88° North. J.F. Kirwan

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СКАЧАТЬ punctured the cloud layer, their glass facades gleaming gold in the morning sun. They floated above a sea of white, the cloud base locking the local and expat population into the sweatbox that was Hong Kong. The plane approached the airport on Chek Lap Kok island, and Nadia felt respect for what humanity could achieve. Yet as the A380 dipped, the white turned to smudgy grey, and she recalled that while most were prepared to do an honest day’s work, there were those few who would tear it all down.

      Salamander.

      Her quarry, the world’s most wanted terrorist. He was on the run after she’d thwarted his attempt to nuke London, but not before he’d taken out eight world leaders. She stared down as Kowloon unfolded itself, Hong Kong Island opposite, several green-and-white Star Ferries traversing the short expanse of water in between, carrying people to and fro. He was here. And although his organisation was in ruins, he would know she and Jake were coming for him.

      Jake touched her arm. ‘Did you get some sleep?’

      Two hours, out of an eleven-hour flight in first class. Before she’d thrown up in the loo. Before she’d seen the spot of blood that told her she was doomed, radiation from her stunt back in Chernobyl exacting its deadly toll. Four weeks left before she’d slip this skin.

      ‘Yes,’ she lied. When did she start lying to Jake? Now, apparently. If he knew the truth, he’d abort the mission, or worry too much about her and get them both killed.

      He gave her a searching look. They knew each other too well. Distraction then. Besides, she needed to tell him about her phone call.

      ‘I called for reinforcements.’

      He sat back. ‘Greaves? Mallory?’

      Not a bad idea. Maybe later. ‘No. The Chef.’

      The plane bumped onto the tarmac. A few people clapped. Engines shifted into reverse, thrusting her against her seat belt, then eased off.

      ‘Seriously? You can just snap your fingers and he comes running?’

      ‘I wish,’ she said, smiling. ‘But the Colonel, he can.’

      Jake nodded. ‘Why is he called the Chef?’

      Good question. ‘Nobody knows.’

      ‘You never asked?’

      She shook her head. ‘You haven’t met him. Not exactly one for small talk.’

      Jake let it go, and she gazed out the porthole. The runway shimmered in the heat. August in Hong Kong wasn’t recommended. This was the month most expats fled to cooler climes, the humidity intolerable. She turned back to Jake’s difficult-to-lie-to blue eyes. Like the ocean. The stewardess handed him his jacket. Nadia studied his profile, and suddenly wanted to call it all off. Screw Salamander, screw everything. Three weeks of functional life left. Maybe less. They could head to Thailand. She could fuck his brains out until the sickness really kicked in, then swallow a bullet. Maybe do a deep dive, and keep going.

      She caught herself. No. She’d promised too many people. Salamander had taken everyone from her. Her sister, her father, Jones, Bransk. Only Jake was left. And he wanted revenge as well, for Lorne.

      ‘You up for this?’ he asked, turning back to her.

      She stood up and folded her arms, waiting for him to rise and let her off the plane. He flashed one of his winning smiles as he got up, and she felt a pang. She was going to miss those …

      They were met in the chilly air-conditioned Customs area by a small entourage of uniformed police, led by a man who introduced himself as Inspector Chen, head of counter-terrorism in the Hong Kong Territories. Short, lean, dark-haired, he greeted them with a smile that could almost have been a sneer. He spoke too fast. His English was good, but it took Nadia a few seconds to untangle the heavily-accented word-stream and work out what he’d just said. The three policemen behind him, alert but bored, said nothing. Jake seemed to understand Chen better. Even though Nadia frequently dreamed in English, it wasn’t her mother tongue.

      She caught ‘we have transport waiting,’ and was about to follow, when Jake’s tone grew an edge.

      ‘We’re taking the MTR.’

      The metro? Why? But she wasn’t about to second guess Jake. Maybe he was making a statement, that he and Nadia needed to work alone.

      Chen’s sneery smile flat-lined. ‘You are guests of the Chinese—’

      ‘We jointly represent MI6 and FSB,’ Jake said, as if there was nothing more to say.

      Chen remained unruffled. His sneer re-emerged, no longer masquerading. His men no longer looked bored. Two of them took a pace, fanning out behind their leader. They wore sidearms. Chen didn’t. Jake and Nadia were unarmed, of course, though she hoped not for long. Maybe that was why Jake wanted to separate from this official escort.

      Chen puffed out his chest. ‘Then we will accompany you.’

      Jake didn’t miss a beat. He’d thought it through. She’d have to have a word with him later about her low tolerance for surprises.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘If you come with us, no one will talk to us, and we’ll have a big target painted on the backs of our heads.’

      She watched Jake. There was something else. He didn’t trust the local police. Hardly surprising. Salamander, his son Cheng Yi before him, and now his granddaughter Blue Fan all operated out of Hong Kong, yet were never arrested, never brought in for questioning. The HK database had been completely empty on these three, except for Cheng Yi’s funeral. Not even birth certificates. Which made her wonder … Now the Territories were run by China. Power had shifted since British colonial rule had expired. Still they’d remained hidden all this time. Did Salamander have friends in the Hong Kong government? Or China?

      Chen had his hands by his sides, the pinkie of each stretched out, and his three men drew their pistols. Slick. No barking of orders that would draw attention to the group. She and Jake were on the wrong side of passport control. They were in international space. Chen could put them back on the plane, send them home. It looked as if Jake had overplayed his hand.

      A man in a crumpled beige suit hustled over to them, his brow sweating despite the aircon, dampening the wavy fringe of unkempt rusty-grey hair, his belly protruding far over his belt. When he spoke, it was in the Queen’s English.

      ‘Inspector Chen, no need for that, these are my guests.’ He held out his palm as he approached, and bowed with such an amiable face that Chen had no choice but to shake his hand.

      ‘Mr Hanbury,’ Chen said, for the first time his voice slowing to a normal pace.

      ‘So sorry I’m late. Traffic, you know, and I had to take the dogs to the vet again, well you of all people know how it is, with Biyu and Da Chun, how they fuss over their Boxer.’ He turned briefly to the three men. ‘Guiren, Jun, so good to see you again. And you, young sir, I don’t believe we’ve met?’ He offered his hand to the third policeman who still held his pistol, his eyes darting between his colleagues to know how he should react.

      Chen spoke again. ‘Mr Hanbury, we have a situation here—’

      ‘Oh come, come, I think not. I have a letter here from the Embassy, and an email from the HK CEO’s office, granting СКАЧАТЬ