He had been staring outside for hours and his eyes began to ache. He looked back inside the carriage. It was the image of uncomfortable sparseness, communist-inspired, as if nothing had changed since the fall of the Wall a couple of decades earlier. Short, stubby icicles hung from the centre of the ceiling along the length of the long carriage. A handful of people occupied the pewlike bench seats, each of them silent and unsmiling. A man snored intermittently in the row beyond Stratton’s, an empty vodka bottle in his hands, although he could hardly be heard above the clatter of the wheels. He had joined the train at Moscow with a full litre and within an hour had drunk it and fallen unconscious. He wasn’t the only heavy drinker on the train. Boozing seemed to be a national pastime.

Jason sat across from Stratton, in the corner, staring out of the opposite window. He had kept to himself since they’d caught the plane at Heathrow. Stratton assumed it was a reaction to being ignored since they’d left Poole. But then halfway through the flight he had leaned over and quietly apologised for his stand-offishness and explained why he’d been aloof. Jason had done some kind of one-day MI6 course on travel security as preparation. He had learned how best to act when travelling in potentially hostile environments. Stratton knew what such courses consisted of. They were pretty much advice for beginners - comprehensive but common sense and rather obvious to someone at Stratton’s level. He had on occasion been asked to instruct MI6 and MI5, teaching various operational procedure lessons. Jason would have done the usual hotel, office and home security course. He might have sat through a presentation on anti-surveillance techniques by foot and by vehicle: how to detect if he was being being followed, how to prove it, and what to do and what not to do about it. The man had clearly absorbed it all and was living the role. All he needed now was the experience.

When they’d landed in Moscow his arrogance had extended to taking over the travel procedures by suggesting they move separately. It was as if Stratton had never done it before and Jason had become his mentor. They kept apart the whole time after that, except when Stratton had climbed into a taxi at the airport. Jason began some kind of pantomime for the sake of the taxi driver, asking Stratton if he minded sharing the cab. Jason said he’d overheard that Stratton was going to the railway station, which also happened to be his own destination. Stratton found himself shaking his head - mentally, at least - on more than one occasion.

After that they had separated again. Stratton didn’t say a negative word about it. The separation procedures suited him perfectly. He had been wondering how he was going to ignore the other man as much as possible throughout the operation and to his relief Mansfield had come up with the solution himself. Sitting opposite each other in silence on the day-long train journey across a big stretch of Russia was apparently acceptable.

Stratton felt curious about one thing that Jason probably knew about: Rowena. Considering that she was technically a member of the British military and was now more than likely being held captive in Russia, it seemed to him that very little action was being taken to resolve the issue. Then perhaps there wasn’t much that could be done about it. The Russians couldn’t admit to having her without admitting their involvement in everything else. And then coming up with a sound enough reason for keeping her was equally complicated. Stratton had found her to be a most irritating, cold and obnoxious bitch, but by the time they had climbed the platform he had developed a degree of admiration for her. She’d had no doubts about the dangers but she’d gone anyway. But if she hadn’t done it because of Jason and her relationship with him, why had she gone along? It niggled him. He did not sense the same level of loyalty in Jason. He wanted to understand some things a little deeper and perhaps Jason had answers.

‘You’ve not mentioned Rowena,’ Stratton said. They were the first words he had spoken to Jason in half a day.

Jason looked at him as if his mind had been on another planet and was scrambling to come back down to earth. ‘I think of her all the time,’ he replied eventually, looking away. ‘I was thinking of her just then. Between you and me, we were quite close. Personal relationships in MI16 are frowned upon. But I knew Rowena long before I came to the organisation.

‘We first met in Oxford.You think she was strong-headed when you met her. She was even worse then. And I gather that was an improvement on how she’d been as a teenager . . . Rowena was adopted. I don’t know anything about her natural parents. She walked out of the house when she was fourteen to join some kind of intellectual commune in Canada. She told me she was bored, not stimulated. In short, her adoptive parents were too thick.’ Jason chuckled at the thought.

‘We didn’t see each other in college, not in any kind of carnal way. She didn’t like me very much then. She said she did but I didn’t believe her. She was - is - a brilliant physicist. Being beautiful and brilliant she needed to be headstrong. No one ignored her, that’s for sure. She got her doctorate at Princeton and then flitted around a few places. An audio-electronics company in Japan for a few months. Then NASA for a year. Got bored there, too. Then she did something completely radical and joined MI5 - a fast track to some undercover surveillance unit that operates in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. She completed the selection and training course but didn’t join the ranks. Someone up top recognised her potential and had her transferred to MI16. I suspect it was Jervis. She’s never talked about that to me. I read it in her file. I think she wanted to join that unit because she had something to prove, not to anyone else but to herself. But she never got the chance. I think that’s why she came on the platform operation even though she didn’t approve. I have a strong feeling she’s fine and well and will return safely home.’

‘Based on what?’

‘Intuition. I’m rather keen on mine.’

Stratton could have guessed as much. ‘I need a wee,’ he said, getting to his feet. The uncomfortable seats felt cold and he wanted to stretch his legs to warm up a little - the icy air had a way of finding his joints. He was well dressed against the cold, a good thing too since the carriage was an icebox. He also saw it as an opportunity to take a look at the characters on board. Paranoia was a healthy attitude, particularly in Russia. The two men had entered the country as engineers: Stratton a pipe welder and Jason a designer, naturally. A British pipe-welding company did actually operate on a gas pipeline a few hundred miles north of Moscow - not where the two men were ultimately heading but the company’s books had been amended to support the cover story. However, the FSB were, by profession, a suspicious lot. Stratton would not have been surprised if they’d been tagged from the airport. The plan had taken such a probability into account, of course. But the more prepared they were, the better.

He walked along the coach, surreptitiously checking out every individual as he passed them. The unconscious drunk had vomited down his clothes. In the next row a couple sat with three remarkably quiet young children. The low temperature might have had something to do with their silence. An old couple next, sitting huddled together against the cold, woollen scarves wrapped around their heads. A couple of families in another row, eating a communal meal of bread, meat and cheese. And vodka.

The rest of the carriage was empty except for the second row from the end. Two men sat on opposite sides, one young, the other mature, both dishevelled, shifty-looking. They eyed Stratton, no doubt taking in his comparatively expensive clothing. They didn’t appear to be together but Stratton sensed a common attitude between them. He pegged them more as thugs than secret service.

At the end of the carriage he could find no toilet. The door at the end had a glass panel in it but he could see nothing through the thick coating of ice. Stratton wondered if he could get into the following carriage. If that had no toilet either, well, he’d have to urinate into the freezing cold outside. He grabbed hold of the door handle and applied some pressure to push it down. Eventually the handle moved but the door wouldn’t open. It was stuck solid.

