Stormbound

by A P Bateman

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Back inside his room, King left the snow clothes hanging on a chair in front of the

  radiator and took a hot shower. He soaped and shampooed twice and leaned against the tiles, letting the hot spray soothe his aching shoulders and the steam clear his sinuses. He felt cold inside. His efforts searching the SUV had left him frozen to his core. He had trudged back to the police station and taken the snow mobile back to the hotel. Changing rooms and checking off the register was a precaution. At least now he had a clean stay. He would source a vehicle in the morning. He did not intend to stay longer than tonight, but he would have a false trail planted if anybody investigated his stay, or indeed, put pressure on the young receptionist.

  The hot water soothed his mind as much as his body. He had learned not to dwell on taking a life, but sometimes it was easier than others. He had killed terrorists and had never thought about them again. He had killed enemy soldiers in secret wars, seen their faces up close, and he had to justify that it had either been them, or himself. Sometimes, that didn’t go far to making it any easier. But it was the job he did, and he had done it for so long that many of his memories had melded together. The haze of operations combining into one another. There had even been killings he was pleased to have done at the time. Such was the heinousness of their crimes. But he still did not dwell on them, and afterwards, he had felt no joy. The woman today would have killed him. But the fact that he had given her the chance to stop irked him. A waste of a life. He would always do what he had to do to survive, and that was why he was still here. But he found himself thinking about her nonetheless. Her weapon hadn’t been loaded, and King had the advantage. Why had she ignored him? Why had she thought she could make it? King shook his head and turned off the tap. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and droplets of water flicked off like rain. The woman was dead, and he’d never know why she had taken the chance. He had been there before, given another woman an out. On a desolate hill in Northern Iraq. He had watched her die, comforted her even, all the while angry that she had not heeded his warning. He closed his eyes, then when he opened them he was resolute. He would spend no more time thinking about the woman who had died out there on the ice. She was history.

  King wrapped himself in two towels and sat down on the bed. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled. It was terminated at a voicemail with no greeting, just an initial beep. King left his name, ended the call. Protocol. Nothing more.

  He waited.

  The phone vibrated silently on the bed beside him.

  “King.”

  “Mereweather.”

  “Hello, Simon,” said King.

  “Problems?”

  “Is the boss not available?”

  “I am the boss. I’ve been briefed in.”

  “Then, yes. A few problems.”

  “Go on.”

  King filled in the Deputy Director, leaving nothing out. As he listed the events, he realised it had been quite a day.

  “Amherst wants you up at that hotel,” he paused. “The Eagle’s Nest. You have twenty-four hours before that Artic storm hits the area. It looks imminent. You have a room booked already. He’s taken precautions…”

  “Precautions?”

  “MI6 says the defector is uncontactable and we have to assume they will be on route as planned. There are hostiles in the area, so it will be safe to assume an intervention will take place.”

  “I’d say.”

  “You’ll have to watch your back. I’m sending you details of an exfil. It’s arranged, and you will need to follow several protocols. It’s a last resort, so see what else you can arrange via Norway just in case it doesn’t come off. As far away from Russia as you can.”

  King shrugged. He couldn’t look at the text until he finished his call. Simon Mereweather was being a little too cloak and dagger for King’s liking, but he had a sense that there had been developments he was not privy to. Most likely a powerplay. One of the reasons both MI6 and MI5 didn’t work well together. He said, “I need to speak with their liaison officer. The person who sorted me out with a vehicle and the map. I’ll need some more resources.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Mereweather replied tersely. “Oh, and King?”

  “Yes?”

  “Watch your back.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  King did not want to be reactive to any threat. Inside his room, he was on the backfoot. He had taken the precaution of changing his room, going under another name. He would leave in the morning, but in the meantime, he was going to remain vigilant and hide in plain sight.

