December. James Steel

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СКАЧАТЬ uniting opposition to it within the country. Both Ukraine and Georgia had been fast-tracked into NATO, Krymov threatened military action and withdrew from the Intermediate Range Ballistic Missile Treaty. He then launched punitive bombing raids against Georgia, to punish it for joining NATO, destroying buildings and infrastructure in Tbilisi.

      The EU reacted with outrage, imposing immediate economic sanctions on Russia. In response, Krymov called them fascist aggressors and cut off all gas supplies to Europe.

      Around half of Europe’s gas supply came from Russian fields, and so power rationing had had to be implemented. The UK was badly hit because it had the most deregulated energy market in Europe; it had only a few days’ reserve storage.

      No one could believe it was happening; it was like the 1979 Winter of Discontent all over again. Power was switched on from nine until five for business purposes but after that it was emergency services only. Petrol supplies were also running low as tankers struggled in the snow to get out from depots.

      Predictably there had been a huge public outcry and angry scenes in Parliament. The PM was under a lot of pressure to do something: schools were shut and pensioners were freezing to death.

      But there wasn’t much he could do. Krymov had been rearming Russia, and his campaign of suppression against the media and the few remaining pro-democracy organisations in the country meant that there was no internal opposition. Russia’s vast nuclear arsenal meant that open war was just not an option.

      Alex wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Like most people, he thought Krymov was a lunatic but equally he didn’t want the government to provoke a nuclear conflict over the issue. In the meantime a very Cold War had returned to Europe.

      All Alex was focused on now, though, was getting his hands on the reassuring black grip of his Glock. He hurried past Wandsworth Bridge Road, casting a glance over his shoulder; the man was still following him on the opposite side of the street.

      He carried on into well-heeled Fulham and finally turned left into Bradbourne Road, the quiet street where the Devereux family maintained their London residence when they were not in Herefordshire.

      Well, that was how it was in the old days, anyway. Alex’s alcoholic father had died recently and he had been having sporadic conversations with lawyers—when the phones worked—about whether he could pay the death duties and keep the old hulk of Akerly, where his ancestors had been in residence for nearly a thousand years.

      He increased his stride, eager to get home. He scanned the tree-lined avenue ahead, with its smart Victorian houses. Nobody was visible on the pavements but there was a new Range Rover, with blacked-out windows, parked over the road from his house.

      There wasn’t anything unusual about that—it could just be a neighbour who had brought it up from the country to get about in the snow, but Alex hadn’t seen it before and the tinted glass was worrying. He grasped his keys inside his coat pocket in readiness for a quick entry and eyed the vehicle warily as he came up to his front gate; he was now trapped between it and the threat behind him.

      Two doors on the car popped open and two men moved out fast.

      Fuck, it is a hit!

      He frantically shoved open the gate and ran to his front door. The key seemed too big for the lock; he fumbled with it, his back exposed to the danger.

      ‘Major Devereux!’ The bark cut across the street like a shot.

      Alex froze; he hadn’t been in the army for years not to recognise the unmistakably commanding tones of Sandhurst English.

      He stopped fumbling with the key and turned round.

      A young man walked across the road. He was tall, his blond hair scraped into a short back and sides, and he had a beaky, aristocratic nose. He was wearing a full officer’s uniform: green jacket, tie, Sam Browne belt and all.

      ‘Lieutenant Grieve-Smith, sir, H Cav!’

      The Household Cavalry—Alex’s old division.

      If he really was army, then that meant the guy who had been tailing him was as well. It clicked now—he knew where he had seen that sort of face before: Special Forces blokes, scruffy but highly disciplined at the same time.

      He glanced back along the road. Yes, there he was, standing side on to them now and scanning the street, one hand inside the opening of his anorak. The other guy who had got out of the car looked equally dodgy, in a leather jacket, Millwall football shirt and ripped jeans, and had taken up a position on the far side of street.

      If the SAS were involved in this, then that meant someone high up wanted a word.

      The Establishment.

      What the hell did they want with him?

      Alex had parted company from his regiment, the Blues and Royals, on bitter terms. Equally, his years of combat in African wars hadn’t increased his respect for the fresh-faced officer in front of him now. Someone wanted to be in touch with him rapidly and presumably they had pulled in this duty officer from Hyde Park barracks to make him feel reassured.

      Alex recovered his composure and moved slowly back up the garden path towards him. Grieve-Smith walked across the road and they stood facing each other on the pavement. Alex’s dark brows drew together, fixing him with a level stare.

      ‘If you’d come with me, please, sir…’ The young officer seemed to think he had a right to command.

      ‘And why would I want to do that?’ Alex kept his voice calm.

      Grieve-Smith looked uncomfortable. ‘You’ve got to go and have “a chat” with someone.’ He emphasised the word to indicate that it would be anything but pleasant social banter.

      ‘And who would that be?’

      The lieutenant looked even more pained. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

      ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

      The lieutenant dropped his gaze apologetically.

      ‘Look, what the hell is going on?’ Alex snapped.

      Grieve-Smith shook his head, dropped his voice and leaned forward. ‘Look, to be honest with you, sir, I have no idea what this is about. I was just pulled off the duty desk to come down and tell you to go with these men here.’ He flicked his head to indicate the other two soldiers, then looked at Alex nervously, trying to share his disdain of the modern thugs behind him with another member of the old officer class.

      Alex avoided his eye. He didn’t belong to that tribe any more.

      He glanced again at the shifty-looking men. He obviously wasn’t going to get anything else from Grieve-Smith and he didn’t fancy having to outrun two SAS blokes. He took a deep breath and sighed slowly as he thought what to do.

      ‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘Maybe I’ll get a nice hot cup of tea,’ he added without humour.

      Grieve-Smith looked relieved. ‘This is as far as I go, sir. I’m afraid you’re with that other lot now.’ He glanced at the men anxiously and then quickly walked away down the road.

      The drug-dealer walked past him towards Alex without saying СКАЧАТЬ