Free The Killing Game by Toni Anderson Page B

the Navy and RAF, plus a high-ranking official from the Home Office— total wanker —were under the supposed authority of some spotty youth from the MOD. The kid, who looked like he knew more about videogames than warfare, had told them they had to wait for additional security clearance before any of them would be allowed inside the restricted access areas of Aldermaston. The others had been pissed off. Jonathon had been grudgingly impressed.
    What could it be? Something nuclear? That was France’s strength and Aldermaston’s primary business. Or something chemical or biological? Both strictly prohibited under international law, but everyone did it anyway. How else were you going to keep ahead of the terroristsand crazy-ass dictators?
    The clods in the MOD understood little except furthering their own careers and making sure budget cuts didn’t touch their desks, but the scientists at Aldermaston—despite their spotty countenances—were the real deal. It was the home of Britain’s Atomic Weapons Establishment, a place where Spitfires had been manufactured during World War II and where the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament had protested most loudly during the Eighties. His palms were damp from heat and excitement. This was one of the most thrilling opportunities of his life and he’d thought his glory days were over. Now he had the inside track on Britain’s future defenses and budding military strengths—all because a ghost from his past had resurrected himself from the dead.
    The irony.
    The bench creaked as a man sat beside him. The sight of the pockmarked face brought a shiver of repulsion over Jonathon’s skin. With a gusty sigh the gentleman set another copy of The Times on the bench between them.
    The Russian Ambassador’s Chief of Security smiled, showing off straight new teeth. His eyes narrowed with enough enjoyment to stir the embers of unease inside Jonathon’s chest. It had been a long time since Valisky had played errand boy.
    He waited for him to get to the point. A long beat of silence insulated them from the throngs of tourists and lunching City workers. “I hear an old friend of yours turned up in Pakistan.”
    “What of it?” Jonathon allowed his outrage to show. A true, blue-blooded Brit being accosted by a nasty communist.
    “Do you think he realizes who the new prime minister is?” Valisky’s eyes didn’t alter when he smiled. “Or rather, who his father was ?”
    The first sliver of fear slipped under Jonathon’s skin. “How could he?”
    “Less than a month after Sebastian Allworth’s son gets voted into power and the wolf shows his face again?”
    “Coincidence.” Jonathon unclenched his fists and rested his hands along his thighs.
    “Well, if he is alive, I bet he remembers you , Mr. Boyle. He did try to kill you in Yemen.”
    Jonathon did not trust Valisky. He didn’t trust anyone. Nevertheless, this was an old game they’d been playing since they’d been small boys in a Russian orphanage and there was too much at stake to risk exposure. “Dmitri Volkov is a fool. We all thought he was dead.”
    “That’s what he wanted you to think, so maybe he isn’t quite the fool we all wanted to believe.”
    Rage flickered over his vision in a haze of patriotic red. “What does he want?” Jonathon could think of no reason for Volkov to return to the limelight when all he’d achieve was a quick and violent death.
    “Revenge?” Valisky’s expression was sly. “To destroy the man who destroyed him?”
    “Men,” Jonathon corrected with bite. “The men who destroyed him.”
    “You asked for my help. I helped.” Valisky shrugged, then looked away—perhaps remembering exactly how he’d brought Volkov down. “His family disappeared.” Those shrewd black eyes looked back at him. “He has to be up to something.”
    Jonathon closed his eyes and raised his face to the heat of the sun. “The SAS are after him.”
    “So are Spetsnaz.”
    “And what happens if British and