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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

And what about Coppinger and Skeet? Where were they? Had anyone told her family she was here? But all these questions went unanswered, because right now she felt too weak to speak.

‘You’re probably wondering where you are,’ the voice went on. ‘You’re at the Royal Free in London. I want to assure you that you will be given the best possible treatment while we conduct the necessary tests.’

The voice ended abruptly. No goodbyes, no get-well-soons. Silence filled the isolation tent. Then Sheila Mackenzie felt something on her upper lip, something warm and wet, trickling down to her lips. She flicked out her tongue and tasted it. It was metallic, like licking the back of a spoon, and in her groggy state it took her a few seconds to realize it was blood. Her own blood. It was coming from both her nostrils.

17

Svalbard

Tuesday, 8 March, 1444hrs GMT, 1544hrs local

THEY STOOD OUTSIDE the front door of Ivan’s house as the wind snatched at their clothes and the argument blew back and forth between them.

‘This,’ pleaded Kristian, ‘is sheer madness!’ He gestured up at the darkening sky and the snow that fell from it, sticking to their eyelids and lips as they spoke. ‘It is better by far we call it in for tomorrow. Then we can go into the house with a full team. I will file my report to Oslo and they can make the arrangements. Yes,’ he nodded at the logic of his idea, ‘this is best.’ He started to pull out his mobile phone, but Luke reached out and gently but firmly restrained him.

‘Look, Kristian,’ he reasoned, ‘in normal times I’d agree with you. And this is your territory, I respect that. But we don’t have time to piss around like this. The trail is already going cold. This time tomorrow there could be journalists crawling all over this island. And we both know somebody’s been doing something very, very bad up here. Now it’s my job – and yours – to find out what the hell is going on and who’s behind this outbreak. Can we agree on that?’

From inside the house came the noise of a toilet flushing and for a moment neither spoke. He looked at Kristian’s pale, furrowed features and he could see the doubt written all over them.

‘All right, look,’ said Luke, in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone, ‘if you don’t fancy coming with me to check out the house, that’s okay. I’ll get the directions myself, then find my own way there. But don’t blame me if MI6 end up taking the credit for solving this and your NIS service doesn’t even get a mention …’