The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

“What was the name of the woman who stayed in room twelve with Mr. Sinclair last night?”

  The clerk looked confused. “Miss Stapleton,” he answered.

  “The same woman who is standing at the window?”

  “Yes,” said the clerk. “What is this all about?”

  “The woman by the window flew in to Longyearbyen with me this afternoon. Someone else must have stayed with Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” the clerk said. “The woman who stayed here last night registered as Miss Stapleton. She came in with Mr. Sinclair yesterday. She showed me ID. I have the registration here.”

  The clerk went back to the desk, collected the registration book, and showed Charles the signature.

  “And the woman by the window is the same woman who signed this?” asked Charles.

  “Yes,” said the clerk. “In fact, this morning Mr. Sinclair came down and asked me about going to talk to the town clerk for a marriage license.”

  “A marriage license!”

  “Yes. He thought it would be romantic to get married here.”

  “Well, Miss Stapleton was with me last night in Paris. So Mr. Sinclair was clearly here with another woman,” said Charles.

  “Well, if that is the case, she looks just like her,” said the clerk. “But, hey, it’s not my business. I think you have to sort this one out on your own. I don’t want to get involved.”

  Suddenly a flash of inspiration hit Charles. Bait and switch, Sinclair had said. Sinclair must have come here with a decoy while he and Cordelia went to Paris. Oh, the stupid fool! Why didn’t he say so? It must be someone from Frost’s team trying to find the killers who were after Cordelia. It was so obvious now that he figured it out. Of course Sinclair and the other woman stayed in the same room, to give the impression that the woman was Cordelia.

  “Did they go out together?” asked Charles.

  “No, I told you, he went out early this morning, and she went out later. He said she was all worn out and would sleep until noon.” The young clerk smirked a little, conveying the clear implication that Sinclair had kept her up all night in amorous activities.

  “Did you see her go out?” Charles asked, willfully ignoring the innuendo.

  “Yes, she went out about two hours ago. She was going to walk into town. I told her to take a rifle and stay on the road.”

  Charles patted him on the shoulder. “Keep all this to yourself,” he said.

  “Sure,” said the desk clerk. “Believe me, I don’t know what is going on. And I don’t want to. I don’t want any trouble here.”

  “Don’t worry, there isn’t any reason for trouble. Everything is fine,” Charles assured him, realizing that he was truly turning into a champion liar.

  Mine number 2 in Svalbard was normally used as an excursion for tourists. In summer, visitors could don helmets and descend a few hundred yards into the mine. The guides would point out where, in the early 1900s, miners used to cut black coal by hand from the ceiling of the shaft. The walk downhill and the tour usually took forty-five minutes.

  This late in the afternoon, there were no tourists, and the mine was closed. A white sign with a clock dial pointed to 10 a.m. tomorrow as the next opening time. Only a flimsy plywood partition prevented anyone from entering the tunnel to the mine.

  One of the gunmen kicked at the barrier and it fell away with one blow. Then he walked ahead carrying an oil lantern. Sinclair and Erin were in the middle, and the other followed. They made a tense little procession. Footing was uneven, and Sinclair could see only the small glow of light from the lantern, illuminating the black walls of the tunnel. The mine was already chilled from the night air, and there was only the sound of their steps as they stumbled along the coal-strewn surface of the tunnel.

  Sinclair had to bend forward to avoid bashing his head on the irregular ceiling. His height was a handicap in the confined space, and his size substantially limited his movements. He could not, and dared not, turn around to check Erin. After walking for about twenty minutes, the lantern revealed a chain stretched across the pathway. The chain was meant to delineate the end of the accessible part of the mine. But Sinclair could see that the tunnel continued, and they all stepped over the chain and continued to walk deeper into the mine.

  Sinclair had never seen his captors before, but he assumed they were both Russian. While he was walking, he spent his time calculating an escape. A hundred times, Sinclair thought about putting up some resistance, and the same number of times he knew that either he or Erin would end up dead in the scuffle. There was no room in the cramped tunnel for a real fight, and he couldn’t risk it.

