Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2)

by Dominic Conlon

  Sean appeared bemused. ‘It must take a great deal of setting up?’

  ‘That’s the most difficult part.’

  ‘Suppose a vital call is made before you’ve input the data?’

  DD smiled grimly. ‘That’s why I’m spending all my time on automating the setup.’

  Sean shook his head. ‘Well I’m impressed. Let’s hope all your hard work pays off.’

  Captain Grigori Burak closed the bridge door behind him and rested his arms against the rail on the forward lookout. He breathed in deeply, savouring the cold air which carried a surprising amount of moisture. The pack ice stretched towards the horizon; behind, a trail of broken ice marked its course.

  This moment should have been the pinnacle of his career. LK-80 wasn't pretty, but as Grigori sensed the thrum of the ship’s powerful engines through the deck plates, he experienced a fierce connection to the men who built her. Constructed at the Baltiysky Zavod shipyard in St Petersburg, she had a double hull, like all Arktika-class icebreakers. The outer keel was 5 centimetres thick at the ice-breaking areas, and she sliced through the thickest ice with ease.

  But the events of the past month had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he feared it would be a long while before the bitterness faded.

  'Sir.' A young rating timidly approached the Captain. Grigori had the appearance and temperament of a bulldog, together with a reputation for being tenacious and determined. It was also well known he had little time for juniors.

  'Yes?'

  The sailor saluted. 'Sir, the Chief Engineer said he has found an excess of corrosive elements in the primary coolant loop.'

  Captain Grigori groaned. The issue they encountered during sea trials appeared to be returning. 'How bad?'

  'Not critical, sir. However he said you should be concerned.'

  'Right. I'll telephone him immediately.'

  Grigori re-entered the bridge and picked up the phone. 'What's this about, Pytor? I believed the glitch had been cured.' Grigori listened as his Chief Engineer launched into an explanation of sealants and the lack of replacement parts. 'What is the status of the second reactor?'

  'Down for maintenance.'

  Grigori shook his head. He had spent a year preparing for this day, and now they were at sea a tiny issue like this could jeopardise the expedition. 'How long to fix it?'

  'Five days, maybe a week.' Pytor's voice sounded tinny over the connection. 'I must warn you Captain that in order to make repairs without taking the main reactor offline, you will need to stay below a speed of 14 knots. Any faster would cause greater pressure in the containment vessel. Coupled with the increased corrosive, the risk of coolant leakage is great.'

  Captain Grigori Burak shrugged. Though there were procedures in place to filter out the corrosion products, he would have to keep an eye on the system. In one earlier case the same problem affected the control rod drive mechanisms, and that was something he definitely wanted to avoid.

  He left the bridge and descended to Bridge Deck 3 and his office. As soon as he entered he glanced in the direction of the safe, tucked under the desk in the corner. He hesitated, and poured a mug of thick black coffee made from his favourite Strauss beans. Checking his watch, his eyes flicked to the safe again. He had enough time to top up the mug with a little brandy. He thought back to the launch celebrations as he enjoyed the aroma of the hot liquid.

  Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff was in the official party to see the icebreaker leave port, and he requested a personal discussion. When they met, the vice-Admiral informed Grigori that he had been selected for an historic mission. He was taking LK-80 on its maiden voyage, and he would find new orders in his cabin. The Admiral gave him a time at which he could open the safe to read them.

  Grigori took another sip of the coffee and checked his wristwatch again. The moment had come. He entered the combination and reached in to withdraw a large envelope. The stiff brown paper was stamped with the seal of the Navy of the Russian Federation.

  He ripped the flap and took out several sheets of paper, scanning the first. His orders were to navigate LK-80 to a point in the Arctic sea - but to where? He skimmed the remaining pages, and a smile creased his lips.

  He stood up, stretching to ease his back. Going to the bookshelf, he pulled out a well-thumbed copy of an old Arktika expedition report from the Russian Arctic and Antarctic Institute. He opened it and read again about Anatoly Sagalevich, Yevgeny Chernyaev and Artur Chilingarov, his personal heroes. They were all awarded Hero of the Russian Federation medals after their voyage.

  Grigori trembled at the idea of following in their footsteps. When he returned, he might receive a medal too.

  In the Prime Minister's office in Downing Street, the Foreign Secretary flung his briefcase onto a chair in sheer frustration. 'I've just had the most dreadful meeting with the Russian Ambassador.'

  Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown put his papers away and regarded his colleague and friend. 'Care to tell me about it?'

  'The man's obnoxious. Overbearing and so hyper-critical. Of all the challenges to this office, he's the biggest thorn in my side.' An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. 'Couldn't we just manufacture an incident and return him to Moscow?'

  The PM smiled. 'They might send someone more obnoxious to replace him.'

  Howard Stern flopped into an armchair. 'Well I don't think I can go on seeing him like this.'

  'What did you discuss?'

