The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

of glasses out of his pocket and wiped them on a cloth as he looked up at him. “It’s probably nothing, but there’s a storm on the way up there. It looks to be the worst in years but may even skip right past and sweep back up into the Arctic. The police are a bit nervous in heading that far north unless they can absolutely help it. Just a bit more snow in a cold and desolate place already, I should imagine. It might affect the rendezvous with the defector, though,” he paused. “But as I said, it’s probably nothing…”

5

 

Kittila, Lapland

 

King had cleared immigration without a check. Finland was a member of the European Union and the least populated country in Europe. Lapland was technically a country within a country. A region of sensitivity where Finland had to respect its independence for cultural reasons, but that country was also not a self-sufficient one. It needed Finland to maintain its indigenous people. An ironic existence. He had never previously visited, though, and did not possess a word of the language. First impressions were of an independent people, proud of their standing in the world, and happy. King knew the five Nordic countries were self-assured, desirable places to live and among the happiest in the world. He had been to Norway many times. It was where he had completed his mountain and arctic warfare training alongside the SAS and Royal Marines. He liked what he saw in the Norwegians and could tell that there was something similar in the people here as well. Like they shared an inside joke or understanding. We didn’t follow the rest of the West and look towards the United States. We didn’t fall in with the USSR either. We went our own way, and whose life is better now?

King could see the appeal of countries whose lifestyle and income balanced enough that the people all got to play. The Nordics loved the outdoor life, they made time for cake and coffee, for drinking, for socialising – but without the health and social downfalls. They had better health, less crime and more disposable income. It seemed the sort of place he could happily retire to when he was finished playing cowboys and Indians for MI5. A log cabin, summer swims in the thousands of lakes, cosy winter fires – perhaps neighbours and friends to grow close to? He doubted that, but it was all part of the daydream.

King’s first step outside the airport brought all those thoughts crashing down. His breath hung around him in a thick fog and his throat swelled with the sudden rush of icy air. It was three-PM and virtually dark. He stepped back inside, and the blast of warm air thawed him and as the glass doors closed, he thought how soon events could be forgotten. He had spent three-weeks with the SAS and Royal Marines in Norway. He couldn’t remember it ever being this cold. He had been younger then, but still. He was in his early forties now, would have been twenty-eight when he took to the frozen fjords and mountains. Could he really have forgotten what it would be like? No. He decided that this was really something else. Across the ice road, he could see a thermometer on a pole.

-30°C.

Really? He knew his freezer at home was twenty-degrees warmer than that.

He dumped his bag on the floor and opened it, pulled out a pair of black salopettes, kicked off his shoes and pulled the bulky thermal overalls over his trousers. He put on a pair of thick woollen socks over his cotton socks and pulled out a pair of insulated hiking boots. King rummaged through the bag and took out two sweaters. He slipped on the thinner of the two and fastened the bib of the salopettes before putting the thicker sweater over the top. He already felt stiff and cumbersome, but he wasn’t finished there. He slipped a hoodie he regularly jogged in over the sweater, then put a navy-blue ski jacket over the top.

   King would have been finished there, but for cursing out loud and stripping most of the clothing back off to remove his wallet from his trouser pocket. He caught a glimpse of his expression in the smoked glass. Cursed his rookie mistake. Re-dressed and perspiring at the effort, remembered the car keys and cursed again. Finally, dressed and with everything he would need now placed in his jacket pockets, King put on a pair of Gortex gloves and a black beanie, swung his considerably lighter bag over his shoulder and stepped back out through the automatic doors. The cold still seared his throat and he could feel the beads of sweat from the exertion of changing freeze on his brow.

King found the car as arranged. He had picked up the envelope containing the keys at airport services. There were many car rental companies based at the airport, but none of them operated at this time of year. The whole area had now shut down for tourists. Kitilla was the staging post for families taking their children on the ultimate Christmas excursion to see Santa. King had read about it in the in-flight magazine, realised what a magical experience it could be. It was the sort of thing he imagined doing with his own children one day, if indeed he ever had them. King’s own childhood had been so poor, so infected and tarnished by poverty, abuse and neglect, that he had never really given in to thoughts of fathering a child. Children and childhood went hand in hand with the worst of his memories and fears. Only in recent years had he warmed to the idea, but now his own relationship was all but on hold, his future uncertain, he had pushed the thought out of his mind.

The car was an old model Nissan Patrol. A