by Laline Paull
‘To serve would be the highest honour, sir.’ This time the sir was unforced.
Stowe held his eyes.
‘And an honour, your fitting reward.’ Stowe’s tone became casual again. ‘Lot of interesting stuff at the fair, especially the Scandinavian pavilion. Care to take a look?’
Sean felt the impatience of the Arab contingent, waiting close behind. ‘Don’t you—’
‘Oh no, not with me. Completely under your own steam.’ And with a quick nod, Stowe pivoted into his next meeting.
As Sean came down the bright gangplank, his sense of surreality was heightened by the sight of fighter jets and Chinooks parked as close as space permitted outside the vast hangar of the ExCel. The little boy and kit fetishist in him very much wanted to go and have a look, but he understood Stowe had given a cryptic instruction, and he went directly in search of the Scandinavian pavilion.
At least, he intended to – but there was simply too much to look at. Each of the four sections of the conference centre was designated a compass direction, and each was the size of a sports stadium. Presentation arenas were cordoned off for military speakers of distinction, and military men and associated suits were crammed in, standing-room only.
The sound in the halls had a curious booming underwater quality, and the ambience evoked something of a cross between Selfridges and a souk of death, with all the bright display cases holding bullets, pistols, rifles, RPG launchers and missiles. If Sean looked too long at the carpeted seating areas, the huddles of men would pause in their discussion and look up with undisguised hostility. But the vendors avoided his eye. He was not their customer, they would not waste time.
Like all trade shows, the best pitches were bought by the big companies, and the independents who could afford it, lined the edges. Sean avoided the village-hall-style cheap tables featuring ‘non-lethal crowd control’ utilities and rubber bullets, and gravitated towards the massive gleaming rocket launchers at the centre. Here was space to breathe, amidst pleasingly designed and spotless military hardware. Some looked familiar from news broadcasts in war zones, others were of exotically futurist design.
Sean picked up a programme and located the Scandinavian pavilions – on the far side. He paused to take a complimentary orange juice from the stand of an upright British company whose earth-moving equipment was unremarkable on any building site – except here, where large mounted photographs featured it demolishing settlements on what looked like the West Bank. Sean pocketed an exact miniature of a digger from the give-away bowl and moved on into the crush.
The crowd looked either military or business, and seemed to consist of small groups that flowed around a dominant individual who carried nothing. Sean continued through the tanks of the Land Arena, where he was barged aside by meaty men in tight-fitting uniforms and contemptuously sidestepped by brisk-paced officers of the upper echelons. Only the unhealthy middle-management types lugging flight-cases scanned him with cold eyes and he instinctively disliked them. He should have been at the Scandinavian pavilion by now, but he must have taken a wrong turn, because he found himself in the Medical Arena. He stopped short.
Under a big sign that read ‘Follow the Care Path!’ a young soldier lay on the ground, his bleeding shattered legs stretched out in front of him. Sean could not look away from the obscene sight of the bloody white cartilage and spikes of bone, and the dark clotted gore between them. Then a nurse with a tool box sat down on a stool by his side, and began reapplying the gore. She pulled at a bone shard to make it more prominent. Sean felt faint.
‘Lovely,’ the soldier said admiringly. He looked up at Sean. ‘Just like it was, you can see it over there.’ Sean looked where he directed, and saw a body on an operating table. A theatre nurse in a Union Jack mouth-and-nose mask went through the motions of the field-hospital operation, footage of what he assumed to be the real event, playing on a large HD screen to one side.
‘There I am,’ the soldier on the ground called out. ‘Lucky or what? That’s me on the table too, up close and personal, and this is me here on the ground – still waiting for my Equity card. Job for life – travel the world, legless!’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘What’s it with you then, PTSD? No shame, mate – all in it together, aren’t we? Sometimes you find yourself right where you need to be. Just admit it. You’ll feel better.’
‘I don’t,’ Sean said. ‘I don’t have PTSD.’
A large man in a white coat loomed up beside him, his smile deep and cold.