  The bar was empty. So much for blending in. King waited at the bar. He positioned himself side-on. The Walther in the right pocket of his cargoes, the spare magazine in the other. He carried a folding lock-knife in his pocket. Easy enough to stash in his hand luggage because of its unique Teflon-coated ceramic blade. The wickedly sharp blade and polymer handle did not show up under metal detectors – even the fixings were fabricated from fibreglass composite.

  As King waited for the barman to return, he cast his eyes on the various maps on the walls. He noted the border with Russia. The location of The Eagle’s Nest Hotel was further North-West, just a few miles from Russia. The ideal location for a person on the run with a headful of secrets. But if King did not get the timings right, the impending storm could leave them vulnerable.

  “Hello, Alex…”

  King froze. He knew the voice, knew he was about the only man alive who would get the drop on him. Every time. He turned around slowly. “Peter,” he said quietly.

  The man held the pistol steadily. No waver. There wouldn’t be. The man had his hand in his jacket pocket, the pistol’s barrel poking out of the lining from a carefully trimmed hole. King could see the barrel was not one at all, but a suppressor. Or what people often incorrectly called a silencer.

  “The tables have turned somewhat,” he paused. “Since last I saw you.”

  King smiled. “But I still haven’t pissed my own pants.”

  The Scotsman stared at him, lowered the pistol a touch. “You’re not wired up right,” he said. “Or you never actually believe your time is up.”

  “If I were wired right, I wouldn’t be in this stupid job,” said King. He glanced at the pistol. It was low and un-aimed, but the dangerous end was still close and lined up somewhat unnervingly at his groin. “You look well,” he added. “I see retirement didn’t agree with you.”

  The man moved the pistol, pulled his hand out of his pocket and smiled. “I think perhaps you actually saved me,” he said. “But why go to all the trouble of seeking me out, drawing a gun on me and then let me go?”

  King shrugged. “My world was in turmoil. I was outcast, I’d taken revenge and had

  disappeared. When it came down to it, I just couldn’t see what difference it would make. None of the other deaths had. Not really. Vengeance doesn’t change a thing. What’s done doesn’t get undone.”

  “Nothing to do with me being your mentor? Of saving you from a lifetime rotting away in prison?”

  “Well, perhaps the sight of you pissing your pants…”

  “Pity?” the Scotsman’s eyes flashed. “Go fuck yourself, Mark!”

  King smiled. He hadn’t heard himself called by that name in twenty-years. “Mark Jeffries died while escaping Dartmoor Prison. He drowned in a bog on Dartmoor. It’s Alex. You should know, you gave me the name…” King shrugged. “You screwed me over, Peter. I was angry.”

  “Survival,” he replied callously. “You of all people should have understood that. Nobody has a survival instinct like yours. There’s nothing you won’t do.”

  “And you certainly exploited that.”

  The man shrugged. “It is what it is,” he paused. “We all have jobs to do. And you always did yours. So, why let me live?”

  “I guess I saw the rest of your days filled with shit daytime TV game shows, your wife knitting sweaters you’d feel you had wear to
avoid offending her while she comments on her

  soap operas, of you sitting in your magnolia lounge in tartan carpet slippers and an M and S cardigan and thought it would be better revenge than a bullet,” King paused. “Let you linger, rather than give you a quick release.” He smiled. “Like an old, retired stud horse that has to stand limp-dicked in the corner of the meadow while the new stallion sorts the mares…”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Stewart paused. “Bastard.”

  “Exactly right.”

  “Cruel bastard,” he added. “I closed my eyes, waited for the gunshot…”

  “They never hear it.”

