by Rob Sinclair
The three men stopped talking and instinctively crouched. Logan looked around in the darkness for any sign of movement.
‘Cover the fire up!’ Fleming hissed in a whisper.
‘It can’t be them, surely?’ Logan said, unable to see or hear any sign of the trackers. ‘We were moving too fast. Trying to follow our trail and with the tracker dogs sniffing around here, there and everywhere, they can’t have been going even two-thirds of our pace.’
‘Well, there’s something out there,’ Fleming said.
‘Shhh. There it is again,’ Butler whispered.
‘Probably an animal. An owl or–’
‘Just put the goddamn fire out!’ Fleming said, more loudly but still at a whisper.
Butler and Logan began to throw clumps of snow onto the newly lit fire. It crackled and fizzled, fighting for its life, but was soon buried deep.
‘There it is again,’ Fleming said. ‘Over there.’
He pointed off into the distance but it was pitch black. Logan couldn’t see a thing. He was squinting, straining his senses for any noise or sign of movement. But there really was nothing.
Then he heard Butler shuffle in the snow behind him. He started to turn to look, but fell forward when he was suddenly shoved in the back. Logan landed face first in the soft, cold snow. He tried to spring to his feet to stave off whatever attack was coming, but before he could, a boot was thrust into his back, pinning him down.
Logan turned his head and looked up at the shadowy figure of Fleming, his grinning face caught in the dim moonlight.
‘Sorry about that, Boy Wonder. Had you going there for a second, though, didn’t I?’
Fleming’s gaze turned to a point behind Logan and he nodded. Logan followed his line of sight, but the only reaction he could manage as he saw the rock swinging toward his head was to squint and turn his head away.
The stone cracked against the side of Logan’s face, sending a shock wave right through him.
‘See you at the finish line,’ Fleming cackled, just a few seconds before Logan passed out, face down in the powdery white snow.
Chapter 9
Moscow, Russia
Jay Lindegaard stepped into the hospital room and closed the door softly. He turned around and looked at the young woman lying on the bed in front of him. Her eyes were shut. White sheets were draped neatly over her body, covering her all the way up to her shoulders, her arms resting on top. There was a cannula in the top of her hand, the connecting tube winding up to the clear plastic bag suspended high above the bed. The heart monitor on the opposite side beeped away, the blips regular and calm, the peaks on the machine’s screen shallow and consistent.
Lindegaard stared at her. He couldn’t help but think how stunning her face was, even without make-up, even after the ordeal she’d been through. He was a proud man. Proud of her. He had his faults, sure. Who didn’t? He knew he was crass, arrogant, a bully if truth be told. He got all that. It was, in his eyes, what made him so effective at his job. But he was also fiercely loyal. To his country. To his family.
All he’d ever wanted to do was work hard making a living to protect those interests. The CIA was of course where he could put his strengths and values to best use. He’d worked for the CIA for God knows how many years – his first and only employer. Lindegaard saw it as a mutually beneficial relationship. His role at the JIA? That was something else.
The JIA’s existence was a necessity. In the modern world, the secrecy of the CIA was no longer secret enough. There were too many laws and rules by which its employees needed to live, and too much scrutiny from government, the press and the outside world for it to operate freely like it had done in the past. The JIA was a step further removed. A step further from prying eyes. In many ways, it was exactly the organisation Lindegaard wanted to be involved with.
Yet he’d always felt uncomfortable about his role as one of the four members of the JIA committee – effectively the four men who had the final say over everything that happened at the organisation. There was something about the way the JIA worked that didn’t quite sit well with Lindegaard.
Perhaps it was the fact that control of the JIA was shared between the US and its biggest ally, the UK. Maybe it was simply the people he had encountered since working with the JIA. They were … well. Just not CIA. Just not quite American enough for him.
Lindegaard snapped out of his thoughts and moved over toward the window. He pulled the thin blue curtains together, blocking out the bright sun that had been shining through and had heated the room to a beyond comfortable temperature. Then he turned and headed to the simple armchair next to the bed. As he slouched down onto the seat, she murmured and wriggled, then opened her eyes.
He continued to sit, staring at her face, waiting to see whether she would drift back off or come around. After a few moments, she turned her head toward him, grimacing with pain as she did so. Her eyes registered surprise when she saw who her visitor was.
‘Uncle?’ she said.
‘Hi, sweetie. Sorry. I thought you were sleeping.’
He spoke to her in English. His Russian was patchy at best. Her English was perfect. Better than his even and yet it was his first language.
She shifted her position, trying to sit up. Her face wrinkled in pain. It didn’t appear to him to have been worth the effort – she only managed to move herself a few inches before she gave up.
‘Put me upright, will you?’ she asked.
Lindegaard nodded and leaned forward. He pressed the button on the side of the bed and there was a whirring noise as the back third of it began to creep up, lifting her head and torso.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘How do you think?’ she responded, managing a half-smile.
