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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

Had she slept at all? She couldn’t be sure. No, she definitely hadn’t. It is hard to close your eyes and drift off when the temperature is well below zero, there’s a man dying on the floor a few feet away, and you can’t get it out of your head that you’re going to be next. She kicked herself for landing in this situation. Less than three weeks to go before her contract on Svalbard was up and then she would have been back home in London. And now another thought was crowding into her head: Roberta, her niece, her baby niece. Would she ever see that precious child again? If she hadn’t been so paralysed with cold and fear she might have allowed herself a tear or two. But something else was distracting her, a noise, coming from outside and from somewhere up above.

It was the sound of approaching rotor blades.

11

Barentsburg, Svalbard

Tuesday, 8 March, 0752hrs GMT, 0852hrs local

LESS THAN FORTY kilometres away, Luke was in position. So, too, were Stian and the other tracker, flanking him on either side, their breath frosting in the still air, spaced thirty metres distant but close enough to see each other’s hand signals clearly. They had left the snowmobiles behind them, parked up next to a locked building on the edge of town, and covered the last 500 metres on foot, approaching on snowshoes in near-total silence.

Luke had been busy. In the few short minutes Stian had given them for personal admin before they set off, Luke had spoken to Vauxhall twice. Getting hold of Victor Skeet’s personal phone number had been easy: MI6 had had no trouble in procuring it from his employers at the Arctic Research Station. Tracing Skeet’s text messages had taken longer and had pulled in the resources of both GCHQ and their transatlantic cousins, the NSA. He had sent only one and they had immediately traced it to a residential apartment in Oslo. That address would soon be getting a visit. The far more urgent question was where Skeet had sent it from. The answer arrived on Luke’s phone in a simple set of coordinates:

78.0649 degrees N

14.2337 degrees E