by A P Bateman
The two Russians had been collateral. He hadn’t tried to kill them; simply incapacitate them. And he had been given no choice. He knew they were hunting the asset. And in any case, the blood on the sniper’s clothing had not come from a deer or a wolf or an elk. No hunter knelt in their kill. And skinning and gutting a beast did not create the amounts of blood needed to make the marks it had. That sort of blood came from the kill. And they were soldiers; not hunters. King had stripped them to their clothing underneath. He knew they would not last long, but he hadn’t given them a second glance as he left. He wasn’t about to administer a coup de grâce, the elements would have done that soon enough.
The going had become easier with the belt of sunlight that was gleaming on the easterly horizon. Dawn would be breaking soon, and with it the anticipation of seeing daylight and escaping the gloom of near-perpetual night. It lifted their spirits, and with that, the going became easier.
They were on their last legs by the time they completed the spiralling climb to the Eagle’s Nest. There were welcoming lights on within the hotel, but unlike before, there were no people milling around outside. The fires in the hot tubs were unlit and the thick thermal covers had been strapped in place and chains tethered them to one another. King thought the water inside them would weigh a ton, so the expectations of the impending storm must have been grim. Snowmobiles were parked up in lines and the maintenance men had chained them in place to metal railings. There were two spaces left, ominous loose chains waiting for their return.
King placed his hand on the small of Caroline’s back and guided her up the last of the steps. He was cold and exhausted, but he had a few more paces left in him. The arrival at their destination, the completion of their trek was too much for Caroline to bear and she collapsed at the top step, falling into the foyer. King helped her to her feet and pressed the button to the glass door. It whooshed open and the warm air washed over them. Almost at once, the manager hustled over from the desk and crossed the lobby.
“What has happened?”
“We fell through the ice,” King said. He sagged onto the floor, trying to fight the will to succumb now that he was inside. He realised his voice was shaky and his hands were trembling. Now that he had stopped moving, he was suddenly aware just how cold he was.
The manager clicked his fingers at the Russian who had so expertly administered the first aid. The man had been sitting in an alcove near the fire, taking a more casual and familiar break now that the hotel was all but deserted. He trotted over, bent down and swept Caroline up. King realised he had probably misjudged the man. He tried to resist as the manager helped him to his feet, then relinquished and used him as a crutch to bear his weight.
“The saunas, now!” the manager said, leading the way across the lobby. As they passed the desk, a bemused woman looked on. It was the waitress, but she was not dressed in uniform. The manager snapped at her, “Brandy, Michelle, now! And hot coffee! To the saunas!”
They veered away from the shattered glass doors of the ice hotel. The draught was immeasurable, even though maintenance had done their best to board up the opening with timbers. As they neared the saunas, King could feel the heady essence of pine and coals in his sinuses and the back of his throat. The manager opened the door to the nearest one and bundled King inside. The Russian placed Caroline down on the bench, eased her backwards so that she leaned against the hot pine wall. The manager ladled some water onto the coals from a bucket on the floor and stepped back, clearly offended by the heat. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a bundle of towels.
“Take off your clothes and wrap yourselves in the towels,” he said, pausing as the waitress appeared at his side with a tray of coffee cups and brandy. She had thoughtfully added two glasses and a jug of water to the manager’s request. Regardless of the cold, they would be dehydrated from the dry air and their efforts. The waitress stepped into the heat and placed the tray beside King. The manager added, “We’ll leave you alone for twenty-minutes and then we’ll be back with bathrobes and accompany you to your room.”
The heat intensified once the door was closed, and King ladled on more water. The coals hissed, and the steam filled his nostrils and warmed his throat. He tore off the snowsuit and then turned his attention to Caroline.
“I feel awful,” she said weakly.
“Here, get some water down you first,” he said and poured a glass, handing it to her. She caught hold of the glass and drank thirstily. “That’s it,” he said quietly, passing her the double measure of brandy. He took a glass of water for himself and downed it in one. He followed with the brandy and felt the warmth flood through him.
Caroline sipped at the brandy. “Thanks,” she said. “I… I’m not really sure what happened…” she confided. “I remember going through the ice… the shock of the cold. Christ, it was so cold. I don’t really remember anything else after that…” She finished the brandy and reached for the coffee. It was strong and black, but the waitress had spooned in dark-brown sugar making it syrupy and sweet. The caffeine and sugar were just what was needed to bring back some energy levels.
“It was my fault,” King said.
