some distance between us, I think he realised his options were better to get the hell out of there,” he explained.
“Who was it?” King paused. “A neat little guy, preppy, American?”
“No, but I noticed him, too. Back on Spitsbergen and on the boat.”
“You were on the boat?”
“I’ve been in your shadow ever since you landed. Simon Mereweather sent me out two days before you, to back you up.”
<
br /> “So, it was you who took my gun at the storage yard,” King mused, finally making some sense of it. Rashid obviously couldn’t get King out of there before the police arrived, so he did the next best thing and cleaned the scene. “Thanks.”
“No, that wasn’t me. I don’t know anything about that. I saw you nearly run over a polar bear on the beach, saw your smashed window and figured you’d been shot at.” He paused. “I had to take off, the police were on the scene within minutes.”
King frowned, the disappearance of his Beretta still not making any sense. He shrugged it off and grinned at his friend. “And you call that backing me up?” He shook his head. “You didn’t even bring me grapes at the hospital.”
“You weren’t really shot, were you?” Rashid paused. “I was trying to make enquiries and saw you walk back into the hotel in that fog white-out.”
King shook his head. “No. I was lucky, the bullet hit the gunstock and I took a bit of a spill off a shipping container.”
Rashid laughed. “I remember you pushing me off the top of one around the back of a mosque a few years back. I’d only just had surgery and you split my bloody stitches open. Finally, some bloody karma catching up with you…”
“Dickhead…”
“Anyway, it looks like you were a lot luckier than the man who pulled the gun on you on deck, at least.”
“You saw that?”
“I was working my way around from the other side of the boat. By the time I got around the bridge, you’d sent the bloke off for a swim.”
King nodded. “So, one out of three. I get shot at on Svalbard and a gun is pulled on me on the boat and you were too late both times? Do the world a favour, when the Security Service eventually fire you, don’t become a bodyguard and head out onto the circuit…”
“Well, that’s gratitude for you…” Rashid shook his head. “I save you from an Iranian agent and that’s all the thanks I get?”
“Iranian?”
“Yeah, you had a little staring contest with the bloke at the airport. I photographed him and had Ramsay run his face on the system.”
“Shit, I thought he was Russian.”
“Does it make a difference? The last time I checked, they were all still the bad guys.”
King frowned. “It makes all the difference. The Russians could be here simply because it’s just what they do. I don’t have a problem with the Russian people, just the old guard who have remained in government and in the intelligence services. And organised crime, of course. The Russian mafia are a plague on the West. The Russian people are fine, but the bastards at the heart of governance haven’t changed in sixty years. No, if Russia were here, it would be to play silly but dangerous games. The Iranians on the other hand, well they don’t have nuclear weapons. For an Iranian agent to be involved makes me feel uneasy. They have a lot to gain, and nothing to lose.”
“But there’s no nukes on that sub,” Rashid replied. “Cruise missiles, various torpedoes, and of course, the nuclear reactor, but no nukes. The Astute-class submarines don’t carry nukes. Those are Trident nuclear missiles, and they are on the Vanguard-class boats…”
King walked back into the dive briefing room. He snatched the empty sheath off the wall and replaced the knife but tucked it down the waistband of his trousers underneath the cumbersome pair of outer ski pants. “Well, that’s what the world is meant to think. Mounting tension with Russia at the time the submarine went missing caused the government, or at least the PM and the defence minister to give the Royal Navy a secret directive. The Astute boats were all armed with the W80 low to intermediate yield two-stage thermonuclear warhead. This is what the US Navy use and commonly called dial-a-yield. Meaning you can dial in five to one-hundred and fifty kilotons of yield. The latter flattens entire military installations, towns and small cities, even.” He paused. “Which means we have nuclear capabilities off all of Russia’s coasts including the Black Sea, as well as the Mediterranean, the Gulf and China. North Korea, too.”
“I’m guessing this decision wasn’t ever going to be discussed in the House of Commons…” Rashid mused, taking up position in the doorway, the weapon held down beside his leg should an unsuspecting innocent round the corner.
“I’m sure no more than the PM and one or two cabinet members know.” King paused. “But the whole bloody world will know if Iran gets its hands on our weaponry.”
“Not likely, though. Is it?”
“The plan is for me to get on board using a submersible.”
“What?” Rashid asked incredulously.
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head. “I was tasked to watch your back and assist if required. Mereweather’s words, to the letter.”
King considered this then said, “If it’s possible for me to get on board using a small submersible, then what if the Iranians have a submarine in the vicinity? They could dock and offload the cruise missiles.”
