Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

Feliks listened carefully. At some point in the future he might be required to repeat the conversation word for word — in a court martial. At least he had managed to intercept the call, fearing that if the Captain became involved there would be an international incident. International incident! Feliks scowled.

Felix had no wish to explain why his Captain could not come to the bridge. ‘The Captain is indisposed at the moment,’ he said in his best English. Can I be of assistance?’

‘Possibly. May I ask who you are?’

‘Chief Engineer of the ice-breaker LK-80. What do you want?’

‘We would like permission to visit your vessel to speak with you.’

Feliks looked around at the sailors on the bridge. If his Captain not been so ill he would have taken the call and refused them permission. But the question confounded Felix. What on earth did the American’s want with them? He felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. What should he say? If he declined he might be accused of an international diplomatic snub. If he granted permission, the Northern Fleet might view his agreement as a capitulation.

‘Em, of course. You would be welcome.’ Felix tried to sound enthusiastic but inside he was reeling. Their presence could not be a coincidence. But what were the Americans up to? If they wanted revenge they could have blown the ship out of the water by now. Why were they asking to visit his ship in such polite terms?

‘How many of your personnel can we expect?’

‘Myself, Lieutenant Colonel Markus Cooke and our helicopter pilot.’

‘Very well, I’ll ensure the landing area is clear of ice.’

Felix replaced the mike. He imagined the scene at his court-martial. They would ask him why he had not informed them earlier about his Captain’s incapacity. Why did he grant permission for the Americans to board his ship? The questions would not stop until he was sentenced. Felix hung his head. He would still need to inform his Captain, but he realised with a moment of clarity that his personal future was bleak in the extreme.

He made his way down to the Captain’s office, fully expecting the door to be locked. When he knocked gently, there was no answer and he was surprised to discover the door opened freely. Captain Grigori Burak sat at his desk and turned to meet him.

‘I see you have been talking to the Americans.’

Startled, Felix took a step back. ‘They called, wanting to speak to you. They are sending two of their senior officers.’

‘So you agreed to let them on board?’

Expecting Grigori to object and launch into a rant, he replied defensively. ‘I felt I couldn’t refuse.’

‘Then we had better make them feel welcome.’

Felix didn’t like the way a sly smile spread slowly over the Captain’s face.

The tea lady handed Sean a mug overflowing with coffee and proceeded to mop his table with a cloth that had seen better days. He stared at the rag.

‘Are you alright dear?’ she asked in concerned tones.

Sean drew a deep breath and held it for a few seconds.

‘You look awfully pale. Should I fetch the doctor?’

He exhaled slowly. ‘It’s OK. Perhaps you could wipe another table now?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

She moved away and he took another deep breath. It was the cloth; it reminded him of the waterboarding. That in turn triggered the schoolboy incident in the swimming pool. Both hands were trembling, and he glanced at the waitress to see if she had noticed.

He hadn’t wanted to offend her. Agents, toughened by training and previous experience occasionally returned suffering from PTSD or other stress related disorders. More often they would come back physically damaged, and sometimes they didn’t return at all. The tea lady must have seen her fair share in the Section café.

Shortly after Khostov’s thunderbolt announcement regarding his son, things went quiet. It had given him time for some rest and relaxation and a chance to phone Natasha. Sean recalled how distant she had been when they last met. He told her he had asked for early retirement and they were considering his request. He didn’t tell her it would take six months before he could leave. She told him she had changed jobs and was about to move. The conversation was polite, but much of the warmth they had before was missing.

The telephone on the counter rang, and the tea lady answered. She came over to his table. ‘Mr Abbott is waiting for you in room 603.’

During the pause in the mission Lomax had disappeared, presumably to cook up the ingredients for the next phase. Sean was about to find out what it might entail. When he entered he saw Lomax and Abbott seated, wearing serious expressions. He dropped into the nearest chair. ‘You’re going to tell me we must get the kid back.’

Abbott nodded. ‘Correct.’

‘In God’s name why? We have Khostov.’

‘It was never just about Khostov.’

‘You know what? You people piss me off. Why can’t you be straight with me?’ He glanced across at Lomax. ‘When you briefed me on the mission it was about Khostov and his work. Now you have him you want to send me back for his son?’

‘Bit of a bummer, eh?’ Abbott smiled, handing him a picture of a young lad.

Sean sighed, realising his anger was not helping anyone. From experience some missions twisted and turned like a snake before reaching a conclusion. This was going to be one of those cases.

He considered the photograph. The snapshot showed a youth in a checked shirt and narrow jeans standing in front of a flock wallpaper. The kid was plainly embarrassed.

‘That was taken by Khostov. But we found a lot more on VK.’ He passed over a folder.

Sean spread out the photos on the desk. ‘VK?’

‘VK.com. It’s the Russian equivalent of Facebook. I believe it’s very popular all over the former Soviet Republics too.’

Sean poured over the prints. Khostov’s son Levushka was in nearly all of them. There were many snaps of him with his friends, at parties, drinking at a bar, in his bedroom with posters of rock bands adorning the wall.

‘Where do we find him?’

‘Khostov thinks he’s moved in with his ex-wife. She lives and works in Moscow. Obviously she and the boy will be watched, 24 hours a day. Khostov believes the authorities let him continue with his education, rather than placing him under house arrest. Khostov’s reputation means he operates in the highest circles of government and he rubs shoulders with some of the most important members of the politburo. He reasons they won’t do anything to harm Levushka — so long as Khostov keeps quiet about what he knows.’

‘How will I tell we’ve got the right person and not a look-a-like the Russians planted in his place?’

‘After Khostov’s divorce, when Levushka was seven, Khostov bought him a puppy to take the lad’s mind off their breakup. He was called Petra. The dog only lived a year afterwards — it was run over on a busy road.’

‘Access?’

‘Lomax is still your Executive. He will arrange that.’

‘Ex-fil?’

‘You’ll have to play that by ear. Obviously when the boy goes missing they will be watching all exit points around Moscow. I’ll leave it up to you both to sort something out.’

‘Anything else?’

Abbott shook his head. ‘I appreciate this is a tough assignment, Sean. We’re all behind you — don’t forget that.’

Sean grimaced. He had heard that one before.

The interior of the submarine was damp with moisture. Droplets formed, coalesced and ran down the walls. The XO wiped a finger across the surface of his console. Some of the dampness was turning to ice. Many of the men on the downed submarine USS Montana had their arms wrapped around themselves to keep them warm, even though they all wore survival suits. Most were shivering, and their breath fogged the air.