“It wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was. I took the men down, because I thought we were at risk. Their manner, their weapons, the blood on the clothes of the man with the sniper rifle…” He tore off the rest of his clothes and kicked off the poor-fitting boots. He stood in front of her, naked and steaming from the heat. He started to help her off with the rest of her clothes. “He fired at the ice through poor weapon handling skills, rather than to shoot us. I didn’t foresee that,” he paused, wrapped himself in a towel and draped another over her shoulders. He ladled on some more water and could feel the perspiration trickling down his back. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head. “You obviously saved me. I just want to know what happened.”
He shrugged. “You went through. I wasn’t sure if you would pop back up, but I couldn’t help you until I knew that both those men were out of the equation.”
“You killed them?”
“I don’t know. I knocked them out for sure, but I had to be quick. I got a torch and the Dragunov rifle and went in after you.”
“But, it was as cold for you as it was for me.”
King ladled on some more water. He rarely drank coffee, but he started on the large cup and enjoyed its warmth. The sweetness helped the bitter liquid down.
“I trained years ago in Norway and had to go through the ice wearing skis. I remember what hell it was, but I guess I knew what to expect this time,” he said. “There was no shock factor for me. Well, not so much, at least. I imagine you snatched a breath and that was that.”
Caroline pulled her legs up to her chest. She adjusted the towel and King threw another over to her. The door was made from glass and King imagined that somebody would be returning to check on them. The position of her legs, the way she cradled them, made her look vulnerable.
“And how did we get out?”
“I shot out the magazine,” he said. “Made a hole. I figured if the AK74 could break the ice, then the Dragunov with its more powerful ammunition would have no problems at all. Even if it was fired underwater, the bullets wouldn’t lose velocity or energy straight out of the muzzle. It would take a few feet for that to happen, but it would happen abruptly. I had the barrel practically touching the ice, so muzzle velocity would still be high.”
“And, was I unconscious?” Caroline shuddered. “Or was I…”
“You were gone,” King said. “I couldn’t get a pulse, but then, I could barely feel my own skin. You weren’t breathing, and CPR wasn’t doing anything. It’s hard with drowning, because the water is in the lungs, so you can’t just keep breathing in air for someone or they’ll split. You have to pump out the water, but you have to work the heart, too, and that means pumping two different areas.”
Caroline shuddered. “Jesus…” she trailed off. “That’s twice you’ve had to
do that to me.”
King had a vision of her. Hands tied, face down in the bathtub. The room otherwise derelict. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He closed his eyes. He’d saved her then, but he’d left her to go after the person responsible. A chain of events that had ultimately led him here. He thought if he hadn’t have saved her at the river, then events could have turned full circle.
“It’s getting to be a habit,” he said, hoping to ease the tension.
“I don’t recall a thing,” she said. “No lights at the end of a tunnel, no deceased family members waiting for me… nothing.”
King had been there. He’d seen the afterlife and it was as black as coal with no hope of anything metaphysical. He had been technically dead for almost five minutes. He always assumed his personal experience of death and the afterlife was down to the life he had once led and the path he had taken. But Caroline was a good person. She had killed, but only in self-defence. She was the most honest and sincere person King had ever met. Her experience simply confirmed his belief that mankind was so self-indulgent, so full of entitlement as to think they were due a second existence. But that hadn’t stopped him preying in the depths of despair. Soberly, he shrugged it off as merely hedging his bets. Human nature at its most egocentric.
King held her hand but said nothing. Sometimes people just needed their own thoughts. He looked up as the door opened and was surprised to see Ramsay and Marnie peering inside. Caroline adjusted her towels, smiled at Marnie as her expression said it all.
“I’m okay,” she said.
“What happened?” Ramsay asked.
King gave the abridged version. He stopped talking when he noticed Rashid peer around the doorway.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked.
Rashid ran his fingers through the bright orange-red hair. The sides were yellow and caught in the light. He shrugged. “New look. Get over it.”
“Well, at least it isn’t a man-bun and skinny jeans, I suppose…”
“Maybe that comes next?” Caroline chuckled.
King laughed and grinned at Rashid as he said, “I always wondered why more Pakistani men didn’t dye their hair,” he smiled. “Now I know why.”
Caroline punched King on the arm. She did not look subdued anymore. Whether it was the water, the brandy, the coffee or the warmth, was unclear, but the laugh about Rashid’s disastrous hair colour had certainly made a difference.
“I need to know what happened,” she said. She turned to Marnie. “Was this your idea?”
