Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Gemma and Sarah

  DISCLAIMER

  All characters and events in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons and events, past or present, are purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  As Nic Tyler looked across the bleak scene in the fading light, the cold reached through his thin clothes. The landscape was beautiful but if he didn’t find help soon it would kill him.

  He knew from the guide book that average winter temperatures in Tiksi were minus 30 degrees centigrade, but often sank far lower. Tonight it was - 45 C, and Tyler experienced every degree through his overcoat. The two men who called told him the journey to the meeting would be short, so he had decided against bringing anything warmer.

  But the ride was longer than expected, and he grew alarmed when they left the outskirts of the town. The man with the disgusting breath withdrew a sharp knife that glinted in the reflected glow of the headlights. Tyler feared violence, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the blade. After a fearful hush, he pleaded for his life. They ignored him and drove on in silence.

  Eventually the car stopped and his heart pounded in his chest. The bodyguard with the knife got out and beckoned. Convinced he was about to die, Tyler shook his head, believing if he stayed inside he might have a chance. The man grabbed him and hauled him out. He fell to the ground and remained there, too frightened to move. He expected they would pull him to his feet and march him to some shallow grave. Instead they returned to the car and drove off.

  For a moment, Tyler was stunned. He was alive - they had let him live!

  Then the enormity of the problem became apparent. He dived into his overcoat pocket and pulled out his phone. Damn, no signal - but not unexpected. He gazed at the landscape, seeing a carpet of snow stretching to the far distance. The odd group of wizened fir trees stood above the white blanket, swaying in the bitter cold wind.

  The road would lead him back. He saw the tyre tracks, and he bent down to scoop away the packed ice. Underneath he discovered black tarmac. The best option would be to follow the path, but with the onset of night he would have to stop. He had no idea how far he was from the town, but if necessary he would build a bivouac in the shelter of the wood. Having eaten a hearty dinner beforehand, he was confident it would sustain him until the morning. He set off, jamming his cold hands into the pocket of the overcoat in an attempt to keep them warm.

  An hour later he stumbled over the verge, not knowing he was off course because of the approaching dark. Trudging across a field knee-deep in snow, the effort to lift one leg after the other began to tell. The biting cold wind chilled him to the bone, and he was losing confidence. In the twilight a copse stood silhouetted against the horizon and he changed direction for it. Arriving two hours later, he dropped onto the ground and leaned against a tree. He longed to be at home. After a while a harsh gust blew spin-drift against his face and he made a supreme attempt to gather branches and twigs, piling them up around the trunk. He tried to fill the gaps with some snow to form a windbreak. The exertion was too much and he observed without alarm the loss of co-ordination. His hands were a pasty white colour, and he sank to the frozen ground.

  He was in this god-forsaken part of the country because he followed Khostov. Tyler cursed his foolishness again, more loudly this time. He should have trusted his instincts and taken the first plane to the UK. This was their tactic to make sure he didn’t talk. They hadn’t sent him here to get him out of the way - they wanted him dead, never to be found.

  He shivered violently and when that subsided he became tired and closed his eyes. The spasms reoccurred, each time shorter than the last. He listened idly to the wind as it whipped through the stand of trees. After five minutes his body stopped shivering altogether. Somewhere within Nic Tyler’s consciousness an alarm bell went off.

  He must keep moving!

  He examined the contents of his pockets, but found nothing that might help. His phone had shut off with the cold. With shaking hands he slid it under his armpit to warm it up. When he switched it on the battery indicated minimum charge, though he had recharged it fully earlier. His brain felt mushy but he vaguely recalled that sometimes a text message would get through even when there was no signal. He hoped the battery reserve would last long enough to type it.

  What should he say? There was only enough time for one message. Should he let someone know about his murder, or tell his wife he was sorry for cheating on her?

  He attempted to press the keys. His hand had turned a pale blue colour; the digits were hard to move and intensely painful. The buttons on the old fashioned mobile were difficult to push, and there was a noticeable lag between each depression and the character forming on the screen. Before he finished, his fingers no longer worked. He gripping the phone in his mouth and depressed the Send key with a tooth.

  He searched the bleak expanse, seeing only darkness, hearing only the sound of the wind through bare branches. An unfathomable sadness came over him and his eyelids quivered, then closed. After a few moments he fought to open them, and in the distance he imagined a light. Was it real, or just an illusion created by his failing mind? The light swung to and fro hypnotically, as if held in a person’s hand. It seemed to be getting closer. Urgently he retrieved the phone from where it had fallen. It was an ancient device with few extras. But the one gadget he had never used was now vital to his survival. The torch built into the top could be turned on with a long press of a switch.

  He employed the same trick of clenching the phone in his mouth, using an incisor to close down on the ‘star’ key. Five seconds later the LED lit up. Though the illumination was weak, Tyler knew it would show for some distance in the dark.