  As they moved lower into the mine, the air grew even colder. Erin was visibly shivering in her light Windbreaker. Sinclair signaled a pause, and then took off his coat and put it around her shoulders as the two gunmen waited.

  “Come on, Romeo,” one growled in his harsh Russian accent. “Date night is just beginning.” They both laughed.

  Sinclair was glad to shed the clothing. As they headed lower, the confined space was beginning to bother him, and he struggled against wave after wave of claustrophobia. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his legs felt weak from the effort of fighting off the panic. He knew in another couple of yards he would start to feel the debilitating chest restriction and shortness of breath of a full-blown episode.

  At the Spitsbergen Hotel, Charles walked over to Cordelia and took her by the elbow. Her face was set, and she looked exhausted.

  “I just figured out what is happening,” Charles said. “You know . . . about the room.”

  “Don’t even try to make excuses for him,” Cordelia said coldly. “I know you are his friend, but do me a favor—don’t give me any stories about John Sinclair. I am not going to believe them.”

  Charles shifted to a conciliatory tone. He put his arm around her and squeezed affectionately.

  “Honestly, Cordelia, I am not going to even attempt to try to explain what went on in that room. That is for you and John to sort out.”

  “I’m not sure I even want to sort things out at this point,” she said angrily.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Charles assured her. “But I think we should do two things right now. One is get you fed—you look hungry. And two, we need to figure out where Sinclair and the female agent went.”

  “Agent?” A small flicker of hope passed over her face.

  “Yes, it was a bait and switch. You were playing girlfriend with me, and he had a fake Cordelia with him. He and Thaddeus Frost were trying to flush out the Russians, or whoever they are.”

  “Are you sure?” She whirled on him, her face awash with relief. He nodded.

  “Did you know about it all along?” she burst out.

  “Of course not! Sinclair never told me about this part of the plan. And I was so focused on keeping you safe, I never thought to ask. I assumed he was coming here alone.”

  “So how do you know it’s true?” she asked doubtfully, her hope wavering like a flag in the breeze.

  “Why else would he be here with a woman who looks like you? The desk clerk thought it was you because she registered as you. No other explanation makes sense.”

  Cordelia stood suspended, tense, trying to believe him.

  “They had to share a room,” Charles explained. “He couldn’t very well book two rooms when he was supposed to be here with you.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “He never would have sent for you if he were cheating on you, now would he?” Charles asked reasonably.

  “No, I suppose not,” she admitted.

  “You don’t know this guy like I do. It’s so typical of him—he knows what is going on, but he never bothers to explain it to anyone else.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.

  “He just doesn’t communicate. Believe me, he’s been this way for years.”

  “You don’t think they . . . slept together . . . ?” Cordelia asked, her voice barely audible
. “Do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I think you should ask him yourself. Just to clear up any doubt about it.”

  “Believe me, I will.”

  She turned to the window and looked out.

  “I want to get this deed and get out of here.”

  “Me too,” said Charles, looking out over the jagged mountains. “But where in hell is Sinclair?”

  Sinclair was sweating heavily in the narrow passage and trying to breathe. The gunman prodded him forward, and suddenly the tunnel emerged into a large cavernous area. He could see the ceiling soared some twenty feet high, but the cave was dark and indeterminate in breadth. The extra height of the space quelled his attack. Sinclair wondered if there were other hidden pathways that could serve as escape routes, but it was too dark to see. The space appeared empty except for some old mining equipment scattered around.

  A figure emerged from the shadows and greeted him with a demonic grin.

  “Sinclair,” he said. “How nice of you to visit. Have you found anything interesting we should know about?”

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Sinclair.

  “I’ve been tracking you since Monaco.”

  “Let me guess—you have a red Ferrari?”

  Evgeny didn’t answer. Sinclair scrutinized the man and took his measure. A bulky thug in his midthirties, he was muscular and powerful. But he had short legs, which were slightly bowed, and that feature alone marred his looks.

