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

sky, but there was finally some warmth behind it in the clear blue sky. It had rained earlier and now everything had a sheen that reflected the light with a golden hint of promise for the milder weather to come.

King sat in silence in the rear seat of the Jaguar. He ached, and his left hand was still bandaged from the frostbite. He had avoided surgery, but both hands were burned and discoloured. In his right hand he squeezed a squash ball. The gripping action worked the capillaries and kept the blood flowing to the deadened skin. He had been lucky.

King had stripped naked and rolled in the snow to insulate himself from the water. He had wrung out his clothing as best he could, but the windchill had been like a thousand blades on his skin. Once he had gotten the damp clothing back on, shivering so violently, his body looked like it was going into spasm, he had used the residual heat from the engine in Rechencovitch’s snowmobile to bring some warmth into his hands. He had burned himself on the manifold several times, barely noticing the change in temperature before it was too late. He had rummaged through Rechencovitch’s pack and pulled on the man’s spare over-suit, which cut out the wind and allowed his own body heat to warm and steam the wet clothing underneath.

With the rest of the team on route to Kittila, and without enough fuel showing on the gauge of the snowmobile to return to the ruins of The Eagle’s Nest Hotel, King resorted to heading north on the E6 highway. The road he had crossed, and the northernmost road in Europe, which skirted the shores of the Arctic Ocean. After thirty-miles, he found an all-night truck stop. He nursed strong, black coffee with a lot of sugar and ate scrambled eggs and bacon with extra rye toast. He finally warmed through and the waitress helped him bind his hands with cooling burn gel and bandages from the truck stop’s first aid kit. King paid with his card and used the payphone to leave a message on Simon Mereweather’s voicemail. The MI5 deputy director returned his call and listened intently to King as he relayed the salient facts. Mereweather put King on hold for a minute or two, then told him to get to Karlebotn, where he could contact the police and arrange passage to Bergen through the Norwegian Intelligence Service. Mereweather would arrange a liaison by the time King arrived and the police would be expecting him.

King had smiled as he put down the receiver. Because of his actions last summer, he had allowed MI5 to be manipulated by MI6. Now he suspected the service would be owing Norway a favour or two down the line. He started to suspect fallout would be imminent and the thought of disappearing had been playing on his mind more frequently. He had history of playing musical chairs and having nowhere to sit when the music stopped. He wouldn’t be caught out that way again. He looked out at the murky waters of the Thames as they crossed Vauxhall Bridge. He’d given his best years to keeping this country safe from those who sought to harm.

“Good work up there,” Director Amherst said. He was seated by the other window. Neil Ramsay was sandwiched in the middle.

King didn’t respond. Ramsay was the case officer. His name would be on the sleeve of the file.

“We all played our part,” Ramsay said quietly. “I think it’s fair to say King brought us through.”

“Nonsense,” said King.

“I’m not stroking egos, and I don’t require modesty from either of you,” Amherst said. He stared straight ahead and added, “SIS threw us a curve ball. But it’s done now.”

“Really?” King asked.

“Almost,” Amherst said. “The asset, did she show signs of illness to either of you?”

“No,” Ramsay said emphatically.

King saw her looking at him, her eyes red-raw. The tears on her cheeks. His own eyes were raw, burned by the cold as he had driven the snowmobile to the rendezvous. He hadn’t thought more about it until Amherst’s question. Could she have been infected? Could her eyes have been part of the symptoms? He covered himself, hedged his bets. He wasn’t a scientist. He didn’t even have a GCSE. He shook his head. “No,” he said. But there was a nagging doubt now.

“The submarine has gone missing,” Amherst said gravely.

“Missing! Where?” Ramsay asked, but seemed to realise how absurd he sounded and added, “I suppose if we knew that, then it wouldn’t be missing…”

“Quite,” Amherst mused. “But therein lies the problem. Those vessels are made to be undetectable. They have an unlimited recirculated air supply and desalination systems for unlimited water. Naturally, nuclear power means they have unlimited propulsion and electricity, but typically only ninety days of food. The whole point of a sub is that it makes next to no sound, applies stealth tactics and launches a torpedo on a ship, or a missile on a target without being traced.”

“And there was no distress signal?” King asked.

“Nothing at all. The submarine must surface or draw near to the surface to send or receive messages. Part of its protocols is to do this twice a day. But the admiralty has heard nothing.”

“What about homing devices in the event of emergency?”

Amherst sighed. “There are systems in place, but without the sub coming close to the surface, then they cannot be triggered.”

“And it was close enough to Russian waters to cause an international incident,” King said.

“Exactly. The last thing we want is to have an emergency beacon activate and be left with egg on our faces.”

“But what about the crew?” Ramsay asked sharply. “We can’t ignore the lives of around one-hundred men!”

“We can’t afford a war with Russia!” Amherst snapped.

“Then perhaps we should stop…” Ramsay caught himself and said, “Never mind…”