by A P Bateman
“Oh,” he said solemnly. “I have a feeling I’ve crapped out.”
“And then some,” she said. She smeared the garlic and caper mayonnaise all over the salmon. “Shan’t be worrying about my breath tonight, then.”
“Bollocks.” Rashid tore off a chunk of bloody meat and chewed hastily. “Well, can’t blame a man for trying.”
She frowned as he wiped some steak through a smear of dark, almost black sauce. “What’s that?” she asked.
Rashid chewed and swallowed, took a sip of his orange juice before he answered. “It’s a sauce made with local beer, berries and thickened with the blood from the reindeer after it was slaughtered, sort of a speciality around here.”
“Oh, dear god…” she grimaced. “What does it taste like?”
Rashid shrugged. “I guess if I were to chew black pudding a hundred times and wash it down with a Guinness, we’d be getting close.”
“Oh, that’s gross!”
Rashid nodded. “Pretty much,” he said. He ate the next mouthful without the sauce and picked at something that looked like spinach and thyme. “That’s not much better, either.”
“What was that?”
“Moss,” he said.
“Moss?”
“Fermented moss,” he clarified.
“How is it fermented?”
Rashid waited for her to take a forkful of smoked salmon. It was flaky and not gelatinous like Scotch smoked salmon. Satisfied she was still chewing, he grinned and said, “It’s fermented in the animal’s gut. When the beast is being slaughtered and butchered they empty the stomach contents out and fry it in butter.”
Marnie looked like she was going to be sick. She picked up her glass and drank down her mouthful, swallowed hard and wiped her lips with her napkin. The knife and fork went down. She was done.
“Well, that settles it,” she said. “There’s no way in hell your mouth is going anywhere near mine tonight.” She looked up as King and Caroline entered the restaurant. Caroline glanced at them both, but quickly ignored them. King didn’t even look. Marnie looked back at Rashid. “They’ve just come in,” she said.
“I know,” he said tersely. She hadn’t seen him look up. “Look, but don’t stare.”
“King didn’t even notice us,” she said.
“Yes, he did,” Rashid said. “But he wouldn’t have let you know he had.”
“So, how do we play it?”
“Play it?”
“Yes.”
“We have dinner. Then we have a drink in the bar. Then we go to bed. Separate beds, and on separate floors by the looks of it.”
“You only have yourself to blame,” she said. “That trick with the receptionist for one, that abomination on your plate, for another. So, like I said; how do we play it with them?”
“And like I said; dinner, then drinks and then bed. Separate ones, of course.”
“And that’s it?”
“What more do you want?”
“Meaning?”
“You’re not a field agent. You ignore them until it’s evident you don’t have to. You are here to unlock data, if or when that time arises. I’m here for support. Muscle. But until either of them lets on, we just enjoy the hotel and the glorious unlimited expense account, curtsey of the British public.”
“That’s it?”
“You can study the other guests, the staff. If you see anything suspicious, at any time of night, just come to my room…”
She laughed again. “You’re a sod, do you know that?”
Rashid smiled. “I have a fair idea.”
28
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment as she sat down. When she opened them again and stared back at King across the table from her, she couldn’t have looked more content. He shared her expression. Their lovemaking had been frantic the first time; tender and caring the second, and more adventurous after that. They were in that wonderful state of contentment from both the physical exertion and release, coupled with bonding and rekindling a sense of closeness that had been lost in separation.
Their waiter handed them menus without a smile and asked what they’d like to drink. Caroline chose a gin and tonic and asked for a jug of water with some cucumber. King asked for a local beer.
“This is a shock,” he said. “Or a surprise, at least.”
Caroline reached out and placed her hand over his. “A pleasant surprise?”
“Of course.”
“Simon Mereweather called me back in, said the sabbatical would have to wait.”
“So, it’s a temporary thing, then?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong; I’ve missed you like crazy. But it just feels unfinished.”
“It will do,” he replied. He hesitated while the barman bought the drinks over on a salver. He struggled to unload the two glasses, the tonic bottle and the jug of water, fighting with the balance of the silver tray. He poured all the tonic into the glass, then turned and walked back to the bar. King continued, “You’re too involved.”
“I’m what?” she asked, somewhat hoity.
“You’re too involved,” King repeated. “You were abducted, subjected to cruelty, but you witnessed some terrible things those other women were put through. Added to that, the knowledge that it could well have happened to you. Had you not escaped, had my game with Helena Milankovitch not played out favourably, then your fate could have been very different indeed. That is what’s driving you. It’s personal. And you’re too involved to be subjective.”
“Well, don’t hold back…”
King shrugged. “I say it how I see it.”
“Diplomatic as ever.” She picked up her glass and sipped. “God, I was missing you up until just now.”
