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

himself to what was left. He loaded up his pouches and strapped the RPG (rocket propelled grenade) launcher to his pack and arranged the rocket grenades around the pack’s pouches. There were three rifles on the table. A Heckler & Koch UMP machine carbine with five magazines stacked alongside it. The .45 cartridge was both heavy and slow-moving but provided a solid strike out to one-hundred and fifty metres. The next weapon was a shortened M4 in .223/5.56mm. It was arguably the best weapon in the room. Given that he carried a heavy rocket launcher, it would seem to be the obvious choice. The man glanced at the other men’s weapons and then at Rechencovitch’s own modern AK-12. He then settled on a standard wooden-stock AK-74. It was both long and heavy compared to the other two weapons, and had clearly seen years of service, but Rechencovitch approved. All the men had chosen the same calibre. If a weapon or man went down, then the ammunition and magazines were interchangeable. They were already operating as a unit.

40

King and Caroline sat down opposite Neil Ramsay at a set of sofas and a low, glass coffee table he had commandeered in reception. It was a good spot, affording views of the brasserie restaurant, the bar and the reception desk. Nobody could enter or leave the hotel without Ramsay seeing them, and the internal entrance to the ice hotel was also in full view.

Ramsay looked up, slightly perplexed, perhaps irritated.

“Peter Stewart knows you, knows you’re with us,” said King. “There’s no point in pussy-footing about. I haven’t declared Rashid and Marnie.”

Ramsay nodded. “I thought he would. I must say, and I’ve communicated so to Simon Mereweather, Stewart being here means MI6 are keeping a full tab on our operation. I don’t get it.”

“I know,” said Caroline. “I mean, we’re either running an operation up here, or we’re not. If MI6 still have an asset in play, then why are we here?”

“Where are Rashid and Marnie?” he asked, then paused. “Dare I ask?”

“Absolutely no distraction there,” Caroline smiled. “Rashid isn’t in her good books.”

Ramsay shrugged. “I can’t keep up with those two,” he mused. “So, what are they doing?”

“Rashid is preparing for a jaunt out on the snow,” said King. “He’s convinced that he can get to the most obvious location and set himself up in an OP.”

“OP?” Ramsay asked.

“Observation Post,” Caroline interjected.

“Oh.” He nodded. “Well, that should be jolly cold.”

“He’s tough, he’ll be okay,” said King.

“Alright. And what about Marnie?”

“She’s working in her room,” Caroline answered. “She’s processing pictures I have taken and sent to her, checking to see if any of the guests are on Russian databases. She’s working through GCHQ and they will bounce back anything that becomes red flagged. And she’s also working on unlocking that USB drive.”

Ramsay nodded, looked at King. “I’m not happy with MI6 playing an asset in the middle of this. And I’m not happy that asset has a history with you. There’s a coach leaving tomorrow, perhaps he could be on it?”

“There’s no way he’s leaving,” Caroline said tersely. “He’s a stubborn son-of-a-bitch…”

“I didn’t mean voluntarily…”

King nodded. “He’s a wily bastard, but it won’t be a problem.”

“What are you going to do?” Caroline asked incredulously.

“He could slip on some ice?” Ramsay suggested. “Lord knows, there’s enough of it around.”

“Leave it to me,” King said. “One way or another, he’ll be on that bloody coach.”

41

 

Russia-Finland Border

 

The chocolate had frozen solid but melted enough to chew after she had worked it around the inside of her mouth for long enough. The sensation was odd yet satisfying as the sugary chocolate gave her energy and comfort all at once. She had given up on the milk. It was as solid as a brick. She hadn’t thought it through, but she was out of her depth. She did not have the survival skills needed for a trek like this one, although she knew her engineering skills should have foreseen the milk freezing. She had tried to wear the container inside her jacket, close to her skin, but the container was frozen solid and as cold as the ambient air temperature, which to her reckoning, was thirty-five below. She simply hadn’t been able to bear the coldness of it and had returned it to her pack until she could find a way to defrost it.

She had left the facility without incident. The hydroelectric plant was a non-hazardous operation requiring little security in the way of fences and gates, but it operated a roving security patrol of heavily armed men, which she now realised was because of what she had discovered in the underground chamber. A secret that needed guarding but could not draw attention to itself. Now that she thought about it, the military style security contractors always seemed excessive for a hydroelectric power station, but they were a subtle bunch and kept themselves to themselves using separate living quarters and preparing their own food rather than opting for the cafeteria. Most probably a safer bet, given the quality of the tinned soup and the stale bread. In the summer months it wasn’t too bad with fresh vegetables, fish, meat and berries, but throughout the winter the boundaries of what was acceptable was pushed daily. It reminded her of stories her parents would tell of growing up in the Soviet Union. The shortages and the gluts. Near-starvation, then months of nothing but potatoes and beets. Stories of how the butcher would have no meat, and the delivery, when it finally came, would be rotten. Or tales of workers who were not allowed to move the crop and watched it ruin; the word to transport it coming days too late. Fundamentally, much was still the same, only glossed over by state-controlled press and a new Russia