‘He’s alive.’
Ciszewski brought a handkerchief from his overcoat pocket. ‘He died in the truck that went through the ice.’
‘He’s alive, Frank, and he’s talking.’
‘Then why doesn’t the CIA know?’
‘He gave me this.’ Rake brought out Yumatov’s patch of cloth and held it under the light. ‘This is a stone carving of a Kolovrat, which is—’
‘I know what a damn Kolovrat is.’ Ciszewski wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘What the hell do you think we were doing with the Russians and the Serbs and all that Balkan crap all those years?’
‘Yumatov gave me this sample for a reason.’ Rake kept his tone measured.
‘We’ve traced it to the Tarim Basin in north-west China,’ said Harry. ‘Yumatov told us first to follow the Kolovrat, then follow the money. We’ve done both.’
‘Set up a meeting. We’ll talk about it in my office.’ Ciszewski opened his front door. ‘I’m not interested in a night class in archaeology.’
Rake heard footsteps and spun round. Ciszewski’s protection officers were behind him. Two stood further back. ‘You gentlemen need to leave the property now.’
They walked back down the garden path. ‘How’d that go?’ said Mikki as they got back in the car.
‘As expected,’ said Harry.
Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago
‘The penis of a walrus is the largest of any land mammal,’ announced the exhibition curator, his boyish, bespectacled face dead pan with only the hint of a smile. ‘God chose to give the male walrus an advantage over us lesser mammals by endowing him with a baculum or a penis bone that measures up to twenty-five inches or sixty-three centimeters in length.’ Low laughter rolled through the audience packed into the hall where Ronan, Rake’s protégé and the young artist from Little Diomede, was exhibiting his walrus sculpture. Ronan had elaborately carved a long walrus tusk that was now lit by colored spotlights, mounted like the hull of a ship and framed by four elegantly curved walrus penis bones. Ronan stood shyly nearby with Rake, Mikki, and Henry and Joan Ahkvaluk, who were the adoptive parents to all three of them. Nearby was a troupe of Eskimo dancers in tribal costume carrying circular drums made of stretched walrus stomach. Mikki propped himself on a crutch with his right leg hooked back in a sling. ‘I can’t believe you got me doing this shit,’ he muttered.
‘Serves you right for getting shot,’ whispered Rake.
‘Did anyone tell you Carrie’s coming?’ Mikki grinned.
That took Rake by surprise. He’d felt bad about not seeing Carrie before Lucas flew him straight back to Washington on Air Force One. He had messaged her, but she had just sent back one-line replies that everything was fine. Let’s meet when our paths cross again was her latest.
Mikki pointed to the doorway as Carrie walked in as if she owned the place, in a navy-blue business suit, blonde hair tied back, a red patterned scarf, and holding the hand of Rufus, the Russian kid, which startled Rake even more.
‘Henry and Joan are taking Rufus while things are sorted out,’ said Mikki.
‘You fixed it?’
‘A cripple like me needs to do something useful.’
Rake waved. She spotted him, waved back, and Rake couldn’t stop a good feeling sweeping over him. Joan and Henry got to her first. Joan embraced her like a sister, then kissed Rufus, whose eyes were everywhere, taking in the sound and the color, clocking the other children. Henry kissed Carrie on both cheeks, held her by the shoulders, looking at her beaming. They hadn’t seen each other since the Diomede crisis. Henry tilted his head to Rake. ‘Look after him, Carrie.’
‘That’s what Mikki tells me, too,’ she smiled.
Carrie let Rake hold her hard. Everything was always great between them as long as there was more urgent stuff going on around them. ‘You staying?’ he asked. There was so much in those two words.
She showed him a late evening boarding pass from her top jacket pocket. ‘I yelled at a surgeon and have a disciplinary panel at the hospital.’
The curator began to wrap up. ‘Our young artist Ronan Ahkvaluk has been inspired by artists through the centuries from all over the world. His specialism, however, is inspiration drawn from ancient erotic Indian carvings which display sensual touch between all living creatures.’
More laughter surged around the crowd.
‘You will find more about the walrus and Ronan’s carvings in your program notes,’ he concluded. ‘Suffice to say that the baculum is designed specifically to maintain stiffness and aid the pleasure of sexual intercourse and that evolution is gender-balanced. The baculum’s female equivalent is known as a baubellum.’ He raised his glass of white wine. ‘So, let us toast this magic of erotic art and our discovery of a wonderful new American artist and declare this fantastic exhibition from the Little Diomede open.’
