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

King smiled. He didn’t reply. Stewart may have been bluffing. He knew that the man would know Neil Ramsay. Ramsay had said to bank on as much. He doubted Stewart had spotted Rashid.

“Neil Ramsay is here,” said King. “He’s not really a field man. So maybe you can work one location, I’ll take another, and Caroline will cover the remaining possibility?”

Stewart shrugged. “Works for me,” he said. “We’ll get out there after an early breakfast. I’ll hire some snowmobiles.” He looked down at Caroline. “Just make sure you’ve got a map and a compass as well as your clutch bag.” He turned his gaze to her shapely legs and smiled. “You might want to wear something a little warmer, too.”

Stewart turned and walked out of the bar and headed towards the reception desk.

Caroline downed her coffee and looked at King. An expression somewhere between sympathy and bemusement. “And that was the best you ever came to actually having a father figure?”

King shrugged. “Yeah, it sucked to be me,” he said. “But I’m over it.”

Caroline linked her arm in his and pulled him closer. “You don’t need him, that’s for sure. Come on, lets find a place to people watch,” she said and led him out of the conservatory and into the foyer.

At the far end of the conservatory, the tall, thin man with the hooked nose sipped his vodka, the wing-backed chair still hiding him from view. He had watched the entire scene in the reflection of the window. He had heard more than he should have and certainly more than he expected. But not as much as he wanted. He smiled, catching himself in the reflection of the glass. The players in a deadly game had presented themselves to him. He was ready to make his move.

39

 

The Inari Falls Paatsjoki River Hydroelectric Plant

Russia

He hadn’t had much time. A moment’s notice. He had gathered a team together, but it had been a hastily conceived task and he had still been communicating with Moscow via the satellite phone of the helicopter flight over to finalise his orders. He would have preferred to work with tried and tested men, men he had fought with, killed with and bled with before. But time was a valuable commodity and he was in deficit. Still, they were good men. They were security contractors who the Kremlin had recruited, vetted and deemed worthy to protect something he had no wish to know about. He had a mission, and that was all he cared about. Track, recover or kill Natalia Grekov. A thirty-two-year-old engineer who had fled the plant with Russian federation state secrets. An act of treason, terrorism and war.

He looked at the file, learning more about his team. Some had fought as insurgents in the Ukraine, others had played their part in Syria in the cold war against Britain and the United States. All had faced battle, and all knew that to be called for, to work under this agency’s banner was not to be taken lightly. They were all black-ops initiated, and they knew what had to be done.

In front of him, the table was loaded heavily with the tools of his trade. He had stood back and watched. He had briefed them, now wanted to see how much they knew. What they selected would tell him how good they were. He would leave behind those who failed. But this was the darkest of operations, and those who did not make the grade would get the short walk down the long corridor. Enough steps for him to draw his pistol and shoot out the back of their neck.

Two men approached the table. They had already put on their white snowsuits, gloves and hats tucked into their belts, zippers left open while they waited.

“Colonel,” one of the men nodded, though did not salute.

The Colonel nodded back. “Call me Vasily, soldier. We are all private citizens here…”

Both men nodded. They knew him, of course. They were all ex-soldiers and one was ex-Spetsnaz - Russian special forces - they would know the legend, if not the man. And his reputation was fearsome.

Both men picked up the Makarov pistols, checked them over and helped themselves to three loaded magazines each. They were smart and dependable, they had done the maths and worked out how many magazines had been allocated. Neither were selfish, simply cogs in the machine. One man picked up the compact AK-12 assault rifle with familiarity. He checked the action, helped himself to six magazines and tucked them into the pouches on his belt. The second man picked up the Dragunov sniper rifle and checked the sight fittings. Vasily Rechencovitch knew him to be the sniper. He had managed to recruit four men at short notice. Sniper, medic, explosive specialist and rocket grenade/mortar operator. Of course, all the men were trained in each other’s skills, but each man was a master of his speciality.

The medic arrived, nodded at Rechencovitch, glanced over the other men and picked up a pistol. He looked at the remaining weapon, picked up three magazines. Seasoned and reliable, thought Rechencovitch. He watched as the man went through the medi-pack and rearranged it in his own preference of order. When he had finished, he looked over the table and settled on an AK-74 assault rifle with a shortened barrel and folding stock, that looked like it had seen some service. It was a favourite of Spetsnaz soldiers similar in appearance to the classic AK-47 but chambered for a lighter and faster round. Given the brief and the fact he carried a heavy medical pack, the former Russian Spetsnaz colonel was pleased. The men, however long out of official service, still knew their business.

The last man in saluted Rechencovitch, and clearly knew one of the other men from the smile he gave him. He surveyed the table and helped