‘Can we offer you support? It can be hard to accept. Denial is the first stage.’
‘Nah, you muppet,’ called the legless soldier. ‘It’s the bloody injury!’
‘I’m looking for the Scandinavian pavilion.’ His mouth was dry.
‘I can show you.’
Sean turned at the friendly female voice, with its faint Norwegian accent. A tall blonde woman, her beauty plain as new bread, smiled at him with white teeth and pink gums.
He followed her past the disappointed pastor of the Medical Arena, and into the frenzy of the Scandinavian pavilion, where thrash metal deafened from the Finnish stand. This was inadequate to contain the colossal green-and-black tank jutting out into the walkway, which also starred in its own wall-mounted music video.
Sean and his new friend paused to watch for a moment, as, to the apocalyptic soundtrack, the tank crashed through a pine forest, breaking trees like matchsticks, before the film cut to an urban setting where it rumbled down a deserted city street, raising clouds of white dust. It pivoted with amazing dexterity before ploughing into, then over, a row of shops. The largely shaven-headed crowd roared approval.
The woman smiled wryly. ‘Finland is not in fact in Scandinavia, but is a Nordic country. I am surprised the Expo did not differentiate.’
‘Me too.’ Sean said it knowledgeably, though this was also news to him. He walked on with her and they entered a serene and spacious area marked Dronningsberg, the centrepiece of which was a snowy missile launcher whose base was the size of a large tractor, and whose barrel protruded so high over the surrounding stands, that Sean had seen it from halfway down the huge hall, but assumed it was part of the building. The name Dronningsberg rang a bell – yes, it was in his architect’s plans – they were the provider of broadband on Svalbard. They also did missiles.
The woman indicated a couple of chairs. As Sean sat, an aide drew a screen across, concealing them from the rest of the stand. She poured them both some water, drank deeply, then offered her hand.
‘Mrs Skadi Larssen, Assistant Defence Minister of the Kingdom of Norway. I am so pleased to congratulate you, Mr Cawson, on your success at Midgardfjorden in Svalbard. We are extremely happy to welcome you as our newest neighbour, and this is a wonderful chance to say hello, and take the opportunity to discuss your plans!’ She looked at him with great warmth. ‘If you have five minutes?’
Sean had as long as Mrs Larssen needed.
‘In Svalbard we have something of an open house, as you know.’ He nodded, absorbing her provocative combination of size, strength, and femininity. ‘A lot of friends,’ she went on, ‘can mean a lot of different values. It is very enriching – but sometimes, like now, we feel somewhat anxious about one of our neighbours.’ She looked at him directly. ‘Sometimes we feel quite threatened, but to discuss such things might make us seem weak, and maybe even encourage a lack of respect. And increasing our home security would almost certainly be seen as antagonistic. Then maybe our neighbour would want to do the same.’
‘And you would feel even more threatened.’
He heard the strain in her laugh. ‘How can I help?’
She leaned forward. ‘It would be very good to think we had a new friend in Svalbard, who would understand our concerns and keep an eye out for us. Who would be there for us, in an emergency.’ She paused, and they both listened to the rowdy shouts passing nearby, hidden by the partitions. Sean didn’t know the language.
‘Is that Russian?’
&nbs
p; ‘Danish. The bear next door has been too boisterous to be invited this year.’ Her clear blue eyes met his. Sean felt she wanted him to say something.
‘Ah. In Ukraine.’
‘In quite a few places.’ She held him in her gaze, silently prompting him.
‘I try to be well informed, Mrs Larssen, but most of us only know what we’re told by the news, don’t we?’
‘Mr Cawson, Philip tells me you are an explorer, and you have a deep and longstanding love of the Arctic.’
‘That’s true.’ Sean felt incredibly gratified that Stowe had passed this on, that he had even known it in the first place.
‘Our two nations share historic loyalty and friendship.’
‘Now you don’t come raiding any more.’ Sean’s attempt to lighten the mood fell flat.
‘Those were the Danes.’ Mrs Larssen paused. ‘Now. Do we trust each other?’