  “I wanted it,” he growled. “I closed my eyes and thought, you know, maybe this is better? Maybe this is the way I should go out…”

  “What? Pissing your pants on a canal bank. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “That’s the thing,” he said, ignoring the quip. “I was. Disappointed, that is. I opened my eyes and you were gone. A fucking ghost. The Reaper. Only you had done worse by letting me live. I knew I would die festering away in domesticated purgatory. Shit, I’d spent my life in the Paras, the Regiment, the Firm. I went back to MI6 and threw myself on my knees and told them I’d take anything. I’d go freelance, work for free even. I’d even drive rich little Oxbridge dickheads to the embassies. Anything. Just give me something to keep me alive. Keep the blood coursing through my veins!” He glanced behind him as the barman returned with a full ice bucket. The barman had made no noise, yet the Scotsman had known he was there. You couldn’t teach that. Trained killers were only ever guided. Their skills honed by training. Instinct and reaction were either in you, or they weren’t.

  Fight or flight.

  King looked at the man. He was in his mid to late sixties, but still fit-looking and as hard as nails. He had beaten King down, built him back up again. He had taken King to the edge – a place where death hovers like a foreboding spectre. A place where you learn what and who you really are. The foundation from which to build everything you choose to become. He had taught King how to fight – really fight, not brawl. Taught him how to use every type of firearm on the planet, how to survive every environment, every situation. And when he had taught him everything he knew, he had given him his assignments, debriefed him and taught him to be better through reflection. He had been King’s mentor. But more than that, he had felt like a father figure. And King had never known one of those. King held out his hand and Stewart took it in his own calloused bear paw and King said, “The past is buried. Let’s get a drink.”

  “Aye,” the Scotsman said. “We’ll make it a large one.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  King chose the table. He never sat with his back to the room, and he knew Stewart wouldn’t either, so they sat opposite each other, side-on to the room and the bar. King worked his left periphery, Stewart worked his right. There were two couples and a young family dining. The three young children were a little boisterous, but that suited the two men. No dangerous sudden silences where people heard a snippet of what they shouldn’t.

  Stewart drank down his neat whisky. Twelve-year-old scotch. Glenfiddich. Stewart’s minimum standard. The amber residue ran down the sides and gathered in the bottom of the glass and he supped again. King downed his and placed the glass back down on the table. They had drunk to absent friends. It was a general toast; there wasn’t enough alcohol in the hotel to drink to individuals no longer with them. Such was their trade.

  The waiter brought their pâté and King asked for a Finnish lager to go with Stewart’s second whisky.

  “Poncing out on me?” Stewart asked.

  “I want a clear head,” he replied.

  “Despite what has gone on, you’re quite safe here. Nobody will risk anything in this hotel,” he said. “Besides, the police are on the way.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “Five called the office,” he said. “They have spoken to the Finnish police, and units are being dispatched. They’ve been briefed with what you told your line manager. A few coppers at first to secure the medical centre and the police station, then the investigators will arrive in the morning.”

  “I’ll be gone by then,” King said.

  “We both will.”

  “What are your orders?”

  Stewart laughed. “I’ve got to nursemaid some young punk,” he paused. “Probably have to clean up his mess. Like old times.”

  King stared at him dubiously. “You’re assisting me?”

  Stewart shrugged. He dipped his toast into the pâté and took a bite. “Fuck, that’s strong,” he said. He pulled a face like he’d been stung by a wasp as he chewed. “Well, now I know what reindeer liver tastes like after it’s been in a blender with juniper berries.” He took a forkful of diced pickles and ate quickly, washing down the flavour. “Yes,” he said. “The vehicle and everything else were on me.”

  “I thought the map and acetate sheet seemed familiar.”

  “Never put a mark on a map, my lad.”

  “Quite.”

  King tried some of the pâté but didn’t think it too bad. In fact, he smeared the velvety paste onto his sourdough toast eagerly. There wasn’t much of either and he finished the dish quickly. The drinks came, and Stewart indicated that he was done, the waiter frowning as he took away the relatively untouched plate.

  Stewart looked at him quizzically. “I’ve got to ask…” he said. “How in god’s name did you end up working for Box?”

