Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

‘Call on line two. President Donahue for you.’ The secretary slipped out of the Prime Minister’s office, closing the door gently behind him.

The PM picked up the phone.

‘Terrance, good to speak to you again.’ President Donahue’s voice boomed down the connection.

‘Hello Robert. How’s the weather north of you?’

‘Ha ha. You always get straight to the point. The contamination is low, thank God. We’re monitoring the sea, the currents, the air, and high atmosphere. Radioactivity in the Arctic is just above background. The level in the ocean itself is higher, but nothing like what we were expecting.’

‘I’m glad to hear that Robert. Our own observation stations are reporting the same, so that is reassuring. One of our oceanographers tried to explain it to me — something about the Arctic Ocean being a basin, a sort of inland sea. It looks as if the pressure at the seabed contained the worst of the fallout, and the Ocean is keeping the radioactivity to itself, for now.’

‘Khostov certainly knew the best way to contain it.’

‘I agree.’

‘Speaking of Khostov, we were wondering how he was making out?’

‘Ah, I see. I know his son has started school here and he has begun to settle in. It seems that Alexei is enjoying work here too.’

‘He’s definitely an impressive character. We thought he might like an opportunity to get experience on some advanced projects we have going.’

‘You’re welcome to try Robert. I can’t speak for him, but he doesn’t seem to be the sort that would be easily persuaded by money.’

‘No? Maybe we could arrange a sabbatical at some point?’

‘Perhaps. How is progress with the treaty?’

‘Great. We’ve been meeting in secret with the rest of the council, and we’re pleasantly surprised by the level of consensus. Some of them are welcoming the initiative with open arms.’

‘So you are on track to complete by the deadline?’

‘Well, not so fast. We’re expecting a lot of resistance from the Eco-lobbyists.’

‘How much of a problem will that be?’

‘Not that much, really. Once we conclude the meetings with the council, we’ll open it up for a public debate. We’ll explain the benefits to everyone, and the Eco lobby will condemn it. The global warming groups will jump on the band waggon, and after they’ve had their say we’ll sign the accord. We’ve tabled meetings in six months’ time and we’re very hopeful that heads of agreement will be signed then.’

‘That’s excellent news, Robert. I’m really pleased.’

‘A great deal hinged on your late intervention. If you hadn’t exposed the evidence that the Russians were already planning to mine oil and gas at the North Pole, it could have all been for nothing.’

‘I have to thank you for playing your part too, Robert. If you hadn’t objected to the idea as strongly as you did, the Russian’s wouldn’t have fallen for it. You’d make a good actor.’

Ashdown caught the familiar sound of a chuckle down the line. ‘We’ve had enough actors in the White House. But I do want to remind you of one promise you made.’

‘Yes?’ Ashdown replied.

‘You promised never to put me in such a position again.’

‘Robert, you have my word as a politician.’ Smiling, the Prime Minister replaced the phone.

Sean placed his eye to the Dragunov’s scope. He could see Serge Zlotnik sitting alone in the restaurant by the window. He came here every evening at the same time and sat at the same table. Sean knew, because he had followed him for three days, establishing his patterns and routes.

Sean couldn’t help the feeling of déjà vu; but this time it was just a bit too simple. He had spotted the office block on the second day, and getting to the empty rooftop unseen was easy. He lay on a mat, with a cheap mobile phone alongside.

God knows where Lomax had acquired the rifle, but it was the best old fashioned long gun the Soviets ever made. Lomax had kept his promise to deliver him safely, and was staying in the background until he completed the shot. Whatever else Sean felt about him, at least he followed through when he said he would.

Sean gripped the curved magazine with the free fingers of his left hand. It held a total of ten rounds but with a range of less than one and a half kilometres, he knew he would only need one cartridge. Each contained a tungsten alloy at its centre, surrounded by a copper jacket. He would have to shoot through the window. The soft copper would disintegrate on contact with the glass, but the hardened centre would continue. If the slug so much as touched Zlotnik, he would die.

The restaurant was top class and the wine list was superb. He thought that at those prices they ought to be. Soon Zlotnik would be ordering his meal, and Sean wondered how he earned enough money to pay for it all, coming here day after day. Sean stirred uneasily; something was just not right. As he lay prone on the mat his mind was in a whirl. The tungsten steel-rimmed glasses filled his field of view. He wondered at the irony; shortly his tungsten bullet would smash through those spectacles, ending his life forever.

Adjusting the sights, he focused on a white napkin on the table cloth. Now there were no nerves; no annoying tics betrayed the nervousness of the last six months. Here in his sights was the person who ordered Natasha’s death. But the question still gnawed his consciousness. Why did he do it? Was it really out of revenge because Khostov had been snatched from his grasp? Zlotnik was a professional, and professionals in his game rarely acted out of a sense of personal anger.

Sean had heard the rumours in the Section: a mentally ill Zlotnik, becoming more psychotic over time, looking for any opportunity to kill. But no-one knew for sure what his motivation was. Sean shook his head in despair. Even a man like him must have been aware of the suffering he caused.

Sean returned to the scope and glimpsed a wine waiter approaching the table. After a short exchange, he came back to show him the bottle before pouring it into his wine glass. Sean watched fascinated as Zlotnik looked at the glass, without touching it and without commenting. The waiter, concerned, bent forward to speak. Sean zeroed in on the bottle. It was a Merlot from a top Israeli boutique vineyard, Clos de Gat.

Sean reached out and pressed a key on the mobile, sending the pre-entered text message. Returning to the rifle sight, he watched as the waiter removed the glass and came back with a bigger balloon glass. He poured out a little of the fine wine. Zlotnik swirled the glass, looking carefully as the Merlot coated the sides. He put it to his nose and breathed in deeply, sipping once. As he replaced the glass, he glanced at his mobile.

Sean saw him lift the phone to read the message.

‘Give supper to your enemy.’

He could not possibly see Sean at this distance, but he must have sensed he was nearby.

For a moment Sean recalled Natasha’s father, pleading with him at her grave not to take justice into his hands. He touched the St. Christopher’s medal in his pocket. It was the only thing he had left of Natasha. He remembered her, the way she relished life, the way she loved him. She would not want him to kill anyone, especially out of revenge.

Very deliberately Zlotnik lifted the glass to savour the wine a final time. Before tasting, he raised the glass in salute.

Sean recalled his last conversation with Zlotnik in Moscow, outside the church of St. Andrew’s. Then, he thought the man was seeking to defect. But Sean was wrong, and now he knew the truth. That one simple action meant Zlotnik wanted to die. That was why it had been so straightforward to track the man, so easy to get him in the cross-hairs. By murdering Natasha, Zlotnik had guaranteed Sean would be his executioner.