Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021), A BATEMAN [urban books to read TXT] 📗

King remained silent. He hadn’t known that the asset had become infected and having been pursued by a Spetsnaz hit-team, things had been rolling along quickly. He had been lucky to get the asset to the exfiltration point. Lucky to have made it out of the frozen fjord and get away to safety.

“You will, of course, have heard that the submarine has been found,” said Ramsay.

King had seen the news. “I heard,” he said quietly.

“Quite a feat,” said Mereweather. “Considering a nuclear-powered attack submarine is designed to remain undetected. The Admiralty were not aware of the exact route the captain would be taking back, but it was safe to assume that it would be the Norwegian Sea and Atlantic Ocean, as it’s the only practical way back.” He paused. “Now, all we know is the submarine went dark. No communications, no distress signal, and no emergency beacon. All we can assume is that Natalia Grekov infected others onboard and you can insert your own apocalyptic, horror scenario here.”

“The news said a Norwegian salvage team found it by chance,” said King. “But as the wreckage is in something called a green sanctuary, maritime engineers will raise it and tow it to the Faroe Islands. I thought they belonged to Denmark?”

“They do, but it’s not as simple as that.” Mereweather paused. “The green sanctuary is an area the size of France. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Now, a consortium of nations, including the United Kingdom I may add, operate a series of experimental environmental projects inside the green sanctuary. Within this area, Aurora, a green energy think tank and alternative energy power company are conducting hydroelectric non-profit research. It is a similar setup to the accord in Antarctica, in that there can be no military presence from any nation. Which is why a team of marine engineers from various countries within the consortium will be handling the salvaging of the submarine and basing themselves at Aurora’s site. Once raised it will be towed to the Faroe Islands, for safety reasons. Once there, the Royal Navy can take over command and retrieve their submarine.”

“What’s safer about the Faroe Islands?” Big Dave asked, having finished his second bacon roll.

“The marine engineers will have flotation devices around it and they feel any handover should be done at a port,” Ramsay replied. “The Faroe Islands have a more suitable port, as well as being substantially closer to Britain than Spitsbergen. Also, Denmark is not a part of the green sanctuary consortium, so is therefore a neutral party.”

“And you want me to see that whatever is inside that sub remains inside until the Royal Navy collect it?” asked King. “There’ll be Russian interference, of course. So, among the marine biologists, oceanographers and engineers, there’ll be plenty of opportunity for an agent to hide and integrate. You want me to defend the submarine and its secrets, while still blending in and not giving my cover away.”

“Heavens, no,” Mereweather said, shaking his head. “That would be all too simple. No, I want you to destroy it and see that it never again sees the light of day…”

Chapter Three

They had taken over the corner of the beach café. King supposed the place would have once been a seasonal business making enough for the owner from busy summer seasons, but lockdowns, trading restrictions and loss of trade in general had changed things for most people and the tiny beach café was no different, now opening throughout the winter and on dismal early spring days like today, where it felt cold and wet and isolated. They were not being the best customers as they hunkered down over cups of cheap breakfast tea and spoke in little more than whispers, but Big Dave was slowly working his way through the menu and they were now on their third round of teas and coffees, with the big Fijian tucking into a large slab of millionaire shortbread. Nobody else had entered the café since they had been there and when the man stepped inside out of the rain and brushed the water from his coat and shook out his umbrella, King studied him curiously. Sixty years old, fit-looking and with a well-tended white-grey handlebar moustache. He wore a tan trench coat, pinstripe navy-coloured suit, highly polished tan oxfords and carried an umbrella with an ornate silver handle in the shape of a fox’s head. The briefcase he carried had an ornate crest stamped on it, the leather looking thick and polished and well-cared for. The man made his way over to them, and Mereweather stood and greeted him warmly.

“This is Galahad Mereweather,” he said, rather stunted, perhaps a trifle embarrassed. “My father…”

There were a few murmurs of both greeting and surprise all round and the man said, “Thank you, Segwarides.”

Mereweather nodded, flushing red in his cheeks. “Please sit, father. Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes. Earl Grey.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Simon Mereweather stood up and walked to the counter. King watched him go and smiled at the older man. “Segwarides?”

The older man smiled wryly, but there was a youthful twinkle in his eyes. “Many, many generations ago, the men in my family started a tradition of being named after the Knights of the Round Table. My father was Gawain, my uncle was named Galehaut. Naturally, the dozen or so names in common literature and film have long been used up, but there were indeed over one-hundred and fifty knights of legend and still a few names left. Segwarides’ son is Daniel, although that was chosen as a compromise. I suspect my son was pleased that some names work well enough today.”

“So, who was Lancelot?” asked Big Dave.

“A second cousin. Bit of a black sheep. Had a few marriages and many more affairs.”

“The truth’s in the name, then,” Big Dave commented with a grin.