Man on Ice

by Humphrey Hawksley

  He shone the beam straight at Carrie, making her squint. ‘Ozenna used your phone, Carrie. We traced it to you.’ Yumatov recited the Brooklyn number with the 718 prefix. ‘He sent a message to a number that we have traced to a Mrs Stephanie Lucas, British Ambassador to the United States. Before that, she was ambassador to Moscow.’

  The oppression of a surveillance state closed in on Carrie. Russian security would have tracked her visits to Moscow. She had talked on medical panels there. They might even have her night on the town with Stephanie. There was no point in not telling Yumatov. ‘I gave the phone to Captain Ozenna.’

  Yumatov dropped the flashlight beam, then brought it straight back again into her eyes. ‘You need to help me bring your lover in, to stop things getting worse.’

  ‘Then you go find him,’ Carrie said calmly, keeping her rage in check.

  Yumatov’s tone steeled with anger. ‘He committed murder in front of a seven-year-old boy. You cannot love this man. For God’s sake, Dr Walker, help me before he kills more people.’

  ‘Don’t sound so lame, Colonel. Rake’s a soldier and that’s what soldiers do: kill people.’

  Real fury flickered across Yumatov’s face. Carrie’s refusal would be putting his job and the comfortable lives of his wife and young children at risk. Soldiers tried to take her arms, but Carrie ripped herself free and quickly put on her mask and hood before she was led outside into a curtain of cold. It was now so clear she could see the hillside and flashing red lamps on top. A soldier handed Yumatov a microphone. He tapped it. A clicking sound came from public address speakers placed around the village.

  ‘Captain Raymond Ozenna, Rake, this is Colonel Ruslan Yumatov.’ His voice was crisp and firm. ‘You need to give yourself in. You will be treated fairly, according to law.’

  The wind had gone. They could hear the hum of the generator and a Russian helicopter in the distance. Yumatov let the microphone dangle, then lifted it again and said, ‘I understand you won’t listen to me, Rake. But Carrie is here, and she will speak to you.’

  He held out the microphone to her. Carrie didn’t move.

  EIGHTEEN

  Little Diomede, Alaska, USA

  Through the green night vision of a telescopic sight, Rake watched Carrie face Yumatov down. Clouds of breath seeped through her mask. She was alive and acting her familiar stubborn self. Even though that made her less safe, a sense of relief flooded through Rake. Yumatov was learning fast. Rake heard Yumatov making his appeal and Carrie refusing to take the microphone. He feared for what Yumatov might have on her. Did he know that Carrie was half-Russian, that her parents were from the glory days of the Soviet era? How would he use that? Or, better still, how would she?

  Rake glimpsed Timo, stepping into the light, then moving back again. The boy was still in his green fur jacket, but what caught Rake’s attention was that the Russian soldier with him was wearing not regular uniform, but the white Arctic thermal suit of the American Eskimo scouts with the badges torn off. From the easy manner with which he handled Timo, Rake thought this might be Nikita Tuuq. The last time they met, Tuuq was attached to Russian special forces of the Arctic Joint Strategic Command. The first time they met was when Rake was a child.

  He zoomed in on the figure, who kept moving between light and shadow as if he knew how not to be identified. Which convinced Rake that it was Tuuq. If so, was it coincidence? Did Tuuq happen to be the guy on shift, or did the Russians know all about Tuuq and Rake? Either way, Tuuq was being deployed to bring Rake in, which gave Tuuq a just cause to complete unfinished business. There was no way he would let Rake get away this time. If they met, only one of them would walk away alive. Rake lowered the night-vision sight to watch with the naked eyes and assess. Would Carrie and the others be safer if he surrendered now or if he kept going? The same question echoed back to him, but this time with Tuuq center frame. As soon as he surrendered, he would be living a death sentence and Carrie and the hostages would be no safer. If he kept going, the one thing Rake knew was that in head-to-head combat Tuuq would beat him.

  As a child Tuuq was sullen, small for his age and wafer-thin. But on the ice, he had the strength of a giant, and the way he handled a sled and dogs had left Rake in awe. Henry had brought Rake and Ondola to the Russian settlement of Uelen for a reunion with the families from the Russian side of the Diomedes, where the Soviets had forcibly resettled them during the cold war. It was the harshest winter, and they had travelled by jeep, dog sled, even on horseback to get there. Henry had hoped to find Rake’s father, reunite him with his ten-year-old son, and persuade him to come back.