  MI5’s address used to be PO Box 500. Within the intelligence community, the Security Service had not yet shaken off the shortening to Box. It wouldn’t either, because it was their wartime address because of the German bombing. If it wasn’t going to lose the name for close to eighty years, it probably never would.

  “Somebody found me, needed me.”

  “Charles Forrester,” Stewart said. “The former deputy director. A good man. God rest his soul.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I know everybody worth knowing in this community,” he quipped. “And you stuck around? I’m surprised. Not as much freedom on the other side of the river.”

  “I don’t do badly.”

  “I gather that,” he said. “Went a bit rogue though, got yourself and MI5 in a bit of a tight spot last summer. Or so I hear…”

  King looked up as the waiter brought the drinks. His glass was tall and frosted. He’d seen enough ice for one day. Stewart savoured his Scotch, kept it in his hand long after he’d taken a sip.

  “…Went on a merry little dance all over Europe,” Stewart added.

  “You do what needs doing,” King said.

  A waitress arrived with two plates. King had the reindeer steak while Stewart had the Norwegian crab claws. The Arctic Ocean was close, and the Alaskan red king crabs had been bought from America and released by Stalin to feed Russia, which was close to famine. Only now, they had over-bred and Norway paid fishermen a tax-free bounty to fish as many of the invasive creatures as could fill their boats. The waitress set down the plates and said she’d be back.

  “That’s the problem with getting involved with someone in the same line of work.”

  King’s neck hairs bristled. His relationship wasn’t on the table. “There’s no problem,” he said in a tone that would have shut most men down.

  “Just an opinion,” Stewart said coldly.

  “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Opinions. They’re just like arseholes. Everybody has one, but you don’t always want one in your face…”

  Stewart moved his elbow as the waitress set down a plate of assorted breads and a finger bowl. As she left, he said, “Did you think you could just walk away, take up with MI5 and have MI6 forget all about you?”

  “It snowballed.”

  “I get it. You helped Charles Forrester out, served your country again. But then you went
and fell for the golden girl of MI5. And then you couldn’t just walk away. You were in too deep. Your arsehole must have been twitching every time MI6 was mentioned. Must have puckered up a bit when you found out you’d be working with somebody from the Firm…”

  King bristled. He leaned back with his beer and took a large mouthful. He could see that his old mentor was enjoying himself. “I should have shot you,” King said. “While you were pissing your pants.”

  “No doubt.”

  King sliced off a piece of steak. He dipped it in the pepper sauce and snapped it off the fork, his teeth scraping the metal. He knew it had been a risky move back then, but he had taken it nonetheless. Now he felt forces closing in.

  Stewart broke open the long crab claw with the silver crackers and smothered the meat in spicy mayonnaise. He chewed and dipped his fingers in the finger bowl. He swallowed his mouthful, glanced around the dining room.

  “Nervous?”

  Stewart smiled. “It’s a strange one, this,” he said. “Hostile forces unknown. A defector coming in like it’s Checkpoint Charlie in nineteen-seventy-eight or something. I’m in a John Le Carré or Frederick Forsyth novel.” He laughed. “But, I gather the defector is an alternate. A spare. Somebody with something we want, but no way of getting out of the country. Not legitimately, at least. And they want a new life, with protection.”

  “They’re on a tight leash, then.”

  “The tightest,” Stewart said. He ate more crab, chewed as he spoke. “Your fiancée mucked things up for you in South Africa.”

  “I know,” King conceded.

  “Have you told her?”

  “No. She’s got enough on.”

  “Damned decent of you. She used your real name and photograph to verify the authenticity of the MI6 contact sent to help her when her back was against a wall. It was good thinking, but it’s bitten you in the arse. That contact got himself into some bother of his own. He told tales to get himself out of trouble. MI6 not only found you, but MI5 know for sure who you are. Forrester had you down as a long-serving black-ops unofficial agent who he bought in and put in the system. It was a good way of seeing you legitimised. But your girlfriend cocked all that up.”