by L. A. Larkin
‘Dr Price?’
‘Call me Stacy.’
‘Stacy, I’m still not clear what you’ve discovered. Michael’s talked about micro-organisms and how “alien” they are, but in what way are they alien?’
Price swivels on her stool to face Wolfe.
‘This lab is pretty basic, as you can see. The real work starts when the samples reach Cambridge. But I’m in no doubt we’ve discovered a new species of bacteria. Given it’s survived for thousands, if not millions of years, cut off from the rest of the biosphere and in total darkness, it’s not surprising it’s unlike anything we’ve seen before.’
Professor Matthews walks in.
‘All water and sediment samples are safely stored. I’m off to join the others. Coming?’
‘Later,’ says Price.
‘Come on, Stacy. Enjoy the moment,’ Matthews urges. ‘You too, Toby.’
Both shake their heads.
‘What about you, Olivia? Dinner’s almost ready.’
It’s three in the morning, but Wolfe is hungry. She promises to join him shortly and Matthews leaves.
‘Why are the samples in cylinders in an ice cave?’ Wolfe asks. ‘Are you worried they’re hazardous?’
‘Not at all. Here, let me show you.’
Sinclair momentarily looks up from the microscope and gives Price a hard stare. She is so focused on the grey cylinder she’s holding up, she doesn’t notice. The cylinder looks similar to a small diver’s air tank, but no larger than a thermos flask.
‘The subglacial lake’s under a lot of pressure from heavy ice above,’ Price says. ‘So we have to maintain that same pressure at the surface, otherwise the organisms will get the bends, like divers. Such a sudden change in pressure will kill them. So these titanium cylinders were designed just for this expedition - to keep the microbes in the dark and at the right pressure.’
‘But why in an ice cave?’ Wolfe persists.
‘Best way to keep them at a temperature they’re used to.’
But not very secure. Wolfe doesn’t know how much, if anything, Heatherton has conveyed to his team about his sabotage theory.
‘They’re precious, one of a kind. What’s to stop someone tampering with them?’
‘I see,’ says Price, nodding. ‘Michael’s spoken to you about that then.’ She looks down at the floor for a moment, considering her words. ‘The two chests are padlocked and weigh a tonne. They’re going nowhere.’ She pauses. ‘I think his concerns are unfounded.’
‘The cylinders travel to the UK in these locked chests?’
‘Yup. They’ll be flown at low altitude to Rothera, then get loaded on to our research vessel, the James Clark Ross, and kept inside a hypobaric chamber.’
Wolfe nods, then peers over Sinclair’s shoulder.
‘So if all the samples are locked away, what is Toby looking at?’
‘At lake water left behind in the probe. The leftovers.’
‘Can I take a look?’
‘Sure,’ says Price, and then lays a hand gently on Sinclair’s arm.
He jumps and looks up. ‘Huh?’ he says, pulling down his mask.
‘Olivia wants to take a look. Can you move away for just a moment, Toby?’ She coaxes him as if she’s talking a child out of a sweet shop.
‘Oh, of course. Didn’t see . . . ’
Wolfe watches his lips. Sinclair barely parts them when he speaks so he’s hard to hear. She knows he’s from Edinburgh originally, but his accent is swallowed up by his straggly beard.
Sinclair gets up and moves aside. He appears tubby, mainly because his short limbs make his torso seem out of proportion.
‘Mask and goggles first, though,’ Price says, handing them to her. Wolfe sits on the stool and peers down the microscope. She instantly pulls back.
‘They’re darting about so fast. Like they’re angry or something. Is that normal?’
Sinclair and Price exchange glances.
‘Nothing about it is normal,’ Price says. ‘That’s what’s so exciting.’
Wolfe looks through the microscope again.
‘Shouldn’t they be dying, given their exposure to surface pressure?’
‘Yes!’ says Sinclair, enthusiastically. ‘But, instead of slowing, they’re speeding up. Incredible, isn’t it?’
Price glares at him and he blushes.
‘So it’s never had contact with mankind?’ Wolfe asks.
‘That’s right,’ says Sinclair. ‘We believe the valley froze over two million years ago.’
