by A P Bateman
He had started up the machine and moved East. Losing sight of the two men on the ice, he threaded through the trees and finally came to a halt at the bottom of an enormous snowdrift. He cut the engine and listened to the forest for a moment. Utter silence. His machine would have scared off any birds or ground game. There was little left in the way of cover after the violence of the squall. The grouse, or ptarmigan, roosted in the trees and enjoyed the cover of the ice and frozen snow in the pines. They had fled at the first signs of the storm, and this area was devoid of either birdsong or the ruffling of wings and feathers.
The man took the rifle out of the cradle and carried it loosely as he trudged up the face of the snowdrift, which would afford him an uninterrupted view across the lake. From here, he would track them in his scope until they were near. A shot or two at their feet, perhaps even cracking the ice, and they would surrender upon his command.
He edged his way further up the drift, shouldered the rifle and eased himself into position. He checked the scope…
Nothing.
Nobody.
He craned his neck, forgot about the narrow field of view of the scope and shielded his eyes with his gloved hand as he looked out across the vast white plain. Almost at once, he heard a gunshot, felt the spray of ice in his face as the bullet struck the ground two-feet away.
He dropped back behind the ridge of the snowdrift and reached for the rifle he had managed to drop as he had thrown himself down. Another gunshot, this time head on, taking the ridge of ice apart. Another, then another. The gunman had his eye-in and was chiselling the ice away. A pop-gun in comparison with his mighty and trusted hunting rifle, but it didn’t matter because he was the one cowering and taking fire. He steeled himself, took a deep breath and came up over the ridge a few feet from where the bullets had struck. He caught a glimpse of blue. The same blue jacket he had aimed at and missed at the gulley where he had previously butchered the English spy. The same man who had put a hole through the bulky shoulder of his reindeer skin coat, skimmed the flesh that had stung like a thousand beestings. A graze, but an agonisingly close call, which he had dressed in reindeer moss and a leather patch and would leave a thick and jagged scar.
The Sami was close for a shot like this, the blue jacket filling his scope, too close for the magnification of the lens. He sighted quickly, fired, then ducked back down as gunshots sparked from his right and ice chipped away at his feet. The bastards had pincered him. Come in on him from two sides and attacked simultaneously. He had nailed one for sure but could not see the other man who was raining lead around him. He fired in the general direction, then slid back down the drift and worked the bolt as he scurried across the snow back to the snowmobile. There was a pause to the gunfire and the man assumed that whoever was doing the shooting was now reloading. He slammed the rifle into its rack and jumped onto the snowmobile. He felt and heard the impact of a bullet hitting the machine and ducked down as he started the engine and revved hard, throwing a blizzard of snow up as the tracks dug in and he slewed away. He knew that with every ten-metres he travelled he was getting well beyond the range of a small pistol, and he swerved through trees to present himself as a more difficult target and to put obstructions in the path of a lucky bullet. He laughed, as much a product of adrenalin as the thought of having accomplished at least a part of his mission. He doubted the centre shot would leave the man wounded. And the cold and remoteness of the location would see that in his favour, too. The man he had shot would be dead. There was no question about it. It hadn’t gone to plan, but he would have to be more fluid. He had not
expected a gunfight. It was too late to make it look like an animal attack. He would have to put them through the ice. The river from the power station on the Russian side spewed out hot water at enormous pressure which created a current. If he took the bodies to the melt, tossed them in, they would move under the ice and be lost. Once the putrefied corpses lost their gases, floating against the underside of the ice, they would sink and the temperature at the bottom of the depths would make them sink forever.
He slowed the machine, spun around and took a course that he hoped would put him behind the second gunman. He knew he was getting into a fight now. He had speed and the ability to manoeuvre, and he had the firepower advantage. He would not be caught off guard again.
He had covered a lot of ground. Shutting down the engine gave him a thrill he neither understood, nor would have been able to describe. He had hunted his entire life. For food and for animal fat to use as fuel and for fur. He had killed his first tethered reindeer with a knife to its spinal cord when he had been five. He had shot his first seal at ten. Since then, he had taken many lives, but never human. Not until the man in the clearing. He had been paid well for his tracking skills, paid even more handsomely for killing the English spy. He had enjoyed it. He had never enjoyed killing animals, but it was a vital part of his tribal, nomadic lifestyle. His heritage. But the killing of a man had been a different and completely emotive experience. He had already killed the man in the blue jacket, the Englishman sent to investigate the death of his colleague, and now he would enjoy hunting and killing his older companion.
He opened the bolt and breech fed the internal magazine until he had replenished the maximum of five bullets. He closed the bolt and held the rifle ready as he walked, carefully placing his soft-soled boots on the dry ice. Even with the soft leather, the ice crunched underfoot. He listened intently as he walked, expecting to see the man in the green jacket at any moment. He was sure he would come in behind him. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted the terrain through the scope. He took another few steps, paused and sighted again. The older man was kneeling in the snow. He was bending over the body of the man in the blue jacket. The Sami hunter smiled as he steadied his aim and released the bolt safety with his thumb.
And then he froze.
