James Steel - December

Alex Devereux knew something was wrong.

The man, on the other side of the street, was following him through the crowd of refugees streaming down the darkened Kings Road. It was snowing and the streetlights had already been switched off.

He looked like a drug-dealer: cheap anorak, unshaven, long black curly hair. But there was something about his features that made Alex think there was more to him than that; a lean, athletic face with watchful eyes.

Alex stared at the mans reflection in the window of an expensive antiques dealer. He showed up in the headlights of the stationary trafficthe Tube was now shut as well, and the roads were gridlocked. One reason he stood out was that this was such an exclusive neighbourhood. Alex could still see the clear difference between him and the crowds struggling along the pavement and weaving in and out of the traffic.

They were all wealthy commuters, well dressed in tailored coats, expensive fur hats, pashminas round their necksthe unlucky ones who had stayed at work whilst the power was still on and then missed the five oclock Tube curfew.

The drug-dealer had been tailing Alex ever since he had left his job interview with the private defence contractor in Victoria. He hadnt been a mercenary for many years not to do some basic fieldcraft checks, especially when he left one of those firms, and he had now seen him reflected in the windows of three shops when he had stopped to check.

Alex thought through his options as he pretended to take an interest in a chaise longue. Either the guy was an amateur or someone was in a big hurry to put a tail on him. Usually professionals would work with a team of three or four on a target if they didnt want to be seen.

Whatever the case, the question now was, what the hell was he going to do about him?

His immediate fear was that this was some sort of hit. He had been mixed up with enough unpleasant people since hed left the army for that to be possible. His first instinct was to head for his house and get the illegal Glock 9mm pistol that he kept taped under his desk; out here on the street he felt exposed. He turned and set off again into the crowds; the man detached himself from the wall opposite and followed.

The freezing wind blew heavy flakes into Alexs eyes; they nestled in his black hair, making it curl. He hunched his shoulders and stuck his chin down into the collar of his overcoat; he was broad-shouldered and stood out by a head over most of the crowd around him. He had a strong, masculine face with fine cheekbones. His expression was habitually thoughtful, but now it was distinctly dangerous.

Apart from his current personal threat, the country was also in crisis. It was only early December but this was already the worst winter since 1947: deep snowdrifts, railway lines frozen, coal trucks stuck in sidings and then, to top it all, the Russians had turned off the gas.

Such political trouble was bound to follow the global recession. Oil and gas prices had tanked, taking the Russian economy with them. With the instability, faction fighting had erupted in the Kremlin. Putin had tried to return to his old post of President but Medvedev had opposed him. The Kremlin had been split and then Medvedev had been deposed in a palace coup. His replacement as President, Viktor Krymov, was supposed to be a bureaucratic nonentity acceptable to both sides but had become increasingly unstable and aggressive. He had suspended the constitution, declared himself President for life and banned opposition groups.

Other events had heightened the international conflict. Russias annual energy blockade on Ukraine had backfired, uniting opposition to it within the country. Both Ukraine and Georgia had been fast-tracked into NATO, Krymov threatened military action and withdrew from the Intermediate Range Ballistic Missile Treaty. He then launched punitive bombing raids against Georgia, to punish it for joining NATO, destroying buildings and infrastructure in Tbilisi.

The EU reacted with outrage, imposing immediate economic sanctions on Russia. In response, Krymov called them fascist aggressors and cut off all gas supplies to Europe.

Around half of Europes gas supply came from Russian fields, and so power rationing had had to be implemented. The UK was badly hit because it had the most deregulated energy market in Europe; it had only a few days reserve storage.

No one could believe it was happening; it was like the 1979 Winter of Discontent all over again. Power was switched on from nine until five for business purposes but after that it was emergency services only. Petrol supplies were also running low as tankers struggled in the snow to get out from depots.

Predictably there had been a huge public outcry and angry scenes in Parliament. The PM was under a lot of pressure to do something: schools were shut and pensioners were freezing to death.

But there wasnt much he could do. Krymov had been rearming Russia, and his campaign of suppression against the media and the few remaining pro-democracy organisations in the country meant that there was no internal opposition. Russias vast nuclear arsenal meant that open war was just not an option.

Alex wasnt sure what to make of it all. Like most people, he thought Krymov was a lunatic but equally he didnt want the government to provoke a nuclear conflict over the issue. In the meantime a very Cold War had returned to Europe.

All Alex was focused on now, though, was getting his hands on the reassuring black grip of his Glock. He hurried past Wandsworth Bridge Road, casting a glance over his shoulder; the man was still following him on the opposite side of the street.

He carried on into well-heeled Fulham and finally turned left into Bradbourne Road, the quiet street where the Devereux family maintained their London residence when they were not in Herefordshire.

Well, that was how it was in the old days, anyway. Alexs alcoholic father had died recently and he had been having sporadic conversations with lawyerswhen the phones workedabout whether he could pay the death duties and keep the old hulk of Akerly, where his ancestors had been in residence for nearly a thousand years.

He increased his stride, eager to get home. He scanned the tree-lined avenue ahead, with its smart Victorian houses. Nobody was visible on the pavements but there was a new Range Rover, with blacked-out windows, parked over the road from his house.

There wasnt anything unusual about thatit could just be a neighbour who had brought it up from the country to get about in the snow, but Alex hadnt seen it before and the tinted glass was worrying. He grasped his keys inside his coat pocket in readiness for a quick entry and eyed the vehicle warily as he came up to his front gate; he was now trapped between it and the threat behind him.

Two doors on the car popped open and two men moved out fast.

Fuck, it is a hit!

He frantically shoved open the gate and ran to his front door. The key seemed too big for the lock; he fumbled with it, his back exposed to the danger.

Major Devereux! The bark cut across the street like a shot.

Alex froze; he hadnt been in the army for years not to recognise the unmistakably commanding tones of Sandhurst English.

He stopped fumbling with the key and turned round.

A young man walked across the road. He was tall, his blond hair scraped into a short back and sides, and he had a beaky, aristocratic nose. He was wearing a full officers uniform: green jacket, tie, Sam Browne belt and all.

Lieutenant Grieve-Smith, sir, H Cav!

The Household CavalryAlexs old division.

If he really was army, then that meant the guy who had been tailing him was as well. It clicked nowhe knew where he had seen that sort of face before: Special Forces blokes, scruffy but highly disciplined at the same time.