by A P Bateman
Fifty-metres from the snowmobile a patch of snow started to move. The fox stopped in its tracks, its ears picking at the sound at first, then its keen eyes homing in on the slightest movement. It dropped low to the ground, its eyes and ears unwavering, its claws sprung out for purchase against the ice. Its back arched, and it looked set to take the twenty-feet or so in just two or three leaps. The crust of ice moved again, and the fox readied itself. A hare, rabbit or even mouse would be a good feed. Prey was not plentiful at this time of year. The snow moved again, and a man’s hand smashed through the ice and snow and the figure got out of the snowhole, dusting his fur jacket and trousers off, a rifle clutched tightly in his left hand.
The fox was nowhere to be seen.
22
The squall blew itself out, dispersing as rapidly as it had arrived. King rolled away from Stewart, brushed the ice crystals from his clothing and got onto his knees. He had some feeling in his hands and fingers, but his cheeks felt like slabs of defrosting steak. He adjusted the hood around him, pulling down on the toggles until he was left looking out of a four-inch hole of fabric.
Stewart rolled onto his back. His limbs were stretched out like he was about to start making a snow-angel. He was breathing rapidly.
“Are you okay down there, old timer?”
“Aye, lad. And I could still out-fight and out-fuck you, so stick the old timer where the sun don’t shine.”
King smiled. He’d missed their banter. He reached down and offered a hand, was genuinely surprised when the tough Scotsman took it and hauled himself to his feet.
“That was interesting,” said King. “I was caught in one when we went out to see where Fitzpatrick had died. Not as violent as that one, mind.”
“We don’t have much time,” said Stewart. “The weather report confirmed there would be leading winds, like pockets of violent storms ahead of the main event. If the main storm hits us, we’re done for.”
“I agree.”
“So, what now?”
“We’re over halfway,” said King. “Mission or not, we have no choice but to press on.” He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, but it showed the charging icon and switched off. “Gone,” he said. “It was fully charged, must be the cold.”
“Tuck it down by your cock.”
King looked bemused, but it was standard practice for cold hands, a phone should be no different. King tucked it down his trousers and the two men shared an awkward silence.
“Well, I’m not using it now,” Stewart quipped.
The sky had brightened, and the sky had cleared. It was as light as King had seen it since he arrived. He walked to the edge of the precipice and peered over the edge. The steel barrier had given way, leaving a Volvo-sized hole in its place.
“I’m surprised that gave out,” King commented.
“Irresistible force.”
“I’ve never known a wind like it.”
“And you spend time down in Cornwall,” Stewart grinned.
“Not anymore.”
“Sold your cottage?”
“No. It was blown up. Long story.”
“Sorry.”
King shrugged. “We have to get moving.”
“We need to scavenge the car,” Stewart said. “Fuel and fabric. In case we need to hunker down and get a fire going.”
“You can have a sing-song around a campfire…” King paused. “I’m going to be in a five-star hotel tonight.”
“I thought I taught you to be thorough?”
“You taught me a lot of things, but we’re wasting time here. That drop is three-hundred feet, and it’s sheer. The exposed rocks are covered in ice, the ice and frozen snow is unclimbable without rope or at the very least, an ice pick.” King looked at his watch, frowned as he looked up in search of the sun. The pale, white-yellow orb was just about visible through the white cloud. As he stared directly at it, it seemed almost moonlike. He lined up the hour hand of his watch on the sun, looked at the minute hand and from there he ascertained north. He turned back to Stewart. “Are you up to a six or seven-mile tab?”
“Bollocks to you,” Stewart said sharply. “I can out-run…”
“Well, let’s see if you can add that one to your exclusively biased list, shall we?”
“What’s your plan?”
King pointed across the gulley, out towards a thicket of trees a mile away. “We’re travelling a long way just to come back on ourselves via a man-made track to The Eagle’s Nest. I estimate we’re ten-miles maximum if we cut across the top of the lake. The weather has cleared, the surface ice crust will have been blown away by that storm, and the lake will be entirely flat terrain.”
“Bollocks to that!” Stewart exclaimed. “We should abort the operation and head back to town. Or at least push forwards on the road. We could happen upon another vehicle. Or if we get down to the car, we can scavenge and utilise what we have in there.”
King checked his watch again. He looked back at the man who was his mentor, his father-figure. His one-time friend. “We haven’t seen a car for the entire journey. If we stick to the road, we have at least thirty-miles to travel. We’ll never make it. Not before nightfall. The temperature will drop dramatically and the light fades around three o’clock. If another squall comes in, we’ll have no protection, and no kit to dig a snow hole or get a fire going. If the storm they keep talking about, that everybody is worried about hits, we won’t stand a chance.”
“There’s always a chance…”
King turned and started walking to the side of the road, parallel to the precipice. He looked over his shoulder as he walked. “Are you coming?”
Stewart hesitated a moment then begrudgingly followed.