Drummers and singers broke into music with songs from the Eskimo islands of the Bering Strait. Rufus skipped away from Joan to join children who were jumping and dancing to the beat in front of Ronan’s exhibit.
Rake’s phone lit with a message. Ciszewski’s dead. He brought up his news feed: ‘CIA Director shoots himself on banks of Potomac.’ They must have hit one hell of a nerve. But what did it mean? Ciszewski might have been a fang, no way was he head of the snake. Carrie glanced over, clocking the change of mood. His phone vibrated. Rake answered. ‘When can you get here?’ said Lucas. Rake plucked Carrie’s boarding pass from her jacket and read out the flight number.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all who have helped with Man on Edge. I am indebted to the Mayor of Kirkenes, Rune Rafaelsen; Finnmark Chief of Police, Ellen Katrine Hætta and her colleagues Silja Arvola and Torstein Petterson of the Norwegian Police Service; Lars George Fordal of the Norwegian Barents Secretariat; from the Norwegian Embassy in London, Mona Juul, John Olsen and Kaja Glomm; Trine Beddari at Birk Husky on the Russian-Norwegian border and her team, specifically Kit Hardy who taught me skills and pitfalls of dog sledding and how to grill a fresh salmon lunch on a fire in the snow. On wider Arctic security issues thanks to Tamnes Rolf and Øystein Tunsjø, the Norwegian Institute of Defence Studies; Arild Moe, Fridtjof Nansen Institute; Dag Harald Claes, University of Oslo; Niklas Granhalm, The Swedish Defence Research Agency; Heather Conley, Center for Strategic and International Studies in Washington DC. And on wider geopolitical defence issues to Nick Childs and Joseph Dempsey, the International Institute of Strategic Studies; Karin von Hippel, Chris Parry and Charles Parton, Royal United Services Institute; Shihoko Goto, The Wilson Center; Matthew Henderson and James Rodgers, the Henry Jackson Society; Karin Landgren, Security Council Report; John Hemmings, Asia-Pacific Center for Security Studies; Robin Marsh, Margaret Ali and Tom Walsh, United Peace Federation; Tom McDevitt, Washington Times; Harlan Ullman, Atlantic Council; Adam Thomson and Ian Kearns, European Leadership Network; Vladimir Petrovsky, Russian International Affairs Council; Alexander Yakovenko, Russian ambassador to London; Alexander Nekrassov, and others of many political shades who would prefer to remain anonymous. Thanks to the people of Little Diomede, the remote island home of Rake Ozenna; to Joshua Brown who guided me through the labyrinth of flash drives and data transfers; Carrie Roller who straightened out my descriptions of trauma diagnosis and surgery; and Nancy Langston whose stylishly decorated Washington apartment I couldn’t help borrowing as Carrie’s temporary home.
Untold thanks to supportive fellow writers, too many to name. You each know the process, but particularly to the great thriller author and adventurer Odd Harald Hauge who understands the Arctic better than anyone. Much gratitude also to the International Thrillers Writers Association, Society of Authors and Crime Writers Association, those networking and advice institutions that help keep us on track. By the way, K.J. Howe, you and your ThrillerFest team know how to hold great parties.
It takes many hands to produce a book. The author is just one part. Much appreciation to Don Wiese who handled and advised on the fi
rst drafts, copy editor Nick Blake who lasered in on discrepancies and details, and John Plumer who created a map that made sense of a complex region.
A special thanks to my editor, Kate Lyall Grant who, from a few lines of plot and concept on email, guided Man on Edge to publication and earlier commissioned Man on Ice, the first in the Rake Ozenna series. Great working with you, Kate, and looking forward to our next one. The team at Severn House and Canongate has been fantastic, professional, fast and fun to work with. Thanks, too, to Holly Domney and the exciting new Black Thorn imprint which has beautifully brought Man on Ice and Rake Ozenna to a fresh paperback readership.
None of the above would have happened without David Grossman, my agent since I phoned him out the blue in 1992 when I was a BBC Correspondent in Asia. Thank you, David, for your wise counsel over the years.
Man on Edge Page 30
