Pulling open the pack of cigarettes he had swiped off the counter, he jammed one into the corner of his mouth and lit up. He sucked back the thick, oaky taste of the American tobacco – his first cigarette in over eight years. He knew that he had a highly addictive personality and it had cost him a lot to quit. But today he just didn’t give a shit.
He let his eyes survey one building and the next, feeling more tired than he could ever remember. The farm was one of the CIA’s main interrogation centres for Southern Africa and comprised six outbuildings set about a central farmhouse, long-since defunct. The site was intentionally remote, with no phone lines or landing strips within a fifty-mile radius.
A dirt track was the single route into the whole complex, as dusty as it was interminable. It cut through the Karoo’s boundless landscape with nothing but a solitary fence running to its left-hand side. Beyond there were no other signs of human inhabitation, only an occasional cluster of sheep chewing on dry cud.
Bates raised the cigarette to his mouth, then coughed violently. It was a vile habit and was only making him feel worse, but there was something self-destructive about the whole process. In some small way he felt it help ease the burden of what he had just seen.
Eleanor Page’s contact out on the ice had informed her that Pearl had launched the seed. Over the ensuing twenty-four hours, Bates had watched events unfold with a mounting sense of disquiet.
At first everyone had waited, wondering if the seed would indeed chain react as it was supposed to do. From the Americans’ point of view, another vital element was that it should penetrate the ice surrounding the lake and, in so doing, leach out into the open ocean. Although Pearl had discounted the possibility in his haste to succeed, the Americans had the original report that Lotta Bukovsky had sent to the FBI, and like her knew the ice to be much thinner than anyone had at first supposed.
But nothing about this was predictable. Throughout the entire waiting period, Eleanor Page had thrown herself into almost every other aspect of the operation, demanding updates when there weren’t any, and insisting on progress when little or none could be made.
Already, she had positioned a boat called the Sea Shepherd off the coast of Droning Maud Land, having surreptitiously persuaded the famous environmentalist skipper, Dougie Hayward, that the Japanese were whaling in the area. The Sea Shepherd had charged off at once, her crew chosen specifically for their love of direct action and their incorruptible consciences. But they had been chasing phantom radar bleeps, with Eleanor keeping them close to the coastline so that they would be the first to see the fallout from Pearl’s experiment.
Time passed, the uncertainty of it all making her second-guess every part of the operation. But then, the first effects of the seed had registered on the satellite imagery. It was out past the lake ice, spreading into the black waters of the Southern Ocean.
At first it looked innocent enough, with barely anything to report, but all that changed with time. From the lake’s epicentre it spread out for one mile, then for two. On it went, the reaction defusing quicker and quicker, until it passed the edge of the floating icebergs and into the ocean proper.
Bates had stared at the satellite imagery, refreshing the page every few minutes as he watched Pearl’s original dream of vast phytoplankton blooms become a holocaust of spiking nitrous oxide. The de-oxygenation of the water was complete, killing every living organism in its path. In less than a day, an immense desert had been created in one of the richest marine environments on earth.
Then came the emergency reports from Hayward and the crew of the Sea Shepherd. Right on cue, the non-governmental charity had begun beaming back imagery via satellite to the news agencies, who were barely bothering to check its authenticity before splurging it on every channel and broadsheet.
And Hayward’s imagery wasn’t the dry abstract of a satellite photograph. It was stark and graphic. It showed the grim reality of millions of dead fish and krill floating on the surface of the water. They littered the ocean as far as the eye could see, just bobbing to and fro in the icy current, the only break in the apocalyptic scene coming in the form of the icebergs jutting up through the surface of the water.
But the headline grabber came in the form of a pod of orca whales that had been swimming near the port side of the vessel. Hayward had photographed their perfect white bellies as they lay upended, their hulking frames lapping up against the steel hull of the boat. Amongst the family unit was the smaller dorsal fin of a young adolescent. The tip was framed to the right of the picture, as it seemed to reach out, grasping for its dead mother. The composition was flawless, a Pulitzer by anyone’s reckoning.
