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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

As she was speaking, Luke could feel his arms being pulled tighter behind his back and some sort of cord being tied around his wrists. Never get caught. That’s what the instructors had always told him, over and over. He would have to do some very fast talking now if he was going to get out of this alive.

‘This man,’ Luke told her, jerking his head towards Hugo Squires, ‘is the one full of shit. Whatever bollocks story he’s just told you has got nothing to do with me or the movement. I told you I was committed and—’

Luke didn’t get to finish his sentence. Someone behind him shouted, ‘Shut it, bitch!’ then a blow to the back of his head plunged his world into darkness.

102

Thames House, London

Sunday, 20 March, 2242hrs GMT

THE EMPTY TAKEAWAY pizza boxes sat, upended, in a wastepaper bin in the corner of the Intel Ops Centre. Someone had made an unsuccessful attempt to fold them in half and given up so they sat there, exuding their stale odour, along with the empty Diet Coke cans, the dregs of a hastily snatched meal on the go. It was often like this when a live op was up and running and when it was nearing the endgame. Everyone on the team just put their lives on hold: evenings got cancelled, date nights blown out, mealtimes ignored. The mission demanded total focus from everyone involved. It was one of the sacrifices of the job.

Angela Scott was used to this. She remembered her stint as head of station in Mexico City when she’d kept a stash of takeaway menus taped to the wall by the door for the times when an op was under way and normal life had simply ground to a stop. Now she sat hunched over her workstation, earpieces dangling down her neck, nervously tapping the end of a biro on the desk. She had lost count of when she had last had what anyone could call a ‘normal day’, a day that wasn’t completely dominated and subsumed by the crisis that had erupted out of an Arctic blizzard in Svalbard. That was only thirteen days ago, but to Angela, and everyone else working on this op, it felt like months. She could feel the fatigue building behind her eyes as she concentrated hard on what the person at the other end of the phone was saying.

‘I’m telling you,’ the voice said, ‘they had input from Moscow. I can say that with a high degree of probability. It’s not RIM, but it’s people very similar. Angela, we’re getting ourselves caught up in the middle of a Russian turf war here.’