by A P Bateman
be called for, to work under this agency’s banner was not to be taken lightly. They were all black-ops initiated, and they knew what had to be done.
In front of him, the table was loaded heavily with the tools of his trade. He had stood back and watched. He had briefed them, now wanted to see how much they knew. What they selected would tell him how good they were. He would leave behind those who failed. But this was the darkest of operations, and those who did not make the grade would get the short walk down the long corridor. Enough steps for him to draw his pistol and shoot out the back of their neck.
Two men approached the table. They had already put on their white snowsuits, gloves and hats tucked into their belts, zippers left open while they waited.
“Colonel,” one of the men nodded, though did not salute.
The Colonel nodded back. “Call me Vasily, soldier. We are all private citizens here…”
Both men nodded. They knew him, of course. They were all ex-soldiers and one was ex-Spetsnaz - Russian special forces - they would know the legend, if not the man. And his reputation was fearsome.
Both men picked up the Makarov pistols, checked them over and helped themselves to three loaded magazines each. They were smart and dependable, they had done the maths and worked out how many magazines had been allocated. Neither were selfish, simply cogs in the machine. One man picked up the compact AK-12 assault rifle with familiarity. He checked the action, helped himself to six magazines and tucked them into the pouches on his belt. The second man picked up the Dragunov sniper rifle and checked the sight fittings. Vasily Rechencovitch knew him to be the sniper. He had managed to recruit four men at short notice. Sniper, medic, explosive specialist and rocket grenade/mortar operator. Of course, all the men were trained in each other’s skills, but each man was a master of his speciality.
The medic arrived, nodded at Rechencovitch, glanced over the other men and picked up a pistol. He looked at the remaining weapon, picked up three magazines. Seasoned and reliable, thought Rechencovitch. He watched as the man went through the medi-pack and rearranged it in his own preference of order. When he had finished, he looked over the table and settled on an AK-74 assault rifle with a shortened barrel and folding stock that looked like it had seen some service. It was a favourite of Spetsnaz soldiers similar in appearance to the classic AK-47 but chambered for a lighter and faster round. Given the brief and the fact he carried a heavy medical pack, the former Russian Spetsnaz Colonel was pleased. The men,
however long out of official service, still knew their business.
The last man in saluted Rechencovitch, and clearly knew one of the other men from the smile he gave him. He surveyed the table and helped himself to what was left. He loaded up his pouches and strapped the RPG (rocket propelled grenade) launcher to his pack and arranged the rocket grenades around the pack’s pouches. There were three rifles on the table. A Heckler & Koch UMP machine carbine with five magazines stacked alongside it. The .45 cartridge was both heavy and slow-moving but provided a solid strike out to one-hundred and fifty metres. The next weapon was a shortened M4 in .223/5.56mm. It was arguably the best weapon in the room. Given that he carried a heavy rocket launcher, it would seem to be the obvious choice. The man glanced at the other men’s weapons and then at Rechencovitch’s own modern AK-12. He then settled on a standard wooden-stock AK-74. It was both long and heavy compared to the other two weapons, and had clearly seen years of service, but Rechencovitch approved. All the men had chosen the same calibre. If a weapon or man went down, then the ammunition and magazines were interchangeable. They were already operating as a unit.
Chapter Forty
King and Caroline sat down opposite Neil Ramsay at a set of sofas and a low, glass coffee table he had commandeered in reception. It was a good spot, affording views of the brasserie restaurant, the bar and the reception desk. Nobody could enter or leave the hotel without Ramsay seeing them, and the internal entrance to the ice hotel was also in full view.
Ramsay looked up, slightly perplexed, perhaps irritated.
“Peter Stewart knows you, knows you’re with us,” said King. “There’s no point in pussy-footing about. I haven’t declared Rashid and Marnie.”
Ramsay nodded. “I thought he would. I must say, and I’ve communicated so to Simon Mereweather, Stewart being here means MI6 are keeping a full tab on our operation. I don’t get it.”