The gradient was gradual and when the road branched off to the left and the barrier ended, King led the way down the slope to the edge of the basin. The ice was surprisingly grippy. A dry layer which stuck to the bottom of their boots. King tapped each boot on the side of the other, and perfect casts of his treads fell onto the ground.
“Have you ever seen stuff like this?” he asked Stewart, more to break the tension.
The Scotsman shrugged. “No. Only here.”
A status quo had been broken. The two men had known each other for almost twenty-years, and in all that time, Peter Stewart had been the boss. King had operated alone over most of his time with MI6, but he was always sent out on his missions by the man, always debriefed upon his return. Stewart had often been the cavalry, the man at the end of the radio or phone, who could arrange the airstrike, the helicopter extraction or the boys in blue to make an arrest. He often reminded King that he wouldn’t still be here had he not been in the loop. King had learned to rely on him. That said a lot, when he had never relied upon a single human being since he had his last nappy changed. And that was the way Stewart had worked him, played him. He had become the only person King felt he needed. Which was why the man’s betrayal had been the most bitter pill of all. And even then, even after he had removed everybody in the chain who had wanted him dead, he still couldn’t pull the trigger. The sight of his mentor trembling, his bladder and nerve gone on that canal bank, had made him realise that revenge did nothing. That was when he had left his old life behind, and with it, any reliance upon the man begrudgingly following him in the snow. King led, Stewart followed. The young lion had established itself and the old lion knew its place. Both men knew it too.
At the bottom of the basin King looked back towards the base of the cliff. He veered right and trudged over uneven mounds of frozen snow, which looked like a mogul ski run. As he reached the end of the series of snow drifts he stopped and looked at the wreckage.
“Glad we got out of that,” he said.
“Going to scavenge the car now?”
King shrugged. “I didn’t realise we could traverse across. Makes sense to get out bags, at least.”
The vehicle was upside down and the windows were out. King reached inside for his bag. He grabbed Stewart’s
too and handed it to him. The Scotsman ignored it and got on his hands and knees. He reached in and got the glovebox open, pocketed his pistol and stood up.
“Want anything else?”
King shook his head. “Not unless you’ve got some skis in the boot…”
“Shit out of luck.”
“Let’s get out of here, then.”
They crossed the basin and reached the belt of trees. King checked his vintage Rolex again. The sun and the minute hand gave him the direction of north and he physically used his outstretched arm to establish northeast. He used a distant peak and a strange wooded mound as a marker and led the way down towards the perfectly flat ground ahead of them.
The crust of ice crystals, like a sheen of fine hail, on the surface ice of the lake had been blown away to reveal a bluish white layer of ice which reminded King of a glacier. It was also the colour of King’s eyes, hard, cold and unyielding. He studied the surface and stepped out onto it. He could see the water underneath. He estimated a metre of ice, perhaps more. Enough to drive a bus over. He took a few steps, started to slide and looked back at Stewart.
“We’ll cut some poles to keep our balance,” King said decisively. “A few hours and we’ll be in the bar with a stiff drink and a log fire.”
Stewart lifted the tail of his jacket and retrieved a knife. It had a stubby six-inch blade and a handle made from reindeer antler. He turned and pointed to the fringe of trees. “I’ll get some branches cut,” he replied.
King followed and when they reached the trees he waited while Stewart hacked at the branches. The man was skilled in bush craft and cut wedges both sides, then set about pulling the branch one way and then the other to snap them. He tossed the branch at King, who took out his folding ceramic knife and expertly whittled off the tendrils and cleaned the ends, giving it a sharp point at one end to dig into the ice and a wide vee at the other to grip and wedge a thumb for extra purchase. He tested it, then dodged the next branch which Stewart threw at him. He said nothing as he trimmed the branch. Stewart was still licking his wounds. He hadn’t been used to taking orders and it would take some adjusting to. King was damned if he was going to back down and appease the man. They had been close, but that had been a long time ago. There would always be the betrayal between them, the vengeance King had so very nearly handed him. There had been a lot of water pass under the bridge since then, and King had been pleased to reacquaint and pass an uneasy truce, but the two men worked for different services. King had a job to do, and he would do it with or without the man from MI6.
23
The man dropped the revs and the snowmobile slowed quickly as he reached the bend in the road. He could see the barrier had been broken. It was strange, because even at speed, which was difficult on the ice, most vehicles would have glanced off and slewed back across the road.
He cut the throttle altogether and the snowmobile stopped beside the precipice. He took the rifle out of its cradle and stepped off the machine. He looked around, checking the fringe of the forest on the other side of the road. A prime spot from which to spring an ambush. The trees were thinly spaced, and the recent squall had blown a thousand-tonnes of ice from their branches. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to attack from. Feeling quite safe, he trudged across the ice road and looked over the edge.
The Volvo was on its roof. The snow chains were full of ice and as he looked back at the road and the skid marks, he could see why the barrier had broken. The car had been blown through by the devastating winds. He had lived in the region his entire life and he had never known a storm like this. And there was worse to come, by all accounts. He had seen his fair share of Arctic storms; his tribe were nomadic and followed the reindeer. When they reached the shores, they skirted the coast across northern Russia to hunt seals and Beluga whales. The winds there could be savage, but this was new to him. The series of squalls were both sudden and violent.