He pulled on a pair of gloves and, gripping the handle with both hands, put his weight into it. He leaned back, raised a foot up onto the frame and gave it a powerful shove. The door cracked open and the freezing air ripped inside. Stratton looked back but no one had leaned into the aisle to investigate. It was something they were no doubt used to.

Stratton tugged at the door’s frosty hinges a little more, opening it enough for him to squeeze through. He knocked away a sheet of ice that had formed down one side of the door frame and stepped out onto a ledge above the linkage, the wind zipping in and out of the gap between the carriages. He felt the wind chill sharply mask his face. The ground tore along below, the shiny rails dividing the frozen gravel between the sleepers. He grabbed hold of a long horizontal bar fixed to the carriage near the door for that purpose and stepped across the coupling to plant a foot on the small platform outside the connecting carriage’s door. He pulled the door to in order to give himself some privacy, at the same time wondering how on earth the ladies managed it.

It was a pleasant enough moment - the relief of emptying his bladder combined with the circumstances and a spectacular view.

When he was finished Stratton nudged the door to open it again. But it wouldn’t budge. A firmer push moved it in a few inches but it immediately slid back as if it had become springloaded.

Stratton gave it a harder shove and this time it wedged open but a man suddenly moved into the gap. It was the older of the thuggish-looking pair.

He shouted something in Russian but Stratton didn’t know the language well enough to understand him. The man repeated himself, this time gesticulating with a hand. He wanted money. But there were no guarantees that he would let Stratton back in once the exchange had been made. In fact, that was the ideal strategy.

Stratton inspected the door to the other carriage and tried to pull down the handle but it was stuck fast. The Russian said something else in a slightly louder tone, sounding angry and frustrated. He shook his open hand and held it out further in order to emphasise his demand.

Stratton would have gone a long way to avoid any kind of conflict, even paying the man had he believed he would let him return to his seat. A low profile was an obvious essential to the task. But in the middle of this freezing wilderness he couldn’t risk getting stuck outside. Mansfield was unlikely to investigate before it was far too late. He had to do something decisive.

Stuff it, he decided. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a few notes and put the flapping money into the man’s hand. As the Russian took the cash, Stratton twisted his wrist, at the same time kicking the door open as he yanked the man out.

The Russian thug landed on the coupling, immediately lost his balance, and with a look of terror on his face fell back and disappeared into the slipstream.

Stratton surprised himself by the ease with which he’d launched the man. It hadn’t been his intention. He looked inside the carriage in preparation for an assault from the accomplice. But the younger man stood stock-still in the doorway, eyes wide at the speed with which his comrade had been dispatched. He backed away, turned around sharply and returned to his seat.

Stratton pulled himself back into the carriage and closed the door, immediately shutting out the howling, freezing wind and the noisier clattering of metal wheels on rails.

He walked back along the carriage, eyeing the young man who was now sitting tightly against the end of the bench and looking intently out of the window. He looked like he was trying to make himself invisible.

Stratton ignored him. Several people gave the operative sober glances this time, as if they knew that something had just happened. There was no judgement in their expressions - or anything, in fact, other than simple curiosity.

Jason seemed to be lost in another daydream and barely acknowledged Stratton’s return. Stratton checked his watch. They had been travelling for just over five hours. A couple more to go. He put his head back and closed his eyes.

It was the smell of woodsmoke that brought Stratton out of his chilly slumber. The couple with the children had lit a fire in a bucket and were huddled around it. The carriage had filled with smoke but no one appeared to have complained. At least smoke meant warmth.

He checked his watch again. The train had stopped several times at small village stations far off the beaten track and had occasionally slowed to a crawl. The seven-hour journey had turned into a ten-hour slog and Stratton was feeling hungry now as well as cold. He dug a survival bar out of a pocket and took a bite out of it. His thoughts quickly shifted to the task. But he reminded himself once again that it wasn’t worth thinking about. The information he needed to progress any planning was waiting for him on the ground. Stratton had long since learned to compartmentalise such things in order to take as much advantage as possible of any down time. Rest when you can for you don’t know when your next chance will come.

The train reached their destination eventually. Both men got to their feet. They each carried small backpacks containing washing gear, a change of clothes and nothing else. They kept their passports, money and return air tickets in their pockets. Stratton pulled the collar of his thick coat tight around his neck, shoved a woollen hat onto his head, rolling down the sides to cover his ears, and stepped down the carriage steps after Jason onto the snow-covered gravel. No platform. Just a couple of low brick buildings one side of the track, smoke issuing from a chimney, the only evidence of life. No one to greet the train or get aboard it. A family climbed out of the next carriage and after gathering their things huddled together and headed back along the track. The rest was tundra.

Mansfield had already set off at a brisk pace along the single road that cut the station in two: north led across the railway track into a barren steppe and south to a wooded wilderness. Jason was heading towards the trees.

Stratton marched a few metres behind, wondering when Jason was going to give up this ‘We’re not really together’ act. The road’s surface appeared to be tarmac beneath a crust of compressed snow and didn’t look as if it saw much vehicular traffic. When they reached the wood it turned out to be a thick, impenetrable army of pines.

Jason left the road, turning along a footpath that traced the edge of the trees. He was following the navigational instructions to the letter, having memorised every detail from maps and satellite photographs. The rest of the journey was just as uncomplicated. At the end of the track they would come to another road where their contact should be waiting for them - the man who had taken the surveillance photographs of Binning. From there they would go to a safe house on the edge of Plesetsky and get the latest information on Binning’s movements. Then it would be a case of planning his abduction. Apparently the contact would provide all they would need, including a pistol. He wouldn’t get involved in anything violently physical, although he was willing to drive for them.

Once Binning had been abducted they would secure him in the safe house that reportedly had a suitable basement in which to conduct a noisy interrogation. Jason and Stratton were to play the good cop, bad cop routine - Stratton would naturally be the thug. Jason was more than confident that Binning would tell him everything. He would appeal to Binning’s guilt, which he’d assured everyone the man would have in abundance, despite what he had done. Then, depending on what Binning revealed, they would come up with a plan to destroy the tile since they did not actually need the device itself - after all, MI16 had built it - the aim being to deny the technology to the other side. Ideally they would want it back but that would be impossible if it was in the mine laboratory - which was more than likely. It was the reason why Binning had to be terminated. Without him the Russians would take a lot longer, years perhaps, to figure out the other components.

Executing Binning was not going to be done in the old-fashioned way with a bullet to the head or a knotted rope around the scientist’s neck. Stratton had been given a shirt with a strip of material sewn into the collar. All he needed to do was dissolve it in liquid, such as a cup of coffee. Seconds after drinking it, Binning would be dead. He would be none the wiser when his time came. The poison apparently paralysed the respiratory system in seconds.

A few metres along the track, Jason slowed to allow Stratton to catch up. He had obviously decided they could now be together since they were out of sight of anyone travelling along the road. He grinned by way of a greeting as Stratton approached and they carried along together.

‘I love this kind of dry cold, don’t you?’ Jason said.

