The Alex King Series by A BATEMAN (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📕

Russian. I suppose it’s better wages, and the Euro is the currency of choice for Russians.” She asked if they required anything else, then left and took the order from the man who had been seated by one of the Russians.

Caroline shrugged. “Can’t say much to that,” she said. “You’re so bloody annoying when you’re right.”

King supped his soup. He twisted in some pepper and tore off a piece of bread to dip. “The question is; what do they want from us? Are they here solely to head off this defector? Or have they identified us as a threat and are planning to kill us?”

29

 

Neil Ramsay watched Rashid and Marnie head out of the dining room and into the lounge. They ordered drinks and took a pair of facing sofas in front of the log fire. The hotel had many alcoves and corners, all with open fires or woodburning stoves. It was that sort of place. After enjoying the skiing, snowmobile safaris, ice fishing for Arctic char and trout, or husky tours through the forest, or even simply sitting on the many carved-out logs which served as ornate seating in the grounds to watch the Northern Lights, people wanted to shed their bulky snow-wear in the lobby, sit with warming mugs of hot chocolate or stiff drinks and take comfort and warmth from a fire.

He had not wanted to eat alone, always preferring to order room service when he was traveling alone, but it was a good opportunity to get the layout of the hotel and size up the guests. He barely glanced at King and Caroline, who looked to be in the early stages of their meal. The waitress had taken his order and he had chosen a half-bottle of merlot to accompany his meatballs and mashed potatoes with celeriac. Hearty food to warm him through after his drive and time spent waiting for the funicular to take him through the man-made mountain to the hotel. He hadn’t travelled well enough prepared and only had a trench coat over his suit and a pair of thin woollen gloves. The receptionist and manager had looked at him quizzically as he had stood shivering at the desk, and the manager had disappeared for a few minutes while Ramsay had completed the check-in procedure and returned, handing him an all-in-one ski suit and pull-on thermal boots and gloves to use during his stay. He was a fish out of water in this environment and had taken his beer outside with him to sit on one of the ornately carved logs that dotted the front of the hotel to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights, and after only a few minutes had discovered just how quickly an already cold beer could freeze solid at -30°C. He had returned to the lounge, watched his drink melt slowly back to something resembling a child’s slushy in front of the log fire and reflected how he needed to get smart real soon. He had skied once as a teen with his university friends in the French Alps, but it wasn’t even half as cold as this, plus he had spent most of his time drunk and chasing the affections of the chalet maid with little success.

The waitress arrived with his food and before he had finished, Ramsay watched both King and Caroline leave. King held his hand over the small of her back. He was a fair amount taller than her, at around six-foot, and he was twice as broad. The gesture was caring and protective. Caroline momentarily touched the side of her head against his shoulder. Ramsay smiled. It was good to see them together. He was as surprised as everyone else that she should take off to work with Interpol, especially at having been separated from King so suddenly, so dramatically. The service psychologist had reported that it was because she was suffering from PTSD. Interpol was her coping mechanism. It made sense, but it was good to see her back. He asked the waitress for another drink and studied a tall, sharp-featured man as he entered the restaurant and was ushered to a corner table by a waiter. A strong-looking man in his late twenties with close-cropped dark hair and Slavic features. Possibly Russian going by his tattoos, although he doubted that. But as he started to discount the prospect, he reminded himself how close the hotel was to the Russian border.

Ramsay tucked into his meal. The meatballs were succulent, but he had no idea what meat they were made from. The sauce was rich and buttery and extremely dark. The mashed potatoes and celeriac were almost half cream. It was a delicious meal and he was pleased with his choice. He watched the waiter and the tall man exchange a few words, and then the waiter left, presumably with the man’s order. Ramsay was halfway through his meal when the waitress came to the man’s table and took his order. He thought it strange. Perhaps the waiter had forgotten to pass the order onto the chef? For the rest of his meal, he did not see the waiter again. And nor the barman, who should have arrived with his drink by now.

Ramsay took out his phone and typed out a text. He selected multiple contacts and pressed the send button. He caught the waitress’s eye and she ambled over. He relayed his drink order, asked if the barman had forgotten and got an apology and some mutterings about agency staff. He didn’t particularly care, just wanted his orange and lemonade to wash down the rich meal. He made it a point to only drink one alcoholic drink when he was working. He needed to keep his mind keen, and besides, he always felt tired when he drank. He could not afford to lose concentration. The waitress returned with his drink and an apology. The drink was on the hotel.