The Alex King Series A BATEMAN (summer reading list txt) 📖

After he had arrived, he had tipped the barman for two buckets of ice and returned to his room where he ran a deep bath of cold water, tipped in the ice and set about soaking away his bruises, swelling, aches and pains. He had learned the practice as a boxer and it had stood him in good stead in later years. It was always agony at first, but if he remained until all the ice had melted, then he knew he would heal quickly. He had wrapped some of the ice in a towel and held it against his face. He was bruised and cut, but the swelling subsided soon after the ice worked its magic. The time was well-spent, but it had also given King time to think.

Counter surveillance measures like taking the room for an extra night, or moving the car, as he had and parking it in the street adjacent to the hotel’s carpark, gave him the edge he needed. He had slipped comfortably back into the role he had been trained for. Another department, another life. That of an assassin. He had battled with the ethics, the ideals for so long. But he had always served his country, always been on the side of what seemed right. But as he contemplated over breakfast, the deaths of so many men on the mountain, he found there was no conflict battling within him. He had simply performed the tasks necessary to secure, or work towards the release of the woman he loved. For the first time in recent years, he had found the task of killing as simple and as functional as any other task within the parameters of his work.

He had decided to keep the mobile phone he had been given switched off. He had used his own to find the hotel, but this was not his MI5-issued phone. He had checked for messages but had none. He used it to check his various email accounts, and his data cloud. There was nothing there either. Apart from the one email from Mereweather asking him to return, a few days after he had left for Sweden. He checked the date again but knew the man would not email again. He had the man’s email, unless there was a significant development regarding Caroline, King wouldn’t bank on more contact from MI5. He was as out in the cold as he’d ever been.

King had been thrown by the Sweden thing. And he knew he had been played. It had made him doubt himself, because it made sense for Helena to return to her roots. A place where she would have familiarity, contacts and support. He would have bet everything that she was in Russia. But Sweden had brought nothing but the fog of indecision and doubt to him. What was the connection? Was it a random act? Something merely to throw him off the scent? While he kept the phone switched off, lengthened the tether Helena Milankovitch had on him, he was reminded of the feeling of empowerment. Caroline would be safe - no harm would come to her while he remained out of contact - she was still bait to him. It would strike back at Helena, too. She would not know if something had happened to King. She would hear about the Russians, she would be monitoring the correct channels for news. But she would not know about King; whether he lay wounded and dying, dead even, or whether he was homing in on her. It would unbalance her psyche, remove the illusion of control. He would have to act fast though. He would have to make some progress, too.

He had moved quickly. From Sweden to France to Italy. Barely had he had the chance to ponder events, calculate his options, the likelihood of finding Milankovitch or even where to start. But he was sure that if he found her, then he would find Caroline.

King finished his orange juice then picked up his mobile phone, thumbed the screen and checked his messages again. Nothing. He needed to get to an airport. He needed to get a flight and hand back the hire car. But first, he needed to make a call.

36

She watched the door handle turn. Slowly, ominously. The bolt had alerted her, raking backwards, scraping the metal as whoever was behind the door worked the locks. She had felt a pang of fear, of dread. She felt her legs stiffen, had to force herself to move, but she knew she wanted to be anywhere but on the bed. The thought of what could have happened to her last night, what she would have been unaware of under the control of the powerful drug that had been put in her coffee, chilled her to the bone.

The door eased inwards and Michael stood in the doorway, a paper bag in one hand, a pot of steaming coffee in the other. He nodded, stepped inside and poured some coffee into the stained mug. He said nothing as he threw the paper bag onto the bed. Caroline looked at the bag. It had been twisted closed but had started to unravel as it had hit the bed. She could see a bread roll of some description.

“Breakfast,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Where am I?” Caroline asked, ignoring his question. She looked at the steaming cup of coffee. She wanted the caffeine hit, felt she could never eat or drink while she was here again. She walked around the bed, looked at the man in front of her. “I know what you did,” she said. “You drugged me. You came into this room, you were going to rape me.”

“No!” he snapped.

“I was in the bathroom, you tried to open the door.”

“I was concerned,” he said. “I was trying to help you! I came to check on you, you had locked yourself in.”

“You