The Killing Game (8 page)

“British Army?” She swept her gaze over him suspiciously. “You don’t look like Army and you don’t sound British. You sound Irish.”

“Some parts of Ireland are British and wars’ve been fought to prove it.” Anyone who thought the Northern Ireland he’d grown up in wasn’t a war zone hadn’t set foot in Ulster in the seventies or eighties.

Hesitantly, she placed cool fingers in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Her skin was soft and smooth. “Dr. Axelle Dehn.”

She retrieved her fingers immediately, which was fine by him, although he was a little chagrined when she wiped her hands up and down her thighs.

He went over to collect his kit, shouldering the rifle.

“What are you doing here?”

“Following you,” he told her. “Seeing what you’re up to.”

She was trying to get the blood flowing in her fingers. “I’m just doing my job.”

“And I’m doing mine.”

“British Army.” Her brows lowered, lips pressed tight. “So you’re not going to shoot G-man?”

“G-man?” He raised one brow. “As in an FBI agent?”

“The snow leopard.” She spoke as if he were dull-witted.

“Snow leopards are a CITES listed endangered species.” He threw her a hard look. “It’s against international law to kill them.” His prey walked on two legs.

She grabbed his elbow. “You’re not the person shooting my cats?”

That got his attention. “You have a poacher?”

Her fingers drifted down his arm to his wrist and her eyes softened. Up close they were a deep rich brown edged with ebony, so dark her reactions were hard to read. She’d make a talented operator—assuming she wasn’t one already.

Her throat convulsed as she choked up. “Someone’s shooting them.”

“Tell me what’s going on.” He disengaged her hand, even though he liked it on him, maybe because he did like it, and urged her to sit on the bare rock.

“I don’t have time for this, I have to…” She looked at his widened stance and huffed out a frustrated breath when she realized he was serious. “Look, I get it. British soldier, national security and all that, but this is the Wakhan Corridor and there’s no conflict here.”

“This,” he corrected with considerable patience, “is the Hindu Kush and a regular hangout for Al Qaeda and Taliban fighters.” He shot her a look that told her to shut up and start talking.

Her jaw worked as she lowered herself to the ground. “Last fall we collared ten snow leopards, and we have been tracking them remotely from our home base at Montana State University—that’s in the US.”

He resisted rolling his eyes because she obviously considered him a total moron.

“A few days ago we started seeing signals that were stationary.” The line of her throat rippled. “We figured out someone’s using the collars to track the cats before shooting them.” There was a strain to her voice, a fine pitch of anxiety even though she was trying to control it. “We flew in to try and deal with the problem as quickly as we could.”

Dempsey raised his brows. The country was under strict lockdown, so getting here that fast showed a hell of a lot of initiative and some solid contacts.

Bits of intel began to fall into place. The man his squad was hunting was a former communications specialist for Vympel—an elite Spetsnaz unit. Not only that, he’d mapped these mountains for the Russians prior to the Soviet invasion. And though MI6 though him dead—caught in one of his own explosions while trying to destroy the British embassy in Yemen—ten days ago he’d been spotted buying a hunting rifle in Pakistan.

“The pelts are worth a lot of money, right?”

“That’s no reason to kill them.” Her eyes flashed.

“It’s reason enough for someone.” Because, unless Dmitri Volkov had developed an irrational hatred of snow leopards during his years in exile, nothing else made sense. The man needed money. Why? Or rather, why now?

“We’re trying to trap the cats and release them before this sonofabitch shoots them all. What are
you
doing here? This is way out of the war zone.”

The whole fecking planet was a war zone.

When it was clear he wasn’t going to answer because name rank and number were the only information he was allowed to divulge, Axelle Dehn, rose to her feet.

“Anyway, I’m sorry about the gun thing.” She stared at his pocket as if she expected him to hand it back—
I don’t think so
—before marching off to untie her horse. “I don’t have time to sit around chatting.” Something about her demeanor suggested she never sat around chatting. It was ironic because as a Special Forces soldier he spent much of his time sitting around, waiting, and chatting.