‘So we have no immunity because our ancestors have never had any contact with it?’
Without realising it, Wolfe has pulled further back from the Petri dish.
‘I can’t see how a microbe that existed before we did will know how to attack our system, so I doubt there’s any threat,’ says Price. ‘And anyway, we’re taking all the right precautions.’
‘Don’t worry, Olivia, I’ve dealt with extremophiles many times,’ says Sinclair.
‘Extremophiles?’
‘Microbes that survive extreme conditions. I’ve worked with bacteria that live inside a volcano, or can survive without oxygen, or endure unbelievable water pressure. Did you know bacteria are eating away the Titanic? And with all these extremophiles, I’ve never had a containment issue.’
‘Do you have a name for our particular extremophile?’
‘Just a code at the moment: LE31S.’
The mess tent is buzzing with banter and the clatter of spoons on plates as the hungry crew chows down on beef casserole, followed by cans of beer. Price is the only one absent: she’s eating her meal in the lab. The long Weatherhaven has a basic kitchen set up near the door with butane-powered stoves; three white trestle tables and folding plastic chairs in the centre of the space; and at the far end is a freestanding whiteboard with scribblings on it. Beyond the whiteboard, a rope has been strung up between either side of the tent’s frame, from which is hung an open sleeping bag to provide some, albeit limited, privacy. This is Wolfe’s sleeping quarters. There are no spare pyramid tents and Dr Price refused to share, claiming she needed her privacy. Wolfe doesn’t take it personally, appreciating the pressure the scientist is under. She’s slept in far worse places; with a butyl rubber ground sheet, inflatable airbed, and beneath her down-filled sleeping bag, a sheepskin; she’ll be snug. However, with the celebrations in full swing, she doubts she, or anyone else, will get any sleep.
Wolfe is next to Heatherton at the top table. Opposite her sits Beer, who raises his beer can.
‘We haven’t been properly introduced. George Beer, programme manager and engineer. And before you start with the jokes,’ he says with a wide grin, ‘I’ve heard them all.’ He looks around the table. ‘A toast. To new life!’
Wolfe and Heatherton join in. Beer drinks half the tin. His fair features look Scandinavian, but his accent is Cornish. He has deep laughter lines and Wolfe likes him instantly. Harvey, also seated at their table, is still finishing his meal. The steam from the stew fogs up his glasses, so he removes them and wipes them with a lint cloth.
‘I’ve got great footage,’ Harvey says. ‘It’s being aired as we speak. Not often we discover new life on our planet.’ He looks at Wolfe and grins. ‘Not often a science story gets priority.’
‘That’s great, Charles,’ she says.
‘What about the Post? Will Cohen bury the story at the back, as he usually does with science copy?’
‘We’ll see,’ she replies.
Harvey has no idea what her angle is, and she wants to keep it that way. Thankfully, Matthews distracts Harvey. He sits at the farthest table with Yushkov and Sinclair, facing her. Matthews screws up his jowly face and lets rip with an almighty beery belch. He receives appreciative applause from Rundle and Adeyemi.
‘I’m getting another drink,’ Wolfe says. An excuse to move groups.
She grabs another beer from a bucket on the floor, then sits opposite Yushkov. Three crushed beer cans are on the table in front
of him.
‘I wanted to say congratulations, Vitaly, and properly introduce myself. I’m Olivia Wolfe from the Post.’
She offers her right hand across the table to the Russian, who pauses mid-swig, then swallows, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. He breaks into a big smile.
‘You sure you want to shake my hand?’
Yushkov holds them palms-up for her to see. They are filthy, but even under the grease stains, the second and third fingers of his right hand are stained yellow from nicotine.
She keeps her arm outstretched. He takes it and her hand is engulfed in his, but his shake is surprisingly gentle.
‘A man do this to you?’ he asks, nodding at her bruised face.
‘Yes, in Afghanistan. He ended up with a broken nose, and his balls so battered he won’t be fathering any children.’
Vitaly guffaws. Loud, head thrown back, like the bark of a fur seal. Other conversations pause, as they wonder what has set Yushkov off. ‘This is very good!’ As his laughter dies away, his features harden. ‘I not like men who beat women.’