“I know,” said Caroline. “I mean, we’re either running an operation up here, or we’re not. If MI6 still have an asset in play, then why are we here?”
“Where are Rashid and Marnie?” he asked, then paused. “Dare I ask?”
“Absolutely no distraction there,” Caroline smiled. “Rashid isn’t in her good books.”
Ramsay shrugged. “I can’t keep up with those two,” he mused. “So, what are they doing?”
“Rashid is preparing for a jaunt out on the snow,” said King. “He’s convinced that he can get to the most obvious location and set himself up in an OP.”
“OP?” Ramsay asked.
“Observation Post,” Caroline interjected.
“Oh.” He nodded. “Well, that should be jolly cold.”
“He’s tough, he’ll be okay,” said King.
“Alright. And what about Marnie?”
“She’s working in her room,” Caroline answered. “She’s processing pictures I have taken and sent to her, checking to see if any of the guests are on Russian databases. She’s working through GCHQ and they will bounce back anything that becomes red flagged. And she’s also working on unlocking that USB drive.”
Ramsay nodded, looked at King. “I’m not happy with MI6 playing an asset in the middle of this. And I’m not happy that asset has a history with you. There’s a coach leaving tomorrow, perhaps he could be on it?”
“There’s no way he’s leaving,” Caroline said tersely. “He’s a stubborn son-of-a-bitch…”
“I didn’t mean voluntarily…”
King nodded. “He’s a wily bastard, but it won’t be a problem.”
“What are you going to do?” Caroline asked incredulously.
“He could slip on some ice?” Ramsay suggested. “Lord knows, there’s enough of it around.”
“Leave it to me,” King said. “One way or another, he’ll be on that bloody coach.”
Chapter Forty-One
Russia-Finland Border
The chocolate had frozen solid but melted enough to chew after she had worked it around the inside of her mouth for long enough. The sensation was odd yet satisfying as the sugary chocolate gave her energy and comfort all at once. She had given up on the milk. It was as solid as a brick. She hadn’t thought it through, but she was out of her depth. She did not have the survival skills needed for a trek like this one, although she knew her engineering skills should have foreseen the milk freezing. She had tried to wear the container inside her jacket, close to her skin, but the container was frozen solid and as cold as the ambient air temperature, which to her reckoning, was thirty-five below. She simply hadn’t been able to bear the coldness of it and had returned it to her pack until she could find a way to defrost it.
She had left the facility without incident. The hydroelectric plant was a non-hazardous operation requiring little security in the way of fences and gates, but it operated a roving security patrol of heavily armed men, which she now realised was because of what she had discovered in the underground chamber. A secret that needed guarding but could not draw attention to itself. Now that she thought about it, the military style security contractors always seemed excessive for a hydroelectric power station, but they were a subtle bunch and kept themselves to themselves using separate living quarters and preparing their own food rather than opting for the cafeteria. Most probably a safer bet, given the quality of the tinned soup and the stale bread. In the summer months it wasn’t too bad with fresh vegetables, fish, meat and berries, but throughout the winter the boundaries of what was acceptable was pushed daily. It reminded her of s
tories her parents would tell of growing up in the Soviet Union. The shortages and the gluts. Near-starvation, then months of nothing but potatoes and beets. Stories of how the butcher would have no meat, and the delivery, when it finally came, would be rotten. Or tales of workers who were not allowed to move the crop and watched it ruin; the word to transport it coming days too late. Fundamentally, much was still the same, only glossed over by state-controlled press and a new Russia where money was overtly on display, where the mega-rich created a façade under which the poor still lived, barely surviving.
Natalia chewed on some of the bread. It was solid to bite but melted as her lips warmed it. After a few attempts, she could get a mouthful off and chew. By the time she was ready to swallow, the bread was defrosted. She helped it down with a handful of snow, which tingled on her tongue. She had read somewhere that you should never eat snow, as it cooled you down too quickly, but she had little choice. Despite the cold, or even because of it, she was as dehydrated as if she were crossing a desert. She craved water, and the snow melted enough to slake her thirst, though never satisfy it fully. She would give anything for a cup of strong, sweet coffee.
