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

the register was a precaution. At least now he had a clean stay. He would source a vehicle in the morning. He did not intend to stay longer than tonight, but he would have a false trail planted if anybody investigated his stay, or indeed, put pressure on the young receptionist.

The hot water soothed his mind as much as his body. He had learned not to dwell on taking a life, but sometimes it was easier than others. He had killed terrorists and had never thought about them again. He had killed enemy soldiers in secret wars, seen their faces up close, and he had to justify that it had either been them, or himself. Sometimes, that didn’t go far to making it any easier. But it was the job he did, and he had done it for so long that many of his memories had melded together. The haze of operations combining into one another. There had even been killings he was pleased to have done at the time. Such was the heinousness of their crimes. But he still did not dwell on them, and afterwards, he had felt no joy. The woman today would have killed him. But the fact that he had given her the chance to stop irked him. A waste of a life. He would always do what he had to do to survive, and that was why he was still here. But he found himself thinking about her nonetheless. Her weapon hadn’t been loaded, and King had the advantage. Why had she ignored him? Why had she thought she could make it? King shook his head and turned off the tap. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and droplets of water flicked off like rain. The woman was dead, and he’d never know why she had taken the chance. He had been there before, given another woman an out. On a desolate hill in Northern Iraq. He had watched her die, comforted her even, all the while angry that she had not heeded his warning. He closed his eyes, then when he opened them he was resolute. He would spend no more time thinking about the woman who had died out there on the ice. She was history.

King wrapped himself in two towels and sat down on the bed. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled. It was terminated at a voicemail with no greeting, just an initial beep. King left his name, ended the call. Protocol. Nothing more.

He waited.

The phone vibrated silently on the bed beside him.

“King.”

“Mereweather.”

“Hello, Simon,” said King.

“Problems?”

“Is the boss not available?”

“I am the boss. I’ve been briefed in.”

“Then, yes. A few problems.”

“Go on.”

King filled in the Deputy Director, leaving nothing out. As he listed the events, he realised it had been quite a day.

“Amherst wants you up at that hotel,” he paused. “The Eagle’s Nest. You have twenty-four hours before that Artic storm hits the area. It looks imminent. You have a room booked already. He’s taken precautions…”

“Precautions?”

“MI6 says the defector is uncontactable and we have to assume they will be on route as planned. There are hostiles in the area, so it will be safe to assume an intervention will take place.”

“I’d say.”

“You’ll have to watch your back. I’m sending you details of an exfil. It’s arranged, and you will need to follow several protocols. It’s a last resort, so see what else you can arrange via Norway just in case it doesn’t come off. As far away from Russia as you can.”

King shrugged. He couldn’t look at the text until he finished his call. Simon Mereweather was being a little cloak and dagger for King’s liking, but he had a sense that there had been developments he was not privy to. Most likely a powerplay. One of the reasons both MI6 and MI5 didn’t work well together. He said, “I need to speak with their liaison officer. The person who sorted me out with a vehicle and the map. I’ll need some more resources.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mereweather replied tersely. “Oh, and King?”

“Yes?”

“Watch your back.”

17

 

King did not want to be reactive to any threat. Inside his room, he was on the backfoot. He had taken the precaution of changing his room, going under another name. He would leave in the morning, but in the meantime, he was going to remain vigilant and hide in plain sight.

The bar was empty. So much for blending in. King waited at the bar. He positioned himself side-on. The Walther in the right pocket of his cargoes, the spare magazine in the other. He carried a folding lock-knife in his pocket. Easy enough to stash in his hand luggage because of its unique Teflon-coated ceramic blade. The wickedly sharp blade and polymer handle did not show up under metal detectors – even the fixings were fabricated from fibreglass composite.

As King waited for the barman to return, he cast his eyes on the various maps on the walls. He noted the border with Russia. The location of The Eagle’s Nests Hotel was further northwest, just a few miles from Russia. The ideal location for a person on the run with a headful of secrets. But if King did not get the timings right, the impending storm could leave them vulnerable.

“Hello, Alex…”

King froze. He knew the voice, knew he was about the only man alive who would get the drop on him.

Every time.

He turned around slowly. “Peter,” he said quietly.

The man held the pistol steadily. No waver. There wouldn’t be. The man had his hand in his jacket pocket, the pistol’s barrel poking out of the lining from a carefully trimmed hole. King could see the barrel was not one at all, but a suppressor. Or what people often incorrectly called a silencer.

“The tables