  Tuuq, two years older, had challenged Rake to a race, each with a sled and one dog. The Uelen settlement stood on a long and narrow strip of land with the sea on one side and a lagoon on the other. Tuuq said they would race from two miles out with Ondola staying back on the finishing line as judge. He led Rake through rugged and cracked ice, a more weather-worn landscape than anything he had seen around the Diomedes. There were streaks of blackness like curving rivers and ridges that blocked the path and stood like dominoes. Thick fog patches moved faster than dogs and suddenly blurred everything then vanished, leaving light and clarity. Wind screamed all the time.

  Rake’s dog was a lean restless black and white husky. His name was Buka, meaning bad temper. Rake was good at calming dogs and on the way out to the start line he had soothed Buka, gently familiarizing him with his command. Before they started, Tuuq walked over, knelt on the snow next to Rake’s sled, tilted back his head and cried out with a long undulating howl that sounded exactly like a dog in pain. It chilled Rake and made the huskies skittish.

  Back on his own sled, Tuuq let off a whistle to which Buka reacted by sprinting forward. Rake could not control him. The husky veered through broken ice, taking the sled within inches of jagged ice pillars. Terrified, Rake pulled back on the straps, but Buka ran faster and more erratically until without warning his forelegs buckled under him. The dog fell in a violent somersault. The sled smashed into his back. As Rake was hurled forward he heard the crunch of Buka’s breaking bones. He lay, listening to the barking howl of Buka’s pain.

  Tuuq arrived laughing. He drew a knife, cut Buka’s throat, and held the bloodied blade inches from Rake’s face. ‘Go home, you yellow Yankee coward,’ he sneered. ‘Or I’ll make you howl to the moon like a dog.’

  Tuuq sledded off towards the settlement. Hours later, Ondola found Rake, who was close to hypothermia with a broken leg. Much longer, and Rake would have died. Tuuq had refused to show Ondola where he was. The next day, Henry took them away. He had failed to find Rake’s father. No one had seen him for months. A week later, safely back on Little Diomede and with Rake’s leg healing, Henry apologized for taking him there and told him the whole story about his father sleeping with Tuuq’s mother, which probably made them half-brothers. If Tuuq had the chance, Henry warned, he would try to kill him again.

  A couple of years back, Rake and Ondola had met Tuuq again on a joint US-Russian military exercise. Tuuq was uncommunicative, but he stayed professional and he competed hard. At the end of the week, like a footballer, Tuuq gave Rake his army hat. Rake gave him his white snow gear, which Tuuq was now wearing.

  Rake watched as Timo slipped out of sight. Tuuq kept moving, feather-like, gliding, at home with the ice as if he knew Rake was there. Yes, Tuuq had been sent here to get him, brother against brother, Eskimo against Eskimo. For the kill. Because this was Tuuq.

  He studied Carrie again and guessed she had made up her mind and wouldn’t do what Yumatov asked. An air of foreboding hung between them. There was something fearless about Carrie when she was in a corner. It was up to the Russians to decide how to handle her.

  Yumatov handed the microphone back to a soldier. Tuuq stepped into view, stationary and exposed. Timo stood behind him. Yumatov, much taller, leant down to hear what Tuuq was saying. Then he issued an order. Two soldiers took Carrie’s arms and led her back towards the school.

  NI
NETEEN

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Stephanie met Kevin Slater’s car as he arrived back at the White House and took him straight to the East Garden. They walked side by side, trailed by the Secret Service agents and officers from Britain’s Specialist Protection Command. Light snow fell.

  ‘I’ve got you a chair in the Situation Room,’ she said. ‘There’ll be a camera there.’

  Slater made clear his irritation. ‘You brought me back here for a photo-op?’

  ‘A defining image, sir. Britain at the heart—’

  ‘If I’m seen in that room, it means I sign off on whatever Swain or Holland decide.’

  ‘It means you’ll be better informed on what to decide.’