Natalia pushed the rest of the bread down her snowsuit. It was cold, but not in the same league as the milk carton. It would be tolerable, and when she stopped next time to rest and eat more of the snow, she was sure it would be easier to chew. She looked around her, the darkness held off only by the snow on the ground reflecting what little moon there was. Enough light to move by, but not enough to see any great distance. It made the forest seem closer, inescapable. She closed her eyes, breathed steadily to assuage her fears. There was nothing to fear here, she told herself. And then, as if fate was privy to her thoughts, the lone cry of a wolf pierced the night air. She tensed, unsure of the distance. There were two more howls and a degree of resonance, of an echo. She stood back up and checked the compass heading. Natalia was scared now, needed to get moving. As if moving would make the threat go away. She started to pray for the first time since her childhood. The praying matched the pace of her footsteps, and she took some comfort in the fact that no more howls sounded, and the night became silent once more.
Chapter Forty-Two
They had made love tenderly. Not like earlier where want and passion had created the pace. Desire driving them towards a heady conclusion. This time King had taken control but was ever conscious that there could only ever be one driver. Caroline had started to take the lead and he was more than willing to let her set the pace and direction.
King was now in that state of consciousness where he slipped into a delicious and well-earned sleep, but was aware of Caroline’s warm, damp body on him, the movement of her hand on his torso, her soft breathing against the back of his neck.
There was little King hadn’t experienced. In terms of drama and tragedy at least. He often dreamed of people and places, lives lost, and the wake left behind by battle and conflict, death and despair. He would often wake with a start. A helicopter crash, an ambush, an explosion…
King was on his feet and had the tiny Walther in his hand as he covered the door. Caroline was awake but sat up slowly. She looked at him in the dim light of the room.
“What the hell was that?”
“An explosion,” King said. He pulled on his trousers and hastily buckled his belt. “A grenade, I think…”
Caroline was out of bed now, rummaging through the pile of clothes to find her trousers. “How can you tell?” she asked but didn’t wait for the answer.
King said nothing as he pulled on his shirt and sweatshirt hoodie. Caroline had flicked on the bedside light and he found his socks and boots. He debated whether to get into his snowsuit but decided on his thick ski jacket instead. He made for the door but did not pause at Caroline’s protestations. He worked the lock, and as he opened the door, he could hear shouts and screams coming from the floor below and the other end of the corridor. Caroline caught him up as he reached the staircase. The shouts were growing louder, more frantic. “It’s an attack!” Caroline exclaimed, her face ashen. She had lost her former fiancé in a terror attack and the noise and shouts of fear and desperation had struck a chord with her.
King didn’t pander to her. He was almost automaton, absorbed in the situation. He had his pistol in his hand and was edging his way down the stairs. He met the manager head-on, who froze when he saw the gun.
“There has been a bomb, an explosion!” He tried to ignore the pistol, but his eyes still couldn’t quite leave it. “Everybody is to meet outside in the grounds, beside the hot tubs.” He edged past King and ran up the staircase. At the same time, the fire alarm sounded and filled
the air with its shrill uncertainty. King had noted the fire alarm meeting point on the list of health and safety initiatives fixed to the back of his room’s door.
King bounded down the rest of the stairs but pocketed the pistol as he reached the lobby. The owner, Huss, was standing behind the desk watching the guests and staff alike make their way outside; some wearing snow clothes, others wrapped in blankets. The man seemed indifferent – neither authoritative and in control, nor caught up in the shock – and his sharp features and narrow eyes made him look hawk-like and predatory against the vulnerability of the terrified guests. To the side of the desk, a tall, thin man with a hooked nose looked on. King had noticed him earlier, noted he had sounded Russian.
Walking past the entrance and to the other side of the foyer, King bypassed the reception desk and made his way towards the entrance to the ice hotel, where staff members were gathering and putting on snow clothes.
