Arctic Firepath

'Got something for you, ' said DD, sounding breathless.

'Give.'

'I went back to my TRIP WIRE software and examined the rules I set up for the application alerts. It covered the names of the two immediate families Khostov stayed with — you know Petrovich and Yakov couples.'

'Yes' said Sean, trying to be patient.

'Well they were set up for where they lived — in London.'

'Did you find anything?' Sean's voice rose a notch in exasperation.

'I thought about it and widened the search area to France. It may be a coincidence, but it’s such an usual name. Yakov is staying at the St. Claude. It's a hotel in central Paris.'

'Right, ring Lomax and tell him I'm on my way.' Sean paused before closing the call. 'Oh, DD?'

'Yep, I'm still here.'

'Well done!'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

After its encounter with the USS Montana, chief engineer Feliks Chayka inspected the anchors. These were long spikes driven into the ice, shackled by two heavy chains from the bow. In the fading light Feliks took one more glimpse at the wind-blasted Arctic landscape. He would hate to die in this lonely place. A shiver ran up his spine. He turned up the fur collar of his parka, but that did nothing to stop the icy sense of foreboding.

He clambered up the exterior ladder, eager to return to his cabin and regain some warmth. Once on board he experienced the strength of the wind as it whipped across the deck. He hesitated, changed his mind, and strode purposely up the companionway to Bridge Deck 3 and the Captain's cabin.

Following the collision the Captain had practically retired to his room. Feliks had tried knocking on the Captain's door many times, only to hear a shouted 'Uhodi!'. The Captain refused to have food delivered and lately the commands had turned to swear words and worse.

But this time Feliks was determined. Instead of knocking, he opened the door and walked right in. He was totally unprepared for the scene that greeted him. Captain Grigori sat at his desk, the stubble on his face showing he had not shaved since the collision with the American submarine. A half-full bottle of vodka sat within arm's reach. Feliks' face fell when he spotted several empty bottles scattered around the floor.

Grigori's eyes swivelled round at the intruder. 'I ordered you to go away!'

Feliks frowned. 'Captain, I cannot. I must speak with you. I have been running everything while you have been in your cabin.'

In between fending off increasingly frantic calls from Moscow, the engineer was trying to fix the problem with the reactor. As he predicted, the problems began when the Captain ordered 'full speed ahead' before the collision. The excessive demand for power caused more boric acid to be dissolved in the water coolant circuit. The radioactive corrosive circulated in the primary loop, causing erosion of the control rod drive mechanisms. The core temperature began to rise and Feliks had no option but to regulate the chain reaction to a safe level. Thankfully now the reactor was under control. However he refused to allow the ship to go anywhere until the corrosive material had been completely filtered out. It was time to remind the Captain of his duty.

'Grigori, Moscow will not tolerate your silence anymore!' Feliks caught a glint in his Captain's eye.

'What can they do?' the Captain asked gruffly.

'If you do not respond by eleven hundred hours this morning, they will send a tug and tow this ship back to port.'

'Let them.'

'Captain, that would be the end of your career! Think about your family!'

'I am thinking about my family!' snarled the Captain. 'I've been thinking about them ever since.'

The engineer took a seat. 'Ever since when?'

'Ever since the Americans captured my son.' The Captain pushed the vodka bottle towards Feliks. He found a tumbler and placed it in front of Feliks, waiting until Feliks poured a shot. Grigori raised his glass.

'Budem zdorovy'

'Budem' rejoined Feliks.

Grigori took a quick sip and cradled his drink while looking into the distance. 'You remember I told you the Americans captured my son's plane after they strayed into their territory?'

'I remember every word, Captain.'

'Well at the time the government imposed a total blackout on the news story.'

'No-one was aware he was being detained by the Americans?'

The Captain shook his head. 'No.' He took another sip of the vodka. ‘Four weeks ago, his mother — my first wife — died of cancer. She had been ill for some time. Her family arranged the funeral and approached the government to release our son from duties so he could attend. The government refused. They did not plead with the Americans because they didn’t want to appear weak.'

Grigori leaned over to refill their glasses. 'The family were very upset. My wife was deeply loved by all her family and friends. I miss her.' Grigori's red eyes misted over.

Feliks stayed silent, sensing there was more to come.

'The family protested to the papers. When some reporters went digging they found out the truth. The boy was being held prisoner in an American gaol. They wanted to print the story. The government stopped them and two reporters and the assistant editor lost their jobs over it. I don't blame them, at least they tried.'

Grigori stopped. He turned to look at Feliks and spoke angrily. 'But I do blame the politicians — on both sides. No humanity, no consideration but to feather their own nest.' Grigori lapsed into silence.

'So the funeral went ahead without your son?' Feliks asked.

There was a long pause and Feliks thought the Captain would not speak again. When he did, his voice was low and full of pain. 'I attended the funeral, of course. And because of the news blackout I had to lie to everyone there why my son could not attend. I told them that he was on an important mission. It was a pack of lies.'

Grigori drained the vodka in one go and slammed the glass down on the desk. 'Now do you understand why my blood boils whenever I see Americans!'

* * *

‘Puis-je avoir l'addition s'il vous plaît?’

While waiting for his bill, Khostov considered his appearance in the mirror of the hotel’s reception area. His dyed hair and new clothes certainly made a difference.

The manager returned and Khostov paid with cash.

‘S'il vous plaît pourriez-vous réserver une chambre pour moi?’ Khostov’s French wasn’t good, but at least he was trying.

'Which hotel would you like?' the man asked in English.

Khostov switched to English. 'Perhaps you could recommend one — I'm staying in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois for a few days.'

'Certainly.' The manager moved back to the computer to search for something suitable.

Having made the arrangements, Khostov thanked him and walked towards the metro. As he entered the station, Sean arrived at the St. Claude. He approached the reception and spotted a small busy looking man.

‘Bonjour Monsieur. J'ai un ami résidant ici.’

The manager's eyebrows lifted a millimetre. 'You have his name?'

Sean regarded the French habit of replying to a question in English as rude, but he had no time to argue now. 'Yakov Petrovich.'

'Ah, he has just this minute left!'

'Do you know where to?'

'Yes, I made a reservation for him at the hotel Compte in Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. If you hurry you might catch him.'

'Thank you.' Sean turned and shot out of the hotel. He had arrived on the metro and he headed back there at a run. He jumped on the first train heading to the Place d'Italie, looking round constantly for a sign of Khostov. Five minutes later Sean changed at the Gare d'Austerlitz and caught his first sight of Khostov, waiting for a train. Sean noticed Khostov had dyed his hair and glimpsed an expensive suit under a smart coat. He was clutching a briefcase, and looked like a stock broker.