Bates had sifted through the imagery being fed back, his stomach turning at the sheer scale of the destruction. Eleanor Page had told him that the damage would be ‘modest’ and ‘confined to the coastline’, and he had gone along with the whole project believing that to be true. Instead, the despoliation was cataclysmic. What he was witnessing was nothing less than the death of an ocean.
Already calls had been made for the entire assembly of Antarctic nations to meet in emergency session. Amongst the murky details and panicked reports, the question of who was to blame was starting to be asked and Eleanor was playing her contacts to the full. The culprit would be sought out, official channels stated, and punitive action taken, but behind each admonishment came a secondary message – if others had so blatantly violated the treaty, then why should any nation be forced to abide by its terms?
Bates shook his head in disgust and was about to throw what remained of the cigarette to the ground when there was a noise from the building just in front. He turned as a figure emerged, followed by a trail of thrash metal music. The sudden explosion of angry, screeching sound echoed around the farmyard before the figure mercifully slammed shut the sound-proof doors. Bates knew the interrogators often used loud music to keep subjects awake in the final hours of sleep deprivation.
The figure paced across the yard towards the main building, then spotted Bates and his cigarette. He paused, patting the breast pocket of his shirt looking for his own pack, before switching direction and approaching.
‘Mind if I steal one of those?’ he asked, stretching out his hand.
‘Sure.’
Bates offered up the pack as the man tilted his head. One eye scrunched up as he peered closer at the security tag hanging around Bates’ neck from a beaded chain. He seemed to relax after reading it and hoisted his white shirtsleeves a little higher, revealing pale, wiry arms. Bates guessed him to be about forty years old, but it was hard to tell given that the skin around his eyes was dark and mottled from lack of exposure to the sun.
‘Name’s Devin,’ he said, his voice thick with an American drawl. ‘You part of the programme? Because I haven’t seen you around.’
‘Just a drop off.’
‘Right,’ said the other man, stretching the word out. ‘You’re that English fella. I heard about it from some of the other guys. Got real nasty down in that township. Nanya or some shit.’
‘Nyanga,’ Bates corrected.
‘Right.’
The man’s squint narrowed as he sucked on the cigarette. He shifted round so that his back was to the sun, his face now masked by shadow.
‘Well, I’ll tell you something. I’m looking forward to getting the hell out of this place. Been cooking my ass off here for an age and thought I was about to be rotated out.’ He took another deep suck on the cigarette, with the paper crackling slightly. ‘No such luck. Fucking whole world’s on fire right now, and I guess we gotta get to it.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks for the cigarette, though. Appreciate it.’
‘Any time.’
Bates watched the man work his way back across the yard before scanning his pass through the side of the metal security door. The automatic lock buzzed open and he disappeared from view.
Devin must be one of the interrogators. His slow, affable manner ran contrary to everything Bates would have anticipated from a man employe
d by the American rendition programme. He shook his head at the thought. He had seen the apparatus evolve from one or two exceptions that were surreptitiously granted post 9/11, to a monstrous machine that swallowed people whole. Rendition meant no lawyers and no appeal, just hundreds of detainees lost to the ‘system’. For them, the days would blur one into the next, in a process with only one stated aim – to break them.
First, new arrivals would strip for a medical and to be photographed. Then they would be dressed in hospital gowns and tied to the back wall of the cell. Sometimes just that was enough to make them talk. Having to suffer the indignity of shitting and pissing where you stood was a powerful motivator.
Others, however, took more persuasion, and dehumanising the subject and depriving them of any sense of time or routine was the next step. Interrogations would be sporadic and vary in length. The subjects would be moved from one cell to the next in a ceaseless and seemingly pointless rotation. It gave them nothing to cling on to, no sense of order or control. Combined with continual sleep deprivation, few of the detainees lasted more than a week.
