6

On Thin Ice

Ethan eventually found himself back in Swanbeck's office, describing the events of the day. Luther and Sean were also present, although Salamander, who should really have been there, wasn't. Swanbeck had explained that Wray's son was playing ice hockey at the local rink, and so Seymour couldn't make it. He would, however, appreciate it if Ethan would stop by after the game and give him a run down of events.

As Ethan talked, he found himself unable to stop yawning. He had had an incredibly busy day, and it was quite late at night now. He had been to Russia and back, after all.

He finished the story by telling Swanbeck about the slight chronological error he had discovered.

"So you say that you met Petravich… after he was dead?" asked Swanbeck, incredulously.

"Probably not, no. I think I've worked it out. I was in disguise, as Mikhail Volanakov, remember?"

"Yes."

"Wait a minute," said Sean. "You mean… the guy you met, he was also in disguise? It wasn't Petravich at all?"

Ethan nodded. "That's what I think."

Luther spoke up. "But, how did he have access to the same kind of technology we do? I thought we were the only organisation with access to the equipment needed to make a realistic face mask."

"We are," said Swanbeck. A sudden chill swept through the room. They all reached the same conclusion at the same time.

"The person behind this…" started Swanbeck.

"… is an IMF agent," the other three men finished in unison.

"Oh, not again," moaned Ethan. "Okay, I can give you Sean Ambrose – he was a sex-crazed psychopath. And then there was Jim Phelps… well, I frankly didn't believe that should have happened. But another one?"

"Well, the question remains as to who exactly is behind this plot. Okay, we've ruled out the Mafiya. The chap Ethan talked to told us that Darter and Maxwell Vane are both working for an American. That would support the possibility of it being one of our agents. So who, then?"

"Well," Sean began, thinking aloud, "it had to be someone who knew about our movements. Someone who knew we were going to LA, and also someone who knew about the meeting with the Mafiya. Someone we wouldn't notice. Maybe someone who has had dealings with the likes of Darter before."

Ethan leapt to his feet. He had finally worked out what had been bothering him. "And someone who couldn't have seen inside a car unless they personally were inside it!" he yelled. He ran to the door.

"Ethan?" said Swanbeck uncertainly. "Where are you going? What are you talking about?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Ethan demanded.

"Um, is it?" ventured Luther.

"Yes! Think about it. Who knew all about the mission, right from the start, and is the last person you'd suspect?"

"Who?" The other three asked, looking at him.

Ethan told them. "And I know where to find him," he added, running out.

Things had come full circle now. Ethan had begun his mission standing in a freezing place, his breath crystallising in front of him. Now he was in exactly the same position.

The guard had let him into the ice rink, despite the fact that there was no game on tonight. And Ethan knew why, of course. The "guard" was actually Maxwell Vane, who didn't know that Ethan recognised him.

Ethan took a seat directly opposite the large glass box that the commentators would sit in. At the moment, it was shrouded in darkness. But Ethan was in no doubt that it was where the true villain of the piece would make his appearance.

Sure enough, the lights suddenly came on, blinding Ethan. When his eyes adjusted, he saw who was in the box, confirming his suspicions.

"Good evening, Mr Hunt," said Seymour "Salamander" Wray, his voice booming out of the loudspeakers.

"Good evening, Salamander."

Wray laughed. "You're not surprised?"

Ethan shrugged. "I had already worked it out."

Wray looked impressed. "How come?"

"Well, we realised that it was an IMF agent who impersonated Petravich, and I remembered that you had set up that meeting. You were also the one overseeing my trip to Los Angeles. And I remembered that Swanbeck had mentioned that Morgan Darter had tried to kill you a while back. From what I saw of Darter, the fact that you're still alive is suspicious enough. But what really convinced me was a mistake you made."

Salamander smiled. "The fact that there wasn't an ice hockey game on tonight? Or that I don't even have a son?"

"No. It was something you said when I got back from Russia the first time. You knew I had killed one of the guards in the car. It only occurred to me later: the satellite couldn't see through the roof of the Jeep. So how could you have known that one of them was shot? I didn't tell you. No, the only plausible explanation was that you were actually in the vehicle – wearing Vladimir Petravich's face!"

Seymour Wray clapped his hands slowly, applauding Ethan. "Well done, my boy, well done. You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"

"Not quite," replied Ethan. "I'm wondering how I didn't recognise someone like you as a fake from the moment you kissed me as Petravich."

Now Wray laughed. "Observe," he said.

He reached up to his long, greasy hair, and –

Ethan stared. It was a wig. Wray threw it off, revealing his true hair – short, blond and spiky. Then he reached into his mouth and pulled out the awful teeth, which had covered his own perfect white ones. He ripped off the fake moustache, too. And then he undid something behind his back. The flabby stomach dropped to the ground. Finally, he straightened up. Now that he was no longer hunching, it added a good foot to his height.

Wray was actually a young man, no older than twenty five, with blond hair and an impressive physique. He was the sort that girls found extremely attractive. The difference to how Ethan knew him was shocking.

"Well?" said the new and improved Salamander. It was difficult to connect this man with the slimy creature that had been there before, but Ethan was too used to calling him Salamander to stop now.

"I'm speechless," he managed.

"Good, because I'm talking now, and I want you to listen. Please turn your attention to the ice."

Ethan's eyes were drawn downwards to the ice, an area about the size of a swimming pool that was between Salamander and himself. Something was sitting in the very middle of it. Leaning forward, Ethan saw – with a sinking feeling – that it was a bottle of red wine.

"No doubt you can guess what is in the bottle," boomed Wray. "I'm going to treat you to a demonstration of the true power of Firestorm."

He raised something that from this distance looked like a mobile phone. Wray grinned at Ethan. "Your number's up," he said. And pressed a button.

It was almost like a flower bursting into bloom. Either that, or a demonic hand from Hell punching through the ground. The second one is probably more appropriate.

The wine bottle transformed into a tower of flames, that quickly sent out bolts of flame in all directions. That was all Ethan saw, as he ran for a nearby fire escape (horribly apt, he thought as he ran towards it). The plastic seats all around him were melting. Knowing what would happen if he didn't make it gave Ethan an extra burst of speed, and just as he felt the flames licking at his back he burst through the doors. He threw himself to the ground outside, just as another jet blasted over the spot he had just occupied. Had he still been standing, he would have been roasted alive.

He looked back at the ice rink. The building had turned into a huge ball of flame, but Ethan had no doubt that Salamander had escaped. He himself was fortunate enough to be alive.

He got wearily to his feet. He knew that they had to stop Wray, but he had no idea where he had gone, along with Vane.

Firestorm had been used three times now. First, it destroyed an entire skyscraper. Then, Ethan's car. And now an ice rink. The power of the weapon was incredible. And Wray presumably had a lot more of it.

The question was, what was Wray going to do with it?