Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

He stood up, stretching to ease his back. Going to the bookshelf, he pulled out a well-thumbed copy of an old Arktika expedition report from the Russian Arctic and Antarctic Institute. He opened it and read again about Anatoly Sagalevich, Yevgeny Chernyaev and Artur Chilingarov, his personal heroes. They were all awarded Hero of the Russian Federation medals after their voyage.

Grigori trembled at the idea of following in their footsteps. When he returned, he might receive a medal too.

In the Prime Minister's office in Downing Street, the Foreign Secretary flung his briefcase onto a chair in sheer frustration. 'I've just had the most dreadful meeting with the Russian Ambassador.'

Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown put his papers away and regarded his colleague and friend. 'Care to tell me about it?'

'The man's obnoxious. Overbearing and so hyper-critical. Of all the challenges to this office, he's the biggest thorn in my side.' An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. 'Couldn't we just manufacture an incident and return him to Moscow?'

The PM smiled. 'They might send someone more obnoxious to replace him.'

Howard Stern flopped into an armchair. 'Well I don't think I can go on seeing him like this.'

'What did you discuss?'

Stern rubbed his forehead distractedly. 'Somehow he knows two Russian families in London were murdered. He said he abhorred the use of violence towards the ethnic Russian community, and asked what we are doing. I said the police were going all out to find who is responsible and bring them to justice.' He snorted. 'Justice! I told him they were working on an assumption the murders are being prosecuted by a gang imported from Russia with the intention of torturing and killing people in order to gain information on the whereabouts of Khostov.'

'You said that?' The PM looked horrified.

'Not in as many words,' he replied. 'But I left him with the impression the police believe there is a strong link.'

'I'm not so sure that was a good idea.'

'The ambassador got on his high horse. Denied anyone had been sent from Russia. He made a veiled threat to expel some of our staff from the British embassy in Moscow.'

'I'm not surprised.' Sometimes the Foreign Secretary's boldness astounded the Prime Minister. Nevertheless Howard would not make such an accusation unless it had been finely calculated to bring about a result. But what could he achieve by accusing the diplomat of being a liar?

'It was uncanny how much he knew,' continued Stern. 'Almost as if he is being primed by the person directing the gang.'

'You feel he is?'

Stern frowned. 'He asked me about a firm of London solicitors whose offices had burnt down. They deal almost exclusively with Russian clients.' He glanced at Ashdown and saw the same concern written over his face. 'He would only concede that if a group from Russia were operating in the UK, it must be the Russian mafia or a rogue team. Nothing to do with the government, full stop.'

'How are we getting on with the hunt for Khostov?'

Stern shook his head. 'Not much progress. We know a little about his background. He's divorced with one son. He's a star physicist and Nobel peace prize winner. Currently he's working for a company called GazArctic. You will have heard of them; they're one of the largest energy companies in Russia. They've focused on extracting oil and gas from Arctic fields, both on and off-shore. We're not sure what prompted Khostov to flee Russia, but we suspect he came to the UK with a false passport. We also understand he was carrying some documents with him. SIS reckon they are important.'

'If they despatched a squad to hunt him, can't we arrange for more assets to track him down? I'd certainly like to find him before they do.'

For the first time in the discussion, Stern nodded eagerly. 'I'd like to find him too. However staff resources are over-stretched. The threat from Islamic extremists hasn't diminished. Two plots were uncovered in the last month alone. We have a team dedicated to finding Khostov, but the trail has started to go cold. We know he used a passport in the name of Vassily Maskhadov when he entered the UK, but it appears he’s gone to ground or left the country altogether.'

Ashdown cradled his chin in his hands. 'Do whatever you can. Like you, I think this is important.'

'Well we are acting on another lead, Terrance. A colleague of Khostov's died in Russia in mysterious circumstances. The man was American, married to an English woman. He worked for an American partner to GazArctic, and was found dead in a remote corner of Siberia. The department sent someone to accompany the widow to Russia and retrieve the coffin.'

The PM grunted his approval. 'Keep me posted, Howard.'

The Foreign Secretary got up. Halfway out of his seat, he glimpsed the PM's in-tray. Amongst the pile of papers he spotted a book, and he paused to get a second glance at the title.

Forty degrees below: Traditional Life in the Arctic

'Anything the matter?' the PM enquired.

'Ah no, the bones are getting a bit creaky, that's all.' Howard left the room, his mind working overtime.

Sean crunched his way over the gravel drive, following the detective. The house was big, set in a minimum of two acres of cultivated lawns. He counted five bedroom windows facing out. Blue police ribbon fluttered across the front porch in the cold breeze. The detective lifted the tape and Sean ducked under.

'They were killed in the bedroom.' She pushed through the unlocked door and waited for Sean. 'The area downstairs is a real mess.'

The entrance hall looked tidy. Large glass double doors opened out onto the living space. To the right a door led to a walk-in cloak-room; on the left was a loo. Sean went straight ahead to the living room.

The detective followed. 'Husband and wife were tied up on chairs here.’ She indicated two dining chairs, fallen on their sides. Cushions were scattered over the floor and a lampstand lay on its side; glass littered the carpet. ‘There were bruises to their wrists.'

'Tell me about them, Anita.'

The Detective checked her notes. 'They were Yakov and Irana Petrovich. Came to the UK eleven years ago. He was forced out of his business in Russia and fled here. Both retired, though Yakov did a small amount of trade supplying machinery to Russia and the Baltic states. A very wealthy couple, as you can tell.'

Sean inclined his head in agreement, trying to imagine how everything might look before the murderers arrived.

'The wife Irana was raped, probably repeatedly, though forensics found DNA from only one man. She was discovered naked upstairs in the master bedroom, killed by a single shot to the head.' Anita took out some photographs from her bag and pointed to the first. It displayed the blood-stained face of Irana with a dark red hole just above the hairline. 'There were many other bruises on her body, but none fatal.' He caught her grim expression. 'Whoever did this treated her body like a carcass.'

She showed him another photo. 'The husband was killed, possibly an hour or two later.' She pulled out the third photo. 'He was tortured the same way as his wife.' The shot showed a close up of Yakov's wrists, still bound tightly. The bonds had cut into his arms and deep bruises went as far as the elbows.

'This is the second double murder you're working on?'

Anita nodded. 'Another ex-Russian couple were murdered less than 48 hours before the Petrovich's. Stefan and Nada Novosi — an almost identical killing. Both bound by their wrists and ankles. The wife was taken upstairs and brutally raped — traces of seamen were obtained on the bed. She was found downstairs, shot in the back. Her husband was shot in the head between the eyes at about 20 feet range. Both couples were killed from the same handgun. The killer is a trained marksman.'