by A P Bateman
“You’ve alerted her now!” Rechencovitch shoved the man in his chest, pushing him down onto his backside in the snow. “Idiot!”
The man glowered up at him, but hastily thought better of it. He knew the colonel’s reputation hadn’t been built upon fantasy or speculation. “I am sorry, I thought I had the shot…”
“Too far away,” Rechencovitch snapped. “Too cold.”
He cursed as he studied the map with his red-filtered torch that would both make his position less visible and keep his night-vision unaffected. He knew that the icy air would slow the bullet, coupled with the elevation of their position and the deep ravine which would be trapping the cooler air, it simply made the four-hundred metre shot from the 5.45x39mm bullet impossible. What’s more, the man now sitting on his backside in front of him should have known it too. They were now faced with either a dangerous rappel and near-impossible climb, or a two-kilometre trek to get around the ravine. The man’s shot had been a Hail Mary. A fire and hope shot. But it hadn’t paid off. It had alerted their quarry and given away their advantage. Now he was faced with the choice of time over safety. Could they rappel and climb safely in these temperatures, or should they press on and take the easier route, but put distance between his team and their prey?
The man with the sniper rifle had dropped into a prone position, scanning the area on the other side of the ravine. His more powerful 7.62x54mm weapon would make the distance easily. But as he got back to his feet and dusted the snow off himself, he shook his head at Rechencovitch.
She was long gone.
***
Natalia did not turn around and she did not stop moving. She knew that moving was key. She had to put time and distance between herself and her pursuers. The gunshots could only have come from the other side of the ravine, and she knew how long it had taken her to cross. She estimated she would treble her distance from whoever was hunting her, just so long as she kept moving.
After what she estimated to be a strenuous kilometre, she stopped and dared a look behind her. Her footprints were clear. A half-centimetre indentation in the crust of frozen, compacted snow. She felt deflated. Her tracks were so clear, so easy to follow, all that kept her separated from her pursuers was fitness. And she was feeling exhausted.
She looked around her, settled for a fallen branch from a fir tree. She trudged over and picked it up, used it as a sweeping brush to clear her tracks. It worked well. Pine needles fell from the branch, and she could make out a trail from the loose snow, but it was a hundred times harder to spot than her original footprints, and that would be enough to slow her pursuers down. She then looked at her map and the button compass. She strained her eyes to see in the dim light. As always, the snow and occasional glimpse of the moon giving off just enough ambience to stave off complete darkness. She had practiced map reading in her room. Using the coordinates and memorising every detail on the map she had a feel for the surrounding area, if not the experience of walking it. But she had made her way to the ravine ahead of schedule and had been impressed by her efforts making it out of the facility and due west across the Russian border. Only the rusted and broken remains of a fence had remained. Further south a post was manned, and the border fence sprung up like Cold War Berlin. There was nothing here, though and the elements were enough to put most people off.
Most people.
Natalia hadn’t marked the map with a cross or circled a point, but she had folded it incorrectly, many times, but every time the same so that her destination was marked exactly by the point of the corner. At a glance, she had a mark that nobody would have considered. But she could see the spot clearly and she realised she was close. Three kilometres. Just three thousand metres and she would be safe.
Or so she hoped.
47
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll come with you.”
“You stay here. We’re on this.”
Stewart watched incredulously as Caroline swung her leg over the snowmobile. “And where is she going?”
King shook his head. “Peter, just leave it.” He turned around and watched as Caroline fired up the machine and took off, tentatively at first, but gaining in speed as she headed down the track that spiralled around the hill on which the entire complex was built. “This is an MI5 operation. Things have changed. I want you on that coach in a couple of hours.”
“Fuck off!” Stewart spat at him. “I’m getting changed, and I’m coming with you. Get me a snowmobile hired while I’m getting ready.”
King looked at the man, shivering on the top step. Tantalisingly close to the warm foyer; uncomfortably cold in the early dawn. “You’re staying. And then you’re leaving. Like I said; things have changed.”
Stewart spun around and squared up to him. “Don’t forget who you’re bloody talking to!”
“Nor you.” King glared at him, his glacier-blue eyes colder than the outside air. “I mean it. MI6 have a right mess going on up here, and we’re cleaning it up. MI6 aren’t going to have a presence while we do so.”
Stewart scoffed. “A lifetime working for the firm and now you’re talking like you were never there!” He shook his head. “Where’s your bloody loyalty?”
King grabbed him by the collar with both hands, turned his torso and moved his right leg side on. As he had anticipated, Stewart’s knee to his groin in response glanced off his thigh. He pressed down with his hands and moved forwards a step, pushing the man backwards. Stewart was off balance, over extended and had nothing to reply with. “My loyalty ended the day I knew they were trying to kill me,” he growled. “And my loyalty to you ended the day I realised you were working against me to feather your own nest!”
“But you pulled a gun on me!” Stewart rasped, King’s knuckles tight in his throat, his grip like a vice.
“I let you live,” King replied quietly.