Stratton didn’t know how to answer him. It was a simple enough question. But coming from Jason, and the way the man asked it as if he was an old sweat in the job and they were pals, it was irritating. Stratton forced a smile by way of an answer. There was no point in letting the man wind him up.

‘We make a good pair, don’t you think? Brains and brawn. That wasn’t intended to be rude or typecasting,’ he added. ‘But, well, you are a bit of a thug. I mean that in the nicest possible way.’

Stratton wondered if there was any way he could convince Jason of the need to go back to their being separated - for tactical reasons, of course.

‘Seriously, though, don’t you think there could be a future in both our organisations combining in this way, for certain operations? Between us we do cover all the bases.’

Something new was beginning to bug Stratton about Jason, and even more so since they’d climbed off the train. He seemed generally pleased and at ease with life. There was a chirpiness to his step and his mood. An odd attitude to have for a novice at the operational game like him. What was more, a subordinate of his had turned traitor at the expense of Jason’s work and reputation and kidnapped his girlfriend, one of his staff, who was now a prisoner of a Russian crime syndicate. Stratton would have expected Jason to be upset or angry, at least nervous about the upcoming operation. He probably had no real idea of how dangerous what they were about to attempt was. Perhaps he truly was superior and able to detach himself fully from such issues. Maybe he was the new breed, his organisation the future. Stratton wasn’t convinced. ‘How do you feel about this operation?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well. We’re going to waste your mate, hopefully find out what has become of your girlfriend, who could be dead, and if we get caught in the process we may never see the light of day again.’

‘To be honest, I’ve not come to terms with the killing bit,’ Jason said. ‘Perhaps I’m in denial about that part. If it was me who had to do it, I’m not sure that I could. The man was a friend.’

‘You saying that if something happens to me you won’t see the plan through?’

‘When you put it that way, I believe I would. But until that moment comes . . . it’s hard to visualise . . . hard to think about. So I won’t, if you don’t mind.’

‘I suppose the penalty of death just for stealing something is a bit over the top.’

Jason glanced at Stratton, suspicious that the operative might be trying to corner him. ‘If we could get him back home I would rather do that. I’m only being honest. But if that’s impossible, getting rid of him seems like our only option. As for Rowena, I can’t think about her. I have to put her out of my thoughts. That may sound callous but to help her I must remain clear-headed. And if something bad has happened, well, I’d rather wait. Until I know for certain. As for the dangers . . . I suppose this is where ignorance comes in handy.’

‘You have an imagination, though.’

Jason smiled. ‘I’m with the great John Stratton. What’s there to worry about?’

Stratton had the feeling that the man was avoiding the question.

A mile later the wood spilled across their path and the track carried straight on through it. As a precaution Stratton stopped to look back the way they had come in case anyone had followed them. Jason caught on to what he was doing and stood quietly until Stratton was satisfied. They continued along the track and ten minutes later stepped from the trees onto a narrow road.

A small car was parked on a verge a little way along the road, exactly where the contact was supposed to be waiting. The two men walked towards it. As they closed on the vehicle a stocky man with a greying beard climbed out and both parties stopped and studied each other.

Stratton thought he looked identical to the photograph. But that was not good enough. ‘The wind is colder when it comes from the north,’ he said.

‘Only if you’re from Smolensk,’ the man replied.

Stratton smiled by way of a hello.

‘Stratton. And Mansfield,’ the Russian said, referring to each man accurately.

‘It’s good to meet you, Vasily.’ Stratton immediately liked the man, who looked harmless, albeit bearlike. He was a surveillance specialist, an MI6 recruit from the Cold War era, according to the brief. It was arguably safer being a spy in Russia these days, mainly because of the vastly improved communications systems and greater freedom of travel. But agents still disappeared. Getting caught was still a very bad idea. People spied against their own for many different reasons, of course. The battle against communism had been won, or so it appeared. But to many nothing had really changed. The old spies remained loyal to the West in order to finish what the ignorant believed they had achieved when the Wall came down. And some just did it for the money. Stratton had been told little about Vasily’s background other than that he was to be trusted.

The Russian got back into the car. Stratton climbed into the front passenger seat, an automatic reaction on his part. He hated relinquishing any control over his operations, particularly when strangers such as Vasily were involved. And although Jason seemed to think he was the procedural adviser on the task, when it came to a real threat Stratton would take over. In this case, he would have more influence over the driver by sitting in the front seat than he would have in the rear. Despite Jason’s attitude, Stratton was the operational commander, an appointment the scientist had gracefully accepted, although there had been scant evidence of that thus far.

The car was a garbage bin on wheels, littered with empty food containers, sweet wrappers and a dozen empty unlabelled bottles. It was also as cold as a refrigerator.

‘Excuse my heater,’ Vasily said, firing up the engine which only started after several turns of the electric motor. ‘It always stops working when the winter begins. We have a two-hour drive to town. There is a train station but I did not think it safe for you to get off there. It has been watched more closely since the increased activity at the mine laboratory. There’s food in that bag. There’s water and vodka. The water’s frozen. Foreigners think Russians always drink vodka because we are alcoholics. That’s a misconception. We’re alcoholics because the water always freezes and the vodka does not.’

Vasily crunched the car into gear and eased it off the verge and onto the narrow road. He took his time getting up to speed and going through the gears. Eventually they were trundling along at a good pace, considering the quality of the vehicle and the road conditions, and the inside of the car began to warm up a little.

‘I have not seen your man Binning in two days,’ Vasily said. ‘He left his house for the mine and has not been back. I think he’s getting to like it down there.’

‘Have you thought of a place where we can pick him up?’ Stratton asked.

‘I have an idea. You must see for yourself. Binning is always escorted by couple of guards to and from the mine. But he does not like the guards hanging around. They stay down in the lobby of his house. In the evenings he sneaks out of the back for a walk. He seems adventurous. I think he sees guards as unnecessary . . . I have the drugs I was asked to get for when you capture him. That wasn’t easy. I had to get them from Moscow. They only arrived today.’ He pointed at the glove compartment.

Stratton opened it to reveal a brown paper bag among several scruffy pieces of documentation. In the bag were a brown bottle and a couple of hypodermic needles. The anaesthetic should knock Binning unconscious a few minutes after he was injected with it. Stratton could see them having to hold the man down and keep him quiet and under control until the drug took effect. That was going to be the most risky point of the op as far as he was concerned. They’d need an element of luck for it to go without a hitch. He put the paper bag back and closed the glove compartment.

Stratton sat back and forced it all out of his head. This was one of those jobs where time would be on their side, within reason. They drove along endless country roads, passing only two vehicles moving in the opposite direction. They joined a highway for a few miles before leaving it to continue along yet another lonely ice road. The countryside varied little; either dense woodland or rocky wasteland coated in snow.