But she was a woman of action. Seemingly fearless.

What was she scared of? What was her weakness?

The sun had started to dip in the sky but if they headed back now they might make camp before dark. He pulled his pack on his back and watched Axelle retrieve her receiver and antenna from where she’d stashed it before she’d ambushed him.

That’s right, Dr. Dehn. Mount up. Move out. Let’s go home.

She didn’t even look around as she led the horse up the hill after the leopard.

He sighed, scanned the ridgelines and exhaled a resigned breath. He had his first real clue in the hunt for one of the world’s most notorious terrorists. The only obstacle was hiking along the path ahead of him, hips swaying with a grace no man could feign. He didn’t kid himself it was for his benefit. Axelle Dehn looked like she’d rather be staked out naked in sub-zero temperatures than touch a flesh-and-blood soldier like him. He stuffed down his impatience and trudged after her. Thank God she wasn’t his type. She was arrogant, quick-tempered and rash.

A pain in the arse.

He caught himself watching those long legs in those baggy gray pants and remembering how she’d looked in the shower. He settled his breathing and pulse rate and put his wandering thoughts down to the affects of altitude. He needed this woman’s cooperation because he didn’t have time to chase his target all over the Hindu Kush, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

The SAS believed that winning hearts and minds was the key to winning any conflict. Axelle Dehn’s heart, mind, and entire existence appeared ruled by her obsession with these cats. They were her Achilles’ heel and his biggest asset in hoping to track down a killer. He’d already figured a way to set a trap for the world’s most elusive Russian terrorist, but no matter the justification, he had a feeling Dr. Axelle Dehn wasn’t going to like it.

***

St. James’s Park, London.

Jonathon Boyle sat on a bench near the bandstand enjoying a copy of
The Times
in the sunshine. The theft of a laptop belonging to a high-ranking RAF officer had been reported—along with that of an encryption key needed to unlock its secrets. A real coup for him and lesson to those complacent pricks in the MOD, not to be lax with Top Secret information. He was doing them a favor although they were such total asses they never learned.

He folded the newspaper and placed it neatly to one side. In this world of electronic communication he often went the old-fashioned route to transfer information. He did, however, have a burst transmitter he could flash a signal from if he was ever in any real danger, but he generally mailed packages of relevant information to PO boxes, then emailed coded PO information to his handler. His codes and ciphers were almost unbreakable, and he never reused the exact same method. He applied the same diligence as a serial killer to not leave forensic evidence, and only a handful of people very high up in The Centre even knew his real identity. Over the years, his spy name had changed numerous times from Vera to Valentina, Nero to Milo. He’d never revealed his communist sympathies or Russian affiliation to anyone and kept his nose clean during the spy scandals of the sixties when he was just getting started. Working for the Foreign Office rather than MI6 had been a bonus. Now, after all these years, he was the highest-placed, longest-serving agent left. That he knew of, anyway. Secrecy was the name of this game and that was the way he liked it.

There were always new spies being sown and cultivated but he’d been at this his entire life and it wasn’t over yet. A swell of pride filled his chest that he’d gone undetected for so long, and yet his greatest victory might still be ahead of him.

The preliminary meeting with the people from Aldermaston had confirmed something Jonathon had long suspected. Britain’s scientists were developing many new weapon technologies. Everything from military stun guns to grenades that also delivered precision bursts of electromagnetic energy that disabled enemy communication systems but left their own intact, bullets made from recycled material—was that really considered
green
?—and a radar-cloaking device they’d whispered about for years. There was a new division that had made him sit up and salivate. A division so secret that they’d refused to reveal anything about it, not even the name. But they had hinted it was part of the new Anglo-French venture—or
timeshare
as the GRU officials had laughingly put it.

The mystery had his spidey senses tingling.

The committee, comprising himself, two MPs, a peer of the realm, an army general and rear admirals from both the Navy and RAF, plus a high-ranking official from the Home Office—
total
wanker
—were under the supposed authority of some spotty youth from the MOD. The kid, who looked like he knew more about videogames than warfare, had told them they had to wait for additional security clearance before any of them would be allowed inside the restricted access areas of Aldermaston. The others had been pissed off. Jonathon had been grudgingly impressed.