Philip Stowe, Defence Secretary of Great Britain, thought of him as a noble explorer. Sean unconsciously added in that word to the compliment.
‘Yes, we do.’
‘I think so too.’ Mrs Larssen leaned forward, and Sean kept his eyes above the glimpse of lace under her jacket. ‘Mr Cawson, it would be wonderful to be able to count on your friendship in Svalbard. In return, we will do all we can to assist you in establishing Midgard Lodge. Philip tells me you will be hosting a variety of security details for your guests? I hope you don’t mind that I know this; the security of Svalbard is my business.’
‘How can I help? I’m all yours.’ He wasn’t sure of that, but it sounded right to say it, and he wanted to see where Mrs Larssen was taking him.
‘I would very much like to think so.’ And she explained her idea. Midgard Lodge would host a private standing security detail, which could also be an emergency resource of the Sysselmann’s department – mainly for Search and Rescue – if required. Very unlikely it ever would be. But so comforting for her to think of it. And Midgard Lodge must benefit too, in ways they would devise.
Sean thought for a while. ‘Mrs Larssen, I’d love to help, but Midgard Lodge is necessarily small and discreet. We couldn’t make a difference in terms of strength.’
‘But knowledge is power.’ She smiled. ‘Observing the beauties of Svalbard, the ever-changing conditions.’
‘As in, spying?’
‘Such an old-fashioned word! But romantic.’ She stood up; the meeting was evidently over. She seemed to be offering her cheek, so Sean kissed it. She laughed.
‘A charming gesture!’
‘Sorry – I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘I am not offended if you find me attractive. Thank you so much for your visit, Mr Cawson, and once again on behalf of the Kingdom of Norway, welcome to Svalbard. Looking after Midgard Lodge will be my pleasure.’
90 N LAT., NORTH POLE
April 6, 1909
I have to-day hoisted the national ensign of the United States of America at this place, which my observations indicate to be the North Polar Axis of the earth, and I have formally taken possession of the entire region, and adjacent, for and in the name of the President of the United States of America.
I leave this record and United States flag in possession.
The North Pole (1910)
Robert E. Peary
3 May 2007: Vladimir Putin makes a speech on a nuclear icebreaker urging greater efforts to secure Russia’s ‘strategic, economic, scientific and defence interests’ in the Arctic.
2 August 2007: Russian expedition Arktika 2007, led by Artur Chilingarov and employing MIR submersibles, descended to the seabed at the North Pole, where they planted the Russian flag. They took water and soil samples for analysis, continuing a mission to provide additional evidence related to the Russian claim to the mineral riches of the Arctic. Several other countries wish to extend their rights over sections of the Arctic Ocean floor. Both Norway and Denmark are carrying out surveys to this end.
12
Martine was in Paris for the night, so for the first time Sean was alone in the apartment. It was not their habit to call each other for the sake of contact and he was glad of a night alone to absorb the tumult of the week. In particular, today’s visit to the Defence Expo (not arms fair) where he had been tapped to provide a standing security detail (not mercenaries) by not one, but two actual defence ministers. And mentioned, if Parch was to be believed, in glowing terms at Chatham House.
Life was certainly getting very interesting. Sean felt as though some brake had been removed, and this time it had happened through his own individual striving rather than a hint or handout from Kingsmith. He tried to think if they’d actually had a plan to meet for lunch, or if it were just contingent on Kingsmith’s last-minute availability – the usual dynamic. He worked his way through the last few numbers he had for him, none of which took messages, then rang the Carrington and asked to be put through. They apologised; they could only take a message. Sean smiled – he must point out to Joe that for someone who valued discretion so highly, his favourite hotel always gave the game away when he was staying. He left word he’d be there for breakfast.
It felt good, setting the agenda for once. A healthy levelling of their relationship, long overdue. He owed so much to Joe – he always would – but now they were operating together as equals, not squire and lord. With nothing urgent to deal with on the clubs, and only one missed call from Parch – no doubt for a chummy debrief – Sean disconnected from the outside world.