Vasily was a careful driver and kept to a sensible speed, mindful of the vehicle’s limitations and the conditions. He played such a high-risk game yet was so cautious with everything else. Stratton dozed off a couple of times. He had not slept properly since leaving England and the rhythm of the car and the relatively safe atmosphere lulled him into the occasional slumber.

The first time Vasily thought he could see a helicopter in the distance was an hour into the journey. He hadn’t been sure enough to say anything to the others. Stratton sensed a change in him after emerging from a short snooze. The man was sitting further forward than before and was gripping the wheel tightly. When he repeatedly glanced up through the top of his windscreen, trying to see between the leafless branches of the trees lining the road, Stratton became curious. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘There’s a helicopter up there. I’ve seen it a couple of times now. It seems to be moving with us.’

Stratton looked up through the crooked branches into the bright sky beyond. He could see nothing but blankness. White sky. But as he scanned further ahead he saw something. He continued to look in the same place until a gap in the trees revealed the small black object that Vasily was referring to. It was indeed a helicopter, several miles away and travelling on a parallel track.

‘Helicopters are not common around here,’ Vasily said. ‘We’re a long way from any military installation.’

The trees grew thicker but Stratton kept his gaze fixed in the general direction of the aircraft. When the trees thinned again the helicopter was still there but a little closer than before. Stratton judged it to be a sizeable craft. ‘How far are we from the town?’

‘Another sixty kilometres,’ Vasily replied, his tone regretful.

‘Any cover between here and there?’ Stratton was already planning ahead.

‘A tunnel would be nice,’ Jason piped up from the back.

‘Nothing. We are in barren lands. There’s nothing but mines between here and Plesetsky.’

‘We don’t want to go anywhere near the laboratory mine,’ Stratton said.

‘We won’t. I’m taking minor roads well away from it. We will pass the mine by twenty kilometres.’

‘It’s turning more towards us,’ Jason said, craning to see the helicopter through his passenger window.

Another gap in the trees revealed that he was right. The helicopter was on a track that would eventually put it across their path.

‘What shall we do?’ Vasily asked, glancing nervously at Stratton.

‘Why don’t we just stop and see what it does?’ Jason suggested.

Stratton considered it for a few seconds. ‘It makes no difference, ’ he decided. ‘If it’s following this car we can’t stop it.’ The chopper’s presence was still possibly a coincidence. If it wasn’t then they had been rumbled. But then, if that was the case, why hadn’t they been intercepted at the airport or on the train? He could think of another explanation. Perhaps it was Vasily who had been rumbled.

As the helicopter converged on the vehicle’s path it began to take on more of a distinctive shape.

‘It’s a Haze,’ Stratton muttered.

‘Military?’ Jason asked.

‘Troop carrier.’

The craft began to lose height. The windows along its fuselage became clear as well as its markings. Vasily instinctively took some weight off the accelerator and the car slowed a little.

As the helicopter reached a point a few hundred metres directly in front of them it too slowed.

‘They’re stopping above the road.’ Vasily was maintaining his composure but only just. ‘It’s us they’re after.’

‘Easy,’ Stratton said, putting a hand on the dashboard close to the wheel in order to grab it should the Russian do something erratic.

Vasily couldn’t bear the tension any longer and brought the car to a stop, keeping its engine running. Stratton didn’t react. There was little point.

They watched the behemoth as it turned slowly on its axis to face them. After a pause it glided forward. The deep throb of its long rotors rose above the purring of the car’s engine.

The fearsome-looking craft maintained a slow speed, heading straight for them. The pilots became visible and the noise of its engines grew louder. When it was less than fifty metres away it ceased its forward movement and began a slow turn, kicking up a cloud of snow from the ground. The trees caught in the down-draught shook violently.

Bits of ice dislodged from branches struck the car, startling Vasily. The Russian was white with fear. He knew only too well the penalties for being caught working for foreign intelligence services. While Stratton and Jason had a chance of living if they were captured, he had none. The only uncertainty would be the method of his death. His captors would keep him painfully alive far beyond the point where he would beg them to let him take his own life if they would only give him the chance, which they would not.

The Haze turned until it was showing them its rear and then held its position. The rear doors, like an egg cut vertically down the middle, opened like a lobster’s claw. Several men in fatigues stood inside the opening looking at them. The barrel of a machine gun attached to a frame bolted to the side of the craft protruded from the door, pointing directly at the vehicle.

Vasily could bear it no longer. Something snapped inside of him. He shouldered open the car’s door in a bid to climb out.

Stratton reached to grab him. ‘No, Vasily!’

But Vasily’s weight was already taking him out the door. He took his foot off the brake and clutch and the car shunted forward a few feet before the engine stalled. Stratton was pulled across the seat as he tried to hold on to the man. He couldn’t.

Vasily fell onto the icy ground, slipped as he tried to stand, then quickly regained his footing and began to run. He was hardly past the back of the car when the door gunner opened up with a couple of staccato bursts of fire. Several rounds struck the car, puncturing it violently, passing through it like knives through icing. Glass exploded over the two men who flattened themselves against their seats.

Vasily arched his back in a violent spasm as the bullets smashed through his body. He staggered on for several paces before falling dead onto the icy road.

Stratton and Jason lay still across their seats, waiting for the next burst that would surely finish them. But it did not come. The noise of the helicopter’s engines remained the same, as if it was just hovering above them, waiting for something.

Stratton raised his head enough to look over the dashboard and through the cracked windshield. The helicopter was descending onto the road where the trees on either side had given way to low hedges. Snow and ice spiralled around the craft. The door gunner remained vigilant, not taking his eyes off the car.

They were as good as behind bars. Stratton practically accepted it. He couldn’t see a way out of this one. It was better than being dead, at least. They were British subjects and, even if it could be proved who they worked for, there was always a chance they might one day be freed.

As the heavy beast’s wheels touched the road and it jolted to stability, men stepped down out of its dark belly and walked towards the car. They wore heavily camouflaged cold-weather fatigues, their battle harnesses and pouches stuffed with equipment and spare ammunition. They carried assault rifles in their gloved hands, wore machine pistols in black leather holsters strapped to their thighs. Stratton put up his hands as they approached, glancing in the cracked rear-view mirror at the scientist who had followed his lead. Jason looked pale with fear, his earlier chirpiness wiped away without trace.

The Russian soldiers strode confidently towards the car, their breath steaming, some wearing woollen hats against the cold. The one out in front who had short spiky blond hair wore a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. When he arrived at the vehicle he went to the front passenger window to peer inside at Stratton. He said something in Russian to his men who had surrounded the car. One of them murmured something, a couple of them chuckled in response. Another soldier kneeled by Vasily to inspect him and reported the obvious statistic.

The one with the sunglasses opened Stratton’s door and said something to the Englishman in a calm voice. Stratton got the gist of the command and climbed out.

