by L. A. Larkin
‘You are journalist. Journalist always have questions.’
She exhales loudly, relieved.
‘You were a soldier,’ Wolfe says, taking a punt.
Yushkov nods, an amused smile on his lips.
‘Which regiment?’
‘It was a long time ago.’ He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘I get more vodka.’
As he walks away, he says something in Russian under his breath. His back is to her, so he doesn’t see her eyes widen. Wolfe watches him take long, steady strides in the direction of the rising sun. She is unsure whether Yushkov has issued her with a warning or a threat:
‘Watch your back, little lady.’
13
You look straight at me, but you cannot see me. I have my screen divided so I watch both sides of your Skype conversation with Cohen.
‘Gotta keep my voice down,’ you say. ‘I think they’re finally asleep but I can’t be sure.’
It’s ten past five in the morning at Lake Ellsworth and London is three hours ahead. Your laptop must be balanced on your legs because you look down at the monitor. Behind you, the white ceiling of your tent billows in the wind and I imagine you are sitting in your sleeping bag. With a black beanie on your head and half your face a dark bruise, you look like a member of a tragic tribute KISS band. You rub your bloodshot eyes, revealing fingerless gloves on your hands.
In the other half of my screen, Cohen’s long face and deep-set haunted eyes remind me of The Silence in Dr Who. While you waffle on about the day’s events, I google The Silence, which, I’m told, were modelled on Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Cohen sits too close to the webcam and I get an uncomfortably microscopic view of the open pores at the end of his long nose and wiry nostril hairs. He really should trim them.
‘So is there a story?’ Cohen asks, yawning. It’s 8.10 a.m. GMT, and he needs another coffee.
I look away. His foul yellowing teeth are full of amalgam fillings.
You lean closer to your laptop and drop your voice. ‘I’ve already emailed you “It’s Life Jim, But Not As We Know It”, but don’t get too comfortable. That’s the last science story I’m doing.’
I catch my breath. Cohen checks his emails.
‘When? It’s not here.’
‘Must be. I sent it hours ago.’
The look of bewilderment on your face is a delight. You shake your head.
‘I don’t get it. It’s disappeared. Not even in my Sent items. How on earth did that happen?’
‘Check the satellite link.’
You move away from my view. ‘Connection’s fine.’ You sit and pull the laptop to you once again. ‘Am I too late?’
‘For today’s paper, yes. Online, no. Send it again.’
‘Shit! I wanted it in today’s edition.’
Why isn’t Cohen more annoyed?
‘I’m re-sending now.’
You’ve just spoilt my fun.
I can hack your computer and delete an email once and get away with it, but twice is pushing it. You’re smart. You’d work it out. On another monitor I see every word you type and the attached document you send.
‘And the conspiracy slash murder angle?’ Cohen asks.
‘Any one of them could’ve killed Knox, if he was indeed killed, and I’m not convinced he was. You should’ve seen the euphoria when the drill hit water and they discovered the freaky bacteria. I don’t think anybody here wants to stop the project.’
‘“Freaky” a technical term, is it?’ Cohen jokes.
‘It’s the best you’re going to get, given how knackered I am. The celebrations went on most of the night.’
‘And the Russian?’
‘An enigma. Dislikes authority. A survivor. A man of secrets. Yet he’s exceptional at his job and has some surprising friendships.’ She’s thinking particularly of Sinclair. ‘Seems genuinely proud of their success here. I’ve managed to establish he’s ex-Army and he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, but that in itself doesn’t mean he’s guilty of murder.’
‘A soldier would know how to kill a man without raising suspicion.’
‘True. Anyone who survives the Russian Army has to be tough as old boots. But if I’m right about why he defected, there’s no way he’d work for the Russians.’
‘Go on.’
‘Most of the Russian Army is made up of peasants and conscripts. They’re mostly cannon fodder. Bullying and torture are rife. It’s a brutal life. Hundreds desert every year, seeking asylum in nearby countries. Yushkov’s possibly one of them.’
‘So how are you going to prove this theory?’