  Stern rubbed his forehead distractedly. 'Somehow he knows two Russian families in London were murdered. He said he abhorred the use of violence towards the ethnic Russian community, and asked what we are doing. I said the police were going all out to find who is responsible and bring them to justice.' He snorted. 'Justice! I told him they were working on an assumption the murders are being prosecuted by a gang imported from Russia with the intention of torturing and killing people in order to gain information on the whereabouts of Khostov.'

  'You said that?' The PM looked horrified.

  'Not in as many words,' he replied. 'But I left him with the impression the police believe there is a strong link.'

  'I'm not so sure that was a good idea.'

  'The ambassador got on his high horse. Denied anyone had been sent from Russia. He made a veiled threat to expel some of our staff from the British embassy in Moscow.'

  'I'm not surprised.' Sometimes the Foreign Secretary's boldness astounded the Prime Minister. Nevertheless Howard would not make such an accusation unless it had been finely calculated to bring about a result. But what could he achieve by accusing the diplomat of being a liar?

  'It was uncanny how much he knew,' continued Stern. 'Almost as if he is being primed by the person directing the gang.'

  'You feel he is?'

  Stern frowned. 'He asked me about a firm of London solicitors whose offices had burnt down. They deal almost exclusively with Russian clients.' He glanced at Ashdown and saw the same concern written over his face. 'He would only concede that if a group from Russia were operating in the UK, it must be the Russian mafia or a rogue team. Nothing to do with the government, full stop.'

  'How are we getting on with the hunt for Khostov?'

  Stern shook his head. 'Not much progress. We know a little about his background. He's divorced with one son. He's a star physicist and Nobel peace prize winner. Currently he's working for a company called GazArctic. You will have heard of them; they're one of the largest energy companies in Russia. They've focused on extracting oil and gas from Arctic fields, both on and off-shore. We're not sure what prompted Khostov to flee Russia, but we suspect he came to the UK with a false passport. We also understand he was carrying some documents with him. SIS reckon they are important.'

  'If they despatched a squad to hunt him, can't we arrange for more assets to track him down? I'd certainly like to find him before they do.'

  For the first time in the discussion, Stern nodded eagerly. 'I'd like to find him too. However staff resources are over-stretched. The threat from Islamic extr
emists hasn't diminished. Two plots were uncovered in the last month alone. We have a team dedicated to finding Khostov, but the trail has started to go cold. We know he used a passport in the name of Vassily Maskhadov when he entered the UK, but it appears he’s gone to ground or left the country altogether.'

  Ashdown cradled his chin in his hands. 'Do whatever you can. Like you, I think this is important.'

  'Well we are acting on another lead, Terrance. A colleague of Khostov's died in Russia in mysterious circumstances. The man was American, married to an English woman. He worked for an American partner to GazArctic, and was found dead in a remote corner of Siberia. The department sent someone to accompany the widow to Russia and retrieve the coffin.'

  The PM grunted his approval. 'Keep me posted, Howard.'

  The Foreign Secretary got up. Halfway out of his seat, he glimpsed the PM's in-tray. Amongst the pile of papers he spotted a book, and he paused to get a second glance at the title.

  Forty degrees below: Traditional Life in the Arctic

  'Anything the matter?' the PM enquired.

  'Ah no, the bones are getting a bit creaky, that's all.' Howard left the room, his mind working overtime.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sean crunched his way over the gravel drive, following the detective. The house was big, set in a minimum of two acres of cultivated lawns. He counted five bedroom windows facing out. Blue police ribbon fluttered across the front porch in the cold breeze. The detective lifted the tape and Sean ducked under.

  'They were killed in the bedroom.' She pushed through the unlocked door and waited for Sean. 'The area downstairs is a real mess.'

  The entrance hall looked tidy. Large glass double doors opened out onto the living space. To the right a door led to a walk-in cloak-room; on the left was a loo. Sean went straight ahead to the living room.

  The detective followed. 'Husband and wife were tied up on chairs here.’ She indicated two dining chairs, fallen on their sides. Cushions were scattered over the floor and a lampstand lay on its side; glass littered the carpet. ‘There were bruises to their wrists.'

  'Tell me about them, Anita.'

  The Detective checked her notes. 'They were Yakov and Irana Petrovich. Came to the UK eleven years ago. He was forced out of his business in Russia and fled here. Both retired, though Yakov did a small amount of trade supplying machinery to Russia and the Baltic states. A very wealthy couple, as you can tell.'

  Sean inclined his head in agreement, trying to imagine how everything might look before the murderers arrived.

  'The wife Irana was raped, probably repeatedly, though forensics found DNA from only one man. She was discovered naked upstairs in the master bedroom, killed by a single shot to the head.' Anita took out some photographs from her bag and pointed to the first. It displayed the blood-stained face of Irana with a dark red hole just above the hairline. 'There were many other bruises on her body, but none fatal.' He caught her grim expression. 'Whoever did this treated her body like a carcass.'