The blade of the knife was ice-cold. It had slipped in through his open hood, the tip of
the blade digging into his neck, piercing the skin. A warm trickle of blood ran down his throat. An irritating dribble, tickling his cold skin. He realised he had stopped breathing, took a sudden breath and felt the blade dig deeper.
“Put down the gun.”
The man did as he was told. He had cut enough reindeer throats to know how it worked. The rifle clattered on the solid surface of the compacted snow and he slowly raised his hands.
King pushed him hard in the back. The man spun around defiantly but stopped when he saw the pistol in King’s left hand, the knife in his right. He was shivering, wearing only a thin sweater and a hooded sweatshirt.
“Peter!” King shouted, his eyes not leaving the other man’s. “Bring my bloody coat!”
The Sami stared incredulously at him. He had been fooled by the blue jacket. He had taken a shot at it, obscured by the trees and the close range through the powerful scope thinking he had killed one of the men. And again, as the other man had lent over the ‘body’. He did not seem angry, if anything, his expression showed respect and acceptance. He had been outsmarted. He was a hunter and he understood that sometimes there was no hunting some quarry. They always managed to get away. And that was partly the thrill of the hunt. But he wasn’t a trapped beast that had accepted his fate, though. He studied King, who was so cold he was shaking. The pistol was no longer steady in his hand and the knife was held loosely by his side.
The man saw his chance and took it. He dashed forwards and kicked the knife out of King’s hand but grabbed King’s right wrist with two strong hands and pushed King backwards.
King smarted from the kick to his hand, but by grabbing his other wrist with both hands, the man had left King’s other hand free. King swung a left punch, impacting against the man’s right ear. His hood heavily cushioned the blow and King swung again, catching the man on the chin. It was a glancing blow and the man shook it off. But he drove King’s hand backwards against a tree and the pistol fell onto the ice. King slipped and fell and when he looke
d up, the man had a knife in his hand and the dull steel was driving downwards towards his stomach. King kicked the man’s kneecap and he yelped, stumbled and redirected his attack. King rolled to gain distance and reached for his own knife. He wasn’t going to make it in time, so he left it and concentrated on defending himself from the wicked-looking curved
blade scything towards him.
Stewart was running on the ice, making poor progress and fumbling with his pistol. He dropped the coat like it was an afterthought and steadied himself before stepping over a fallen tree. He still had fifty-feet to go.
King chopped the man’s wrist and he smarted at the pain but kept hold of the blade. He thrust out straight, and that’s when King knew he had him. He side-stepped, grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand, and gripped his elbow with his right. He pushed and pulled simultaneously, and the man’s arm twisted, the knife fell, and he dropped onto his knees.
The gunshot made King flinch, as did the sight of the man’s face disappearing in front of his eyes - brain, bone and blood spraying up into King’s face. He released his grip and stepped backwards, the body dropping onto the ground. King looked at Stewart, who was crouching with the pistol still aimed, held steadily in both hands.
“What the hell?” King said breathlessly. “I had him…”
“Didn’t look much like that to me.”
“I locked his arm, he had dropped the knife…”
“Yeah, well, it looked like he was kicking your arse from where I was standing.” Stewart tucked the pistol back into his pocket. “You know what I always say to my agents…”
“I’m not your agent, anymore.”
“Well, you were for nearly fifteen-years, son. And what did I always say?”
“There’s no rewind…”
“Exactly! No fucking rewind button in life. Especially on a mission. The guy had a knife, you were looking like you needed to get your arse back in the do-jo, or at least the boxing ring…” he paused. “Christ, don’t they keep you field-ready in MI5?”
King bent down and scraped up some ice, he rubbed it into his face and cleaned the mess off. It took a couple of attempts and his face was freezing when he’d finished. He stared down at the body. There was something about blood in the snow. It looked redder somehow, the effect more final. King could see the entry point at the back of the man’s skull. Dead centre in the synapse – the point where the spine met the skull. The old MI6 warrior hadn’t lost his touch.
“Get my jacket,” said King. He was still shivering, despite the recent activity.
“Get it your fucking self,” snapped Stewart. He walked over, bent down and started to check the man over.
King wasn’t going to argue. He needed the jacket and paced over to get it. He swung it over him, zipped and buttoned it tightly, then adjusted his beanie and hood. He looked back at Stewart, who had spun the body over and was checking his pockets. He stood back up and turned around.
“Nothing,” he said. He held out his hand so that King could see the fold of notes. “Two-hundred-euros. No ID, nothing.”
“A ghost,” said King. He picked up the man’s knife. “I’ll keep this,” he said. “Maybe it will have Fitzpatrick’s DNA on it. I’m certain it will.”
Stewart picked up the rifle. It was old and battered, but well oiled. He checked it over, then shouldered it on the sling. “Well, at least we have a ride to the hotel. He must have left the keys in the snowmobile.”
King bent down and started to check the man’s pockets for the keys.
“I’ve already done that,” Stewart commented tersely.
“Missed these, though.” King stood up, the three .308 bullets in his palm. “I’ll check him again. If you missed those, then you may have missed something else…”
Stewart huffed and puffed and turned towards the direction the snowmobile was parked. He trudged away, uninterested in anything else King might find.