When he got to his feet the soldier shouldered his rifle on its sling and searched Stratton’s clothes and body from neck to toe. When he had finished he was holding Stratton’s passport in his hand. He harshly grabbed the side of Stratton’s coat and used his grip on it to turn him around, pushing him against the car. Another soldier had done the same with Jason, who turned to face the car from the other side. Their wallets, passports and air tickets lay between them on its roof. The first soldier said something to Stratton and touched his watch. Stratton removed it and placed it with his possessions. Jason did the same. Another soldier pulled their small packs from the back and inspected the contents. They put everything into the packs and one of the soldiers held on to them.

Two of the men searched the car. Methodically. They looked under floor mats, through the rubbish and down the back of the seats. Beneath them. Then one slashed them with a knife. Stratton took every opportunity to assess the men and their equipment. They were certainly not ordinary soldiers. Spetsnaz, he suspected. Each was powerful-looking and well equipped. They slung their weapons rather than leaving them resting against the side of the car or on the ground, a small but significant indication of their professionalism. They had a calm confidence. Russian Spetsnaz had a habit of including martial arts as part of their regular training and it showed in these men’s faces. All appeared to have had their noses broken. Any two of them would have been a fair match for Jason and Stratton. They numbered eight.

The helicopter’s engines continued to turn over noisily but the soldiers didn’t appear to be in any hurry. One of them held a conversation over a radio. The apparent leader, the one with the wraparound sunglasses, unceremoniously pulled Stratton away from the car and pushed him in the direction of the helicopter. Another yanked Jason in the same direction. They didn’t even bother to tie their prisoners’ hands. It was as if they wanted the Englishmen to try something foolish.

As the others walked away, one of the soldiers took a phosphorous grenade from a pouch, pulled the pin, tossed it into the back of the car among the bottles of vodka and then followed his comrades. The grenade popped loudly and the car burst into flames.

Stratton didn’t look back as the vehicle burned. He knew precisely what had happened. The operative studied the rear entrance of the chopper as they approached it. It was dark inside the narrow cabin. The unshaven door gunner squatted by the machine gun and watched the two strangers. The gun was loaded with a belt of shiny ammunition that snaked into a feeder box attached to its side. Empty bullet casings littered the floor around the gunner’s feet. He grinned, his teeth stained brown from tobacco smoke.

Stratton followed the lead soldier up the ramp and into the dimly lit cabin. In the rear section several metal war chests sat along the sides, a couple open to reveal weaponry and items of personal equipment. In the front half of the cabin basic nylon hammock seats were fixed down the sides. Opened ration boxes lay strewn about, along with empty tins and wrappings. The place certainly lacked a woman’s touch.

A man sat in one of the seats, reading a file. He wore the same fatigues as the others but no weapon harness, only a pistol in a leather holster on a belt around his waist. He looked older than the rest of them. He gazed up at Stratton as they came in. A soldier took hold of the Englishman and placed him to one side of the opening, positioning him precisely as if he was a shop-window mannequin. Jason was treated the same way.

When the last soldier was aboard, the one with the sunglasses leaned close to the man sitting down and said something into his ear. The manner in which the older man acted confirmed Stratton’s suspicion. He was their real leader, all right. The soldier wearing the sunglasses acknowledged something the man said and walked away to lean into the cockpit and chat briefly with the pilots.

Moments later the chopper’s engines increased their revs and the heavy craft rocked from side to side as the rotors took the strain of its weight. It gradually disconnected from the earth and began to rise. A few metres off the ground the Haze tilted down at the front and lumbered forward, groaning an imaginary complaint. With the rear doors open the biting wind twisted into the back, pulling at Stratton and Jason’s clothing. Stratton took hold of the bulkhead frame to steady himself while Jason, out of reach of anything else, put a hand on the operative’s shoulder.

The leader put down his file, got to his feet looking as if he’d been inconvenienced and made his way towards the two Englishmen. The rest of the soldiers, other than the door gunner, congregated in the front portion of the helicopter, some taking seats, some rummaging through the rations for a snack. All watched to see what their boss was going to do.

The Russian officer eyed Jason and Stratton with disdain. Mansfield removed his hand from Stratton’s shoulder and stood upright.

The Russian was short compared with the rest of his men, standing a few inches below Stratton’s eye-line. His red hair was cropped, his sullen eyes grey and like the others it appeared he’d had his nose broken. More than once. ‘What are your names?’ he shouted above the noise of the engines and the beating rotors.

‘Mark Davidson,’ Stratton answered, equally loudly, the name on his false passport.

‘Derek Waverly,’ Jason shouted.

The Russian simply stared into the eyes of each man as he answered.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘We’re British engineers,’ Stratton said. He doubted that the Russians knew who they really worked for and why they were there. But these soldiers obviously suspected the two Englishmen of something. If they were guilty by their association with Vasily, killing the spy had not been the smartest course of action. The man would probably have revealed everything within hours. But they clearly didn’t care about that. The men’s cover stories as engineers wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, anyway. They could be looking at the inside of a Russian prison for quite some time. Years, in fact. Stratton wondered what London’s reaction would be. Their release would depend on their value. On the scale of things Stratton didn’t think that he was worth much at all. And Jason not a great deal more. At the end of the day, Mansfield was a scientist and Stratton a common or garden special-forces operative. Both of them were easily replaceable. He thought of his house and envisaged the lads breaking in to clear out the perishables and cover the rest in dust sheets. It would be a long time before he saw his crockpot again. Funny how the simple things in life seemed so much more important at times like this.

The officer smiled thinly on hearing Stratton’s pathetic explanation. He looked over at his subordinate in the sunglasses and gave him a nod. The blond-haired guy gestured to another soldier. The two approached the Englishmen. They grabbed hold of them firmly, pulled them harshly into the centre of the cabin and placed them side by side with their backs to the rear opening, the edge only a few feet away.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you are doing here?’ the leader asked loudly.

Stratton wondered how far the Russian was prepared to go with this intimidation technique. He could think of two possible options: one was to come up with a plausible explanation to appease the man, at least until the next level of interrogators took over back at the military establishment, wherever that was. The other was simply to keep quiet and call the Russian’s bluff. The problem was that he couldn’t think of a story good enough to cover the first option. And the second one didn’t feel right. It was never a good idea to call someone’s bluff when your own life was at stake.

‘Don’t doubt my threat,’ the Russian warned, as if he was reading Stratton’s thoughts. ‘I have the authority to deal with petty spies like you. In any way I see fit.’

Stratton doubted the claim. It would be unwise to give a field officer that much autonomy. But he seemed confident enough.

The officer nodded to his men.They responded instantly, turning Stratton and Jason around and shoving them to within a few inches of the edge of the opening. The wind whipped more violently at their clothes but neither of them could feel the bitter cold at that moment. The operative was surprised to discover that they were already several thousand feet above the ground. The patchwork steppe was white as far as the eye could see, spotted with black blotches of woodland and the scars made by roads. The squatting door gunner to Stratton’s right was looking up at him, still wearing a grin.

