by A P Bateman
King shrugged. “It wasn’t her fault,” he said. “She was in a tight spot.”
“You love her?”
“Of course!”
“But she’s on sabbatical.”
“So?”
“Distance, methinks. She’s letting you down gently, I expect.”
“Fuck off…” King put down his cutlery. He’d lost his appetite.
Stewart shook his head. “If you get out of this…” he said, draining the remnants of whisky. “I think you should disappear properly. Lose the name, start a new life somewhere.”
“Your arsehole in my face again?”
“Opinion.”
King said nothing. He drained his glass and stood up. “I’ll get the bill,” he said. “You’ll have to pay for your own dessert if you want one.”
Stewart smirked. “I just thought you should know…”
“Know what?”
“To watch your back.”
King said nothing as he walked away. He generally took such comments in his stride. But this was the second time he’d heard those words in as many hours.
19
King always travelled with two wooden wedges which he jammed tightly under his door. There was no tool created that could push the door inwards, short of blasting the hinges out of the doorframe with a shotgun and a Hatton round. It was a simple trick, but one he employed as a matter of course.
He had showered before bed and slept in his clothes. He placed the Walther and spare magazine on the bedside table. His snow clothes were folded on the chair and his bag was packed. Everything in place for a quick departure, although he only had the snowmobile parked behind the hotel, he would not be caught on their terms. He was ready for a fight.
The fight never came, and King showered and shaved and took everything he had with him to the dining room where he ate a good breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and tea, which he took black and sweet to get past the suspect reindeer milk. He didn’t check out, keeping his stay for another night as part of his false trail. He dressed into his overclothes in the foyer and stepped outside into a dark, clear morning. He estimated it to be around -25°C.
The Volvo estate pulled across the road in front of him and King was reaching for the comfort of the pistol in his pocket when he saw it was Peter Stewart behind the wheel. He made like he was itching a scratch on his hip and stopped walking.
“Getting in?”
“I have a ride, remember?” King said. He hadn’t told Stewart about the IED he had found, but he suspected the MI6 man wouldn’t have let him leave without an intervention. The ride would be handy, he hadn’t thought much further than taking the police Subaru.
“Mine might be more practical,” the Scotsman quipped.
“What makes you say that?”
Stewart hesitated, then said, “It’s petrol and that old heap I got you is diesel. It will be getting colder where you’re heading.”
“I might be going out of your way.”
“I doubt that. By happy coincidence, I find myself heading to The Eagle’s Nest Hotel this morning, too.”
King opened the rear door and dropped his bag on the seat. He opened the passenger door and slunk down onto the seat. The heater was on full and the car must have been running for a while because it was uncomfortably hot inside. King loosened his jacket and took off his gloves. He dropped the beanie in the footwell.
“How long is the drive?” King asked.
“How long is a piece of string?” Stewart grinned. “There’s only one road, but we have the delights of moose and reindeer on the road, snowdrifts, maniacal lorry drivers and the storm, which is heading straight towards us. The news reports are telling everybody to stay off the roads. But we didn’t hear that, did we?”
“I don’t recall hearing anything about a storm,” King agreed.
Stewart moved off and drove far more quickly than King would have expected. The car held the road well, the snow chains on the front wheels gripping in the dry snow.
“I don’t find this stuff too bad,” he said, as if reading King’s thoughts. “The snow we get in the UK is a bloody nightmare. Firstly, we don’t get enough for people to be confident driving on it, or even have winter tyres fitted. Then the councils can’t grit the roads fast enough, or have spent their gritting allowance on fact-finding trips to the Maldives, and after twelve-hours of utter chaos, it melts and that’s it for another three years…” He accelerated up to fifty-miles-per-hour when the road both widened and straightened out. “This snow is dry. It’s weird stuff, because you can’t make snowballs out of it.”
“You’ve tried?”
“Don’t be daft! But I’ve scraped it off my car and it’s like that sugar they make cake icing out of.”
“What, icing sugar?”
“Yeah, that stuff.”
King smiled to himself. Stewart knew his way around a ration pack, but he doubted the man even knew where the biscuits were kept at home. “I looked on the map and I couldn’t see a road near The Eagle’s Nest.”
Stewart shook his head. “You’re right. Well, technically. There is a track they dug out and gravelled for the summer and they keep it smooth and textured as an ice road in the winter. You won’t find any clear roads in the winter… see?” He pointed at the road ahead. “This is about a foot thick. It’s scraped and prepared, but they don’t salt and grit it like in countries further south. There’s no point. Not enough grit in the world. So, they drive everywhere on ice roads.”
“So, there is only one way in and out of The Eagle’s Nest,” King mused. “I don’t like that.”
Stewart nodded. “No, but you need to think outside the box. On a snowmobile, there are no restrictions. Not even lakes.”
“What is the plan for bringing in the asset?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“The ball’s in your court, then.”
“Great.”
“Didn’t work out well for Fitzpatrick either. Hope your plan is better than his.”
“What about the other asset?”
“Other?”
“The asset coming in is number two. What happened with number one?”
Stewart shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the wolves got him, too?”