  ‘Don’t blinker me, Stephanie,’ said Slater. ‘I will not be conned into siding with the Americans.’

  Stephanie stopped under the trees on the frost-covered lawn. She had anticipated a showdown, which was why she had brought them out here. ‘When history’s written, your party, your beliefs, your manifesto will be forgotten. You will be remembered for what you do right now as events unfold today. You are now a world leader, not an activist running the parliamentary opposition.’

  Slater sounded not just unconvinced, but also insulted. ‘If I involve myself at all it will be to call Lagutov and not to sit like a puppet with the President of the United States. People remember Blair.’

  Stephanie ratcheted up her tone. ‘And what exactly will you say to Lagutov? Please get off that island?’

  Salter was not retreating. ‘I’ll explore a settlement. It’s what I do well.’

  Neither would she. ‘This isn’t a car factory in the Midlands. It’s not a pay negotiation. Nor is it about a single island. It’s about Russia challenging America. If you explore a settlement you risk putting your name to a stumbling, failing peace initiative.’

  Visibly taken aback by Stephanie’s bluntness, Slater said, ‘I will not blindly follow America into another of its pointless wars.’

  ‘Then show leadership in Europe.’

  ‘Coming from you, that’s rich, as you were so keen for us to leave.’

  ‘I’m talking about Europe, sir, not the European Union.’

  Slater looked at her sharply. He had been an energetic advocate for Britain’s role in Europe. Before he could respond, Stephanie continued, ‘Lagutov is relying on two elements, the vulnerability of the presidential transition and a divided Europe. You have the capacity to prove them wrong on Europe.’

  ‘How, when they barely listen to a word we have to say any more?’ He stared at her angrily, brushing melting snow off his face.

  Stephanie deliberately switched to his first name. ‘Make them listen, Kevin. You are the best orator I have ever heard, and you’re new. You might not like America, but it represents who we are. Russia does not. America’s values, based on our values, have allowed you, a watchmaker’s son from Yorkshire, to become the Prime Minister of Great Britain. If we don’t help them at a time like this, why should they continue to defend us? Don’t mess with this moment, sir. Do you really want to cede all we have fought for over the centuries to Russia’s Eurasian Economic Union and, for that matter, China’s Greater East Asia Prosperity Sphere?’

  ‘What’s China got to do with it?’ His voice level dropped with genuine curiosity.

  ‘Apparently, Chinese money is being used to fund the Russian operation.’

  ‘Do we know that?’

  Stephanie shared his alarm. Britain was thick with Chinese deals, power stations, technology, infrastructure. ‘It’s the only country rich enough. At present, we don’t know if it’s state-sponsored. But that’s for later. Right now, I am advising that you have your picture taken in the Situation Room with President Swain. That’s it, sir. Show that you’re a leader and whose side you’re on. Then we hit the phones on Europe.’

  ‘You’re persuasive, Stephanie. I concede that.’

  ‘Is that a “yes”?’

  ‘It’s an “I’ll think about it”.’

  Matt Prusak stepped onto the White House terrace at the other end of the garden, and signaled to Stephanie.

  ‘It has to be now.’ She touched Slater’s elbow to start them heading back.

  Slater walked with her. ‘What are the numbers? Germany and France aside, we would have Poland, Estonia, Lithuania, Latvia, Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Kosovo, Serbia—’

  ‘Maybe not Serbia,’ said Stephanie. ‘And we might have a problem with Hungary and Poland.’

  ‘Italy, Portugal, Spain, Greece …’

  ‘Greece will need a bribe.’

  ‘When hasn’t it?’

  As they approached, Holland joined Prusak on the terrace, checking his watch.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Slater.

  Stephanie didn’t know, but it would make sense to have Holland in the photo-op with the President of the United States and the leader of its closest ally. She tried to catch Prusak’s eye, but Holland, his forefinger raised, was reprimanding the White House Chief of Staff. Prusak listened calmly. Slater and Stephanie climbed the short flight of steps to the terrace. Holland fell silent.

  ‘Prime Minister, thank you for your time,’ said Prusak.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Slater.

  ‘No, sir. Could you and the President-elect follow the Secret Service agents to the Situation Room, where the President will brief you?’