‘I’ll ask Jerry Butcher if he can help, and if he can’t, I have a contact at MI6. Although I’d rather not use her unless I’ve run out of all other options.’
‘Jerry still got his fingers in the right pies?’
‘He has, but there’s a limit to how many favours he can call in.’
‘How long before the bacteria are moved?’
‘Weather permitting, a Rothera plane should be here tomorrow.’
It’s your turn to yawn and I catch a glimpse of the metal stud in your tongue.
‘Well, that means you’ve only got a day left to find out what’s going on.’
‘I know. I know. One more thing,’ you say. ‘Heard anything from Casburn?’
Cohen shakes his head. ‘Leave it alone, Olivia. You’ve got an assignment. It cost a fucking fortune to get you there, so show me it was worth it.’
You nod, ending the Skype connection with your editor, but you are still connected to me. Like an invisible umbilical cord, your webcam remains switched on. Deep in thought, your jaw moves as you play with your tongue stud and your eyes wander around the interior of your tent. I hear the click of the metal against your teeth. It irritates, like a squeaking wheel or a screaming baby. Really irritates. Stop it! Just stop it!
There’s an explosion of white light in my head. I am no longer at home. I’m on my back, my body contorted in odd angles. A tangled mess. I cannot breathe, crushed by the weight of something I cannot see. Only one eye half opens. You lean over me, blocking out a blinding light like a solar eclipse, your face close to mine. Your lips move but I am adrift in a terrifying silence. Then you are gone. I try to move. My body doesn’t respond. I try calling your name. My voice is a gurgle and I choke on metallic blood. I don’t want to die alone.
I jolt suddenly, limbs flailing, and almost fall from my chair. My shirt is soaked in sweat. I suck in rapid shallow breaths, eyes darting around the room. What the fuck was that? I stand on unsteady legs, desperate to be in the here and now. There’s a dark blue stain in the crotch of my jeans and a wet smear on the fake leather seat.
Did I fall asleep? Have a nightmare? A mug of tea is on the floor, a star-shaped stain on the carpet. I check the time. Less than a minute has passed. You are still on my screen, emailing that tosser, Butcher. Your world hasn’t shifted in that minute. Mine has burst wide open.
I knew the psych report was a lie. I knew there had to be a reason for this loathing, this rage, this frenzy I have for you when everything else in my world is colourless, odourless and tasteless. You abandoned me. When I needed you most. My neuropsychologist would call it a breakthrough. Well, fuck him! The lying piece of shit! I claw at Dr Sharma’s pages stuck to my wall, tearing his words to shreds.
Start again, it said. You were always good with computers, so get some training. Get a job. Integrate. Move on. Forget the past. Fuck that! The past is everything. Those missing months are all I think about. And you.
I need to change my jeans and wipe the piss from my chair, but I mustn’t break our connection. Peeling off my sodden clothing, I use a dry section of fabric to wipe the chair and sit.
You are reading an email from Butcher that’s just arrived.
I smile.
‘Got mugged last night,’ says Butcher. ‘Hit from behind. Feel like a right twat. He took your keys, but don’t worry. There was no address on them and I’ve got the
locks changed again anyway. Your home is safe.’
I watch your eyes widen. You email Butcher immediately.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ you type. ‘Any idea who did it?’
Good question. Do tell.
I have no recollection of striking him on the back of his head and leaving him unconscious, but my diary entry for that day makes quite a thing of the adrenalin high. For a so-called self-defence expert, Butcher was pretty easy to take down. But that’s what happens when you have a nagging bitch of a wife chewing your ear off down the phone as you’re racing home in the dark. He was distracted. He turned too late. A large Maglite torch can be a handy weapon.
‘Concussion, that’s all,’ Butcher replies. ‘No idea who attacked me. Should have been paying attention.’
‘I can’t believe you teach me self-defence and get taken down by a mugger! However did that happen?!’ You include one of those round smiley faces.
‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ Butcher adds a winking smiley face to his email.
Can you believe it? Fucking smiley faces?
‘I need some information. Are you up to it?’ you ask.
‘Shoot.’