“You know it’s true, that’s why.” He reached over and held her hand this time. “I’ve missed you like crazy, I want you to come back to MI5 permanently. But, if you’re not finished…”
She sighed. “But I think I am,” she said. “And you’re right. You’re a smart-arsed bastard sometimes.” Her expression softened. “The people trafficking, and sex trafficking industry won’t change. Somebody will always take the place of the people we put behind bars. In many cases, in Russia and Eastern Europe, the governments, and particularly on a regional level, are so corrupt that the people we trace and hand to them for prosecution are back on the streets in a matter of weeks.” She sipped some of her gin and tonic and shrugged. “I could give my life over to investigating sex trafficking and I’d get one step forwards and two steps backwards. I only have another month with Interpol, I’m not sure what to do next.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” King said. “You could fight terrorism for MI5 and argue the same conclusion. That was one of the reasons Forrester took me on, so that he could be sure of shutting down a terrorist front for good. There’s only so many times you can live with injustices and technicalities and know innocent people will die.”
“I feel a fraud,” she confided. “I set out to start a crusade and welcomed the chance to come back when Simon ordered me.”
“You’re no fraud.”
She smiled, then looked up as the waiter returned. She passed on a starter and ordered crab fritters and a tossed salad. King, who realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was famished, ordered crab soup with extra bread and whole roasted partridge with a root vegetable dauphinoise.
“Oh, I am,” she said, as the waiter walked away. “It sucks.”
King sat up straight, his eyes boring into hers. “Right, let’s get this sorted now. You went through a lot. You tried to make a difference, and you have. Now, get back in the room. Look around you. Ignore Rashid and the girl from analytics…”
“Marnie…”
“Right. Ignore them. We have a defector coming in. Sex and identity unknown. Thanks to MI6 and close handling, and the death of their handler in the case, we have no idea who or when. Only that their arrival is imminent, there’s the wors
t storm in living memory boring right down upon us, and this hotel seems the obvious place for someone on the run to head for. All our eggs in one basket. Now, get with the operation and forget everything up to this point. Look around, what do you see?”
Caroline glanced left, then right. She picked up her glass, just surveying the room as she took a drink. She shrugged, placed her glass down. “Rashid and Marnie. The family with the noisy children and another couple.”
“What about the staff?”
She hesitated then said, “What about them?”
King sipped some of his beer, placed the glass back down. “The waiter is built like a boxer and has a scar on his cheek.”
“So?”
“So, he took our order and didn’t ask whether we wanted potatoes, rice or the extras they have on the menu. Unless carb-free fads have made it this far into the Arctic, which I’m pretty sure they have not, then he wasn’t doing a very good job. He has prison tattoos too.”
“You’re a tattoo snob,” she smiled.
“The barman never made a gin and tonic in his life. He poured all the tonic into the glass, and besides, he could barely carry the tray. And he didn’t put the cucumber in the water. A good thing if you ask me, but still. He looks like the waiter, too. Tough, scarred and cropped hair. They’re two peas in a pod. They look like Spetsnaz, and I’ve been up against enough of them to know.”
“Anything else?”
“Rashid and Marnie have a waitress serving them, as do the family behind and the couple. Dining rooms are divided into serving stations. How is it that we have the Brothers Grimm?”
“I think you’re paranoid,” she said, but she smelled her drink nonetheless.
“They have no rapport with the waitress, either.”
“And they should?”
“She doesn’t have a ring on her significant finger, they should be chatting her up at least.”
“You bloody dinosaur!” she said mockingly. “They may be gay, may have their own partners, as may she,” she paused. “And bloody old fashioned too! Not everybody gets engaged or married!”
King sipped his beer and said nothing. He sometimes felt like a dinosaur, too. Out dated, extinct. Or close to it. The last of his kind. He looked up as a man entered the room and looked for assistance. The waiter was bringing King’s soup. He pointed at a table in the corner and walked over to their table. He placed the bowl of soup down, nodded and walked away.
“He forgot your bread, must be a Russian spy…” Caroline goaded him.
The waitress was clearing Rashid and Marnie’s table. King asked her for his bread as she swept past. She nodded and smiled and returned less than a minute later with a basket of warm bread which looked like sliced ciabatta.
“Thanks,” he said, then added, “The young man serving us; is he new?”
“Yes,” she replied anxiously. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, fine, yes. I just figured he hadn’t been waiting tables for long.” He gave her a knowing smile.
“No, he’s from an agency. I understand he is experienced though.”
“The barman, too?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Both from an agency, short notice, I gather.”
“Staff sickness?”
“No,” she said. “Our regular barman and waiter left suddenly.” She leaned towards King and whispered, “They disappeared. And then some money was found to have gone missing.” She shrugged. “I don’t really believe they stole the money. They were honest men. I’d worked with them for long enough for it to have been a huge surprise.”
“And you don’t know where they’ve gone?”
“No.”
King nodded. “I suppose it happens all the time,” he said. “Transient staff…”
“Oh, no. Christoph worked here for two years, Reiner had been here since it opened four years ago.”
“And these two new men, the agency staff, they are both Finnish?”
“No,” she said sullenly. “They are both from Norway.”
“Norway?”