Marnie smiled. “I don’t think anybody could class that as an idea,” she said, trying not to laugh.
Ramsay cracked a rare smile then said, “We’ll debrief,” he said. “My room in thirty-minutes.” He left without further word.
Marnie caught Rashid by the elbow. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s leave them finish up here.”
King called after Rashid as the door swung closed. “Billy Idol called, he wants his look back…”
“Too young to know who he is, old timer…” came the reply as the door shut behind him.
63
The two men were wrapped in silver foil space blankets, the clever amalgamation of plastic and foil reflecting their heat back towards them. Rechencovitch had ordered the rocket specialist to get two gas stoves running to warm the pop-up survival tent, while he fed them both hot chicken soup from self-heating packets of rations. A simple foil packet that when opened, mixed two chemicals in the outer lining, heating the contents in a few minutes. Both men were subdued. One man found it difficult to breathe from a ruptured larynx and the other nursed a broken jaw. They were bruised and broken, but they had lived through their ordeal. Both men wanted revenge, but that would have to wait until they warmed through and got their strength back. Rechencovitch warmed his hands on the gas stove in front of him. Within the confines of the tent the air temperature had risen quickly. It was now so warm, he had undone the zip of his jacket a good few inches.
He had already administered glucose drinks with some cocaine and codeine that he poured in from a homemade silver foil sachet. He had used this before and called it Marching Juice. What soldiers needed to maintain their pace, to lose their fear and inhibitions, and to ignore ankle twists or blisters until the mission was over. He could see an improvement in both men and as they warmed through, they would be faced with superficial injuries, nothing more than his soldiers usually sustained through a weekend of R&R and vodka. The next drink of marching juice would give them the courage to take on the man who did this to them. And win.
“He may have drowned, as well,” the man said. He had contemptuously sneered at his bested companions. He hoped it would stand him in good stead with the colonel.
The sniper shook his head and rasped, “No, I don’t think so. Who else would have taken our clothes? No, the woman drowned, and he stole our kit.”
The other man mirrored his expression. “I started to come around, I had the medical pack,” he said. “I tried to get up, but the blood went to my head and I…”
“Fainted?” the other man mocked him, glancing at the colonel.
“Passed out…” he glared. “When you got to us, when I came around, the medical pack had gone.”
“Who do you think he was?” Rechencovitch asked.
The man shrugged, winced as he did so, his jaw causing him some discomfort. “One of us,” he said. “The same line of work. An ex-soldier, I would guess. Someone used to fighting, someone with good situational awareness.”
“Better than yours, at least.” The other man goaded.
The colonel held up a hand. “Do not interrupt again,” he said.
The rocket specialist shrugged and picked up his own ration pack of chicken soup. He creased the corner and started to drink it down.
“I think he is British intelligence. Meeting the woman from the power plant would be my guess,” the man said. He rubbed his jaw soothingly. “He was fast.” He shrugged. “I guess five years doing security, I’m not as fast as I thought I was.”
“You can say that…” The man was cut short as Rechencovitch chopped him in the throat. He clasped his neck, fell to the ground and started to gag.
“I warned you…” Rechencovitch said coldly. “And perhaps your situational awareness isn’t what it used to be either?”
The man’s two comrades smiled. He did not look in a hurry to get back up. His soup had spilled over him and his expression was sheepish, his cheeks blushing.
The sniper said, “The woman was возбудитель,” he rasped. “Goading us about hunting. She was either situationally unaware, or just provocative.” He rubbed his throat and said, “I suspect she doesn’t know how to back down.”
The colonel shrugged. “Then we will have to force her hand,” he said. “And the man, too. Drink your soup, change your clothes and we will go and see this man and woman. And we will make them pay for their audacity.” He held out a hand for the man laying on the floor. The man took it and the colonel pulled him to his feet. He handed him his own carton of soup and said, “We have a job to do. As a team. We have lost a member, and we shall avenge him. They have given us a bloody nose, but we will cut their hearts out and watch them die. We will kill this traitor of the Motherland. We will kill her for taking secrets. And we will kill anybody standing in our way.”
64
“And you haven’t gone in to see her since?”
“No. The information from Porton Down has hampered us, somewhat,” Ramsay said matter-of-factly. “Be my guest if you want.”
“For god’s sake, Neil,” King said sharply. “She’s got no food, needs a change of clothes and we have to start a debrief. Porton Down have said how this virus works, but we don’t know, have no reason even, to suspect she’s infected.”