‘I know, silly question. The doctor said there hadn’t been any complications in surgery, though. You’re going to be fine.’
‘To be honest, that really doesn’t make me feel much better right now.’
‘So, tell me what happened?’
She tutted and closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. ‘I was wondering how long it would take for the pleasantries to wear off.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘You’re not here because you’re concerned about me. You’re just concerned about what might have happened. Concerned about yourself.’
‘Can’t I be concerned about both?’
‘You could be, but I don’t think you are.’
‘Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think then.’
‘Quite frankly, I don’t really care.’
‘I know you don’t mean that.’
She huffed and turned away from him, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Please, just tell me what happened,’ he said, trying his best to sound sincere. ‘We can still get through this. But I have to know what we’re working against.’
‘Logan doesn’t know!’ she snapped.
Lindegaard didn’t say anything for a few moments, waiting to see whether she would add to her blunt answer. She didn’t.
‘You’re sure about that?’ he said.
‘I can’t be one hundred per cent, how could I be? But I can’t believe he wouldn’t have told me, used it against me, if he’d known.’
‘Why do you think he let you live?’
The question hung in the air, the room falling deathly silent except for the hum of the monitor and the bleeps coming from it with every beat of her heart – they were noticeably faster now.
Lindegaard stood up and moved over to the bed. He sat down by her side. The bed was set high and his legs dangled off the side, his feet barely touching the floor. He reached out and pushed a wave of silken hair away from her face.
She’d been shot twice. Once in the shoulder, once in the gut. She’d suffered terribly. She’d very nearly bled to death before the paramedics had got to her. And yet, despite what had happened, her skin and features remained sublime. He gently brushed the bac
k of his hand across her cheek, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin, noticing the look of unease in her eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered eventually, almost a whimper, her usual confidence and bravado non-existent.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he said.
His hand moved slowly down to her neck, almost caressing. But then, suddenly, he clenched, pushing down hard. His fingers squeezed around her windpipe.
‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’ he said through gritted teeth, pushing his face down only inches from hers.
She began to writhe, slow, awkward movements. There was little strength in her small frame – a combination of her ordeal and the drugs she’d been given. He knew he could quite easily crush the life right out of her. She was entirely helpless. He squeezed harder. Her eyes bulged; her face contorted and turned red.
‘How did you fuck it up?’ he said, feeling the anger building up, channelling it down into his clenched hand.
‘I’m sorry!’ she managed to say through panicked, pained breaths.
‘You can see how this looks, surely? You can see why I’ve got to do this?’
‘Please! Please, stop!’
He ignored her feeble protests, focusing on her cringing and crinkled face as he steadily choked her. He was almost enjoying the moment. But after a few more seconds, he pulled his hand away and then watched curiously as she slowly regained her composure.
As if a switch inside him had suddenly been flicked, Lindegaard’s features quickly softened and he once again began to gently brush her hair with his hand.
‘You look so much like your mother,’ he said, smiling at her.
She sank her head down lower, as if trying to get away from his touch.
‘You’re my niece and I love you,’ he said.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘And we can still get through this. But you have to tell me if there’s anything that could threaten my position. If there’s anything at all that could get in the way.’
‘I would,’ she said. ‘You have to believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘But don’t think for a second I won’t kill you if you’re lying to me.’
She looked away from him and he could see tears forming in her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether they were from sadness or fear. It was unusual to see her so vulnerable, so weak. So emotional. She was usually so strong and in control.
But rather than feeling for her, her weak and emotional demeanour worried him.
He had meant what he said. He did love her. And he wanted to protect her, just as he had vowed to his sister, her mother, that he would all those years ago.
If she had been anyone else, he would have killed her already. For now, he would give her the benefit of the doubt.
But he knew he would have to keep a careful watch on her. She had failed once and who knew what damage that had already caused. And as long as she was stuck in here recuperating, and Carl Logan and Angela Grainger were still out there alive, Lena Belenov, the FSB’s finest, was nothing more than a loose end. A complication.
Without saying another word, Lindegaard got up and headed for the door.
Chapter 10
Highlands, Scotland
When Logan came to, his entire body felt numb from the cold. It took him a few moments to find the strength to get his limbs working again. He hauled himself to a sitting position and pulled his hand up to the spot where the rock had crashed into his skull. There was a gash that was sticky with blood. The area around it was lumpy and sore. The cut wasn’t deep, though, and the flow had already stopped.
Logan grimaced as he got to his feet. Pain shot through his head. His legs felt dull and heavy. He didn’t know how long he had been out for. Minutes at most. Any longer and he probably wouldn’t have woken up at all, given the freezing temperature. As it was, he was shaking violently from the cold, his whole body spasming.
He felt over his body, patted himself down, looked around the ground, realised that Fleming and Butler had taken everything but the clothes off his back. He had no knife, no compass, no watch on his wrist. He cursed loudly and kicked at the soft snow, sending plumes of white into the air.
