Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

He aimed at Garilovich's head, then stopped. Something prevented him from shooting the man in cold blood. He moved the barrel down to the man's leg and pulled the trigger. The shot wouldn't kill him, but it would certainly rule him out of the game.

Sean coughed up some more filth from the cesspit. Before he muttered the wounding insults to Urilenko he had taken several deep breaths, filling his lungs with oxygen. He made sure Urilenko would block Garilovich's clear sight to him, counting on Garilovich to make no attempt to shoot his colleague. Even so, there was only one way to go — into the pit, bringing Urilenko with him.

The coldness of the liquid was shocking but had the effect of galvanising Sean. All the pain in his body vanished in an instant, replaced with the urgent need to deal with his opponent. Sean had planned his moves; first, a savage blow to the stomach forced the man to exhale explosively. Next a knee to the groin causing him to curl, foetal like. Lastly he tightened his hands around the neck, ignoring the agony from his wounded finger, seeking the pressure points that would cause unconsciousness.

Urilenko soon regained his senses and fought wildly, arms thrashing, legs jerking. But by then he had gulped down a lung-full of the filthy sludge and Sean wasn’t going to let go. Sean increased the tension around the neck, forcing him lower in the tank. Thirty seconds later the struggle was over.

Sean shuffled to the car. The concrete drive sloped down towards the open road. He opened the door on the driver's side, undid the handbrake and pushed the car down the slope. As it gained momentum, he leapt in and turned the key. The engine fired and the Audi surged forwards.

Seconds later he switched the headlights on and floored the accelerator.

The Cipher clerk at the Russian embassy in Paris checked his screen which showed an incoming call from Serge Zlotnik. The monitor was populated with Zlotnik's details, but the assistant had no need of the data — he already knew who he was. He picked up the phone gingerly. Zlotnik started to speak before the clerk had time to say 'Bon jour'.

'I want to know that the information I give you in this call will be passed on immediately, and without the usual misinterpretation.'

'Yes sir. All our calls are recorded, and if you wish I can get the conversation transcribed.'

'Good.'

'I will email you a copy of the transcription. We’ll include a report on the actions taken as a result of the call.'

'Even better. In a nutshell, we are trailing a defector by the name of Alexei Khostov who may be travelling under the alias of Vassily Maskhadov. Initially he flew to London. I have information from a contact in Brittany he sailed to France in a yacht called the Anastasia. The yacht was in Perros-Guirec for a couple of days and the berth had not been booked or paid for. The British are also actively hunting for this man, but I delayed the French police process of sharing this information with them. However this situation cannot last long.

I suspect Khostov has gone to Paris and I am sending two men to apprehend him. I need the full assistance of the embassy. I want every available member of staff to go out to the major terminals — train stations, bus stations and airports to look for him. I will send photographs and a potted biography of the man to you shortly. You must understand this man evaded British authorities for days and may be disguised. Moscow cyber services are checking every email, text message and notifications. I am making arrangements to fly to Paris today in order to take charge. Until I arrive, the military attaché will be temporarily in command of the investigation.'

'I have all that sir. Is there anything else you want me to do?'

'Just make sure you take this to your ambassador straight away and act on the information immediately!'

'Very well sir. Au revoir.'

The clerk put the phone down with a sigh of relief.

It was still dark when Sean drew up outside the safe house. He killed the ignition and sat for a minute, inspecting the reversing mirror for tags. Apart from looking like the Return of the Swamp Thing, he stank to high heaven. His mangled index finger bled into the foot-well.

Even so, he couldn't afford to forget his tradecraft. He checked out the parked cars; none were occupied and he hadn’t been followed. The minute also gave him a chance to summon up enough energy to get out of the car.

His legs felt like jelly. 'Oh God,' he muttered. 'I'm getting too old for this.' He levered himself upright. The house was only twenty yards away, but he doubted he could walk that far. Leaning on the car he lurched to the wooden fence surrounding the garden. From there he used the fence posts to help him along the drive to the door.

All the safe houses the Section provided had security combination locks, and Sean had trouble remembering the precise sequence from his briefing notes. After a few attempts he let himself inside and stood on the doormat. He turned on the lights and peeled his clothes off with great difficulty. In the harsh kitchen light he examined his body. Big dark bruises were forming all over. His eyes were burning and his skin was on fire. He wasn’t sure which hurt most, the beating or the chemicals from the cesspit. But above the pain came an overwhelming feeling of relief, so strong he almost sobbed with the intensity of the release. He was out of danger, for now.

He found the bathroom and went straight in the shower. Twenty minutes later he felt a little better. He put on a dressing gown and made his way downstairs.

He was desperately tired, hungry and in pain. Rooting around in the kitchen he discovered a first aid kit and some strong pain-killers. He took four with water and began to examine his left hand. As he washed his index finger under the tap, he saw the bone had a deep groove where the blade of the bread knife had been drawn repeatedly across it. He dried the wound, applied antiseptic and wrapped the finger in a dressing, binding it to his middle finger for support.

Next stop was the fridge. While chewing a cheese sandwich, he reflected on what he had learnt from the Russians. He picked up the phone.

'I want to speak to Margret.' There was nobody in the Section called Margret, but they liked their agents to follow procedure.

'Margret here, what can I do for you?'

Sean swore they sounded more like the Americans every year. 'I have some interesting info for you today.' Without the keywords 'interesting' and 'today', Sean would not have got any further. Now that the Section were aware he was not under duress, they connected him straight to signals. Sean didn't need to tell them his position — they could easily trace the line.

'Murdock, I’ve got some info on the Russian team. There are four of them, names coming up. First is Maxim Desny. He seems to be the leader of the group, possibly police, maybe investigations or detective branch. Second is Yasha Petrov, very quiet, keeps to himself. Speciality unknown, but probably connected with the army. Third is Mila Urilenko. He's a bloody psychopath, but no longer breathing. Fourth is Gavrilovich Markow from FSB. He's alive, but out of the game.'

Sean gave them the location of the farm. 'I overheard them talking. I now know for certain they are being run by Zlotnik. I also know they haven't found Khostov yet.'

'Thanks, we'll get on it straight away.'

'There’s a detective at the Met, name of Anita Marshall. Pass all the details along to her. I need a complete set of clothes, including trainers, a car and a phone. And I need some sleep — don't let anyone disturb me for the next four hours.' This was one of the few luxuries of working in the UK — superb backup and support. He went upstairs, crawled into bed and was asleep in seconds.