‘What can you dig up on a Russian, Vitaly Yushkov, an engineer with British Antarctic Survey? Two years ago he was made a British citizen. The Foreign Office fast-tracked his application, and got him a job. Prior to that, it’s as if he doesn’t exist. He’s ex-Army, but that’s all I’ve got. Any chance you could ask one of your spook mates? I’m guessing it’s pretty sensitive.’
Butcher replies, ‘Happy to ask but I won’t get far if it’s classified. If I’m reading this right, you think he may be a spy, either for us or for Russia. If so, tread very carefully. The SVR are not to be messed with.’
Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, formerly part of the KGB, is now known in the English-speaking world as the SVR.
Butcher’s warning gives me an idea. It’s time to prod the Russian bear. I select a dummy email address set up under a false name. It’s practically untraceable. I email Vitaly Yushkov at his British Antarctic Survey address:
‘Beware. Olivia Wolfe is not what she seems.’
That should spice things up a bit.
14
A gloved hand uses bolt cutters to break the padlocks on each wooden crate containing the precious Lake Ellsworth samples. There’s no danger the loud crack of the metal snapping will penetrate the thick walls of the ice cave or be heard above the moaning, thirty-knot winds.
The cave entrance is barely wide enough to fit a man on all fours. It slopes down gently to a metre’s depth and then widens into a circular shape, the ceiling high enough to give a man crouching room. His tracks are already covered, the winds whipping up surface ice particles and blowing them along the ground through gaps between tents and storage containers, like ghosts using the site as a race circuit. The figure in the ice cave is insulated from the wind’s battering and kneels next to the first chest, hood raised, white lab mask over nose and mouth. Underneath, thermal gloves are latex ones to protect his skin from the boxes’ contents. Over thermal leggings, waterproof trousers are sealed tight at the ankles with tape. Over his rubber boots are two layers of sterile blue booties.
Inside the first chest is a large, blue plastic cool box. He flicks up the four clips holding the lid down and carefully places it on the floor, then stares down at the fifteen pressurised titanium cylinders containing the living water samples. They are stacked like miniature torpedoes. With both hands, he reaches into the box and lifts the first of the thirty-centimetre-long containers and, cradling it like an injured animal, he wraps it in clothing and places it inside a draw-stringed kit bag. He then picks up the next cylinder, shuffles a few feet away and places it on the ice floor. There is a moment’s hesitation as the thief glances behind, through the tunnel-like cave entrance. Everyone else is asleep, dead to the world through exhaustion or alcohol or both. Alarms are set for eight. No need to rush.
The pressure valve is slowly opened and the air hisses out. Then the cylinder’s plug is unscrewed. There’s an initial pop and more hissing. The pressure gauge’s needle drops rapidly. Once again his hands cease their movement, a moment of reflection. But not for long. He knows what has to be done. The cylinder’s watery content is tipped on to the ice, freezing almost instantly, leaving only a pale stain, a distant memory. He’s careful to avoid any direct contact with the organisms. The saboteur re-seals the empty cylinder, placing it on the ground. He repeats the same exercise thirteen times, until all the Lake Ellsworth water samples are destroyed, save for the very first cylinder safely concealed in his kit bag. Then the fourteen empty canisters are stacked back in the blue cool box. The stolen cylinder is replaced with a brand-new one, which brings the total number back up to fifteen. The cool box is clipped shut and the wooden crate closed. The broken padlock is pocketed and an identical one takes its place.
Now for the twelve sediment samples in the next crate. Trickier to cover his tracks as the muddy sediment will stain the white cave floor. To make it less likely somebody will notice the gritty residue, the destroyer of ten years’ planning and preparation - of ancient life forms never before seen - decides to carry each sediment-filled cylinder out of the cave and dump the alien contents behind the generators, where very few ever go.
After twelve trips back and forth, his muscles ache. The now-empty cylinders are returned to their crate and padlocked. With any luck, the destruction won’t be discovered until the crates are opened on British soil.
