December. James Steel

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       Chapter One

      Alex Devereux knew something was wrong.

      The man, on the other side of the street, was following him through the crowd of refugees streaming down the darkened King’s Road. It was snowing and the streetlights had already been switched off.

      He looked like a drug-dealer: cheap anorak, unshaven, long black curly hair. But there was something about his features that made Alex think there was more to him than that; a lean, athletic face with watchful eyes.

      Alex stared at the man’s reflection in the window of an expensive antiques dealer. He showed up in the headlights of the stationary traffic—the Tube was now shut as well, and the roads were gridlocked. One reason he stood out was that this was such an exclusive neighbourhood. Alex could still see the clear difference between him and the crowds struggling along the pavement and weaving in and out of the traffic.

      They were all wealthy commuters, well dressed in tailored coats, expensive fur hats, pashminas round their necks—the unlucky ones who had stayed at work whilst the power was still on and then missed the five o’clock Tube curfew.

      The drug-dealer had been tailing Alex ever since he had left his job interview with the private defence contractor in Victoria. He hadn’t been a mercenary for many years not to do some basic fieldcraft checks, especially when he left one of those firms, and he had now seen him reflected in the windows of three shops when he had stopped to check.

      Alex thought through his options as he pretended to take an interest in a chaise longue. Either the guy was an amateur or someone was in a big hurry to put a tail on him. Usually professionals would work with a team of three or four on a target if they didn’t want to be seen.

      Whatever the case, the question now was, what the hell was he going to do about him?

      His immediate fear was that this was some sort of hit. He had been mixed up with enough unpleasant people since he’d left the army for that to be possible. His first instinct was to head for his house and get the illegal Glock 9mm pistol that he kept taped under his desk; out here on the street he felt exposed. He turned and set off again into the crowds; the man detached himself from the wall opposite and followed.

      The freezing wind blew heavy flakes into Alex’s eyes; they nestled in his black hair, making it curl. He hunched his shoulders and stuck his chin down into the collar of his overcoat; he was broad-shouldered and stood out by a head over most of the crowd around him. He had a strong, masculine face with fine cheekbones. His expression was habitually thoughtful, but now it was distinctly dangerous.

      Apart from his current personal threat, the country was also in crisis. It was only early December but this was already the worst winter since 1947: deep snowdrifts, railway lines frozen, coal trucks stuck in sidings and then, to top it all, the Russians had turned off the gas.

      Such political trouble was bound to follow the global recession. Oil and gas prices had tanked, taking the Russian economy with them. With the instability, faction fighting had erupted in the Kremlin. Putin had tried to return to his old post of President but Medvedev had opposed him. The Kremlin had been split and then Medvedev had been deposed in a palace coup. His replacement as President, Viktor Krymov, was supposed to be a bureaucratic nonentity acceptable to both sides but had become increasingly unstable and aggressive. He had suspended the constitution, declared himself President for life and banned opposition groups.

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