“Fitzpatrick was meant to meet you. Tell me more.”
“Fitzpatrick was the handler. He liaised with the asset, built trust and arranged for them to come over to us. Using assets from other sources, he also gained the trust, or at least the cooperation of another. Somebody he kept in the dark, used as a spare. This person would have been cut off had the first rendezvous taken place.”
“Not good for them,” King mused.
“Big boys’ games…”
“Big boys’ rules…”
“So, the first asset doesn’t show,” Stewart paused. He squinted through the dull light, the snow and ice monotonously going on forever. The trees had thinned the further north they travelled. “He tried a secondary rendezvous, but no go. Fitzpatrick was to meet the asset, bring him to me and I was going to do the exfil. But Fitzpatrick didn’t show.”
“How long did you give him?”
“More than enough time. I had enough fuel to return. I set the cut-off by the fuel gauge. I went when it put me at risk.”
“Fair enough,” King said. He’d been there, too. He’d waited for people who would never show. He’d learned the hard way once. That had been the only lesson he’d needed.
“I didn’t buy the wolf thing,” Stewart said. “Sure, the man was torn apart, but I think only to cover the fact he was murdered.”
“I saw cut marks on what was left of his intestines, lacerations consistent with a sharp knife. Nothing in nature could have cut so cleanly. He was gutted, I’m sure. Someone had wiped the blade on his clothing, too. It smeared the blood and made a faint cut. It was a razor-sharp blade.”
“We can only assume the asset met his end before they got to Fitzpatrick.”
“Wh
at sort of man was he?”
“Why?”
King hesitated as they drove perilously near a cliff edge. He hadn’t been aware of any gradient on the drive, but as the road wound around to the left, there was only a stretch of steel barrier separating the road from a drop of several hundred feet. He caught sight of the snow-filled gully beyond. It looked like an abandoned mining project. But then he figured it would have to be a summer-only operation. He looked back at Stewart. “He tried to hide something,” King said. “He’d dug into the icy crust. Hid something. His fingers were ruined, he’d ripped the nails out trying.”
“What was it?”
King shook his head. “I don’t know. Possibly a USB flash drive. It was orange and looked like it was a waterproof tube. I dropped it when I was shot at. Damn-near took my hand off. About an inch in it. Might well have hit whatever it was.”
Stewart frowned. “Shame.”
“About my hand?”
“No, you tit. Shame you didn’t hang around to pick it up.”
“Yeah, well, bullets can have that effect.”
“But not on Fitzpatrick, evidently.”
“Exactly,” King paused. “I think the man was pinned down by sniper fire. I think he was done-in. He didn’t waste time begging for his life or running for it. He hunkered down and tried to hide something important. That takes guts and a strong thought process. He was a family man, but he was an intelligence agent right up to the end.”
“He was a desk jockey. He had basic training, but he worked in analytics and embassies, he wasn’t a field agent.”
“Well, maybe he should have been.”
“I think he was a solid chap. I think he did his job well. I haven’t heard anything negative. He had a wife and two children. He wasn’t in debt, no more than a mortgage, anyway.” Stewart shrugged. “You never know how somebody will perform until it’s time. Our fathers and grandfathers proved that when they fought Hitler’s Germany.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Aye, lad,” Stewart paused. “Well, even though you’re a wretched bastard, the unloved son of a crack whore, maybe your grand-daddy did you proud!” He laughed raucously. “Perhaps he had a VC? A real hero?” He seemed pleased with himself. “Trust me,” he said. “Sometimes not knowing who your father is can be better.”
“How so?” King stared at him. He knew Stewart had a mean humour. He wanted to punch him right now. He never had, but he’d come close several times over the years.
“Well, the older I got, the more I thought mine was an arsehole. Sort of ruined my childhood.”
“I feel for you,” King said without empathy. “Are you looking for sympathy?”
“There’s a thought.”
“Try the dictionary, somewhere between shit and syphilis.”
“Class.”
King rubbed his eyes. The gloom was lifting, but the darkness until now had made it difficult to wake up fully. He could understand the suicide rate. It could become wearisome. “It’s getting light,” he said.
“Marginally,” Stewart said. “Another hour and it will be full daylight, but only until about three o’clock.”
“Full daylight?”
“Well, okay, gloomy half-light,” Stewart grinned. “Not a fan?”
“It’s different,” King admitted. He was tired, and he found the extra clothing cumbersome. He was positively over-heating now that the car was well into its stride and the heater was working well. He unzipped his hoodie top and loosened the collar of his shirt.
“What’s your plan, then?”
“You don’t have one?”
“Hey, I’m just the help. The Firm want me to give Box assistance. Or rather, not risk any more of their own personnel now they have something over MI5. I’m taxiing you up to the hotel. What more do you want?”
“Are you kidding?” King scoffed. “There is a defector, an asset, on the way. Nobody knows who they are, or where Fitzpatrick arranged to meet them. I can only assume that The Eagle’s Nest Hotel is the obvious place. It’s all that’s there.”
Stewart glanced at him, a smirk on his lips. “Well then, you have your location.”
