and smoke wafted into his eyes. He staggered, nearly fell, and placed one foot in front of the other. He thought he might lose consciousness, but he kept moving.
The pain ebbed.
Cold air soothed his face.
More steps forward.
The roar of the inferno grew quieter with each step.
Turning, he looked back at the barn. It was ninety feet away; the fire showed no signs of abating. He moved farther away until he was in the center of the clearing. Carefully, he rested Korina on the ground. His legs buckled, and he fell down until he was kneeling by Korina’s side.
The chest wound was bloody. Razin’s hidden knife had been plunged so deep that there was no doubt it would have killed her instantly. But the rest of her body and face were untainted by what had happened here today. Will placed a trembling hand against her cheek, leaned forward, and kissed each closed eye, then her lips. Gripping her body, he let his head slump until his face was flush against hers. His body began to shake; he began to sob.
Lifting his head and upper body, he looked up and screamed, “Fuck you all!”
Chapter Forty-two
Will programmed the grid reference into the Prado’s sat nav system and called Patrick. “Three Ohio submarines are sailing to the Barents Sea with the intention of covertly entering Russian waters tomorrow. When that happens, there’ll be a nuclear explosion that will make the Russians think the subs have attacked them. You’ve got to get the vessels to turn around.”
“What? Where’s the nuclear device?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect it’s somewhere on Russia’s northern coastline.”
“That’s a very large area. But you’re sure it’s there?”
“No. It could be in Moscow or just about anywhere else in Russia, but everything suggests it’s somewhere in the north. Speak to the admiralty or the president. Just make sure those subs turn around right now.”
F ifty minutes later, his cell phone rang. Patrick.
“It’s a no-go.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not going to turn the subs around.”
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“I spoke to the admiralty. They said they’re not going to withdraw the submarines after months of preparations and millions of dollars spent.”
“Then speak to the president!”
“I did. He sought advice from the admiralty and agreed with them.”
Will couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You told them about the bomb?!”
“Yep. The admirals said that I must be crazy to think that they’d deviate from their plans because of some field officer’s hunch. Actually, their language was a lot stronger than that.”
“Idiots!”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I!”
It was night. Will felt exhausted, and his body was wracked with pain. The sat nav directions were taking him south, around towns, through small villages, forests, over flatlands, undulating countryside, across rivers, craggy hills, and into increasingly rugged terrain, but he barely registered his surroundings. As he drove hundreds of miles across Russia toward the Caucasus Mountains, only one thought was in his mind.
Whether Sentinel is alive or dead, my only hope is that Razin has left some clue as to the location of the bomb.
Night became day.
Today the submarines would reach Russia.
Snow and ice were everywhere, but the sky was blue and clear of clouds. More hours passed. The roads became narrower and uneven. Soon he was driving away from any signs of life; the imposing mountain range was visible in the distance. He continued driving for an hour, until he was within a couple of miles of the mountains’ foothills.
The mountain range extended across the entire length of Russia’s border with Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia, between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, and was more than six hundred miles long and a hundred miles wide. Right now the mountains looked majestic and stunning, though Will knew that from ancient history to the recent second Chechen war they had been the location of numerous bloody battles and atrocities.
He drove off the road and followed a winding track that headed toward one high mountain. The incline grew steeper as he moved into a ravine; sheer ice-covered mountain walls rose up on either side of him. He reached a wooden gate with a sign indicating that the route beyond was private. The gate had been smashed open, probably by a vehicle.
Will drove forward; the mountain walls on either side of him were now only a foot away from the sides of his vehicle. They cast a dark shadow over the entire route ahead, their faces looming nine hundred feet over the track; above them was the severe incline of a mountain that was at least twelve thousand feet high. He put the car into low gear as the track further steepened. Its tires managed to maintain traction, despite the thick snow beneath them.
He braked suddenly. Two stationary vehicles were ahead of him. One of them was a four-ton military truck, the other a jeep. The smaller vehicle was on its side and was a mangled wreck. The truck was a burned-out shell. Will got out of his car and walked to the decimated vehicles. He looked at the jeep. The driver’s legs were missing; the rest of him had been shredded by bits of metal. Next to him was Captain Zaytsey. The Spetsnaz officer’s face was black and swollen, his blond hair completely singed away, and a large chunk of the jeep’s metal undercarriage was protruding from his gut. Will went to the rear of the truck and looked inside. What he saw was horrific. Ten men, ripped apart.
Shaking his head, he muttered, “You bastard.”
Razin had mined the route ahead, knowing that anyone who came here to get Sentinel either would die trying or would have to just turn around and leave the MI6 officer to his fate.
He was running out of time. The submarines would now be very close to Russia.
Will decided that there was one other way to get to the mountain lodge, a route that was in all probability every bit as perilous as a road containing high explosives. Opening his Bergen, he turned it upside down and emptied its contents onto the track. He donned the white balaclava, tactical goggles, and gloves, fixed the vertical- framed ice crampons to his boots, placed the MR-445 Varjag pistol and spare ammunition clips in his fleece jacket, and strapped the military knife and scabbard to his waist before putting his hands through the straps of the two mountaineering ice axes and gripping their handles. Head to toe, he was now dressed in white arctic warfare kit.
He looked at the sheer ice wall by his side, stepped up to it, and plunged both axes’ spikes into the ice above his head. Pulling himself off the ground, he simultaneously jabbed the crampons’ toe blades into the ice. The ice held his weight; he was satisfied that he could begin climbing. Straightening his legs, he pulled out one of the axes and dug it higher into the wall, then did the same with the other, pulling himself up and jabbing his crampons back into a new area of ice. He kept repeating the actions until he was three hundred feet above the track.
He looked down. The ravine was in near darkness, though he could see his SUV and the Spetsnaz vehicles. A light wind blew ice particles off the wall’s surface and coated his goggles. Wiping them clear, he looked up, dug his axes higher, and continued his ascent. After five minutes, he had covered another three hundred feet of the ice face. He rested for a few seconds, felt sweat underneath his balaclava and inner garments, and continued climbing. With every swing of his axes and thrust of his crampons, the pain in his body increased.
But he kept moving, hauling his big frame up the vertical mountainside a few feet at a time.
He was now 250 yards above the track. His breathing was labored, and his undergarments and balaclava