  Sinclair figured he could fight him and beat him in other circumstances. But even with Erin they were outnumbered three to two, firearms not included.

  The gunmen seized Erin and bound her hands in front of her with plastic restraints. Then they advanced on Sinclair, one holding a gun, the other tearing at his clothes in a rough body search. One gunman gave his testicles a deep jab when feeling between his legs for a weapon. Then he thumped Sinclair with an elbow between the shoulder blades and drove him to his knees.

  “Nothing,” he announced to Evgeny, who watched the process dispassionately.

  “Too bad,” said Evgeny. “Now the woman.” He smiled at Erin in a lecherous way. “I look forward to our evening together, Cordelia.”

  She gave him a look that could sear meat.

  One gunman held them in his sights while the other manhandled Erin in a thorough search. She set her face in a grimace.

  “Nothing,” said the man again.

  “Well, I guess it can’t be helped.” Evgeny sighed. “Cordelia and I will have to have an intimate chat.” His face held a strange expression of eagerness mixed with malice.

  “Say good-bye to your girlfriend, Sinclair. Unless there is something you need to tell us. It might make it easier on her if you shared it with us now.”

  Sinclair looked at Erin for an indication of what to do. She gave the slightest shake of her head. Tell them nothing, she was saying. Sinclair felt sick, helpless. She was going to be the one they put pressure on, and there was nothing he could do.

  “Wait, she doesn’t know anything,” said Sinclair.

  “We shall see,” said Evgeny, grabbing her by her upper arm. He stripped Sinclair’s coat off her shoulders and threw it back to him.

  “She won’t be needing clothes,” Evgeny said, leading her to the back of the cave. Erin looked over her shoulder as she was pulled off into the blackness.

  They disappeared. One man sat on the mining tractor and kept his gun pointed at Sinclair. The other one took out a thin plastic strip similar to the type used by law enforcement. He bound Sinclair’s hands in front of him and pushed him against the wall. Wordlessly the gunman waved his weapon at Sinclair to tell him to sit down on the floor of the mine.

  Immediately Sinclair felt the tingle of restricted circulation. His hands would be numb in an hour if he couldn’t get the thing off. He heard Evgeny beginning to question Erin—his voice punctuated by the sound of violent slaps.

  The chef at the Huset restaurant was not at fault. Rave reviews from the Financial Times of London and the New York Times hung in laminated plaques on the wall. Charles and Cordelia had ordered the reindeer steak with cloudberry-apple chutney, but the food sat on their plates almost untouched. Charles looked around at the ultramodern Nordic décor, accented by Svalbard memorabilia: miners’ hats, pickaxes, polar bear skins, and reindeer antlers.

  “It’s a pretty nice place, considering what’s outside,” he remarked.

  Cordelia took a sip of her mineral water and managed a weak smile. The pall of anxiety had hung over the table all evening. They had left word at the hotel that if Sinclair turned up he should call them. But Charles’s cell phone sat silently on the table as they both tried not to look at it.

  The mine was freezing cold, and quiet, and Sinclair could no longer hear Evgeny. The interrogation had gone on endlessly, and then, just a few moments ago, all sound had died down after a few strangled gasps. The silence was ominous. He was furious with himself, and depressed. There was nothing he could do to help Erin.

  In his area of the cavern, the oil lamp had burned low. The gunmen, increasingly obscured by the diminishing light, had not bothered to get up to trim the wick. The flame had finally gone out.

  He wondered what was next. There was only the sound of a drip of water somewhere nearby. Perhaps Evgeny had led Erin somewhere else. Sinclair waited. He could sense both gunmen still sitting there. It was clear they had instructions not to move. But he couldn’t understand why they didn’t relight the lamp.

