“Please, help!” she exclaimed.
“What is it?” She started up the stairs, but King stopped her by raising the weapon motioning her backwards with the muzzle. “Tell me…”
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She was wearing just a pair of trousers and a blouse and cardigan. She was shivering, but King suspected it was as much fear as from the temperature. “We were gathered at the foot of the stairs, in the lobby,” she said, then added, “Your friends and I…”
“What’s happened?” King asked, unable to hide his concern.
“A grenade…” she trailed off.
King had heard it. Muffled and distorted by the service stairwell. He strode down the steps and put a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed and gave her a little shake. “Tell me.”
“You need to see for yourself,” she said.
She turned and led the way. King felt as if his legs were made from lead. His heart pounded, and he felt himself go light-headed. He grabbed the rail, took a deep breath and continued. They got to the last flight and King could already see the body of the chef. His whites were pitted with red spots of blood, but it was his head which had taken a large piece of shrapnel. He would have died quickly judging from the wound and the amount of blood around him, already congealing in the cold. King felt her touch his shoulder, ease him into the foyer and around the corner of the corridor.
He froze.
He’d been stupid and now it could cost him everything.
The man held the assault rifle, the barrel just inches from Caroline’s head. King studied him, recognised him as the thin, hook-nosed man he had seen talking to Huss. The same man that Marnie suspected of stealing her laptop. And if that tied in with his snow-covered clothing and the limp, he could very well be the same man who had shot at both King and Caroline at the second rendezvous.
King felt the cold metal touch the nape of his neck and the deception was complete. The Russians didn’t only have a man in the hotel organising, communicating and indeed, blackmailing Huss, they had a woman too. King imagined this hook-nosed man dealing with the two Russian staff. Perhaps the woman, a colleague, had lured them away, and together they had trussed them up. But who had done the killing? Not that it made any difference now, but he might feel better with the pistol against his neck if he’d known what part she had played. Or maybe not…
“Drop the rifle,” she said. He did as he was told, and it clattered on the wooden floor a few feet from him. “Hand’s on top of your head,” she added.
He did so, begrudgingly and surveyed the scene before him. Ramsay was lying down, his hands taped behind his back with duct tape. He looked groggy, as if he were coming around from unconsciousness. King could not work out whether it had been concussive shock from the grenade, or if the man with the hooked nose had struck him down with the butt of the rifle.
Rashid must have put up a fight, because he had a tremendous lump on his head, his unfortunate bleached hair matted with blood. He had been forced to sit on his backside with his feet cross-legged and his hands on the back of his head. It was an awkward position, and one that was difficult to spring to action from. He wasn’t tied, most likely because the man feared getting too close to him. Better to put him in a stress position at gunpoint and keep a weapon on someone he wouldn’t chance endangering. King knew the feeling. He’d been both sides of that scenario. Rashid looked seething, glowering at the floor, murder on his mind. Which was probably why the man hadn’t got any closer to him.
King looked at Marnie, who was also on her knees, her hands placed firmly on top of her head. She was sobbing, and King noticed she was bleeding from her neck and shoulders. Nothing life-threatening, merely tiny pieces of embedded shrapnel.
“What a mess!” the man said above the whine of the wind. He eased himself around Caroline a step, and it was clear he was favouring his left leg. King found himself wondering how badly he had been wounded. The man pointed to Natalia, who was next to Marnie, the same stress position taking its toll as she shivered against the cold. “First one traitor,” he said, and then sweeping a hand towards Natalia he said, “And then another!” He shook his head. “And then the British fool sent to take the traitor in, and now all of you…”
“And two innocent police officers,” said King.
The man laughed. “And let’s not forget a young woman from the GRU who you killed!” He smiled. “And the poor Sami fool, whose services I bought for an iPhone and the promise of a new snowmobile…”
“And the doctor?” King said. “Where did he fit in?”
The man laughed again, although it was mirthless. “He was paid, but he drank too much a developed a conscience. Or at least, a higher price for it.”
“And the poor couple in the ice hotel?” King sneered. “You thought that was us,” he said, looking at Caroline.
“Regrettable,” he said, but without emotion.
“And the manager and two Russian workers?”
King felt the muzzle of the pistol dig into his flesh and he was pushed forwards harshly.
“No, that was me,” the woman said.
King shrugged. “So, what now?”
“I have your laptop,” he said. “And I have my traitor.”
“Well, you win. That’s not even détente. You’ve got everything. Just walk away…”
“Sorry,” said the man lightly. “For all I know, you have forwarded on the information from the USB drive. If that’s the case, there