If he’d thought the task ahead was arduous before, it would be even more so now. He was out in the wilds all alone with nothing but his wits.
But as daunting as the situation was, something else entirely was filling his thoughts. This was the last straw. He wasn’t going to sit back and take Fleming’s shit any longer. It was time to fight back. Despite the perilous position he found himself in, Logan’s mind was already racing, alert, focused.
Fleming would have to wait, though, if only for a few hours. Logan knew time was on his side. He guessed he was still a couple of hours ahead of the trackers. Before he set off again, he needed to get warmed through and find some water and food to fuel his body. After that, he was going to become the hunter.
It was supposed to be an escape and evasion exercise, but Logan knew at that moment the game had changed. It was time to put everything he’d learned to the test. He no longer cared if the trackers found him. Getting Fleming and Butler was the goal now.
He set about rebuilding the fire, first removing the covering of snow and then re-digging the pit. It took some time to gather enough kindling and tinder, particularly as he no longer had the knife to cut away the branches. But it was worth the effort. The warmth from the fire when it was finally ready quickly made him feel revitalised.
Perhaps more importantly, it made it possible to melt some of the snow for water, which he desperately needed. It would have been a whole lot easier if he’d still had a survival tin to use as a receptacle for the water. As it was, he had to hold the snow above the fire a handful at a time, lapping up the small amount of liquid that pooled in his hand with each fistful. It was a lot of effort for a small amount of water, but he knew it was better than simply eating the snow, which would deplete his energy supply as a result of further reducing his core temperature.
Logan thought he would be about an hour behind his foes. If he’d set off after them as soon as he’d woken up, he might have caught them in minutes, but he just hadn’t had the energy. And he knew they would have to stop eventually too. That should prove to be his opportunity to snare them.
Provided he could actually find them.
When he felt able enough to get on the move again, Logan covered the fire with snow, completely burying it, and then set off along Butler and Fleming’s sporadic trail. Initially it was clear which way the two soldiers had headed, but the trail didn’t last long. Logan’s progress was soon slowed as Butler and Fleming’s tracks became almost non-existent, with nothing more than a few yards of prints and spoor at a time.
After a while, Logan began to doubt whether the snippets he was finding were even from Butler and Fleming at all. As adept as Logan had shown himself to be so far in his training, Butler and Fleming were seasoned evaders and knew every trick in the book for covering their tracks.
The terrain certainly wasn’t helping either. Logan had crossed two small bodies of water already, which somehow or other were unfrozen. It had given him the opportunity to drink but crossing water made it notoriously difficult to track. Even with dogs, water would have been a huge hindrance. Depending on how far the evader moved in the water before emerging, the scent trail could disappear entirely.
To add to that, the further Logan went, the harder he found it to figure his direction of travel. He was good at telling his orientation from the position of the stars, but it was a dull and overcast night with the glare of the moon only barely visible behind the clouds. That at least gave him some idea as to where he was going given his understanding of lunar movements, but it was nowhere near as accurate as the soldiers could be, given that they had compasses.
After a few hours, Logan began to realise that following the trail was near-impossible. He couldn’t have moved more than a few miles since he’d left the rock. The
cold night and tiring exercise were quickly sapping his energy and motivation.
A doom-and-gloom feeling began to slowly creep over him and it wasn’t much longer before Logan lost the trail altogether. Some two hours before, he had entered a forest, which varied from expanses of fir trees to patches of thick undergrowth. There was little snow, just frozen-solid ground, and he hadn’t seen a footprint or any signs of life since he’d walked past the first looming tree.
It was easy terrain to stay hidden in, especially at night. Perhaps Butler and Fleming had already stopped for rest and Logan, lost in the woods, had simply carried on past them. It would explain why there was no evidence at all of where they had gone.
Logan was at a loss. With only sporadic glimpses of the dim moonlight coming through the tree canopy, his already diminished sense of direction was now all but gone. He stopped moving and slumped against a thick tree trunk, his legs exhausted, his stomach aching with hunger, his hands blue with cold.
After a few seconds of unsatisfactory contemplation, Logan moved onto his knees and began to root around the trunk of the tree, scraping off the moss with his fingers. It was reindeer lichen, a staple food for survivors in cold climates. It didn’t taste great and its nutritional content was poor at best, but it was a lot better than nothing. It would have been better heated through, boiled or fried or roasted, but he stuffed it into his mouth frozen, almost past caring about the possible consequences of ingesting the ice-cold food. Instead, his mind raced with thoughts of how he would get his own back on that bastard Fleming.
After a few soggy, cold mouthfuls, Logan’s insides began to cramp, a natural instinct warding him off eating any more of the frozen moss. He cursed himself for having been so nonchalant.
The paltry amount of food inside him would give him a little energy, but Logan determined there was little benefit of moving any further in the night. If he could wait until morning, he would have a much better sense of where he was and where he was going. Plus, he badly needed rest and more food.