‘I hear you’re the man to cadge cigarettes off,’ she says, marvelling at the man’s perfect white teeth, which, unlike his fingers, are stain-free.
‘I not think you like my cigarettes. They are very strong.’
‘Belomorkanal? I’ve smoked them before. I was foreign correspondent during Russia’s invasion of the Crimean peninsula in 2014. I’ve shared a few smokes with your soldiers.’
He nods, as if she has gone up a notch in his approval rating. Then he looks serious. ‘I am not Russian any more. I am British citizen.’ His eyes scan the room. ‘I want to be clear.’
Yushkov gets up suddenly. ‘We need vodka,’ he announces, and leaves the mess tent.
‘Good idea,’ says Matthews, slurring his words, eyes closing.
Rundle bounces over, like a gangly excited puppy, followed by Adeyemi. ‘Did someone say vodka?’
Sinclair stiffens and stares into his can of beer, clutching it with both hands.
‘Vitaly’s gone to get some,’ Wolfe replies.
Rundle grabs a chair next to her. Adeyemi sits opposite, but doesn’t take the chair Yushkov has just vacated. She’s had very little contact with the Nigerian-born engineer, but knows he was going to study medicine, then switched to engineering. He produces a pack of cards.
‘Poker, anyone?’ he asks.
‘What do you play for?’ she asks, assuming that money isn’t easy to access in Antarctica.
He grins. ‘Not biscuits or toothpicks, if that’s what you’re thinking. The real thing. I keep tabs.’
Nobody’s interested so the cards go back in his pocket.
‘Can you believe it?’ he adds. ‘We’ve discovered aliens!’
Sinclair speaks but doesn’t look up. ‘It’s momentous. Not just what we’ve discovered here. It also means there could be life on other planets.’
‘Who gives a shit about other planets?’ shouts Rundle. ‘I’m talking about what we did today. And we were first. Like being the first man on the moon,’ he adds, stabbing his finger on the table.
Sinclair clams up, clearly intimidated.
‘Tell me more,’ Wolfe encourages.
Sinclair shakes his head.
‘Really,’ she says. ‘I’d like to know.’
‘Take Europa, one of the moons of Jupiter.’ His voice is faltering and, given the noise in the tent, she has to lean close to hear him. ‘It has an icy crust with a liquid ocean underneath, so you can see the parallels to Lake Ellsworth. Some astrobiologists think that life might be able to survive there. Our discovery today makes this hypothesis more likely.’
Sinclair pauses, eyes lowered, undoubtedly expecting Rundle to lay into him.
‘Bugger me! That’s amazing!’ says Rundle, slapping Sinclair on the back.
Yushkov returns, clutching a vodka bottle.
‘Vitaly! Over here!’ Rundle yells.
‘Get some mugs,’ Yushkov tells him.
As soon as Yushkov is seated, Sinclair’s hunched shoulders relax. He stops gripping his can and leans back in his seat, even making eye contact. He reminds Wolfe of a sea anemone that closes up into a ball when in danger, but opens when the danger passes.
Yushkov generously fills mugs with vodka.
‘Za milyh dam,’ he says, raising his mug at Wolfe, smiling at her. She knows it translates as ‘To lovely ladies’, one of many traditional vodka toasts, but she doesn’t let on she understands.
‘What does that mean?’ she asks.
He tells her what she already knows.
‘Hold on,’ says Rundle, ‘I can do way better than that.’ He leans in. ‘Tu es la plus belle femme du monde!’
Wolfe laughs. ‘Okay, given the state of my face, I know you’re lying.’
Rundle, clearly used to wooing and winning the ladies, looks put out and pouts.
‘Okay, I have a toast,’ says Adeyemi. ‘To fame and fortune!’
‘Amen to that,’ says Matthews, who tries to drink and ends up with most of it down his chin.
‘Fame? Pah! You can have your fame. I will take the money and run,’ says Yushkov, chuckling.
Wolfe pretends to drink, but doesn’t swallow. She wants to stay sober and alert.
