Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

‘Well I can’t see us agreeing to such a treaty in 12 months. It will take years to iron out the details,’ responded President Donahue.

‘No!’ replied the PM firmly. ‘You both agree today, or you don’t. I strongly suggest you read the memorandum of intent you have before you.’

The Presidents bent to study their copy. After a minute President Duskin looked up. ‘I don’t really see a problem here Robert. It will mean we both get a chance to develop the resources we all know lie under the ocean floor.’

‘We still haven’t settled on country borders in the far north, after years of negotiation.’

Duskin waved his hand. ‘This is more important Robert. If we agree on this, I am sure we would come to some arrangement on boundaries.’

President Donahue sighed again, and turned to address his host. ‘Terrance, I don’t want you to ever force me into a position again. Is that clear?’

The British PM smiled. ‘Of course not, Robert. That’s a promise.’ He produced a pen from an inside pocket. ‘Now if you would both care to sign at the bottom?’

The Presidents signed their own copy, then swapped papers and signed again. Ashdown added his signature to both copies as a witness. ‘Perhaps you have enough time to join me in a toast?’

The PM fetched glasses from a side counter. ‘Pavla, could you remove the cork from the champagne, and Robert, would you be so good as to help?’

When they were each holding a glass, Ashdown raised his. ‘To the Arctic.’

They chinked glasses. ‘Oh. There is one small matter I nearly forgot.’ The PM regarded the Russian President. ‘I want something for myself. You are holding one of my agents.’ He faced President Donahue. ‘And you have two Russian air crews.’

Ashdown paused for their attention. ‘I need all of them brought home safely to where they belong.’

The President Donahue shook his head and pursed his lips. He looked at the Russian President and saw a small inclination of his head.

‘Very well.’

Ashdown turned to the Russian President, the question plain on his face.

‘I agree too.’

After both Presidents left, the PM wandered over to the window and gazed out at the peaceful gardens below. How ironic to be in Himmelpfortgasse, site of the last exchange of spies between Russia and America. He thought about the deal he had just engineered.

According to his calculations about four million people who depended on the Arctic for subsistence would benefit. He sucked in his cheeks. While their future was not assured for ever, they would continue to survive, perhaps even prosper, in the medium term.

He thought of his close friend Howard Stern, the Home Secretary. How proud he would be to learn that Ashdown had helped a people, living on the margins at the top of the world. Thanks to him, the subjugation of Native Americans or the internment of Russian dissenters in the Gulags would not be repeated in the Arctic.

He opened the black file again and the lines of tension in his face relaxed into a smile. The document consisted of eight pages of typed notes. The Presidents had only the briefest glimpse of the manuscript with the Downing Street logo stamped on each sheet. But if they had viewed it more closely they might have been shocked to learn it contained nothing more than a summary of the latest cabinet minutes.

Murdock was on duty, puffing on a fag. It looked like someone had persuaded him to use the e-cigarette kind, though. Eleven years ago Murdoch was on an assignment in the Far East when a sniper caught him in the sights. The result was a shattered tibia, but he refused to retire. They found him a job in the communications department on the fourth floor. He kept watch over all ongoing operations, verifying codes and ciphers, and routing secure incoming calls to their proper destination. However he declined to give up his smoking habit, and rather than remove him, they removed the smoke alarm.

‘Hi mate.’

Murdock twisted round, taking in the battered face, the bloodshot eyes and the bandaged fingers. ‘Judas Priest, Sean. You look like you’ve just escaped from the mouth of hell!

‘I feel like that too.’

‘I’ve been keeping tabs on your antics in the Arctic. Sounded a bit hairy towards the end. Still, nice to have you back.’

Sean hesitated. ‘I wonder if you could do something for me, off the record?’

‘Anything pal.’

‘This has to stay between you and me. I don’t want anyone here to find out.’

Murdock lifted his shoulders. ‘You know me, Sean. Ask away.’

‘It’s about the girlfriend. She went back to the States, and I haven’t heard from her. I’ve tried ringing her mobile and land line, but there’s no answer. She changed jobs recently, and I don’t know the name of her new company. Could you find out?’

‘Sure, mate. Put what you know on some paper for me, and I’ll get to work.’

Sean left for the cafe, after writing out Natasha’s details. He nursed a coffee while his mind wandered, going over and over the possible reasons for her silence. Maybe she had decided she wanted nothing more to do with him. Perhaps she had bought a new mobile, to avoid the prospect of having to talk to Sean.

An hour later, the door opened, and Murdock walked in. Sean admired the way he ambled over to his table; no-one would guess he was wearing an artificial leg.

‘Hi, did you find her?’

Murdock avoided eye contact. ‘Sean, let’s find somewhere quiet to talk.’

Two doors along they found an empty office, and Murdock closed the door quietly behind them.

‘I’m getting bad vibes, Murdock. What did you find out?’

Murdock waved to a comfy chair. ‘Sit down.’

‘Stop, Murdock. I need to know what you found out.’

‘It’s bad news, Sean. She’s dead.’

An involuntary groan escaped from Sean’s mouth. ‘It must be a mistake.’

Murdock shook his head. ‘I spoke to a friend in the FBI. After a search of his files he put me in touch with the special agent dealing with her murder.’

Sean searched Murdock’s face for any hint this was a bad joke, but there was only sadness in every line of his expression. At that moment, Sean felt something go inside. He had counted so much on seeing her again, on being with her when he finished at the Section. She had survived a sniper’s bullet, and was recovering so well. He never imagined she would die. ‘How did it happen,’ he asked quietly.

‘A drive-by. Two on a motorcycle. The pillion passenger stitched her with a semi-automatic.’

Sean moved to the chair slowly and sat. He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I’ll find them Murdock.’

Murdock sat opposite. ‘No, Sean.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry mate, but they were professionals. The FBI, with all their resources, don’t stand a chance of finding them. You haven’t a hope in hell.’

Sean was quiet for a whole minute. When he spoke, his voice was a little stronger. ‘I have two things they don’t have, Murdock. Determination, and time. You probably didn’t know, but I’m leaving the Section. I have limitless determination, and now I have limitless time.’

Murdock bowed his head, unwilling for Sean to see the scepticism on his face.

‘Mr Moore?’

‘Si.’ The man’s brown eyes looked Sean over warily.

‘I hope you got my message?’

‘Yes, you are Mr Quinlan.’

‘Call me Sean, please.’ Sean held out his hand.

The man declined to shake. Instead he stood to one side to allow Sean past. ‘Come in.’ He followed Sean into the cool interior of the house. ‘Adriana,’ he shouted. ‘Come, see. It is Mr Quinlan from England.’ He showed him into a large sitting room with a sea view.