“But…”
King glanced behind him, then turned his attention to the reception desk at the end of the lobby. It was unmanned. He pulled Stewart towards him, then dropped his right knee and shoulder, twisted and lifted all at once and Stewart sailed over King’s shoulder and crashed down hard on the top step, his right leg taking all the impact against the tread of the step.
Stewart screamed, an agonising wail. He started to pant, the pain so intense and his expression one of both shock and disbelief.
King pushed the door open and strode up to the desk. The manager was seated in the back office, nursing a coffee, his forehead resting in his other hand. It had been a long shift. Three guests had been killed, many more superficially wounded, rooms in the ice hotel had been emptied and accommodation found in the main hotel, complimentary drinks distributed, and normality restored as best it could be. And now somebody was at his desk again.
“A guest has taken a fall down the steps,” said King. “I think he’s broken his leg. He’ll need triage. I suggest those two Russians working for you will have the necessary training. And he’ll need a place on that coach.” He pulled down his glove and looked at his watch. Behind him, cases were stacked in readiness and a few early risers were at the breakfast buffet table in the main restaurant. “That’s another ninety-minutes, so you’ll need to make him as comfortable as you can. Do you have any strong painkillers?”
The manager put down his coffee and dialled a number on the switchboard. “We have some strong codeine. People break their limbs all the time… snowmobiles, skiing, the ice...” He spoke quickly into the receiver, turned back to King and said, “Our first-aider is on the way, and I’ve asked for Nikolai, he was extremely competent with the… incident, last night.”
“Good,” King paused. “I’ll go and reassure him, you get him the attention he needs.”
King walked back across the lobby and into the foyer. He could see that Stewart had struggled to prop himself up and sit on the top step, but he wasn’t getting any further than that. He pushed the door open and g
ave Stewart a wide berth. He didn’t fancy taking a trip himself.
“You bastard…” the man said quietly. He breathed short, shallow breaths to quell the pain. “You utter, fucking bastard.”
“Yeah,” King said. “But when you’ve heard it from your own mother, it means nothing coming from you.”
He took the steps carefully then reached the snowmobile and swung his leg over, settling into the seat. He turned the ignition key and pressed the start button.
“Watch your back!” shouted Stewart venomously. “You bastard!”
King did not seem to hear as he gave the machine a load of throttle and sped off in a flurry of ice and snow.
48
Caroline pulled into the clearing and switched off the snowmobile’s engine. The silence was eerie. The moan of the engine had filled her ears, numbing her senses. The stillness of the sparse forest was uncanny. She swung her leg over and stepped off the machine. She checked that the pistol King had given to her was still in her pocket. It was chambered and had been left with the hammer forward. It was ready to fire, but the first shot would require a firmer squeeze of the trigger.
She took her mobile phone out of her other pocket and checked the time and GPS coordinates. She was directly on target. The clearing was small and sheltered by a cluster of knolls to the east. She looked up to the peak of the first hill. It was some two-hundred metres to the summit, with pines and firs dotted across the face. She slipped the phone back into her pocket and took out the Walther. The tiny pistol was compact and heavy, and fitted in her gloved hand. She would be able to use it with her glove, unlike King, who had not been able to wrap his index finger inside the trigger guard with a gloved hand. With the weapon held by her side, she studied the terrain ahead of her. It did not feel good.
During her time in the army, Caroline had served in Afghanistan in army intelligence. She had been on many patrols and missions. She had walked into ambushes and she had lain in wait, ready to see who showed up to a weapon cache or to arm an IED. She had been on both sides of the first volley of fire, and she had grown to trust her instincts. This felt wrong, and she wasn’t going to wait and see how it panned out. She needed to reposition herself, find somewhere with more cover from which to observe the clearing. She walked back to the snowmobile and swung her leg over the seat. She tucked the pistol back into her pocket and reached for the ignition key.
The gunshot rang out. Loud and dull, the echo of the high-velocity round breaking the sound barrier, ringing off into the forest around her. She felt the impact of the bullet striking the engine cover and plastic fairing and metal sparks flew up in front of her. The bullet passed through, throwing up a dusting of ice particles a few feet to her left. Caroline screamed and looked to her right. She pressed the starter button, but it just whirred away electronically. She rolled to her left to use the machine as cover as the second round hit the saddle and soft leatherette and stuffing showered down onto her. She had seen the muzzle flash further up the hill, high and to her right. She rolled and ran, sliding and skidding on the hard snow as she made her way into the treeline. She darted left, right, right again, then left… Another gunshot and snow puckered up to her right. She darted left again, right, right, then left. Never a uniformed zig-zag. A competent marksman would be able to anticipate the turn, give them enough lead. She made the treeline, kept going. She heard another gunshot but did not see or hear the strike. She reached another tree, dodged behind it and dropped to the ground. She rolled and looked up. There were many trees between herself and the treeline. That was good. Those same trees would be blocking the sniper’s point of aim and arc of fire. She got the Walther ready in her right hand, then changed her mind and fumbled for her mobile phone. She needed bare fingers to work the touchscreen. She tore her gloves off with her teeth, pocketed the gloves and started to dial.