She nodded, then leaned even closer and whispered, “But they are lying,” she said. “I have heard them talking to each other in Russian. I suppose it’s better wages, and the Euro is the currency of choice for Russians.” She asked if they required anything else, then left and took the order from the man who had been seated by one of the Russians.
Caroline shrugged. “Can’t say much to that,” she said. “You’re so bloody annoying when you’re right.”
King supped his soup. He twisted in some pepper and tore off a piece of bread to dip. “The question is; what do they want from us? Are they here solely to head off this defector? Or have they identified us as a threat and are planning to kill us?”
29
Neil Ramsay watched Rashid and Marnie head out of the dining room and into the lounge. They ordered drinks and took a pair of facing sofas in front of the log fire. The hotel had many alcoves and corners, all with open fires or woodburning stoves. It was that sort of place. After enjoying the skiing, snowmobile safaris, ice fishing for Arctic char and trout, or husky tours through the forest, or even simply sitting on the many carved-out logs which served as ornate seating in the grounds to watch the Northern Lights, people wanted to shed their bulky snow-wear in the lobby, sit with warming mugs of hot chocolate or stiff drinks and take comfort and warmth from a fire.
He had not wanted to eat alone, always preferring to order room service when he was traveling alone, but it was a good opportunity to get the layout of the hotel and size up the guests. He barely glanced at King and Caroline, who looked to be in the early stages of their meal. The waitress had taken his order and he had chosen a half-bottle of merlot to accompany his meatballs and mashed potatoes with celeriac. Hearty food to warm him through after his drive and time spent waiting for the funicular to take him through the man-made mountain to the hotel. He hadn’t travelled well enough prepared and only had a trench coat over his suit and a pair of thin woollen gloves. The receptionist and manager had looked at him quizzically as he had stood shivering at the desk, and the manager had disappeared for a few minutes while Ramsay had completed the check-in procedure and returned, handing him an all-in-one ski suit and pull-on thermal boots and gloves to use during his stay. He was a fish out of water in this environment and had taken his beer outside with him to sit on one of the ornately carved logs that dotted the front of the hotel to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights, and after only a few minutes had discovered just how quickly an already cold beer could freeze solid at -30°C. He had returned to the lounge, watched his drink melt slowly back to something resembling a child’s slushy in front of the log fire and reflected how he needed to get smart real soon. He had skied once as a teen with his university friends in the French Alps, but it wasn’t even half as cold as this, plus he had spent most of his time drunk and chasing the affections of the chalet maid with little success.
The waitress arrived with his food and before he had finished, Ramsay watched both King and Caroline leave. King held his hand over the small of her back. He was a fair amount taller than her, at around six-foot, and he was twice as broad. The gesture was caring and protective. Caroline momentarily touched the side of her head against his shoulder. Ramsay smiled. It was good to see them together. He was as surprised as everyone else that she should take off to work with Interpol, especially at having been separated from King so suddenly, so dramatically. The service psychologist had reported that it was because she was suffering from PTSD. Interpol was her coping mechanism. It made sense, but it was good to see her back. He asked the waitress for another drink and studied a tall, sharp-featured man as he entered the restaurant and was ushered to a corner table by a waiter. A strong-looking man in his late twenties with close-cropped dark hair and Slavic features. Possibly Russian going by his tattoos, although he doubted that. But as he started to discount the prospect, he reminded himself how close the hotel was to the Russian border.
Ramsay tucke
d into his meal. The meatballs were succulent, but he had no idea what meat they were made from. The sauce was rich and buttery and extremely dark. The mashed potatoes and celeriac were almost half cream. It was a delicious meal and he was pleased with his choice. He watched the waiter and the tall man exchange a few words, and then the waiter left, presumably with the man’s order. Ramsay was halfway through his meal when the waitress came to the man’s table and took his order. He thought it strange. Perhaps the waiter had forgotten to pass the order onto the chef? For the rest of his meal, he did not see the waiter again. And nor the barman, who should have arrived with his drink by now.
Ramsay took out his phone and typed out a text. He selected multiple contacts and pressed the send button. He caught the waitress’s eye and she ambled over. He relayed his drink order, asked if the barman had forgotten and got an apology and some mutterings about agency staff. He didn’t particularly care, just wanted his orange and lemonade to wash down the rich meal. He made it a point to only drink one alcoholic drink when he was working. He needed to keep his mind keen, and besides, he always felt tired when he drank. He could not afford to lose concentration. The waitress returned with his drink and an apology. The drink was on the hotel.
“Is there any news of the storm?” he asked.
She nodded, her expression pale. “It is due to hit tomorrow night. In the early hours.”
“Will it be as bad as they say?”
“I expect it will be the worse this area has seen,” she said. “The weather forecasters are calling it a Polar Vortex. It will bring in colder air, and the chill factor will be unbelievable.”
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. This job is a live-in position,” she replied. “There are no houses up here; nobody lives for miles.”
“Nobody?”
She shrugged. “There are the Sami. They are the indigenous people of Lapland, tribal and nomadic. Like the Inuit of North America.”