King continued to search but found nothing. He stood up and watched Stewart walk away, unable to shake off the nagging feeling that he had missed something. What could the man have possibly achieved in killing them both? And what reception would be waiting for them at The Eagle’s Nest Hotel?
Chapter Twenty-Six
King checked the numbers as he walked cautiously down the corridor.
Your guest has gone on up…
He hadn’t wanted to cause a scene. His reaction could create suspicion. Would have undoubtedly done just that. The manager had shown no surprise. Like it happened every day. But King knew these things almost never did. The room was booked to him, secured via London. Nobody should have known he was staying here, but somebody evidently did. And the Sami who had unsuccessfully hunted them out on the ice; he would have known where he and Stewart were headed. There was nothing else up this far north. The hotel was their most obvious destination.
King took his knife out of his pocket, opened the blade, and tucked it into his back pocket, the blade sandwiched between the fold of his leather wallet, holding it firmly in place like a makeshift sheath. It was ready, concealed and would save valuable tenths of a second in reaching for it. He placed the bag on the floor, checked the Walther and held it ready, down by the side of his leg. He picked up the bag, continued down the corridor. Trepidation in his chest, a leaden feeling in his legs. He tensed the muscles there, got the blood flowing and the acid build up relaxed once more. He thought back to the manager. Was it a look of disdain, incredulousness? Or was it a knowing smile? Hotel managers were the same the world over. They had seen everything, every trait of human nature. Or they thought they had. They saw infidelities; affairs happen under their roof. They heard what state the rooms were left in. What had been left behind, knowingly or otherwise. They saw more than they should. And with that came an air of arrogance.
Your guest has gone on up…
King hesitated one door down from his room. He placed the bag down quietly. What the hell was he walking into? He didn’t cock the Walther’s hammer. It would only give him away. The trigger would be a harder pull, but the following shots with the hammer locked back would be light. He breathed deeply, swiped the card and kicked the door inwards, covering the room with the Walther.
Nobody.
Bed, chair, table, luggage stand, wall-mounted television.
Suitcase on the luggage stand…
He stepped inside the room and allowed the door to close softly behind him. His heart was pounding, but he heard the gentle splash of water coming from the bathroom and caught
hold of the doorknob. He opened it an inch, the pistol held at waist level with the muzzle touching the door. The punchy little 7.65mm bullet could cut through the two-and-a-half-inch pine cleanly at this range. He opened the door a touch and the aroma of bath salts hit him. Hints of pine and berries. Christmassy overtones. The steam had wet everything in the bathroom and he couldn’t see anything in the glass of the shower screen or the mirrors above the sink.
“Just in time to wash my back…”
King applied the safety and tucked the pistol into his pocket without Caroline seeing. He smiled as he looked down at her, tantalisingly covered by bubbles, her wet skin glistening and turned pinkish from the heat.
“What happened to the sabbatical?”
Caroline held a finger to her lips and shushed him. “Afterwards,” she said.
“Afterwards?” he asked, feigning confusion, yet starting to untuck his shirt and sweater.
“Afterwards,” she smiled. “Now shut the door, you’re letting all the heat out…”
King ripped the shirt and sweater over his head and kicked the door shut. He started on his boots and socks, pulling them off and tossing them on the wet, tiled floor, and was about to tackle his belt and trousers, but Caroline reached up and grabbed the front of his trousers and pulled him down on top of her, sending a huge
wave of soapy water over the bathroom floor. She laughed as the waves continued to break
over the back of the bath and
swamped everything on the floor.
“Now,” she said. “Show me how much you’ve missed me…”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“So, are we a couple now?”
“What?”
“A couple. I mean, we’re shacked up in the same room. We’ve been sleeping together since the summer…”
“On and off…”
“Splitting hairs.”
“I just…”
Marnie sipped some wine and grinned. “God, you’re a shithead. I’m winding you up.”
“Oh,” said Rashid.
“I must admit,” she said, placing her wine glass down and picking up some ryebread and her butter knife. “It was a bit presumptuous of the office to get just one room for us. We’re not a couple, never made anything public either. I’m not a field agent, and I haven’t had any training for this.”
“What, dinner and sex?” Rashid smiled. “You’re an attractive, and dare I say, experienced young woman. What additional training do you need?”
She shook her head. “Now, you’re getting presumptuous.”
“Have you missed me?”
“No.” She buttered the bread, cut it into quarters and popped a piece in her mouth. “You?”
“Of course,” he sipped his orange juice and smiled. “You’ll see how much later.”
“Oh, promises,” she sighed. “Still, I think either Director Amherst or Simon Mereweather assume a great deal of their employees.”
Rashid laughed. “Well, actually, I’d better confess,” he paused. “Neil Ramsay booked us two rooms. When I checked us in, I just thought, well, you know…”
“You thought you’d get lucky? Without putting in the ground work, for old time’s sake? Not even so much as a bunch of flowers.”
Rashid smiled. “Well, yeah, I guess that was it. And you’d get lucky too, of course.”