  She showed him another photo. 'The husband was killed, possibly an hour or two later.' She pulled out the third photo. 'He was tortured the same way as his wife.' The shot showed a close up of Yakov's wrists, still bound tightly. The bonds had cut into his arms and deep bruises went as far as the elbows.

  'This is the second double murder you're working on?'

  Anita nodded. 'Another ex-Russian couple were murdered less than 48 hours before the Petrovich's. Stefan and Nada Novosi - an almost identical killing. Both bound by their wrists and ankles. The wife was taken upstairs and brutally raped - traces of seamen were obtained on the bed. She was found downstairs, shot in the back. Her husband was shot in the head between the eyes at about 20 feet range. Both couples were killed from the same handgun. The killer is a trained marksman.'

  'Thoughts?'

  ‘At least three men were involved. I've no idea yet if anything was stolen, but in my view this was an execution, not a robbery gone wrong.’

  'Access?'

  'Tyre tracks suggest they arrived in one car. Footprints indicate one of them stayed outside as a lookout. Given the severity of the bruising, both couples were tortured. It’s possible the women were brutalised first in order to make the husband reveal information. The fact that both couples are Russian exiles, suggests they were targeted, possibly by some kind of Russian gang.'

  Sean's mobile rang. He excused himself and walked to the entrance hall.

  'It's DD. Got some news for you.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'A lawfirm in the city, name of Winfield Mantel. Burnt down overnight.'

  'What's the link?'

  'Well, it's a boutique firm. Most of the work they do is connected with Russia. They have a lot of clients who are Russian émigrés.'

  'Right. Where did you get the info?'

  'The Section passed it on from SIS.'

  'Not from TRIP WIRE?'

  'No.' Sean could hear the disappointment in DD's voice.

  'OK. Well better luck next time. I'll need to pay a visit.'

  Sean closed the call and re-entered the living area. 'I'm sorry, I have to go.'

  Anita hesitated. 'I was told to give you all the cooperation I could.'

  'I appreciate the time you have given me.'

  'It's time which I could be using to catch the killers.'

  'Yes.' He frowned. 'You are concerned I might be on the same trail.'

  'I am. There's no sense in both of us chasing the murderers.'

  'That's not why I am here.'

  'Then why?'

  'I'm hunting the man they are looking for,' replied Sean.

  As he cleared the harbour and entered the choppy waters of the Channel, Khostov recalled the nightmare taxi ride. Thankfully, when the back window was shattered with a bullet the driver didn’t panic. Instead he drove away quickly and pulled over a few miles further on. When he began to report the incident on his cab radio, Khostov tapped him on the shoulder. He left the microphone when he saw Khostov starting to count out twenty pound notes. On reaching 200 pounds, Khostov thrust the money into his hands and instructed the cabbie to drop him off in the city.

  Now Khostov was steering his own course. If anyone had told him 48 hours ago that he would be piloting a yacht, he would have laughed. Khostov had not been on a sailing vessel in his life, and he had never dreamed of going to sea.

  He brought the helm to starboard, admitting he was beginning to enjoy himself. The Anastasia was packed with all the latest equipment, and the radar, radio and engine controls were easy to understand and operate. The computer-aided navigation proved to be straight forward and he had no need for sail with such a powerful diesel engine on board.

  Khostov whispered a prayer of thanks that Yakov had the foresight to give him details of his “stash cash”. Yakov held the safety deposit box at the bank for emergencies. He had also made the necessary arrangements so Khostov could access the cache.

  Khostov recalled how embarrassed he became with his friend's kindness and initially declined the offer. Now he was grateful he accepted. He added a coda to his prayer, fearing his friend had already paid for his generosity with his life.

  When he arrived at the bank the staff were very helpful and he found all he needed in the safety deposit compartment. Everything was just as Yakov described: a lot of cash, a small notebook and a set of keys with the label 'Anastasia' - Yakov's yacht. At the bottom he discovered an unexpected bonus - a passport, made out in Yakov's name.

  After leaving, Khostov needed time to think. He booked into a hotel near Russell Square, one he hadn’t used before. Feeling reasonably safe in the anonymity of the metropolis, Khostov decided to spend the following day planning. He needed to disappear from the UK and with the keys to the yacht in his hand he held the means to sail to France. Once he arrived on the coast getting to Paris should be easy. He discounted making for any other coastline since this would be beyond his near non-existent navigational skills.

  Khostov reflected on the l
esson from his recent experience. In future he could not contact anyone for help or ask for a place to stay. Something tugged his memory. There was a district in Paris where his Russian background might not be so much of a problem. At the minute he didn’t remember the name. If he couldn't recall the area, his pursuers would have no chance of finding him.

  The following morning he took some of Yakov's pile of notes and visited an up-market men’s clothes shop. He knew the sort of suits Yakov liked and he did his best to search for a match. He bought designer shirts and ties, two pairs of trousers, brown brogue shoes, a jacket and an overcoat. At a specialist outlet he obtained a bright technical jacket, over-trousers and deck shoes. Khostov was shocked at the price - the bill amounted to three months of his salary back in Russia.