Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

'Oh. Thanks for clearing that up.'

The car slowed and turned in through the entrance to the cemetery. They continued up a single tarmacked drive, passing rows of graves on either side. Eventually they stopped and Sean stepped out into a thin drizzle of rain. He opened an umbrella and held the door open for Kellie. They walked towards the grave where half a dozen people stood.

'Who are they?' whispered Sean.

She returned the whisper. 'I recognise some of them. Work colleagues from Nic's company.'

The vicar began the service and Sean handed the umbrella to Kellie. He moved back a distance and studied the grounds. If any watchers were present, they were doing a good job of concealment. He called DD. 'Any news?'

'The team's in the cemetery office, and there’s a drone up above.'

Instinctively Sean glanced upwards, but he couldn't locate the airborne spy. 'Found anything?'

'Not yet. But Finch is convinced they will be watching.'

Sean cursed. Finch was new, and Sean wasn't feeling generous. His Executive should have been briefed about Sean's aversion to working with so many people from the Service. There were only two exceptions; Sean knew from experience the value an Executive could bring to a mission, and DD had proved his worth in the past. However the extra manpower in this case might turn out to be worthwhile — Sean couldn't be expected to search the surrounding area for the Russian team.

'Where is Finch?'

'In a car, just off the main road. You must have passed him on the way in.'

Sean watched as Kellie lent over to throw a handful of dirt on the coffin. 'Grey Vauxhall?'

'Yep.'

'Keep in touch.' He put away the mobile and joined her as she walked to the car.

She raised the umbrella to allow him to move closer. 'You know I used to hate him?'

'Well, he was cheating on you' replied Sean evenly.

She halted at the limousine. 'I'm beginning to realise he wasn't such a bad man.' Sad eyes searched his face. 'He treated me OK.'

Sean opened the door and they got in. He passed over a clean white handkerchief. 'Not quite what you wanted though?'

Kellie dabbed her eyes. 'I needed more than just companionship. I understood why he wasn't able to give that, and I resented the reason. Now I think he did his best for me. I should have been grateful.'

Sean checked his mobile; it was Finch. 'I'm sorry, something has come up. Can you manage without me?'

A faint smile appeared around her lips. 'I'm going to have to' she replied. 'Thanks for taking me to Moscow and being here today.'

'You're welcome.' Sean stopped the car and climbed out. When the limousine drove off, he spoke into his mobile. 'What have you got?'

'Blue Ford Focus. There’s a photograph from the drone, but it developed a technical fault. Some of our guys are on their way.'

'Right, I'll hang on.' Sean wasn't happy Finch had called in the cavalry; it was all too easy to spook the target. He waited as the cortege left the cemetery grounds, thinking of Kellie and how difficult it would be to start again.

Several minutes passed before Finch came back on the line.

'The Focus has gone. We've lost him.'

'He's up ahead in the farm.' Finch pointed to a group of stone buildings half a mile away. 'He arrived an hour ago. We pulled back like you asked.'

The farmhouse sat in a quiet village in Staffordshire off the A50. Sean lifted his binoculars in the early evening light. A blue Ford Focus stood in the yard, and behind lay open fields and woodland. 'How did you find him?'

'Motorway cameras picked up the plates and SIS ordered a team to follow at a discrete distance.' Finch paused, embarrassed by the admission. 'They wanted to make sure they didn't lose him again.'

Sean moved the binoculars over the main house. They windows appeared blank, as if dark blinds had been pulled down. An approach from the front meant he would be exposed during the final 50 yards. 'I want everyone to stand down. No police, no SIS, nothing.'

Finch regarded Sean.

‘SIS over-ruled you earlier.' Sean returned Finch's gaze evenly. 'You have to assert yourself; I need you to back me up.' He waited while Finch phoned the order through.

A minute later Finch nodded. 'They're standing down.'

Using as much cover as possible, Sean began a stealthy approach. Before the last stretch in front of the property he struck out to the left, taking a wide a detour to the rear. He crouched and lay flat on the ground. The house backed onto a field, separated by a surrounding stone wall. He crawled slowly until he judged he was opposite the rear entrance.

Sean turned around, sitting with his back to stonework. He removed a handgun from a shoulder holster and checked the magazine, then stopped abruptly. He had checked and rechecked the gun before moving into position. At this critical point in the approach, why did he feel it necessary to check it again? His left thumb began a familiar tattoo against the barrel. Ominously, he felt the first stirring of fear in the pit of his stomach, as his system dumped adrenaline into the blood stream. Why was this happening now?

This was no time for questions, and Sean raised his head gradually to peek over the top of the wall. He checked the building. Everything was still. In his peripheral vision he caught a movement on the road beyond the farm.

Finch was running low, sprinting between cover, coming towards the farm. What the hell was he up to?

Sean whirled around, some sixth sense alerting him to an additional threat. In the distance a faint speck floated in the sky, accompanied by the familiar whump of rotor blades. He wanted to warn me about that, he guessed. Either way, the opposition knew they were blown.

Sean stretched out on the floor again, and crawled slowly towards the back. He kept checking the windows, prepared to shoot at the first sign of aggression. His breath rasped in his throat. A net curtain in an upstairs window twitched. Sean cursed, they were on to him.

He rose and moved silently to the rear wall. Grasping the door handle he turned it gently. It was not locked. The buzz from the helicopter grew louder. The speck had grown large enough to distinguish the type; the Eurocopter EC145 practically screamed police.

The door opened easily. Sean let go of the handle and sank to the ground once more, anticipating a shot at chest level. He pushed the jamb, allowing the remains of the light to fall into the room. An old set of chairs and a dining table nestled against a corner. A couple of tattered armchairs faced a black iron fireplace.

Two shots rang out, coming from the front. They must have spotted Finch. Poor bugger.

A round struck the concrete floor, making a sharp phutt. Sean rolled as a silenced machine gun stuttered, stitching a line of pock marks in the ground. A long arm reached through the gap, grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him in. The door slammed shut and another hand grasped his wrist in an iron grip. Someone wrenched the gun away, sending it spinning across the room. He was hauled to his feet by an immensely strong man whose breath stank of rotting meat. Another person grabbed his arms and zipped them with plastic cuffs.

One of the men barked out a command in Russian. Sean struggled, and the man hit him over the head.

Sean collapsed.

The morning after his arrival in Paris, Khostov sipped a coffee in a local café. He felt safer in the busy city having changed some of his money to buy clothes, and was brooding about how to find a new passport. Getting rid of his current identity had to be a priority. Khostov considered his options. The centre of Paris was probably the best place to contact someone. He realised he would have to deal with some shady characters of the Paris underworld. The problem was his cultured upbringing in Moscow had ill-prepared him to make such contacts.