Wolfe wakes and sits bolt upright, momentarily confused by the restrictive nature of the bedding. The tent fabric, though taut, ripples as it is assaulted by the relentless wind. She moves her head from side to side, trying to hone in on the clank that woke her, but all she can hear is the wind wailing and the thrum of generators. She’s bleary-eyed with sleep, but there’s no mistaking the sour post-party stink of old beer. Reluctant to leave her warm, silky cocoon, she hesitates, but knows better than to ignore her instincts.
Grabbing her heavy, black aluminium torch, the same kind used by the British police that doubles as a weapon, Wolfe checks the time: 6.06 a.m. Unzipping her sleeping bag, she hastily pulls on coat, hat and gloves, and considers wearing her backpack for protection, then berates herself for being paranoid. What’s she afraid of? The Yeti?
Shoving aside the makeshift curtain that separates her sleeping space from the rest of the dining area, she passes tables strewn with dirty plates, empty beer cans and vodka bottles and an overflowing rubbish bin. One of the plastic chairs is tipped backwards.
Outside, the wind blows diagonally across her, tearing at her outer wear and almost ripping off her beanie. She tugs it down. Ice swirls around her legs but visibility is clear enough at eye-level. No movement, apart from the flapping of the Union Jack and guy ropes vibrating in the wind. She coughs on the frigid air and pulls up her hood for warmth, which restricts her vision and ability to hear, but the cold is piercing. The ice beneath her feet is glassy like a rink so she moves slowly, feeling her way around the Weatherhaven’s exterior, careful not to trip over guy ropes. Having done a full loop, she is about to go back inside when she catches a glimpse of a dark figure disappearing behind the laboratory container, some ten metres away. It’s impossible to tell who it is: they, like her, have their hood up and are wearing BAS-supplied clothing. What could be so important it warrants attention at six in the morning? She tries to remember the camp layout. Where are they going? Isn’t the ice cave behind the lab?
Wolfe approaches the lab with caution and finds the door locked. She listens through the door, but all seems quiet. She squeezes through a narrow gap between the lab container and the next one, which is used for mechanical repairs and housing the Ski-Doo and tractor.
Wolfe stops dead. It’s unlocked. The door is slightly ajar.
‘Hello? Anybody there?’
Wolfe opens the heavy steel door and fumbles for the light switch. Finding it, she peers inside th
e container and sees nothing unusual. A well-equipped mechanical workshop is set up at the rear of the container, with anything from saws and spanners and drills to spare machinery and vehicle parts. The tractor and Ski-Doo are parked at the front, where they should be. Just as she leaves the workshop and shuts the heavy door, she sees a person crawl out of the tight entrance of the ice cave. They move fast and the visibility is too poor for her to recognise them. She darts between the two containers and hides, hoping she hasn’t been seen. She needs to wake Heatherton. Something is very wrong.
Peering in the direction of the pyramid tents, she desperately tries to remember which one is Heatherton’s, when she sees someone leave their sleeping quarters. Only one man is crazy enough to walk about bare-headed in such cold, and his bulk and height is unmistakable. Yushkov. She flattens her body against the container’s exterior wall, then sticks her head out to watch him. He moves three tents along, stops, and looks around. Wolfe pulls back and holds her breath. She counts to ten then peers around the corner. Yushkov is outside Harvey’s tent. He bends and begins unravelling Harvey’s drunken attempt at tying up the entrance. The tubular fabric chute is designed to prevent snow and ice from entering. Wolfe’s heart is pounding. Should she challenge Yushkov? Harvey could be in danger. Is he working with whoever she saw leaving the ice cave? Before she can decide what to do next, she’s shoved from behind and thrown to the ground, hitting her head on the hard ice. A gloved hand shoves a cloth over her face that stinks of chemicals, and in one horrifying second she knows it’s chloroform. Wolfe struggles, trying to turn her mouth and nose away from its soporific effect, but it’s too late.
Wolfe blacks out.
15
Light penetrates Wolfe’s consciousness. Her head is pounding and bile rises up her throat. She opens her eyes and sees Adeyemi looking down at her, smelling of disinfectant. The surface she’s lying on is flat and white but not cold: a Formica table. Near her, a first-aid box lies open.
