Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

'Wait!' Several heads turned at the outburst.

'Monsieur, you must lower your voice.'

'Three thousand euros.'

The Frenchman paused, considering the proposal. 'We meet in the middle. Three thousand five hundred. That is my final offer.'

'OK. Three thousand five hundred.' Khostov reached inside his pocket.

The Frenchman grabbed his arm. 'Not here monsieur.' He nodded towards the door. 'Outside in the park, where no-one can see us.'

President Donahue pushed his fingers through his blond hair and sighed with exasperation. This was his second and final term in office and he didn't need this crisis, coming on top of all the other domestic issues demanding his attention. He had moved up to the oval office, away from the busy situation room, thinking he might get a better perspective with fewer people. With him were his two closest advisors, Brindle Harris and Henry Jones from the CIA.

'Right, I want to know the plan gentlemen.' He eyed both of them. 'Keep it simple — no military acronyms you're so fond of — they just confuse the hell out of me.'

Brindle glanced at Henry Jones, and began his briefing after receiving a small nod. 'We're calling this operation Project Gold. The rescue mission is being assigned to DEVGRU.' Brindle immediately appeared embarrassed. 'Sorry. Project Gold will be implemented by our Naval Special Warfare Development Group.' Brindle laid out a map of the Arctic on the table and Jones took up the floor.

'The project involves creating an airfield near the downed sub. We begin with flying in reconnaissance units and engineering teams to lay an airstrip. We're going to need two Antonov 124s to transport the SRDRS equipment — that's a lot of kit. The Antonov needs 3,000 m of runway.' Jones drew a line on the map — 'here'.

'That's a considerable length on the ice pack,' commented Brindle. 'At this time of year the pack varies in thickness between one and a half, and four metres. The ice will need to be levelled by snow ploughs first, and a temporary surface of updated perforated steel planking laid on top.'

'How many personnel are going to be involved?'

Jones answered the President's question. 'Initially we estimate at least a company — 200 men. I take it we still haven't got permission to use the icebreaker?'

The President shook his head.

'We'll need a platoon of SEALs to secure the VOO.'

President Donahue appeared thoughtful. 'We're getting as much leverage as possible through the Secretary of State. If necessary I'll talk to President Duskin again.'

'In the meantime are we clear to start landing on the ice?' asked Brindle Harris.

'Agreed.'

As Jones began to roll up the map, Harris turned to the President. 'Supposing the Russians continue to refuse permission to utilise LK-80?'

'We'll deal with that when the time comes.'

Sean told them that he worked for the counter terrorism section of the metropolitan police force. His remit: to track and apprehend possible terrorist suspects entering the UK. He admitted knowing about Khostov. Speculation amongst command suggested a link between his arrival in London and the death of two Russian families. SIS believed a team was sent from Russia to hunt down Khostov. Sean was ordered to find them.

Desny leaned back. 'Who is your commander? How much do they know about us? Where do they think they are now?' To each question Sean responded confidently and with no hesitation.

'Where is Khostov?'

Sean took a deep breath. 'I don't know. We've been searching for him all over London. We thought he might have left the country. The border police are keeping a watch at air- sea- and ferry ports.'

'Where did Khostov go?'

'If I knew, why do you think I'd be still following you?'

Desny looked around at the rest of the group. Quietly, and in Russian he said: 'We've got all we are going to get from him'. He motioned for Urilenko to release his bonds. 'You and Marlow take him out to the back. You'll find an access cover to the farm's cesspit. Dispose of him in there.' He looked at Markow. 'No funny business — you kill him and put him in the pit. And don't forget to close the hatch.'

Urilenko and Markow dragged Sean out of the building. He sagged in their arms, knowing that shortly he would die. Staggering through the kitchen doorway, he tried to keep upright as they pulled him along. If he resisted they would stop and kill him right there and drag his lifeless body to the disposal point.

When they went outside, the single floodlight at the front highlighted the path to the rear. As soon they rounded the corner the light vanished, leaving only dark shadows. They stopped while Urilenko pulled out a torch. The beam wavered, searching for the cover. Within moments the light illuminated a cast iron plate, about 8 x 8 feet on the concrete. The cover was split in half, each half hinged and with an indent in the centre to assist opening.

While Gavrilovich kept his gun on Sean, Urilenko reached down to pull one side of the iron cover. He strained hard to lift it. At once Urilenko's expression changed, and Sean realised why. As the putrid stench from the pit reached Sean, he gagged with the foul smell. Gavrilovich too bent over, coughing with the pain in his lungs. Sensing the danger, Gavrilovich straightened and stepped back, keeping the handgun trained on Sean.

Sean turned to stare at Urilenko, who was holding his nose and standing next to him. He murmured in a low voice, too soft for Markow to hear. 'A fine stench Mila Urilenko, but not as bad as your own breath,' he said in Russian. 'How did your mother feed you when you were a baby?'

Urilenko's reaction was a mixture of astonishment and fury; astonishment Sean understood Russian and fury at the stinging insult. Sean whispered one last sentence. 'Did she have to hold her nose too?'

Urilenko brought a clenched fist round in a savage punch to Sean's face. The blow never landed. Sean grabbed his jacket, pulling Urilenko towards him. At the same time he moved backwards and twisted him around, holding Urilenko between him and Gavrilovich's gun. Like lovers they fell back into the inky blackness of the cesspit.

Gavrilovich was astonished at the turn of events. Urilenko seemed to lose all self-control before launching an attack on the detective. The action was so fast Gavrilovich couldn't get off a clear shot. They both vanished below the crusted top of the cesspit.

Gavrilovich moved closer and shone a light. There were violent movements beneath the slimy surface, but if he fired right now he might kill the wrong person.

He waited a full minute until the agitation died down. If the British policeman is victorious, he thought, he will receive a bullet from me. The others might not be happy if Urilenko did not survive, but secretly Gavrilovich considered Urilenko too much of a burden anyway.

Slowly two hands emerged, dripping with slime as they searched to find the ledge. The fingers got a grip and the arms hauled the rest of the body up.

'Mila, is that you?' shouted Garilovich.

The figure snapped back in Russian. 'Fuck off. Help me out of this shit. And tell the others the British copper is dead.'

Garilovich felt relieved and went to assist. Urilenko dripped from head to toe in the oily putrefaction from the pit. Despite the overpowering stench, Garilovich grabbed his arm and helped him to stand up. He looked on as the figure wiped his face. The man took a huge gulp of air.

Garilovich's eyes widened.

Sean searched the unconscious form of Garilovich. He found a handgun, car keys and a mobile, and tossed the phone into the cesspit. There was no silencer for the gun and the two inside would expect to hear a shot before Urilenko disposed of Sean's body.