Bell ringers were practising from some nearby church as he opened a half-bottle of claret and looked for something to eat. The fridge held mysterious bottles and vials of things he didn’t understand, and suspected were skincare. He left them alone and made himself spaghetti with parmesan and olive oil, then sat down on one of the elegant white leather sofas to watch the news.
More coastal towns uninhabitable after the floods. Record deaths this month both sides of the Schengen Fences. The riot belt still burning in the US, Japan finally ceding the Kuril islands to Russia, bewailing its lack of international support. Then the usual footage of interchangeable street battles somewhere in the Middle East, a Kevlar-vested reporter shouting to camera as behind her young men ran for cover. Compared to what he’d seen earlier today, the weapons looked ancient. With a bizarre sense of decorum he waited until a big explosion had finished, then switched off.
Without Martine’s animating presence, the apartment was passive as a hotel suite. His minimal possessions were all neatly berthed where she had made space for him, but it would take time to feel like home. Opening another half-bottle, he turned off the lights and sat on the window seat in the dark, listening to bell-ringing practice and watching his new neighbours move about in their golden rectangles of light, magic lantern shows through the bare branches. He had emerged from what Martine called his ‘ten-year burial in the leaves’ and London had changed. It was shinier, richer, and colder.
He wondered what Tom was doing – but to call him at this hour on a Friday night would be strange, and over-emotional. He’d have plans, probably with the pretty German Ruth-alike girl. Perhaps they were in his tiny Richmond flat, its ‘river view’ only visible while standing at the kitchen sink. The last time he’d been there was for Tom’s flat-warming party, when he was still with the original Ruth, and Gail was pregnant. When a magnum of champagne was still a rare excitement, and fatherhood another chance for Sean to excel.
Ironic, Sean thought, that for all his aplomb in creating congenial environments for others, and with two of his own clubs a short cab ride away, where he would be greeted and feted and surrounded by people, he hesitated to call one old friend. It wasn’t just the possibility of Tom being with the girl. It was that, even if he weren’t, Sean didn’t want to say what he’d done today. He had a good idea of what Tom’s reaction would be.
With an almost monk-like sense of self-denial, he resolutely avoided going online, just to fill up his anxiety at being alone. He wanted a real pint in a real place
with a real friend, or for Martine to come back so he could lose himself in sex. Instead he took a sleeping pill and went to bed alone, intending to enjoy the travesty of thinking of Mrs Larssen and her pink and white smile, but he was asleep before he could summon her to play.
In his grey joggers and hoodie, Joe Kingsmith looked like a conscientiously fit American retiree, braced by some early morning exercise in the Royal Park, and now tucking into eggs Benedict in his regular suite at the Carrington. He waved away Sean’s apologies about yesterday’s lunch plan, also his opening gambit of laying out the schedule of works for Midgard Lodge.
‘I’ll leave all the details to you, Sean boy,’ he said. ‘Complete confidence. Coffee?’ He picked up the silver pot to pour but it was empty.
‘I’m good thanks.’
‘I’m not.’ Kingsmith looked around. ‘There. They don’t stick properly.’ He retrieved a large silver button from the carpet, clicked it and dropped it on the breakfast cart. ‘You want to ask me something big, but you’re nervous. Spit it out.’
‘I’ve been asked to host a permanent security detail at Midgard.’
‘Have you indeed.’
Ignoring Kingsmith’s slightly irritating look of amusement at this revelation, Sean had just begun explaining Mrs Larssen’s suggestion when the door buzzer sounded.
Kingsmith went to the door and looked through the spyhole before opening it. Followed by a butler bearing a tray with another silver pot, he came back to the table. ‘Go on. Don’t mind him.’
The butler laid down the new coffee. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
Kingsmith pointed at Sean.
‘A dinky private army for my friend. Very discreet.’
‘Not quite like that.’ Sean pushed down his irritation. At what point was Joe going to take him seriously? And revealing it in front of just anyone—
