Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

But this time Feliks was determined. Instead of knocking, he opened the door and walked right in. He was totally unprepared for the scene that greeted him. Captain Grigori sat at his desk, the stubble on his face showing he had not shaved since the collision with the American submarine. A half-full bottle of vodka sat within arm's reach. Feliks' face fell when he spotted several empty bottles scattered around the floor.

Grigori's eyes swivelled round at the intruder. 'I ordered you to go away!'

Feliks frowned. 'Captain, I cannot. I must speak with you. I have been running everything while you have been in your cabin.'

In between fending off increasingly frantic calls from Moscow, the engineer was trying to fix the problem with the reactor. As he predicted, the problems began when the Captain ordered 'full speed ahead' before the collision. The excessive demand for power caused more boric acid to be dissolved in the water coolant circuit. The radioactive corrosive circulated in the primary loop, causing erosion of the control rod drive mechanisms. The core temperature began to rise and Feliks had no option but to regulate the chain reaction to a safe level. Thankfully now the reactor was under control. However he refused to allow the ship to go anywhere until the corrosive material had been completely filtered out. It was time to remind the Captain of his duty.

'Grigori, Moscow will not tolerate your silence anymore!' Feliks caught a glint in his Captain's eye.

'What can they do?' the Captain asked gruffly.

'If you do not respond by eleven hundred hours this morning, they will send a tug and tow this ship back to port.'

'Let them.'

'Captain, that would be the end of your career! Think about your family!'

'I am thinking about my family!' snarled the Captain. 'I've been thinking about them ever since.'

The engineer took a seat. 'Ever since when?'

'Ever since the Americans captured my son.' The Captain pushed the vodka bottle towards Feliks. He found a tumbler and placed it in front of Feliks, waiting until Feliks poured a shot. Grigori raised his glass.

'Budem zdorovy'

'Budem' rejoined Feliks.

Grigori took a quick sip and cradled his drink while looking into the distance. 'You remember I told you the Americans captured my son's plane after they strayed into their territory?'

'I remember every word, Captain.'

'Well at the time the government imposed a total blackout on the news story.'

'No-one was aware he was being detained by the Americans?'

The Captain shook his head. 'No.' He took another sip of the vodka. ‘Four weeks ago, his mother — my first wife — died of cancer. She had been ill for some time. Her family arranged the funeral and approached the government to release our son from duties so he could attend. The government refused. They did not plead with the Americans because they didn’t want to appear weak.'

Grigori leaned over to refill their glasses. 'The family were very upset. My wife was deeply loved by all her family and friends. I miss her.' Grigori's red eyes misted over.

Feliks stayed silent, sensing there was more to come.

'The family protested to the papers. When some reporters went digging they found out the truth. The boy was being held prisoner in an American gaol. They wanted to print the story. The government stopped them and two reporters and the assistant editor lost their jobs over it. I don't blame them, at least they tried.'

Grigori stopped. He turned to look at Feliks and spoke angrily. 'But I do blame the politicians — on both sides. No humanity, no consideration but to feather their own nest.' Grigori lapsed into silence.

'So the funeral went ahead without your son?' Feliks asked.

There was a long pause and Feliks thought the Captain would not speak again. When he did, his voice was low and full of pain. 'I attended the funeral, of course. And because of the news blackout I had to lie to everyone there why my son could not attend. I told them that he was on an important mission. It was a pack of lies.'

Grigori drained the vodka in one go and slammed the glass down on the desk. 'Now do you understand why my blood boils whenever I see Americans!'

‘Puis-je avoir l'addition s'il vous plaît?’

While waiting for his bill, Khostov considered his appearance in the mirror of the hotel’s reception area. His dyed hair and new clothes certainly made a difference.

The manager returned and Khostov paid with cash.

‘S'il vous plaît pourriez-vous réserver une chambre pour moi?’ Khostov’s French wasn’t good, but at least he was trying.

'Which hotel would you like?' the man asked in English.

Khostov switched to English. 'Perhaps you could recommend one — I'm staying in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois for a few days.'

'Certainly.' The manager moved back to the computer to search for something suitable.

Having made the arrangements, Khostov thanked him and walked towards the metro. As he entered the station, Sean arrived at the St. Claude. He approached the reception and spotted a small busy looking man.

‘Bonjour Monsieur. J'ai un ami résidant ici.’

The manager's eyebrows lifted a millimetre. 'You have his name?'

Sean regarded the French habit of replying to a question in English as rude, but he had no time to argue now. 'Yakov Petrovich.'

'Ah, he has just this minute left!'

'Do you know where to?'

'Yes, I made a reservation for him at the hotel Compte in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. If you hurry you might catch him.'

'Thank you.' Sean turned and shot out of the hotel. He had arrived on the metro and he headed back there at a run. He jumped on the first train heading to the Place d'Italie, looking round constantly for a sign of Khostov. Five minutes later Sean changed at the Gare d'Austerlitz and caught his first sight of Khostov, waiting for a train. Sean noticed Khostov had dyed his hair and glimpsed an expensive suit under a smart coat. He was clutching a briefcase, and looked like a stock broker.

Sean folded his newspaper and followed. For Sean the art of shadowing was in adjusting the distance between him and the target according to the environment and the number of people around. He found the ability to change his external appearance quickly also helpful. Sean wore a reversible coat and had a scarf and woollen hat in his pocket.

At the Gare d'Austerlitz they walked to the main train station. Here Sean became aware of another watcher. The man pulled out a mobile as soon as he glimpsed Khostov and immediately began to tail him onto the next train. Sean followed and after an uneventful half an hour they got off at Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov found a taxi, and seconds later so did the follower.

Sean scanned the rank, but there were no more taxis. However several bicycles were propped up against the station wall and Sean found one without a padlock. The bicycle looked like it had been made during in the Second World War, but it worked. Sean wheeled the ancient bike into the road and began to pedal like mad.

After a minute he realised pursuit was hopeless. He stopped and asked a pedestrian about the location of the Compte. The man gave him directions, and Sean phoned Lomax the details.

When Sean arrived, he noticed the car immediately, parked discretely outside the hotel. The wipers were switched off even though it was raining. Sean approached from the passenger side, knowing that Lomax would recognise him in the wing mirror.

They sat in silence, watching the road and the approach to the hotel. A car drew up and parked a little way from the entrance. The exhaust pipe vibrated because the driver had left the engine running. A man got out and Sean pointed him out to Lomax.

'Maxim Desny. One of the two remaining Russian crew. He's come to relieve the watcher.