Operation: Siberia

- 8 -

The night drew on. Waterston finally abandoned the bottle, and the three scientists, and Private Wiggins, slept, but Banks’ brain wouldn’t allow him the luxury. He went back up front and joined Hynd and McCally.

Hynd nodded toward the main door.

“There’s something out there, Cap. If you stand quiet long enough, you’ll hear it, sniffing and snuffling.”

Banks was now thinking about Volkov, or rather his body, left lying out there, like the carrion they’d seen laid out for the birds. He guessed something was taking advantage of a free meal, but didn’t share his speculations as to what it might be. He checked his watch, and was surprised to see that it was only just past midnight. They had a long stretch of dark still ahead of them before there was any promise of morning.

“Cally, can you see if there’s any way you can rustle me up a coffee? It’s either that or the whisky bottle, and I’m getting sorely tempted.”

“You and me both, Cap,” McCally replied, and headed off to the buffet area to check the under-counter cupboards. Hynd lit a cigarette and puffed out two expert rings before speaking.

“Did you get anything useful out of the prof?”

“Not much,” Banks replied. “He was more interested in getting inside the whisky bottle. And I can’t say as I blame him. God, this is a fucked-up mess.”

“Another in a long line of them,” Hynd said and smiled grimly. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks, Cap.”

“When we get back, remind me to ask for a raise,” Banks said.

McCally returned with coffee for the three of them.

“I found a wee machine,” he said. “And it’s the best of stuff, Colombian Dark Roast. We’ve got plenty of it too.”

“Small mercies,” Banks said, and sipped at the strong, bitter brew thankfully.

When the time came round for Wiggins’ watch, Hynd spoke up.

“Let the lad sleep, Cap. The coffee’s got me wired anyway, and between that and the fags, I’m too strung out to get a kip. I’ll keep you company.”

McCally went up the back to pick a seat. As he did so, he nudged one of the sleeping scientists, the West Country man, who came awake slowly and blearily, rose out of his chair, and came forward to Banks and Hynd.

He spoke to Hynd first.

“I could do with one of those smokes if I could?” he said.

Hynd handed him a cigarette, got out another at the same time, and seconds later, both men were puffing away. At one time, Banks would have happily joined them, but that was one habit he at least had under control.

“Sorry—I never caught your name,” he said to the scientist.

“Galloway. Harry Galloway,” the man said. “I’m the primate specialist.”

“What’s a primatologist doing on this trip?” Hynd asked. But with that one word, a whole lot of things immediately fell into place in the jigsaw puzzle Banks had been working on in his head.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “Tell me it’s not a fucking oversized gorilla?”

Galloway lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

“We’re not sure it’s anything at all,” he said. “But Volkov was spending money on gene-splicing equipment and materials that were very specifically targeted towards apes—and the big apes in particular.

“King fucking Kong. That’s all we need,” Banks said. “But it might explain the hidden cell behind the steel door out back, and what had frightened that team of Russians.”

“And it might explain how we ended up locked in here for the night?” Hynd said.

“I bloody hope not,” Galloway answered, but Banks saw sudden doubt, and fear, behind the man’s eyes.

By three in the morning, Banks was thinking he might manage to get some sleep, and was about to wake Wiggins when the plane was nudged again from outside, harder this time, and with more intent.

“Heads up, guys,” Banks said. “We’ve got a visitor.”

The fuselage rocked and then fell over on its left, hitting the runway hard. Scientists, liquor bottles, empty glasses, and cold meats tumbled across the cabin. Banks only stayed upright by hanging onto the outside door handle.

A roar sounded outside, deep and grumbling, then the plane rocked again as it was hit hard. Metal scraped and screeched on stone as they were pushed along, coming to a halt with a jolt when they fell off the runway onto softer ground.

Metal screeched again, tearing this time, the sound coming from the cockpit at the front. The cabin sat skewed at a thirty-degree angle, the slope confusing the eye at first until Banks got himself wedged against the wall. He counted down from three on the fingers of his left hand as he put his right on the cockpit door; Hynd and McCally were already lined up as he threw the door open.

They were just in time to see the pilot’s body get pulled all the way out of the window and away. Hynd and McCally fired, but they were already too late. All they saw was a glimpse of a huge gray, striped flank and the swish of a long tail as the cave lion dragged the pilot’s corpse away into the night.