The concept of rendition was something that didn’t sit well with Bates. He liked things to have an end, closure even, and while he had no issue with taking down the enemy, he did have one with a rapidly expanding population of detainees languishing indefinitely. Instead of a viable solution, rendition offered only a grey halfway house, where the CIA put people that it couldn’t quite convict in a trial. Invariably, the detainees ended up staying on a permanent basis.
That’s why the situation with Bear filled him with such unease. Eleanor Page had insisted that she be taken to the ‘farm’ for questioning until the whereabouts of the flashcard were known. Bates had insisted Bear should stay under his control and, although that request had officially been granted, he suspected that, for the Americans, this was just the start of the whole process. Soon, they would transfer her from the site and he would be fobbed off with some technicality. Then she would be lost for good. Already he was starting to hear platitudes instead of real answers from the base commander.
All last night Bates had stayed awake, wondering what Luca would do when he found out that Bear was missing. Bates knew enough to realise that his friend wouldn’t go quietly and wondered just how much wreckage would be involved along the way. He was going to have to find a way to control Luca, or at least deflect the blame from himself, but right now he didn’t have the faintest clue how to go about it.
Finally turning back towards the main building, Bates stared at the drab breezeblock walls. It was too hot outside and he needed to get under some air conditioning. Just as he took his first pace forward, the door of the main building was flung open and two men clutching medical kits burst through. They sprinted across the yard, prising back the door of one of the adjacent buildings. Briefly the sound of grim thrash music filled the air before being mercifully silenced by the closing door.
A few seconds later Devin emerged. This time his pale cheeks were flushed with anger and he stalked across the open ground, swearing in a continual stream. His hands stabbed at the air as if admonishing some kind of invisible companion, before he followed the medics into the building and everything went quiet.
Bates waited, the minutes turning slowly. Nearly ten minutes passed, but still he stayed outside in the baking heat, his concern deepening with each one.
Suddenly the interrogator burst through the door once more, blinking in the daylight. The first thing Bates noticed was that his hands were dripping wet with blood. The palms had been stained a deep crimson and he had hitched up his shirtsleeves until they were nearly past his bicep.
‘What’s going on?’ Bates asked. But Devin was so preoccupied that he hadn’t even heard him speak. Instead, he immediately set off towards the main building.
‘The stupid mother—’ he muttered, quickening his pace.
‘Hey, what’s happening here?’ Bates repeated, grabbing on to the crook of his arm and spinning him round.
Devin glowered at him. His eyes, once so languid and heavy, were blazing and small flecks of spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth.
‘Fucking medics didn’t do their job,’ he seethed. ‘I tell you, man, I am not going down for this one.’
‘What happened?’
The man looked doubtful for a moment. Bates tugged at his arm.
‘I have NSA clearance on this. Now answer me!’ he growled.
‘The woman’s fucking haemorrhaging all over the floor. The idiots didn’t spot it in the medical.’
‘Haemorrhaging?’
‘Yeah, she was pregnant.’ The interrogator raised his arms skywards in sheer disbelief. ‘Everyone has a medical when they arrive. Everyone! And now I’ve got a pregnant woman dying on me after only twenty-two hours of detention.’
Bates felt his hand slide off the interrogator’s arm.
‘Dying?’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘Jesus. I’ve never seen so much goddamn blood.’
As he said the words, the last of the colour seemed to drain from Bates’ face and he felt a terrible dryness creep into the back of his throat. He knew in that instant that he would never be forgiven, that something terrible and unmentionable would forever haunt him. He had played his part in causing Bear to miscarry, and now she was bleeding to death only a few yards from where he stood.
He shut his eyes, the nightmare closing in around him. He didn’t make any attempt to go to her, knowing full well that the medics would never let him into the cell. But more than that, there was an overarching sense of shame; that he was so despicable he shouldn’t even taint the same room with his presence. He had caused the death of Bear’s unborn child and now it looked like her life was being thrown into the balance as well.