“But no clue as to the identity…” King looked ahead, strained his eyes against the whiteness of the horizon “Watch out!” he yelled.
Stewart snapped his attention back to the road, but it was too late.
The storm was upon them.
20
The car stopped like it hit a wall. King was thrown forwards, his seat belt forcing him back in his seat. The inertia reel did not release, and he fought for breath against the restraint. He felt for the belt clip, struggled with the bulk of his jacket. Stewart shouted something, but King did not hear. There was a tremendous pressure inside the car, as if all the air was being squeezed from within.
The front of the Volvo lifted and the rear wheels, without the addition of snow chains, skidded as the car slid backwards. The front of the car dropped back down, and the car pivoted sideways, pushed broadside down the road. The pressure in King’s ears was so intense, he felt as if he were diving too deeply underwater. The sky was black, and the blizzard covered the windscreen with snow and ice, the windows turning the interior into near-darkness. A solid gust spun the car right around, and the pressure gained in intensity until, with a shrill wail, the side windows shattered. King ducked down, the ice crystals peppering his face like birdshot. He clawed in the footwell for his gloves and beanie but could find neither.
The pressure had left his ears, but the intensity of the cold upon his face was unbearable. He fumbled with the hoodie and hood of his jacket, managed to zip it up around his neck. His hands were frozen, already finding the dexterity to complete such a mundane task difficult.
King looked across at Stewart. The man looked panicked. King found himself realising he had never seen the man look like that before. Not even when they had once found themselves hunted by over one-hundred guerrillas in Mali, West Africa. The rebels had wanted the men’s heads on spikes, and they had very nearly got what they wanted. King had been in his late twenties and the man seated beside him, now frozen in fear, had kept him alive. They had fought and fled, hidden and hunted their way to freedom. Those days seemed a thousand years behind Peter Stewart now.
The car pivoted again, lifted, and King grabbed the wheel and heaved it left with both hands. “Get your foot off the brake!” he shouted. Stewart snapped to, did as he was ordered. “Clutch in, now!”
The car went with the wind, tacked over like a sailing boat. The rear came around and the wind bore its brunt upon the square rear windscreen. The manoeuvre cleared the windscreen as the ice was blown clear. The car went with the wind.
Too easily.
“Reverse gear!” shouted King. “Play the clutch, just get a gentle bite!”
Stewart was on it now. He could see what was happening, and what King was trying to achieve. He selected reverse, allowed a little take on the clutch and feathered both the clutch and the accelerator to set some resistance to the wind. King steered, but felt the steering wheel played by Stewart. He released his grip and the Scotsman kept the car straight as they sailed down the road.
King could barely feel his hands. He searched the footwell again, found the gloves under his seat. It was an effort to retrieve them, get them on, but even when he had managed it, he still had no sensation of feeling below his wrists. He started to ball his fingers, fighting through the pain, knowing that it was imperative to get the blood flowing once more.
Stewart heaved the wheel and let out the clutch fully, his foot welded to the accelerator. King looked up, saw the precipice looming. The car had slowed, but the wind and lack of traction was coming out on top.
“Get out!” King shouted. “Now!”
King grabbed at the door handle but could still not feel his fingers. He tried to grip the handle, felt nothing through the thick gloves. Stewart already had his door open. It had been blown wide and bent the hinges, the wind smashing the door into
the front quarter panel. He was already rolling away, swallowed by the vortex of ice. King elbowed the remaining glass from the window and pushed himself through. The wind-chill shocked him as he kicked his way out and used the seat as a springboard to get clear of the vehicle. The swirling ice and snow blinded him, and he felt the hard ground beneath him, unable to anticipate his fall. He hunkered down, his arms around his ears and his hands covering his eyes. He felt stable – the wind not blowing him away, but the buffeting was brutal – and he breathed through clenched teeth, doing his best not to inhale the powdery ice.
There was a grinding, crunch as the car hit the barrier, and then a moment of near-silence strangely audible against the hum of the wind, and the final crunching of metal on ice or rock. King could hear Stewart calling for him and responded as best he could, but he did not feel the sound leave his throat. He clawed his way across the ice, the sound of Stewart’s shouts getting louder. He could see the shape of the man in the gloom, the colour of his jacket contrasting the white. He reached him, caught hold of him and together they clung on to await nature’s mercy or wrath.
21
The squall had died. Departing as abruptly as it had arrived. The snowmobile had been hastily, yet thoughtfully parked, wedged up against a substantial tree with the constant dominance of the wind driving the machine in place. Only if the tree had been uprooted would the machine be blown further down the road.
The loose ice had been dispersed, leaving the snow from a fall ten days ago in its place. The sky had cleared somewhat, the sun opaque behind low-lying cloud. But it was as light as it would be today, and the forest had taken on a pristine look. The trees were dark green in colour and cleared of heavy ice and snow, and the snow, three-feet deep above the forest floor, looked as if it had been swept clean. An Arctic fox trotted across the clearing, its ears pricked and searching the forest for food. An eerie calm had descended, noise somehow more perceptible since the storm had swept through and taken all the ice from the trees, detached the weak branches and driven the animals away or to ground.
