Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

'Thoughts?'

‘At least three men were involved. I've no idea yet if anything was stolen, but in my view this was an execution, not a robbery gone wrong.’

'Access?'

'Tyre tracks suggest they arrived in one car. Footprints indicate one of them stayed outside as a lookout. Given the severity of the bruising, both couples were tortured. It’s possible the women were brutalised first in order to make the husband reveal information. The fact that both couples are Russian exiles, suggests they were targeted, possibly by some kind of Russian gang.'

Sean's mobile rang. He excused himself and walked to the entrance hall.

'It's DD. Got some news for you.'

'Go ahead.'

'A lawfirm in the city, name of Winfield Mantel. Burnt down overnight.'

'What's the link?'

'Well, it's a boutique firm. Most of the work they do is connected with Russia. They have a lot of clients who are Russian émigrés.'

'Right. Where did you get the info?'

'The Section passed it on from SIS.'

'Not from TRIP WIRE?'

'No.' Sean could hear the disappointment in DD's voice.

'OK. Well better luck next time. I'll need to pay a visit.'

Sean closed the call and re-entered the living area. 'I'm sorry, I have to go.'

Anita hesitated. 'I was told to give you all the cooperation I could.'

'I appreciate the time you have given me.'

'It's time which I could be using to catch the killers.'

'Yes.' He frowned. 'You are concerned I might be on the same trail.'

'I am. There's no sense in both of us chasing the murderers.'

'That's not why I am here.'

'Then why?'

'I'm hunting the man they are looking for,' replied Sean.

As he cleared the harbour and entered the choppy waters of the Channel, Khostov recalled the nightmare taxi ride. Thankfully, when the back window was shattered with a bullet the driver didn’t panic. Instead he drove away quickly and pulled over a few miles further on. When he began to report the incident on his cab radio, Khostov tapped him on the shoulder. He left the microphone when he saw Khostov starting to count out twenty pound notes. On reaching 200 pounds, Khostov thrust the money into his hands and instructed the cabbie to drop him off in the city.

Now Khostov was steering his own course. If anyone had told him 48 hours ago that he would be piloting a yacht, he would have laughed. Khostov had not been on a sailing vessel in his life, and he had never dreamed of going to sea.

He brought the helm to starboard, admitting he was beginning to enjoy himself. The Anastasia was packed with all the latest equipment, and the radar, radio and engine controls were easy to understand and operate. The computer-aided navigation proved to be straight forward and he had no need for sail with such a powerful diesel engine on board.

Khostov whispered a prayer of thanks that Yakov had the foresight to give him details of his “stash cash”. Yakov held the safety deposit box at the bank for emergencies. He had also made the necessary arrangements so Khostov could access the cache.

Khostov recalled how embarrassed he became with his friend's kindness and initially declined the offer. Now he was grateful he accepted. He added a coda to his prayer, fearing his friend had already paid for his generosity with his life.

When he arrived at the bank the staff were very helpful and he found all he needed in the safety deposit compartment. Everything was just as Yakov described: a lot of cash, a small notebook and a set of keys with the label 'Anastasia' — Yakov's yacht. At the bottom he discovered an unexpected bonus — a passport, made out in Yakov's name.

After leaving, Khostov needed time to think. He booked into a hotel near Russell Square, one he hadn’t used before. Feeling reasonably safe in the anonymity of the metropolis, Khostov decided to spend the following day planning. He needed to disappear from the UK and with the keys to the yacht in his hand he held the means to sail to France. Once he arrived on the coast getting to Paris should be easy. He discounted making for any other coastline since this would be beyond his near non-existent navigational skills.

Khostov reflected on the lesson from his recent experience. In future he could not contact anyone for help or ask for a place to stay. Something tugged his memory. There was a district in Paris where his Russian background might not be so much of a problem. At the minute he didn’t remember the name. If he couldn't recall the area, his pursuers would have no chance of finding him.

The following morning he took some of Yakov's pile of notes and visited an up-market men’s clothes shop. He knew the sort of suits Yakov liked and he did his best to search for a match. He bought designer shirts and ties, two pairs of trousers, brown brogue shoes, a jacket and an overcoat. At a specialist outlet he obtained a bright technical jacket, over-trousers and deck shoes. Khostov was shocked at the price — the bill amounted to three months of his salary back in Russia.

The next day he travelled to Weymouth by train, looking at the English countryside, so different from his own. He missed his homeland, and his thoughts turned to his son, Levushka. He was crazy to go without him, but what else could he do?

During the journey, he made a promise to himself. He would arrange for Levushka to join him as soon as he could. Returning to Russia remained impossible, and staying in the UK was dangerous. At some stage he might be forced to leave France and travel to the States. Wherever his ultimate destination lay, he would find somewhere safe and be reunited with Levushka. He acknowledged the Russian authorities would never allow him to leave; Khostov would have to find a way nearer the time.

The first priority would be to avoid drawing attention to himself. On reaching Weymouth he began searching for the Anastasia, finding it after an hour walking up and down the marina gangways. At 40 feet long in white and silver, she must have cost Yakov a mint.

He spent the next 30 minutes familiarising himself with the boat and all the controls. After checking the fuel, he learnt Yakov kept the tanks full. He bought some provisions at a local supermarket, slept in the main berth and cast off at dawn.

He was more than a little concerned about how he would pick his way through the many other yachts to the correct channel to the sea. Ten minutes spent twiddling with the radar controls and overlaying the display with a harbour map made it a snap.

As Khostov kept a lookout for other vessels, he wondered about using Yakov's passport. He was around the same height, but Yakov possessed thinner features. Also Yakov's hair was dark and curly, whereas Khostov's was long, straight and grey. The hotel where he stayed in London recommended an up-market salon and made an appointment for him. Before he went in, he memorised Yakov's picture, and instructed the stylist. The result wasn't as good as he had hoped, but at least they dyed his hair the right colour, cut it and introduced some wavy curls.

He caught a glimpse of his face in the glass above the engine controls. Opening the passport again, he compared the picture with his reflection. He might just get away with it if he sucked in his cheeks.

Sean walked over purposely towards the cordon, through a snow drift of papers that stirred in the wind. Tape stretched around the lampposts in a semi-circle and a constable stopped him from going any further. In the centre of the carnage stood the shell of a six story office block, smoke continuing to rise from it. A line of police cars, blue lights flashing, barred other vehicles from the square.

He showed his card. The policeman spoke into his radio and let him through. 'Watch your step sir. There's lots of broken glass.'