Death in Siberia
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The Cold War is dead but Russia's ambitions continue to rage...The Kremlin is holding its leading nuclear physicist prisoner at a military facility above the Arctic Circle. The reason? Professor Kryuchkov's ground-breaking discovery could save the world...and destroy Russia's economy. Former KGB agent Anna Resnikov is sent from America to confirm or deny rumours of Kryuchkov's breakthrough. But the physicist has already taken action. And when police detective Alexei Petrov discovers the formula hidden on a corpse, he is desperate to decipher its meaning. Following Anna Resnikov to the Arctic city of Norilsk, their linked fates end in a thrilling, terrifying climax in the icy wastes of Russia's northernmost territories...
untoward before they were upon it. Finally, Larry told the steersman to take the boat on to a small spit of ice-covered shingle. It was the bay before the pick-up point and he wanted to reconnoitre before exposing them to whatever lay beyond, stay behind the cover of more iced rock. He wanted to land, and look, crawl up the gentle ice and rock slope and carefully spy over the ridge at the top and survey the place where he hoped she’d be. And, at that moment, one of the others, an eagle-eyed
choked their butane and petrol fumes into the air and moved in and out in the constant ballet of journeys begun and ended. Over to the side, there were stalls selling fruit and cigarettes. And everywhere milling groups of travellers, loaded with bags and boxes of electrical goods to take home from the city, while others arrived with sacks of produce to sell at the markets. It was just the sort of mayhem that did nicely. Clay walked into the covered area under a concrete portico to where the
time did she have? Enough time to reach Igarka? Maybe. Then, with luck, she could lose herself in the vast tundra to the north. She began to prepare for what lay ahead. She walked back towards the docks, avoiding Sverdlovsk Street and the market where she’d first met the babas. She stopped to buy a small bag and some good boots and warm clothes to replace the belongings she had left at the apartment block, as well as to buy provisions for the journey. Finally, in a dead-end alley where even
to Petrov, or maybe he was just one of those pumped-up, American super-sportsmen. ‘Are there? Are there shamans among your people?’ Clay persisted. Petrov paused and frowned. ‘They went underground in the Soviet period,’ he explained finally. ‘But there are still some, yes. Very few real ones now. It’s a thing that used to get passed down in families, to women as well as men. But when the Russians forced our people into their schools, they broke the connection. Maybe we can find you a shaman
than the soldiers on the road, eyeing the whole queue of vehicles for any unusual movement. The roof of the guardhouse bristled with temporary communications equipment and there was a machine-gun emplacement next to it, surrounded by sandbags. Next to and behind the guardhouse she saw several trailers drawn up in a haphazard formation; for accommodation, perhaps, and no doubt here’d be a kitchen and a bathhouse of sorts. Between the guardhouse and the trailers, around the perimeter of the