  All of a sudden, Sinclair heard a sound that gave him hope—a snore. The guards were asleep in their surveillance positions. He started to get to his feet, trying to unbend his stiff legs and maneuver with the restraints digging into his flesh. But as he started to move he suddenly felt a hand close over his mouth. It was a woman’s hand. He flinched. He had no idea anyone was that close to him. He couldn’t see her, but he could smell the faint scent of Aphrodite.

  A quick flick of a knife between his hands and the restraint was cut. The circulation started flowing again, burning and itching as blood coursed through his fingers. Erin sat next to him and whispered into his ear.

  “You take the one on the left, I’ll take the right.”

  Her voice was so soft it could have been a breeze. No one could have heard it, certainly not the sleeping guards. He nodded his head so she could feel his assent.

  She tapped her index finger on his arm in a silent count.

  One . . . two . . . three.

  She was gone. He could hear her garroting the sleeping guard, his boots thrashing the ground. Sinclair was not as nimble, but managed to charge the other man, groping to find him in the dark. A shot went off, and it echoed eerily in the empty mine. He had no clear technique to his attack, simply smashing the man over and over against the hard floor until he no longer moved. Sinclair finally stopped, not sure if he had killed him or just knocked him unconscious.

  “Sinclair,” she said. “Help me light this.”

  She pressed the illumination dial on her watch to find the lantern. Sinclair rummaged through the gunman’s pockets and found a butane lighter. He touched it to the wick and the lantern flared. In the light she looked a fright. The dark wig was gone. Her hair was matted with blood, and her face was a swollen purple mess. Her shirt was in shreds. She had lost her Windbreaker, and she stood there in her bare feet, the red nail polish on her toes a macabre match with the blood on her face.

  Sinclair gasped. “Erin, you’re hurt! Oh my God I am so sorry,” he burst out.

  She ignored him, put down the oil lamp, and walked over to the dead man.

  “I need some shoes.” She began unlacing the boots from the feet of the man she had just killed.

  “Where is the other . . . guy who was questioning you?” Sinclair asked.

  “Dead,” she said.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “You know, Sinclair, raping a woman is terribly distracting. You tend to forget to defend yourself,” she said grimly.

  “Rape?”
Sinclair gasped.

  “You think I let him? He was dead before he could even—” She never finished the sentence. The boot came free in her hand. She calmly began putting it on.

  “Still light outside,” Charles remarked. “I can’t believe it’s nine o’clock at night.”

  “Yes, it’s getting late,” Cordelia agreed, nodding thanks to the waiter for her coffee. Where could he have gone? In every direction there was only wilderness, populated only by Arctic fox, Svalbard reindeer, and polar bears. People didn’t venture far at night in this territory. He had to be in town.

  “Let’s head back,” Charles said, pushing his half-eaten dinner away.

  “OK,” said Cordelia.

  Back in the car, Charles said what had been previously unspoken. “If he doesn’t turn up tonight, we should go to the authorities tomorrow. Somebody would have noticed him in the village. With his height, he doesn’t blend in easily.”

  Cordelia nodded. Charles started the Land Rover and put it in gear.

  Back at the hotel, the clerk just shook his head. No messages. Charles took his key and hers, and followed Cordelia upstairs. They stood outside room 12.

  “Do you want to stay in John’s room, in case he comes back later tonight?” Charles asked.

  In her mind Cordelia could still see the white lace bra and the bottle of Aphrodite perfume on the dresser.

  “No, I want to stay with you. I would feel safer. Do you mind, Charles?”

  “Of course I don’t mind. Please. It’s the least I can do. I will leave a note in Sinclair’s room to let him know we are here. He’ll see it if he turns up.”

  Charles let himself into room 12 with Cordelia’s key, shutting the door.

  Suddenly alone in the empty hallway, Cordelia felt nervous. All her senses were on high alert. As angry as she was with Sinclair, in her gut she knew something had happened to him. He would never leave her and Charles at risk like this.

  When Charles returned to the hallway, her anxiety diminished. Charles would know what to do—at least she had him. As they entered room 15, Charles looked at the bed.

  “Why don’t you just lie down for a bit?”