What could it be? Something nuclear? That was France’s strength and Aldermaston’s primary business. Or something chemical or biological? Both strictly prohibited under international law, but everyone did it anyway. How else were you going to keep ahead of the terrorists
and crazy-ass dictators?

The clods in the MOD understood little except furthering their own careers and making sure budget cuts didn’t touch their desks, but the scientists at Aldermaston—despite their spotty countenances—were the real deal. It was the home of Britain’s Atomic Weapons Establishment, a place where Spitfires had been manufactured during World War II and where the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament had protested most loudly during the Eighties. His palms were damp from heat and excitement. This was one of the most thrilling opportunities of his life and he’d thought his glory days were over. Now he had the inside track on Britain’s future defenses and budding military strengths—all because a ghost from his past had resurrected himself from the dead.

The irony.

The bench creaked as a man sat beside him. The sight of the pockmarked face brought a shiver of repulsion over Jonathon’s skin. With a gusty sigh the gentleman set another copy of
The Times
on the bench between them.

The Russian Ambassador’s Chief of Security smiled, showing off straight new teeth. His eyes narrowed with enough enjoyment to stir the embers of unease inside Jonathon’s chest. It had been a long time since Valisky had played errand boy.

He waited for him to get to the point. A long beat of silence insulated them from the throngs of tourists and lunching City workers. “I hear an old friend of yours turned up in Pakistan.”

“What of it?” Jonathon allowed his outrage to show. A true, blue-blooded Brit being accosted by a nasty communist.

“Do you think he realizes who the new prime minister is?” Valisky’s eyes didn’t alter when he smiled. “Or rather, who his father
was
?”

The first sliver of fear slipped under Jonathon’s skin. “How could he?”

“Less than a month after Sebastian Allworth’s son gets voted into power and the wolf shows his face again?”

“Coincidence.” Jonathon unclenched his fists and rested his hands along his thighs.

“Well, if he is alive, I bet he remembers
you
, Mr. Boyle. He did try to kill you in Yemen.”

Jonathon did not trust Valisky. He didn’t trust anyone. Nevertheless, this was an old game they’d been playing since they’d been small boys in a Russian orphanage and there was too much at stake to risk exposure. “Dmitri Volkov is a fool. We all thought he was dead.”

“That’s what he wanted you to think, so maybe he isn’t quite the fool we all wanted to believe.”

Rage flickered over his vision in a haze of patriotic red. “What does he want?” Jonathon could think of no reason for Volkov to return to the limelight when all he’d achieve was a quick and violent death.

“Revenge?” Valisky’s expression was sly. “To destroy the man who destroyed him?”

“Men,” Jonathon corrected with bite. “The
men
who destroyed him.”

“You asked for my help. I helped.” Valisky shrugged, then looked away—perhaps remembering exactly how he’d brought Volkov down. “His family disappeared.” Those shrewd black eyes looked back at him. “He has to be up to something.”

Jonathon closed his eyes and raised his face to the heat of the sun. “The SAS are after him.”

“So are Spetsnaz.”

“And what happens if British and Russian Special Forces meet?” Despite the sunshine, Jonathon’s skin felt clammy.
Why this? Why now?

The big man shifted, his shoulders moving heavily beneath the jacket he wore to conceal his weapons. Valisky never went anywhere unarmed. “That part of the world is a dangerous place, Mr. Boyle. Full of drug dealers and bandits.” He laughed. “Denial is everything, and these days no one wants open war.”

Jonathon didn’t have time to deal with shadows from the past. He had important things to do. A bright shiny new goal. A way to prove he was the greatest spy who’d ever lived. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Valisky. I have important business to attend to this week. Something that cannot be put at risk. Especially by someone who should have been taken care of years ago.” His tone was quiet but harsh.

Valisky’s brows rose in cold assessment. “I heard a rumor you’d cancelled your retirement party.”