  Panting with exertion, his breath formed clouds in front of him. With a last burst of effort he lifted the mobile and waved the torch in the direction of the oncoming light.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sean Quinlan raised the Steiner binoculars to check the environment. It was early morning and the traffic hadn’t yet begun to build on the Universitätsring. Following the direction of the Rathausplatz, he surveyed the baroque towers of the City Hall opposite.

  Nothing.

  He examined the nearby surroundings, crisscrossing the landmarks and skyline of Vienna. A glint from the north-east caught his eye and he zoomed in on the location, rapidly adjusting the optics.

  Nothing.

  Sean shifted position to lie nearer the balustrade. Cold and cramped, he had been on the roof of the Burgtheater for five hours. He should have been used to surveillance for extended periods, but this wasn’t any ordinary reconnaissance operation. An assassination was an unprecedented event in the Section.

  Late developing intelligence put the subject in Vienna for a short period this morning. Miss this opportunity, they told him, and there would not be another for years. The briefing had been rushed, and Sean’s principal overrode his objections.

  Sean chose the rooftop of the Austrian National Theatre to make the shot. It gave a wide field of view, had an excellent approach and a rapid escape route. But however baffling the assignment, Sean couldn’t fault the tools they had given him. He bent to place his eye to the Schmidt & Bender scope, and the traffic leapt into sharp focus.

  Two minutes later he glanced at his watch and pressed the button on his ear mike.

  ‘Target overdue’.

  Sean resumed position, placing the stock of the L115A3 long range rifle firmly against his shoulder. The curve of the grip and the slight oily smell from the magazine were immediately familiar. He had used the kit extensively during a visit to Helmand some seven years ago and rated it highly. An adjustable bipod held t
he barrel at the balance point and he had fitted a muzzle brake to reduce the recoil and flash. On this occasion, with a range of less than a thousand metres and a clip of .338 Lapua Magnum, a kill was certain.

  Except for one tiny problem.

  He wore thin Nitrile gloves to prevent prints. The skin-coloured thumb of his left hand started to beat a small involuntary tattoo against the stock. Sean stared at the movement, astonished. He pressed the digit against the wood, but still felt the twitch of electric nerve endings. It couldn’t have occurred at the worst possible moment.

  He ignored the tremors and continued to check each car as it turned the corner from the Burgring onto Universitätsring. Five minutes passed, and every vehicle proved to be clean. Then a man’s face appeared in the scope; the olive complexion and the characteristic way the head drooped forward were enough for a positive identification.

  ‘Target in the cross-hairs. Confirm good to go.’

  There was a long pause. Sean touched the ear-bud mike again. ‘Confirm good to go.’

  ‘We’re waiting for clearance.’

  The car filled the field of view. If Sean didn’t get a decision now it would be too late.

  ‘Stand by, we will get back to you.’

  They must be getting cold feet. As if to confirm the thought, Sean’s mike buzzed.

  ‘Stand down and wait for further instructions.’

  Sean dismantled the rifle, the movements quick and practised. He removed the suppressor and magazine, folded the bipod and unscrewed the scope, packing the items away in the metal transit case. Wrapping it in the mat, he collected the detritus of the night’s stake-out; water bottles and food wrappers went into the rucksack, the case and mat strapped to the outside. He inspected the area for any remaining signs of his occupation.

  ‘Sniper one, you have been blown.’ The voice sounded matter of fact, but the message electrified Sean. He crouched low and sprinted to the rear of the theatre roof where he had attached a climbing rope. The wail of police sirens carried in the distance as he clipped the descender onto his harness and hopped over the balustrade. Holding on to the brake bar, he rappelled in long quick hops. Three seconds afterwards he felt the hard tarmac of the street and squeezed the remote release. He remembered at the last moment to dodge out of the way before the rope and tackle fell to earth.

  He gathered up the kit and ran to the van parked around a corner in a side street. The first police car came into sight as he started the engine. Sean resisted the urge to flatten the accelerator; they might not know he was using this vehicle. The car shot past, screeching to a halt at the back of the Burgtheater. A second followed more slowly, turning after it passed him. Sean kept his speed down and eyes on the road. At the Minoritenplatz he went right at the end, attempting to work his way towards the river.

  A glance in the mirror showed the second cop car following at a respectful distance. Police sirens grew in volume as more cars converged on the theatre. Sean turned left and then right along the Rudolfspark. The police car closed up the gap on Saltztorgasse, and by the time he reached the Salztorbrücke Bridge they put the siren on and started to overtake.

  Sean jammed his foot down and swung the wheel ahead of the overtaking vehicle, pushing it hard up against the central barrier. He heard the satisfying crunch of metal as the driver tried to brake and extricate himself from the crush, but the car’s front tyres were shredded.

