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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

When it did, the figure that stood behind it was a shock for the eyes. He was tall, taller than both of them, wearing white tights, towering block heels, a short red skirt and a matador’s embroidered jacket over a bare, hairy chest. On his shoulders was a life-size pig’s head, dripping blood from the snout. Luke couldn’t tell if either the pig’s head or the blood was real. It didn’t matter. The effect was hideous. The grotesque figure seemed to recognize Lina and made an elaborate welcoming gesture, ushering them in and closing the door behind them. Instantly the thump of techno became muted. A small mercy, Luke thought, as they made their way over to a long couch in the corner, although oscillating psychedelic lights were still criss-crossing the room and someone was shining a handheld laser at them.

Two figures were sitting bolt upright on the sofa, dressed head to toe in all-encompassing black leather gimp suits, like something out of a medieval torture scene. Across their mouths were closed zips and the tiny slits for their eyes were fringed with sparkling glitter. The smaller of the two wore a studded silver chain around his neck, which the other held, posing like some country laird with his faithful retriever by his side. What, thought Luke, have I just walked into?

Lina appeared to have no such doubts. She strode confidently to the couch, sat down at one end and patted the space next to her, beckoning Luke to join her. ‘So, Luke,’ she commanded, in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘sit, please.’ She placed her hand on the leather-clad knee of the smaller of the two gimp figures next to her. ‘This,’ she announced, ‘is the man you have come to see. This is Darius Janulis.’

50

Moscow

Friday, 11 March, 2033hrs GMT, 2333hrs local

COLONEL ARKADY PETROV was not someone to waste time. Just under eight hours had elapsed since he had been summoned to the Kremlin that afternoon for the deeply unsatisfactory meeting. A rogue operation, being run from within his own organization, his own cadre? This could be career-ending. He knew he had to move fast and he had done just that. To his office inside the GRU headquarters on Grizodubovoy Street he had summoned the three people he trusted most, all graduates of the gruelling three-year training course at ‘the Conservatory’, the GRU Military Academy at No. 50 Narodnoe Opolchenie Street in Moscow.

‘If you want to call it a witch-hunt,’ he’d told them, ‘then fine, call it that, I don’t care. Just find me the treacherous bastards who’ve been carrying out these biological tests on Svalbard without my authorization. And do it quickly and quietly. This has to be contained, do you understand?’