  Slater glanced at Stephanie who shrugged, trying to convince him that she hadn’t known and wasn’t out to deceive her Prime Minister. Shit happens. Ride with it. Holland and Slater left.

  ‘Holland blew a fuse because Slater’s in on the briefing,’ said Prusak when they had gone. ‘But we have another problem. The NSA is picking up all traffic coming out of Moscow. Holland made a call to the Kremlin from Blair House.’

  Stephanie raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Holland called Lagutov? To say what?’

  ‘To warn him, just like he said. We don’t know Lagutov’s response because we haven’t broken their code, but judging from the rise in Holland’s tone, it wasn’t a friendly exchange. He said Russia needed to realize that the United States would be the predominant global power for decades to come. If Lagutov didn’t understand that now, he would two days from now, and if Lagutov wanted a fight he’d picked the wrong enemy.’

  Trump had broken many of the protocols of transition, but nothing during a running crisis.

  ‘Can you rein him in, confront him?’

  ‘He doesn’t know we know.’

  ‘What’s the President doing?’

  ‘He’s with Holland in the Situation Room right now, and if you want me to say more I will have to hold you to the letter of your security clearance. You don’t even tell Slater.’

  Stephanie had a duty to tell her Prime Minister but a wider duty to know as much as possible about what was going on. ‘Fine,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘The President has done what any of us would have done. Holland’s call might prompt Lagutov to pre-empt, so he’s—’

  ‘Gone to a higher level of readiness?’

  His voice dropped to almost a whisper. ‘An hour ago we were at DEFCON 4. Not any more.’

  DEFCON categorized levels of military readiness against attack and could vary from unit to unit. In this case, if she were Swain, she would raise the DEFCON level on the United States Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM) and the units dealing with the Arctic and Europe. The difference between the two highest levels was timing. At DEFCON 2 nuclear weapons would be ready to engage within six hours. DEFCON 1 was the equivalent of putting a round in the chamber and cocking the hammer.

  ‘Two?’ she asked.

  ‘One,’ said Prusak. ‘He had no choice.’

  If two countries have nuclear weapons, the weaker one will fire first. If it doesn’t, it will lose. And Russia was weaker than America. Stephanie said, ‘We always have choices, Matt. The President made the right one.’

&nbs
p; TWENTY

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Prusak led Stephanie through the main busy area of the Situation Room to a compact conference suite on the left. Swain, Slater, and Holland sat around a small table, their body language stiff. Holland played with his cufflinks. Swain made notes on a pad. Slater looked at Stephanie, his eyes accusing.

  ‘There’s no protocol here,’ said Prusak to Stephanie. ‘Take any seat.’ Swain was at the head of a table with only three chairs on each side. Stephanie sat with Slater, Prusak beside Holland.

  ‘The attack on the Fed, the murder of Roy, Lucy, and the others, is brutal,’ said Swain. ‘But in strategic terms, the impact is minimal. The occupation of Little Diomede is symbolic—’

  ‘Symbolic? With eighty hostages?’ interrupted Holland. ‘And a terror strike in the heart of the American capital?’

  ‘If you want European support, I suggest you get your ducks in a row,’ intervened Slater. ‘You cannot take for granted that European leaders who are America’s allies now will transfer their allegiance to your presidency.’

  ‘Hold a moment.’ Prusak turned up one of the television screens showing Russia Today. The scene was the school gymnasium, laughter between villagers and soldiers, displays of medical equipment, school books and games for the children. The newscast moved to split-screen with the anchor on one side and, on the other, a still photograph of an old document in Cyrillic script described as the original treaty of the 1867 Alaska Purchase.

  ‘The nerve of it!’ she exclaimed, then she stood up to point to a line of words on the document. ‘They’ve changed this sentence and are claiming that the original agreement states that the border runs twelve miles east of Little Diomede, putting it right up against the US coastline.’ She paused, glancing through the document. ‘The rest of the treaty, all seven articles, seems exactly the same as what we have on record.’

  The screen returned to the newscaster. Stephanie listened, then said, ‘She’s saying the seven point two million America paid for Alaska is the equivalent of one hundred and fourteen million today. That would barely buy an apartment block in New York. It was two cents an acre, which would make the land worth thirty cents an acre today. So, it was theft.’