The figure, the “policeman”, drew his silenced pistol again and fired one round. The shot took out the right-hand camera and he darted forward, reaching into a pouch. From it he extracted a small device and, quickly unplugging the left-hand camera’s port, he inserted the device and replugged the assembly into it. He stepped back and extracted a small PDA and looked at it for a moment. Then he hit a button on the PDA turned his head and nodded.

* * *

As the snipers snapped down their periscopes a new vehicle appeared out of the woods of the distant mainland.

“Busy night,” the guard muttered, stepping out of the shack and slapping his mittened hands together to try to get some feeling in them.

“This is a restricted area,” the guard said, as the passenger slid down his window.

“I have a pass,” the man said.

The guard had no time to react to the sight of the silenced muzzle.

* * *

“Camera Four is out,” the intercom announced to Boris on his lonely vigil at the front desk. “And five just flickered. Go check it out.”

“Got it,” Boris sighed, picking up his walkie-talkie and trudging to the front door. He slid his card through the reader, a newfangled innovation in his opinion and totally unnecessary, and opened the door. The last thing he saw was the masked figure in front of him.

* * *

“Security, this is Boris.” The radio crackled with static and was half unreadable.

Markov set his bottle of vodka down and belched then pressed the microphone button. “Yes? What is wrong?”

“The plug came undone again in this damned wind,” Boris said. Or Markov thought he did, the reception was terrible. “There, how is that?”

The screen for the right-hand door camera flickered for a moment and then came to life. After a moment Boris stepped in view by the door. His head was down and covered by a heavy fur hat with the flaps down, but from the way his uniform was blowing it was reasonable wear for the out-of-doors.