Turbulence suddenly buffeted the craft. Those standing splayed their feet to maintain balance. Stratton automatically reached out but he had nothing to grab. The craft’s erratic movements calmed a little and he regained his balance with the help of the soldier holding him from behind. This was not a lot of fun.

‘I will ask you one more time,’ the Russian officer shouted close to their ears. He motioned to his soldiers who leaned the Englishmen further out of the back, their toes right on the edge now. If the Russians let go they would plummet. ‘Why are you in my country?’

‘I don’t think he’s bluffing,’ Jason shouted.

Behind them the Russian officer smiled at the comment.

Stratton’s mind raced to find a solution but there was none to hand. Turbulence hit the craft once again.

Stratton’s lack of response was not helping Jason’s growing concern one bit. ‘If you kill us you’ll be making a big mistake!’ the scientist shouted in desperation, suddenly convinced that the Russians intended to murder them.

The officer also found that comment amusing. ‘I really don’t give a damn who you are or what you’re doing here. I spent many years in England. I hate you people. You have become soft! You no longer know how to rule, yet you continue to play your little games. Your day has come to an end . . . yours in particular.’

Another patch of turbulence rocked the helicopter. This time all those standing lost their balance momentarily as the helicopter dipped and juddered. Jason found himself falling to the side, the Russian behind him unable to hold on.

The soldier holding Stratton let go to secure himself. The operative stared down at the passing ground far below, managing somehow to remain on the edge yet unable to move away from it. What he did next was the result of a keen survival instinct and a belief that the Russian officer intended to kill them, one way or another. Against these zero odds of survival he could see only one wild option left to him. Even if he succeeded they would all most likely die anyway. But dying trying was better than not trying at all.

Stratton reached out and grabbed the door gunner by the collar, lifted the man out of his seat and with every ounce of strength he had threw him out into the void. Stratton looked doomed to follow the screaming gunner but as he fell he seized hold of the butt of the weapon that had turned outwards on its mounting. His feet left the edge of the ramp, his body swinging outside the craft. He hung for a second, far above the tundra, dangling in the wind, the gun the only thing stopping him from falling. Gripping the trigger guard, he swung his feet back up to find the edge of the ramp, the barrel now pointing back inside the helicopter. The soldiers went for their guns. The officer, standing a few feet away, opened his mouth in horror at the sight. Stratton couldn’t stop himself from squeezing the trigger even if he had wanted to. He was holding on to it for dear life. The gun chattered to life with horrendous power and the first rounds punched through the officer, hammering his instantly lifeless body back into the craft. Stratton yawed the deadly machine gun on its axis, one side to the other. The rounds chewed up the cabin and those inside it. They tore through the bulkheads, ripped up boxes and shattered the craft’s small windows. He hit each soldier with several rounds, at such close range tearing each man to shreds, the bullets passing through several of them at a time.

The machine gun ate hungrily into the ammunition belt that shuddered out of the feeder box, the empty casings flying into the air.

Rounds spat into the thin wall at the front of the helicopter and through both pilots beyond it, shattering the blood-stained windshields. Sparks flew from the holed instruments panel. The dead pilots released the controls, flopping in their seats, and the power went out of the rotors.

The weapon went suddenly quiet as the last link of rounds was consumed. The Haze’s engines had ceased to scream and although the rotors still turned their power was greatly reduced. The most dominant sound was the wind rushing in through the back and out of the smashed windows on the sides and at the front of the helicopter.

Stratton had killed them all, every last one of them.

The aircraft began to rotate as the tail rotor came to a stop, the gradually increasing rate of spin making it difficult for Stratton to climb back inside. He reached along the top of the gun and pulled himself in far enough to grab the framework from where he could get onto the deck.

Only then did he think of his travelling companion. A quick scan around suggested he had fallen out of the craft but then he saw the scientist’s hands wrapped around one of the door struts, the rest of his body dangling in the air, nothing below him but the Russian countryside. Stratton scrambled over to the side of the opening, hooked his arm around the bulkhead and reached down for Jason Mansfield.

The turning motion was making it increasingly difficult for Jason to hang on.

‘Grab my hand!’ Stratton shouted.

Jason needed both hands just to hold on. To relinquish one seemed to him to be fatal.

‘Now!’ Stratton yelled, his own position more than tenuous.

Jason went for it, pulling himself a little closer and lunging towards Stratton. The operative did not fail him. He gripped Jason’s wrist, planted a foot firmly against the door frame and pulled back with all the strength he had left. Both men rolled into the cabin as the spinning Haze fell. Fuel came cascading down the bulkheads from bullet holes in the ceiling that had punctured the tanks. As if they didn’t have enough problems, the smouldering instruments panel ignited and flames burst into the cabin from the cockpit.

Stratton could not see the ground rushing up towards them but it was clearly happening. ‘Get ready to take the impact!’ he shouted.

‘I admire your humour!’

‘If it doesn’t hit nose down we can survive it!’

‘Have you done this before?’

Stratton looked up at the cockpit. ‘Not on fire!’

Jason’s confidence was not improved by the comment.

The flames licked down the walls and the cabin began to fill with smoke. Fuel dripped onto Jason’s arm and caught alight. He rolled frantically across the floor as he fought to extinguish the flames. Burning fuel splashed Stratton’s boots and trousers. They might be roasted alive even before the helicopter crashed.

The sudden impact was tremendous. The wheels and undercarriage of the huge copter collapsed beneath it, crushed into the ground. The violent contact ripped away the open rear doors and the tail collapsed, the smaller rotor crashing down into the hard-packed snow. A huge snowdrift absorbed a great portion of the impact. Yet the Haze had come down on the incline of a hill so it tipped and rolled onto its side. The main rotors buckled like straws and the heavy chopper’s momentum took it down the slope. The two men inside it had been thrown flat by the force of the landing, then, as the cabin turned over, they had rolled up the sides and into the flames. As the rotor hub sank into the snow the craft skewed round so that the rear opening led the way downhill. It slid along like a great whale with its mouth open.

Stratton and Jason tumbled down into the snow that was being scooped inside the opening. It helped to extinguish some of the flames on their clothing but not all of them. As Stratton looked out the back he saw some kind of wooden structure covered in snow. They were going to hit it. Whatever it was. Yet right now outside was far better than in. ‘Go!’ Stratton yelled, clambering to his feet. He ran across the bulkhead towards the opening. Jason was up and behind him, both of them still alight. As they reached the opening the helicopter struck the wooden framework which disintegrated and the back of the chopper abruptly dropped as if it had broken through something.

The sudden fall hurled Stratton and Jason out of the back of the mangled Haze. As they braced for the ground it did not arrive. Because they had missed it. It became instantly dark and they continued to fall, both still ablaze, the wind fanning the flames on their clothing as they dropped into utter darkness. Neither of them could remotely comprehend what was happening. It was as though they had died and were accelerating straight into hell.