  He considered their next move. They were going to send all available cars over the bridge. Good. He wanted them to think he was making for Bratislava, some 50 miles further along the motorway. They would follow him into Slovakian territory because the Schengen treaty allowed the police force hot pursuit over neighbouring borders. A plan grew in his mind, and Sean was happy for them to assume he didn’t know the rules - it could be a way to give them the slip.

  He wound the window down to listen out for the distinctive sound of a helicopter. If they sent one up he would just have to abandon the van and try his luck on the streets. The lack of preparation for the assignment, absence of mission support from an Executive, and now the exposure of his presence meant he was on his own. He had become a pariah to the British Government, and could not expect help from them or anyone else. Sean drummed his fingers on the wheel in irritation.

  The traffic slowed, and he saw a queue developing up ahead. What now? A minute later he knew; they had strung a roadblock across E58. He swerved to the inside lane then turned down a side-street. The road looked clear until he overtook a parked car. Fifty metres away another police car stood side-on, blocking the street. Behind the driver’s door a policeman crouched, pointing a gun. Sean glanced back, but his retreat was cut off by a large truck.

  He slowed down, braked hard, and prepared to stop. The policeman rose, keeping a taut grip on his handgun. Ten metres away, Sean slipped into first gear and hit the accelerator. The car struck the bonnet square on, shunting the police vehicle backwards and felling the officer. Sean dashed out, dodging around the cars to find the man’s gun on the road. As the policeman got to his feet, Sean waved the firearm, a clear command to move away. He slid into the driving seat of the police car, keeping the gun trained on the officer while groping for the keys. He reversed in a tight circle and drove off in a squeal of tyres.

  Wait till they hear about this in London, he thought. There would be muttered warnings from the civil servants and angry exchanges between the bureaucrats in the corridors, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Sean began to hunt for an underground garage, eventually finding one on Lavarterstraße. The barrier was automatic and no-one paid attention when he entered. He still intended to reach Bratislava, but not by road. First he needed to change his appearance.

  It had started to drizzle, so he took a taxi to Schwedenplatz and purchased a raincoat, briefcase and umbrella in a nearby men’s clothes store. He bought a ticket for the Twin City Liner, a fast catamaran that plied between the two cities. The wharf was opposite the subway station.

  Boarding the ship and the journey itself were uneventful. Just over an hour later, he watched as Bratislava came into view. By the time the boat arrived it was raining heavily, and the police were waiting.

  Sean followed the businessmen and tourists down the gangway and onto the wharf, opening his umbrella. There was always a risk when presenting new documentation, but with the change of clothes and the briefcase, he hoped he had done enough. He handed his passport over to the younger of the two waiting men. The man pursed his lips and eyed Sean. Not satisfied, he passed it to his senior who gestured for Sean to lower the umbrella. Sean complied, shaking the brolly vigorously, at the same time complaining about the weather in passable German.

  ‘Please step this way sir.’ The older officer spoke in English. He indicated the junior should continue to inspect passengers arriving off the ferry.

  The man walked across the street to his car, and Sean followed. He reached in for the car’s microphone, but never got a chance to speak to headquarters. Sean ensured his coat blocked the view while holding the officer’s eye. Transferring his weight from the back foot to the front, he followed through with a concentrated jab to the Solar Plexus using a triangular knuckle strike. The wind went out of the man and he dropped the receiver. Sean eased him into the driving seat, then ripped the handset from its socket, closed the car door and faded into the crowd.

  It was hard to believe the Section café could be so cosy, situated in such a nondescript office block, north of the Thames. Just two miles away lay the imposing grade II listed building that was home to their sister organisation, SIS. The Section preferred anonymity on the other side of the river.

  The café was a home from home for Sean; he always called in here before a meeting. The tea ladies liked to mother him. Perhaps they sensed the tension forming inside. But whatever his mood, they were invariably cheery and ready with a chirpy remark. Sometimes he would listen to the conversations they had between each other. They were so down to earth, so different from his exper
ience in the field that listening to them took his mind off current worries.

  ‘What’s that, dear?’

  Sean glanced at the gold pendant he was absentmindedly twisting in his hands. ‘It’s a gift from a friend.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she replied, mopping the table. ‘Though I thought you wouldn’t need it, love.’

  She must have met plenty in here, sipping lattes and nervously anticipating a mission. No doubt she had also seen them when they returned; some ready to pull the walls down, others seeing nothing but the abyss. She was right; he had never been superstitious.

  Outside the normality of the café were several Directors’ offices, where missions were incubated and hatched. Sean was killing time while waiting for a meeting with one of the Directors, Christopher Abbott. The tea lady collected a couple of empty mugs. ‘She must be fond of you.’

  Sean smiled. He had received the present only two nights ago, and the memory still occupied his thoughts.