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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

‘Sergeant Louise Kentish. I’m one of the instructors here,’ she told him. ‘Nice going, but you’ll need to be faster through the door next time. The second one might have dropped you.’ She walked over to a table and switched off the tape player that had been churning out the sounds of a mock interrogation. The lights were coming on now, illuminating the frighteningly realistic three-dimensional fibreglass dummy targets on springs that Luke had put down with the live fragmentation rounds fired from his SIG. They were inside the Bunker, the purpose-built underground SAS ‘Killing House’ at Pontrilas, just half a mile from the Welsh border and a short drive from the Regiment’s base outside Hereford. As one of a very small handful of serving case officers in the Secret Intelligence Service qualified in close-quarter combat and hostage rescue, Luke Carlton had just passed his annual certification test. Since joining the SIS he had been sent on more courses than he could remember, but this was one of the few mandatory tests he found himself actively looking forward to. It kept him on his toes and that was how he liked it.

‘Got time for a brew before you go?’ she asked casually, tidying away the last of the exercise’s rope coils and stuffing them into a burlap sack. The fact that any one of Luke’s shots, if aimed a few degrees to one side, would have ended her life did not seem to faze her in the slightest.

He looked at his watch and winced. ‘Christ, no, I’m out of time! I’m supposed to be at an opera in Covent Garden with the girlfriend this evening. Promised her I wouldn’t be late.’

The instructor shrugged and turned away with a smile. ‘Better not let her down, then, had you?’

3

Svalbard, Norwegian Arctic

Monday, 7 March, 1545hrs GMT, 1645hrs local

THE MOMENT DR Sheila Mackenzie felt the liquid droplets hit her unprotected face she knew she was in trouble. Long before the Covid-19 pandemic erupted around the globe she had known all about viral loads and the risks incurred by exposure to an infected person. Yet she didn’t panic, she didn’t cry out: she did exactly what her years of medical training had taught her. Calmly, and without a word, she bent down and searched inside her day sack until she found what she was looking for: a sealed packet of antibacterial wet wipes. In the grim world of infectious pathogens, she knew this was tantamount to trying to hold off an advancing army with an air rifle, but she had to go through the motions.