Rashid shook his head. “I’m not so sure they could offload entire missiles, but they could certainly remove the warheads. The Iranians would know that no international military presence is permitted within the UNESCO green zone, so they would be clear to interfere.”
“The nuclear reactor is a Rolls Royce unit. I imagine they could get hold of the plans if they wanted it badly enough. But the uranium is another matter entirely,” said King. “So, we need to get our hands on this Iranian agent and get him to have a little chat with us.”
“By chat, you mean interrogation, don’t you?”
“Whatever works.”
“Yeah, I just want to make sure I’m on the same page.”
King smiled wryly. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up…”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Show him your phone,” King said to Rashid, adding, “You sent Neil Ramsay a picture of this Iranian guy to identify, let Grainger see it.”
Rashid unlocked his phone with his thumbprint and scrolled. “Hormuzd Shirazi, although presumably he’ll be travelling under another name.” He showed Grainger the man’s photograph and waited while the man scrolled on his laptop.
“Nothing by that name on Aurora’s manifest.” He continued to scroll, glancing at the image on Rashid’s phone. “Ah, here. This is him. He’s down as Ali Vakilov, from Azerbaijan.” He turned the laptop around for them to see. “A marine biologist wanting to introduce environmentally sound techniques for the farming of Caspian Sea sturgeon fish. Caviar is big business, and the world is cleaning up its act. Even in that part of the world. It’s a good cover story, especially as China are now producing seventy percent of the world’s caviar through mass fish farming. There are plenty of countries trying to get a stronger hold on the market.”
“And a nice cover profile as well,” said King. “He doesn’t look traditionally Iranian. I suppose he’s of Azerbaijani descent. There’s a large Azerbaijani population in Iran. They look similar to the Russians, which was why I assumed he was a Russian at the airport.”
“Well, the Soviet Union ruled there for years,” Grainger commented helpfully. “One of its many satellite countries.”
“Where can we find him?” asked King.
Grainger sighed. “There are boats and ships all over the green zone and the projects that Aurora are running are both complex and extensive. He’s not here to aid with the salvage of the submarine, so that goes above my remit, and if we bring this to Aurora’s attention, then your cover will be blown.” He paused, fingering the stubble on his chin. He reminded King of a naval or commando officer who would normally have been well-groomed and smartly turned out but had allowed himself a rustic look while deployed. “The weather and sea conditions are calm, and will be for the next two days, so the inflatable booms are out and connecting the rigs.”
“I didn’t notice that,” said Rashid.
“Me neither,” King added. “So, can we assume that with all the rigs connected, people tend to meet up?”
“Meet up, socialise, get laid…” Grainger shrugged.
“What are these booms?” Rashid asked.
“Inflatable walkways that are tethered together and to the neighbouring rigs. They form a ring. Most people do a circuit for fitness and a change of scene. They have wire handrails and flashing beacons to alert boats. Sometimes they are down for a week, in most cases they are not out for weeks at a time.”
“So, our man could be anywhere,” King commented flatly.
“This rig and the next two in the chain are connected, the others are still working on it, but the maintenance crew won’t close the circle until all the boats are outside the ring and moored seaward side.”
“Okay,” said King. One of us will have to wait and start the circuit anti-clockwise while the other two start out clockwise.”
“Two?” Grainger asked curiously.
“Yes,” replied King. “You’ll be coming along for the ride…”
Chapter Thirty
King and Grainger took clockwise, while Rashid waited for the last of the boats and ships to get clear from the centre of the ring and the boom to be fixed to the rig before heading in a counterclockwise direction. King had the diving knife and Rashid had kept the silenced Makarov, which had four bullets remaining. It was getting dark and the lights along the boom lit their path perfectly.
“It’s pretty sturdy,” commented King. “You could run along it.” As if to confirm it, two women appeared out of the gloom, chatting to one another, and maintaining a decent pace. Even this far north, they wore running attire, although they wore leggings and jackets. As they drew closer, King could see their breath on the air.
“These rigs are huge,” said Grainger. “The fact we’re doing this won’t help much. This Shirazi fellow could be anywhere. He could double back while we search the next rig.”
“Well, it’s all we’ve got,” King replied. He stepped aside for the two women and they smiled at him as they passed by. “We’ll have to cover the recreation rooms, refectory and communal places, there’s not a lot more we can do. As you say, if we request more information or assistance from Aurora, then our cover will be compromised.” He paused and watched as a man headed towards them. King slipped his hand underneath his jacket and gripped the handle of the diving knife. When he was close enough to make out the man’s features, he relaxed and released his grip on the knife. “There’s more people ahead,” he told Grainger quietly as the man passed.