He looked back down at the Volvo and saw the footprints. He shouldered his rifle and used the scope to follow the tracks. Two people. One walking behind the other. So, they were heading to the hotel. The Eagle’s Nest. A bold, but clever move. If they could hold the line and not veer left like everybody did, especially up here, deep inside the Arctic Circle, then they would have cut miles off their journey. But there were many hazards up here. And at this time of year, deep into the winter, the wolves were hungry. He knew the terrain. He would ambush the man who was asking the questions. And then, he would call in the wolfpack again. And like the Englishman before, he would enjoy gutting him alive.
24
With four sturdy poles cut and prepared, King picked up two of them and took to the ice first. He found that if he allowed the poles to take half his weight, he could slide his feet as though he were on cross-country skis and make satisfactory progress. Occasionally his foot would meet a stubborn piece of ice that the squall had not swept away, and he would have to save himself by putting more weight onto the poles. He turned and watched as Stewart fell and sprawled on the ice. He looked most displeased as he got back tentatively back to his feet.
“Bloody fool’s errand,” he grumbled. “Should have stuck to the bloody road!”
“And you’d be doing this the same time tomorrow morning,” King said. He looked behind Stewart and mapped their progress. The tracks looked straight enough. In the Northern Hemisphere people tended to veer to the left. Hence the adage about walking around in circles. The further north, the more prominent the veer. Something to do with the tilt of the axis and the direction of the earth’s spin. King had tried to counter this by leaning to his right and placing more weight on his right foot. He looked back at Stewart, who was breathing heavily and showing some pain on his face. The ice was as hard as concrete, and the man had taken quite a tumble. “Want me to carry your bag?”
Stewart did not reply, but his glare said it all. He adjusted his pack, dug both poles into the ice. “Are we moving, or what?”
King turned and led the way. He dug the poles in, then hesitated. Looking back at Stewart he asked, “Can you hear that?”
“What?”
“An engine,” King held his breath, straining to hear more.
It was a distant hum. Monotonous and strained. King had heard the sound before.
“Shit,” he said quietly.
“What? So, its an engine. Maybe we can signal for help?” Stewart shook his head. “Damn you! Now we could do with some fuel, some fabric from the seats or pieces of tyre to light a signal fire…”
King stared at him as he took off his right glove and got the Walther into his hand. He cursed loudly; his hand already cold. He got the glove back on and tucked the tiny pistol into a zip pocket on his chest.
“I think a signal fire is the last thing we need…”
Stewart looked towards the sound, already it was louder and had slowed in revs. “Why?”
King thought back to the clearing where Fitzpatrick’s body had been found. He could picture the snowmobile taking off from behind the medical centre – the same tone. “Because I’ve heard that sound before.”
“Big deal! A snowmobile in Lapland!”
“No!” King snapped. “The same tone, the same machine. Older, more emissions, a less efficient exhaust. Like a classic car or motorbike. It’s an old model. Not super-tuned like the ones the police department have… I’ve heard that exact same engine. And the person on it tried to kill me, and certainly killed Doctor Engelmann.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
Stewart struggled with his jacket and got his pistol clear. It was the same model as he had given King, and like King’s, was good for twenty-five to thirty-metres in these temperatures. Maybe less so, given that anyone they would be shooting at would be wearing many layers of clothing. “Let’s not mess about then, son.” He dug his poles in and headed to the left. Easier progress.
King could see his reasoning but questioned him nonetheless. “You’re heading towards the noise?”
>
“No cover out here and it’s too far to keep on our course. We’ll never make it and will be exposed. They’ll pick us off for sure. Especially as everybody out here has a hunting rifle.”
King felt a surge of adrenalin. He knew what was coming. He’d been there before. He followed his old mentor as the man raced towards the belt of trees that would by now be hiding someone who was hunting them. Like so many times before, the two men launched face on to their enemy. At a time when most people would have run the other way to escape, both men headed for a fight.
25
He had seen the two men on the ice. Sitting ducks. They were over eight-hundred metres from him and he would have to admit that was a sight too far for his .308 rifle with its short varmint barrel. He had the luxury of distance and could spot his misses and adjust his aim accordingly, but this would waste ammunition, and the men would undoubtedly run away and create more distance. He could pursue on the snowmobile, but he didn’t want them dying on the ice. He would have to move the bodies back to the forest to call the wolves in – the animals seldom ventured onto the frozen lake. Too exposed. Besides, he needed to make the bodies look like they had been attacked by wolves. Bullet wounds would be too obvious. No. He needed to ambush them, hold them at gunpoint. Perhaps bludgeon them on the back of their necks. A few knife wounds to the area and the wolves would do the rest once they got the taste of blood on their lips.
He knew where he would do it. The men were heading for the furthest tip of the lake. The forest would provide him with the cover he needed, a place to hide the snowmobile and move closer on foot.
