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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

Skeet knew he was almost certainly going to be sacked from the Arctic Research Station for this. Well, fine. Do your worst. Because that surely had to be a whole lot better than dying of convulsions with a slick of black vomit all down your front. There was no question about it, he told himself. He had made the right call. It was only then, as the Russian lady on Reception waddled down the corridor ahead of him, showing him to his dingy room, that he began to feel the first pangs of a real killer of a headache.

7

Longyearbyen Airport, Svalbard,

Tuesday, 8 March, 0643hrs GMT, 0743hrs local

OUT OF A cloudless pink sub-zero dawn, the Royal Norwegian Air Force C130 Super Hercules transport aircraft descended towards the icy runway at Longyearbyen airport. Sitting strapped into one of the red canvas bucket seats that lined the fuselage, Luke Carlton shook himself awake. How many times, he wondered, had he experienced the eerie weightless sensation in the pit of his stomach as the C130 corkscrewed down out of an Afghan sky to dodge any incoming groundfire as they came in to land at some beleaguered outpost? But this was different: now he was up against a very different threat, an unseen biological enemy that no amount of tactics and firepower could bring down.

He’d had to make an unseemly early exit from the Wagner performance at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. For Elise, that had been the final straw. Following his late arrival and apparent total lack of interest in the evening, Luke’s apologies had cut no ice with her: ‘That’s the last time I organize something like this,’ she’d told him, as he headed off to the black BMW the Service had sent to take him to Northolt. By 10 p.m. he had been airborne, getting his head down for some kip on the five-hour flight up to Tromsø, just north of the Arctic Circle.

He knew it was coming – Angela had forewarned him – but Luke had always loathed injections. So what followed was not exactly happy hour: 4 a.m. and a reception committee of men and women in white coats, ‘parachuted’ in from the Health Ministry in Oslo, all lined up to pump him full of serums to guard against whatever might be out there. And what was out there sounded horrific.