‘And you, Olivia, what is your toast?’ Yushkov asks, giving her the kind of penetrating stare that feels invasive, as if he is searching her soul for the answer. She looks straight back at him, determined not to be intimidated.
She suddenly remembers Nooria Zia, the girl’s eyes wide in shock the moment she died, the gaping hole in her neck and the blood pooled around her. Wolfe looks down at the Formica table top because she doesn’t want Yushkov to see her guilt. She swallows something lumpy in her throat, then holds up her mug.
‘To those brave enough to speak the truth.’
Wolfe swallows the vodka this time and gazes into the depths of her cup. She wonders where the poor girl has been buried, if she was buried at all. Would the shamed family take her out into the mountains and leave her in a shallow grave? Her energy dissipates like a punctured tyre. Should she have ignored Cohen and tried to locate Kabir Khan? She has contacts. At least then Nooria’s death wouldn’t be in vain. The boisterous chatter washes over her. She looks up and is taken aback by Yushkov’s intense stare. It reminds her of a husky she got to know in Alaska when writing a story on the impact of shrinking sea ice on the Inuit villages. She had fallen from a sled. The dog, part wolf, had the palest of blue eyes that slanted up at the outer edges, as Yushkov’s eyes do. It had peered deep into hers, as if confounded by her ineptitude. She had never had an animal study her quite so intently before. Now the Russian is studying her too. Gone is the lopsided grin he usually wears, as if the world never ceases to amuse him. Does Yushkov see the fleeting pain and uncertainty as her eyes dart from mug to mug? Or is he sizing her up as an adversary? She cannot tell.
She recalls Jerry Butcher once telling her that for every detective there is always one case that haunts them, however good that detective is at staying detached from the job. For him it was the unsolved murder of a five-year-old girl. Even in his retirement, the memory haunts him. Wolfe wonders if Nooria Zia’s death will follow her to her grave. She feels suddenly hot and tugs at the tight neckline of her thermal top.
‘Sometimes the price is too high, I think,’ says Yushkov in a hushed tone. ‘Sometimes it is best to walk away.’
Shocked, she looks up. Wolfe has walked away from Nooria Zia’s assassination and left it to Casburn to make the guilty pay. Or is Yushkov talking about himself?
He blinks, their connection broken, and stands abruptly. ‘We need more vodka!’ he shouts, deliberately engaging Rundle and Adeyemi, who have been deep in conversation. ‘I will bring my friends a new bottle.’
Even though Yushkov has drunk more of the vodka than the others around the table, he isn’t affected. He strides out of the mess tent, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
‘I’m
going for a smoke,’ Wolfe says. She gave up years ago, but it gives her alone-time with Yushkov.
‘You break my heart,’ Rundle protests, clutching what he thinks is his heart but his hand is too far over to the left.
‘I’ll be back,’ she says, in her best Arnie Schwarzenegger voice, and zips up her coat.
Only then does she notice Price in huddled conversation with Heatherton. Harvey is nowhere to be seen and must have gone to bed. Wolfe makes a point of walking past them slowly.
‘When did you first notice this?’ Wolfe hears Heatherton say.
‘I was trying to identify similarities with known bacteria,’ Stacy replies. ‘They haven’t slowed or died as we expected. Quite the contrary. They’ve grown more aggressive. A few minutes ago, they started to attack each other.’
Heatherton’s eyebrows shoot up.
‘Get Matthews sobered up and bring him with you.’ Heatherton spots Wolfe within earshot. ‘Keep it to yourself,’ he says to Price, then heads for the door.
‘Michael?’ Wolfe calls, as she follows him through the exit.
‘Not now, Olivia,’ he snaps, and heads for the lab.
The sub-zero air claws at her scalp and gives her an instant headache. Yushkov is lighting up and nods at Wolfe. She decides to give Heatherton time to calm down before she finds out what has him so worked up.
‘May I have one?’ she asks Yushkov.
‘Sure.’
He lights the non-filtered Russian cigarette and hands it to her. He watches her inhale, expecting her to choke. It’s been a long time, but she manages not to cough.
‘What do you want to know, Olivia?’
Wolfe is surprised by his directness. She studies his face and cannot read it.