They could see nothing in the pitch dark by the time they struck the water like a pair of flaming meteorites. The force hit them like a hammer blow and they plunged beneath the surface, arms and legs flailing in desperation, fighting for their lives. Stratton pushed the water behind him madly, stroke after rapid stroke in the direction he thought was up. As his lungs tightened he burst through to the surface, thrashing around for something to grab. He couldn’t see a damned thing. His hand brushed a rough-textured wall and he did his best to cling to it. Jason spluttered to the surface somewhere nearby, thrashing around and gasping for air.

They held on to the sides of the cave or whatever it was, panting like exhausted hounds, the flames from above providing a small amount of illumination.

‘At least we’re not on fire any more,’ Stratton said, between breaths.

‘What is this?’ Jason asked.

The sides of the cavity were sheer, circular and rocky, like a vast cylindrical chimney a hundred feet high. As they looked up, the light above began to change subtly from white to orange. A sound drifted down to them, echoing off the walls, the sound of metal scraping on stone. Which was precisely what it was. The horrific reality struck them both at the same time.

‘Oh my God,’ Jason muttered.

The blazing helicopter was toppling into the chimney. It had nowhere else to go but down and in this narrow space that meant it would land on top of them.

Jason moved along the wall in a desperate effort to find something to hold on to as he stared up at their impending doom. He found an empty space. He felt around it quickly to discover edges on two sides and on top.

The helicopter was a tight fit in the shaft, though not quite tight enough to hold it in place. It came down towards them like a blazing lift. The increasingly loud noise it made as it scraped down the sides was horrendous. Yet the encroaching flames increased the light and Jason could see that what he took to be an indentation in the wall was a lot more. ‘A tunnel!’ he shouted.

Stratton had been considering diving down as deeply as he could to avoid the impact and flames and then hoping to find a way back up through or around the aircraft. But the tunnel was a far more attractive lifeline and he shot across the gap to join Jason who was already pulling himself inside. Stratton clambered in after him. The scientist stayed on his knees in the shallow water, catching his breath. Stratton did not stop and clambered ahead of Jason as if he was being pursued.

‘It’s not over!’ Stratton shouted.

Jason didn’t understand and quickly glanced back between the running operative and the tunnel opening.

‘The fuel tanks!’ Stratton yelled. The horizontal tunnel was barely high enough for him to run along at a crouch. The water came up to his knees.

Jason immediately understood what Stratton meant and thrashed forward in pursuit of the SBS man. It became pitch black as Stratton got deeper inside and he held a hand out in front of him for fear of bashing his head.

The sound of the helicopter’s carcass scraping down the shaft increased as it closed on the bottom. When it struck the water with tremendous force the tanks did indeed rupture as Stratton had predicted. The remaining fuel ignited and the resulting giant fireball had only two directions in which to expand. The surging flames rolled into the tunnel in pursuit of the two men.

As the raging inferno reached their backs they threw themselves beneath the surface of the water that lit up around them. It lasted a few seconds before extinguishing itself.

The men broke the surface, sucking in the contaminated air and coughing and spluttering as they fought to recover from the seemingly endless sequence of near-death experiences.

The helicopter had not dropped below the surface of the water completely and flames continued to burn inside it, throwing some faint light into the tunnel.

The men looked at each other as they got to their feet, panting for air.

‘Is it over yet?’ Jason gasped, wondering if they would have to run from anything else in order to survive.

Stratton looked back at the burning helicopter as his breathing returned to normal. He had run out of adrenalin and the cold was creeping over him. Getting to the surface was all he could think of but he doubted they would be able to climb the main shaft. He would investigate further once the flames had died down.

He looked along the tunnel into the deep shadows, wondering where it led, if anywhere. He took a few steps, sceptical of just how useful the investigation would be in almost total darkness. The air was still and tasted dank as if it had not changed in years. His confidence that it led anywhere other than to an eventual dead end was not high. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he thought he could see the faintest of red glows at the furthest extent of his vision.

Stratton took another few steps forward at the crouch, feeling his way by passing his fingertips along the ceiling of the tunnel. He paused to rub his eyes, wondering if they were playing tricks on him. The glow remained and he continued on towards it. It became stronger with each step and seemed not to be coming from a direct source but shining down into the tunnel from above.

As he felt his way along his hands moved higher and the cramped tunnel opened up into a small cavern filled with the red glow. He could stand upright. He had found the source of the light, a robust bulb inside a wire housing fixed to a metal box. Much more significantly, the light was fixed above a steel door set in a concrete frame that sealed off the tunnel. The door was covered in rivets and a coat of rust but it looked so thick that it would take centuries for the corrosion to eat all the way through. Encouraging though the presence of the door was, it looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

‘Jason.’ His voice echoed around him.

Jason lay slumped, staring at the flames and wondering what they were going to do next. He looked around to see that Stratton had gone and his voice was coming from far away. The scientist lifted his bent body and made his way into the darkness.

When he saw the red glow he speeded up, his hopes lifting at a vague possibility. A solution to their dilemma. When he reached the cavern he stood alongside Stratton and stared in amazement at the light. He could see no handles on the door. However, a line of sturdy hinges down one side indicated that it could open, in theory at least.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Jason asked.

‘The laboratory.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘The helicopter could easily have covered the distance.’

‘Do we want it to be possible?’ Jason asked, touching the door. He was wearing a grin. ‘This is too crazy.’

‘It’s some kind of secure emergency exit. Unless the Russians have other underground installations in the area, I’d put money on this being the lab mine.’

‘Why put an emergency exit into a tunnel like this?’

‘The place was a chemical and biological warfare lab. Anywhere would be better than inside if there was an accident. Maybe there’s a way from here to the surface.’

‘Or perhaps it’s another way of getting back into the lab if they had to.’

‘Whatever it is, I would like to know what’s on the other side of it . . . more so in a couple of hours from now when we could be freezing to death.’

Jason climbed the wall a few feet in order to inspect the box that the light was attached to. He pulled a side of the ageing box open to look inside. ‘It’s a sensor,’ Jason decided. ‘My guess is it’s a trigger. To warn if it’s opened.’

It made sense to Stratton. But it wasn’t much of a solution even if it was the lab. The occupants wouldn’t exactly welcome them with open arms. That was assuming they could get inside at all.

Jason pushed his fingers inside the gap as if feeling for something inside. There was a spark and he yelped in shock, snatching back his hand and jumping into the water.

The light began to blink on and off in a regular rhythm. Silence fell as the men stood in the glow of the flashing light, the water up to their knees. They looked at each other.

Jason shrugged apologetically. ‘I think I tripped something.’

The obvious question was: stay, or get out of there? Take the opportunity, or not? If they couldn’t get out of the tunnel any other way they would die, and none too pleasantly either. Getting recaptured might not be a whole lot better but it could mean that their demise would be a whole lot later. And time allowed for opportunities.