‘I never meant anyone to get hurt . . .’ he mumbled.
‘Yeah, well. That’s not really why we’re here, is it?’ Devin retorted, eyeing the Englishman with vague suspicion. He then waved a bloodied hand towards the main building. ‘Look, I gotta get cleaned up and call this in. Christ knows how this shit is going to go down if she doesn’t pull through.’
Bates nodded, vaguely aware of Devin moving away from him.
After all that had happened in the township, it seemed incredible that Bear should be dying now. Bates knew that he had to do something. He had to act. But how could he save her?
Chapter 27
THE TWO SKI-DOOS powered up the gradient, leaving fresh tracks in the otherwise unblemished snow. As they reached the top of the saddle, Luca pulled to a halt and jammed his fist down on the kill switch, cutting the engine. Behind him Joel and Katz did the same. For the first time in six hours there was silence.
They had traversed all the way across the lake on the original tractor route back to GARI. Now they looked straight ahead, eyes scanning the sloping expanse of snow. For hours they had built up the crevasse field in their minds, fear and anticipation creating a sea of monstrous séracs and sheer, precipitous walls of ice. But the route ahead showed nothing more than a few gentle undulations covered by a dusting of snow. It looked tranquil and inviting; the very antithesis of the danger that lay beneath.
They all knew that Sommers and Akira had frozen to death only metres from where they now stood. The crevasses were out there, waiting.
Dragging his leg over the saddle, Luca brought himself to his full height with a groan. He had been hunched behind the broken windshield of the Ski-Doo for so long that his back felt rigid, while his entire right hand was numb from holding in the throttle. As painful as his body was, it paled in comparison to his thirst. It had been nearly eight hours since his last sip of water in the old Soviet base. Now, his lips were swollen and sore. A thumping headache had settled over the middle of his forehead like a thundercloud. Luca knew that it wouldn’t be long before dehydration really started to take its toll. Soon, the effects would become far more insidious.
Staggering across to the other Ski-Doo, he held the black Pelican case in his
right hand and threw it down on the snow in front of Joel and Katz. Both men watched his every move, having battled their own thirst for the entire duration of the journey. Now, it was all they could think of.
Sliding the first of the three aluminium cylinders out of the protective foam, Luca was about to unscrew it when Katz suddenly cut in.
‘If anyone’s going to do it,’ he said, ‘I will.’
Luca stared at him for a moment, watching as Katz’s tongue poked out to the edge of his lips in anticipation and wondering whether he might have some ulterior motive. But then he looked deeper into the scientist’s eyes and even behind the reflective sheen of his glasses, could see the conflict within him. To men like Katz the lake water was the ultimate prize and, by extension, what they were about to do, the ultimate sacrilege.
‘One canister. Eight hundred and seventeen millilitres split three ways,’ Katz whispered, using his bare hands to carefully unscrew the lid. There was a low hiss as the pressure escaped before he raised the flask to his lips and poured.
The water felt ice cold, almost burning the back of his throat. As it slipped down he could taste a peculiar lightness to it, caused by the sheer absence of any chemical or mineral taint. It was unbelievable. He was drinking twenty-million-year-old water that had first existed at the beginning of the Miocene era.
The cylinder was handed across to Luca, who took his share before passing it to Joel. None of them spoke, each silently policing the amount the others were drinking, until finally Joel raised the cylinder and drained the very last drop. Silence continued, the same thought repeating across all their minds. It wasn’t nearly enough. Just over two hundred and fifty millilitres had barely revived their parched throats, let alone quenched any real thirst. As Joel slowly placed the empty cylinder back in the case, they all looked at the remaining two with envious eyes.
Katz was the first to act, sliding off the Ski-Doo and slamming shut the lid of the Pelican case. The click of each lock signified that, for now, the matter was closed.
Beneath the Ice Page 27