“Sir!” Huss shouted after King, then stepped out from behind the desk to block his path. King pushed him aside, and the man was knocked backwards into the desk, his shoulder bearing the brunt of the fall. “What the hell...?”
King made no apology. The door to the ice hotel had shattered and the cold escaping the tunnel was raw. Two guests almost fell through the broken doors into the lobby. Staff members wrapped them in jackets and King noted that both Russian men - the waiter and the barman – were quick to expertly check them over for injuries. He observed they acted like experienced soldiers – calm, methodical, measured. It was clear both men had extensive battle-field medical training.
Caroline caught up and stood beside King. “What on earth has happened?” she asked, directing her question to an affronted Huss.
The man stopped rubbing his shoulder. Considering the cuts and bruises the couple had received, his actions seemed trite by comparison. He seemed to realise this, too and quickly forgot about his bump on the desk. “We think the ice hotel was struck by lightning,” he said sourly. “There was a terrific thunderclap and some of the guests report seeing a great white light.”
“The manager said it was a bomb,” Caroline protested.
“It was,” replied King. He glanced back at the desk, noticed the thin man with the hooked nose was no longer there. He looked back at the owner. “I’d say it was a grenade.”
“It was a lightning strike!” Huss persisted.
“Nonsense,” King said. “It was a grenade.” One of the Russians looked up. King had forgotten who was who. He thought it was the waiter. King caught the man’s eye. “Something you want to say?”
The man shrugged. “It sounded like a grenade to me,” he said, standing up and dropping a wad of bloodied paper towel onto the floor. “I was in the military.”
“In Norway?”
The man hesitated, then said, “In Russia.”
“What?” Huss shook his head despondently. It was evident he had been lied to, but there was precious little the owner could do at this time. He shrugged and asked, “Why do you think it was a grenade?”
King stepped over to the entrance of the tunnel. “A dull, hollow thud drowned out almost instantly by what sounds like a secondary explosion.” He shrugged. “You get to know what they sound like.”
The young Russian nodded. He turned back to the woman he was treating and started to
strap what was clearly a badly fractured arm. King could hear moans and screams down the labyrinth of carved ice. He looked at Caroline and said, “Stay close.”
Caroline was tugging on a jacket and zipped it up as she followed. The cold bit at their skin under their thinner clothing. Caroline tucked her hands under her armpits and King kept his hands in his pockets, his right-hand gripping the butt of the tiny Walther. Ahead of
them, a couple in their fifties stumbled towards them, their hair and clothing covered in a fine powder of ice and snow, as if a patisserie chef had dusted them with copious amounts of icing sugar.
“Are you okay?” asked King as they drew near. They didn’t respond. “Is there anybody else down there?”
The couple still didn’t reply, then King realised they couldn’t hear him. Their hearing had been damaged, most likely perforating their eardrums. He waved them past him, pointed for them to continue down the ice tunnel.
Caroline put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Keep going that way,” she said loudly, mouthing every syllable so that she stood a chance of lip-reading her as well. “The tunnel is clear, and the staff are helping people at the end.” She smiled. “They’ll have hot chocolate and mulled wine on the go in no time…”
“My ears are ringing,” the woman said feebly and started to cry. “Malcom can’t hear a thing…” The tears came from relief. That the worse was behind them, and safety and comfort awaited them. She nodded a thank you and wiped the tears from her face and was guided past them by her husband.
King could see the epicentre of the explosion. The room they had looked at. The room with the ice sculpture of an eagle outside the open doorway. The room where somebody had been watching them from outside. Only now, the eagle was in shattered pieces on the floor of the tunnel. He bent down and peered through the doorway, could see the night sky from where he crouched. The entire roof of the sleeping chamber had collapsed in seven or eight huge slabs of ice, and the metal bars that looked like corkscrews and acted as a bonding and support agent for the ice had twisted and bent into a gnarled mess. King had seen it before, on a larger scale, the twisted mess of bombed-out bunkers in Iraq and Syria.