Yet as they stood there the minutes ticked away. Nothing happened.They waited. And waited. Hoping someone would come to the door and investigate. But this was Russia, of course. And they were miles from nowhere and the Cold War was over. No one was going to come.

Then, as if to prove it, the light stopped flashing and went back to glowing normally.

Stratton could no longer feel his feet. He estimated hypothermia would set in within twenty minutes or so. They would experience a surge of energy, perhaps even a sense of invulnerability, and then fatigue would set in. Their legs would give out and they would kneel in the water. That would speed things up but by then they would be delirious. They would die soon after. Their bodies might not be found for years, if ever. Their bones would rest beneath the water. With no identity on them they would be a couple of unexplained skeletons. It would remain a mystery to London too, another Buster Crabb story.

‘Would they send someone else, do you think?’ Jason asked. He wasn’t particularly interested in events that might occur after his death but a conversation might ease the pain of the cold a little.

Stratton didn’t care.

They remained silent for another minute, hoping to hear a sound from the other side of the door. But still no one came. It was so quiet that each man could hear his own heart beating in his chest.

‘I used to be afraid of the dark when I was a child,’ Jason said. ‘Were you?’

‘No. I always knew what was out there.’

Jason looked at the operative bathed in the red glow from above. ‘I’ll be honest about something. Not because this may be the only opportunity to say it. Do you know why MI16 was going to take over certain operations that your lot and the SAS consider their own?’

‘No.’ It was something else Stratton didn’t care much about.

‘We’re smarter than you, by a long way. We’re more accomplished athletes. I’d wager we’re probably all better shots than you.’

‘You think that’s all it takes?’

‘You have military experience, I grant you that, but we’re not talking about those kinds of operations. Take this one, for instance. All of it, from the beginning. None of it was a success. Your skills have only led to failure at every turn. You practically sank the platform with your arrival. Binning escaped with the tile. And we’re probably going to die in this tunnel, leaving the rest of the operation a failure.’

‘You would have done it differently?’

‘I would have reacted differently, sure - more intelligently, less like a bull in a china shop. Rowena was right. All you’ve ever been in your career is lucky. And it looks like that luck has finally run out.’

Stratton absorbed the insults. He even appreciated the conversation. It took his mind off the discomfort. Jason Mansfield might even have a point, he thought. He was right about the results. ‘It’s moot now.’

‘I don’t agree. Yes, this situation has put MI16’s plans back but the fundamental reasons why it’s necessary remain. My place will be taken and it will eventually happen.’

‘Jason, I was going to say this to you anyway. You’re a wanker. It’s not so much what you say, it’s the way you say it.’

Jason’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, moving through the water to the middle of the cavern. ‘Maybe we should fight it out, here and now. See who’s the best. It’d keep us warm for a bit, at least. What do you say?’

Stratton simply looked at him in the glow of the light.

Jason moved closer to Stratton, shrugging his arms and turning his neck as if loosening up for a fight. ‘Come on. Let’s do it. To the death. Neither of us has anything to lose. None of your colleagues will know you were beaten by a mere scientist. Come on.’

Jason adopted a fighting stance and moved within range of Stratton. The operative remained still.

‘Take a punch. Or are you a counter man? Is that it?’

Jason jabbed at Stratton who moved enough to avoid the strike that was only intended as a probe anyway. Jason followed it up with another blow that struck Stratton on the shoulder. The scientist’s next punch was far stronger and hit Stratton hard in the chest. Stratton lunged at him, taking only a step, his heart not in it.

Jason kept his side-to-side stepping routine going, sloshing around in the water. ‘That’s it. Come on. Now hit me.’

Stratton was growing more irritated than angry but still not enough to be drawn in.

Jason dummied with one hand and struck Stratton in the face with the other, hard enough to send his head back. Stratton’s mounting anger went up a couple of notches.

Jason danced left and right. ‘You’re going down if you don’t defend yourself,’ he warned. ‘I sincerely plan on killing you. It’s something I often contemplated, ever since I began karate. What would it be like to kill someone using my bare hands? What better subject than you?’

Jason came in for another series of punches and outmanoeuvred Stratton’s unskilled defences, striking him with several hard blows. Stratton lunged forward again but Jason surprised him with a vicious kick to his ribs.

Stratton dropped to one knee in pain and glared at Jason. The scientist was grinning at him but did not waste any more time gloating. He came in with a low blow. Stratton moved back with it and grabbed the clenched fist, at the same time back-handing Jason across the mouth so viciously that it sent him back.

Jason stopped to feel the cut that had opened up on his lip. He felt the blood with the back of his hand and broke into a grin again. ‘That’s more like it.’ His eyes narrowed and he looked suddenly dangerous as he came forward to get stuck in.

Stratton stood against the door, poised to respond to Jason’s next attack. The idiot was serious about fighting to the death. Stratton didn’t know if he had flipped or what. The scientist’s issues clearly went a lot deeper than anyone knew.

As Jason moved to prepare for his attack, Stratton heard something other than feet moving through the water. ‘Quiet,’ he said, his voice lowered, his eyes looking up.

‘Not going to work,’ Jason said as he tensed.

‘Quiet! I heard something.’

Jason suddenly suspected that the other man might be telling the truth. He kept his distance but stayed alert as he listened.

A faint clanging sound came from beyond the door. Stratton turned to face it, ignoring Jason completely.

A heavy clunk was followed by the sound of an electric motor. A gear engaged and the door jolted. Bits of rust and debris fell from seams around the door.

Stratton stepped back.

The electric motor laboured heavily. The door jerked again and more debris fell from the hinges. The motor was beginning to sound as if it might fail when the entire door shuddered and then cracked open. The motor picked up and as the gap widened a bright light flooded the rock walls.

The two men instinctively moved out of the immediate view of anyone who might emerge from the opening. The water rushed in through the gap to fill a space on the other side and when the door was open wide enough to let a man through the motors went silent.

Stratton and Jason remained still, their senses straining to detect what if anything was on the other side of it.

A gloved hand reached around the door frame followed by its owner wearing a heavy-duty one-piece boiler suit and waders. He turned on a flashlight and aimed it up at the sensor as he backed out of the doorway. Stratton grabbed the hand holding the torch, almost giving the man a heart attack. As he cried out, Stratton covered his mouth. The frightened man shut up instantly.

Stratton released his grip and gestured for the man to stay quiet. He obeyed. Stratton stepped through the doorway into a brightly lit landing at the foot of a narrow concrete stairwell. His instinct suddenly warned him and he faced the steps to see a young Russian soldier partway up them aiming an AK-74 down at him. The soldier was as surprised to see the stranger as his engineer colleague had been but it did not divert him from his task. He pulled a radio from a pouch, put it to his mouth and talked quickly into it.

Jason stepped through the door and raised his empty hands in the air. ‘Well, at least I won’t freeze to death. And you’ve been saved from an embarrassing thrashing.’