49
King felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket but could not stop the ascent he was making up the side of a steep hill. The snowmobile was working hard, and he was standing up out of the saddle, jockey-style, his calves gripping the sides of the seat as he worked the machine through a gulley hemmed in on either side by jagged rocks. He was at a point where it was make or break, so he thumbed the throttle all the way and the snowmobile headed skywards like a rocket at an acute angle of approximately seventy-degrees. He was about to slip off the back of the machine when it reached the summit and became airborne. King threw his weight over the handlebars and the snowmobile dropped back down, settling on the snow as he released the throttle. The machine glided to a halt.
The phone stopped vibrating but started again almost at once. King tore off his gloves and dug his phone out of his pocket. He could see it was Rashid’s number, although he never assigned a contact to a number. He only had ten numbers stored, and all of them related to MI5.
“Yes, mate?” he answered.
“Forget the other two RVs, there’s movement here.”
King hesitated. “What’s happening?”
“Someone has shown up in the clearing. I think it’s a woman. Build and movements, like.”
“How is she acting?”
“Unsure. Nervous. Constantly checking their ‘six,” Rashid paused. “And there were gunshots earlier. A short burst. Semi-auto, not a hunting rifle. By the way she’s checking behind her, I think she’s been pursued.”
King hesitated for a moment. If the woman in the clearing was the defector, then being in the open would compromise her safety. But if Rashid was in an OP, then he would be perfectly placed to surprise any hostiles. But then he thought of the five meagre rounds he had given him, and the uncertain range the rifle had been zeroed for. “What’s your status?”
“In a hide. Cocked, locked and ready to rock…”
“With bugger-all firepower if it all gets a bit shooty…”
“Suggestions?”
“Get down there, get them out. If you heard an automatic weapon and that genuinely is the defector, you could be in the shit if you fire on any hostiles.”
“On it.”
“I’ll get there,” said King. “I’ll approach from the northwest.” King could hear Rashid breathing heavily. He could hear feet crunching on the ice. “Good luck.”
King ended the call and the phone vibrated instantly in his hand. He pressed the answer icon.
“Caroline. Are you alright?”
“Get over here!”
“What’s happening?”
“I’m pinned down! Getting fired upon from someone on the high ground!”
King was already on the snowmobile. “Where are they firing from?”
“The high ground!”
“I know that! As you look at the clearing, where are the shots coming from?”
“The first hillock, the more easterly one…”
“Caroline?” All that King could hear was the dial tone. “Caroline!”
The snowmobile started on the press of the button and King thumbed the throttle to full revs and turned sharply to the right. The machine skidded round, the track throwing up snow and ice fifty-feet into the air. He aimed for the edge of the cliff, directly in line with the tracks he had made on the way up. As he was ten-feet short of the edge, he halved the revs and held on for all he was worth. The snowmobile shot out ten-feet from the edge, an ominous engine whine as the tracks lost contact with the snow, followed by silence as he plummeted fifty-feet before hitting the seventy-degree slope. The two front skids caught, and the tracks tore at the snow as it gained traction and powered down the precipice. The slope levelled out and the machine was travelling at close to ninety-miles-per-hour when King slowed and turned for the second rendezvous point.
50
Rashid had ended the call with King and pushed himself out of his hide, dragging the rucksack behind him. He put the pack back on, reamed the tags tightly. He had a feeling he was going to have to move quickly. Better if he spent a few seconds getting sorted than regret it later. He kept the rifle in his hands and star
ted to make his way down the steep and unforgiving slope towards the lone figure on the plateau.
The figure looked his way, then started to run. Rashid increased his pace, sliding and leaping until the slope levelled out and he was on the same terrain. He was sure now, positive that the figure was a woman. The movements, the slight curve of the hips under the bulky snowsuit. He chanced it, called out, “Stop running, madam! I am with the British Government, you’re contact!” he shouted. “I’m here to help!”
The figure hesitated momentarily, then continued towards the trees.
“You have something for me. The defection is going ahead, but I’ve had to stand in. your initial contact was killed!”
The figure stopped. Turned around. Rashid could see her face. Vulnerable, scared.
Rashid added, “Look, I have a gun, I would have used it if I wanted to harm you.” Snow and ice showered them, the burst of automatic gunfire tearing up the snow between them. Rashid watched as the bullets tracked towards the woman. He shouted, “Move!”
Natalia watched the bullets smash through the crust of ice and she darted to her right, towards the treeline. Rashid followed, the gunfire stopping while the gunman changed magazines. He caught up with her, gripped her by the shoulder and guided her to his left. “This way!” he shouted, the gunfire opening-up again. The gunman had his eye in now, the bullets tracking closer to their feet. Rashid stopped dead, pulled her backwards and the bullets tracked onwards, paused, then came back. This time they were wide of them and he pushed Natalia onwards towards the treeline.
He risked a glance as they reached the trees. He could see the muzzle flashes high and right of their position. He pushed Natalia into the trees and threw himself onto his stomach.
“Get behind a tree!” he shouted. He ignored her, keeping his eyes on the ridge. She had been told what to do and he wasn’t going to babysit her.
