by L. A. Larkin
Six metres directly below him lay a narrow rocky beach. It had no other access except via the sea, which was littered with thick slabs of shifting pack ice. He searched the bay for the leopard seal he’d spotted earlier. If it wasn’t nearby, his plan would not work. He couldn’t find it. His heart beat so loudly that he almost didn’t hear the distant shouting. The hunters were close, but the hut still hid Luke from their view.
Luke spied the seal further out in the bay. It was in the water – perfect. He pulled the boot and glove off his hands, then opened the backpack and took out the meat. He tore at the plastic packaging with his teeth. The frozen steaks had begun to thaw in the heat of the kitchen, and the cold blood dripped into his mouth. He spat it on his freezer suit and then smeared the meat over the suit’s outer surface and pushed some of it inside. He tightened the hood’s drawstring to keep the meat in place.
He tossed the freezer suit ‘body’ onto the beach below. He intended to use the sea ice slabs as stepping stones, and carry it far enough out to sea that his pursuers wouldn’t realise it wasn’t a real person. Finally, he threw the remaining meat into the water. The leopard seal would pick up the scent almost immediately.
Luke wound the rope around a waist-high boulder and knotted it. It was old and frayed but he hoped it wouldn’t slip or snap. He tied the spare boot to his pack and then lay on his stomach at the cliff’s edge, his head facing inland. He cautiously slid over the cliff feet-first. The rope creaked but held. His arms were taking almost all his weight, plus that of the pack, and they burned like hell. He moved one hand and then the other down the rope until it gave way so fast that Luke didn’t have time to dig his ice axe into the cliff. He fell backwards and landed badly.
Unconscious on the ground at the base of the cliff, and with blood seeping from a wound in his head, Luke was oblivious to the leopard seal swimming towards him. As he had predicted, it had found the scent of the raw meat, which now lay only metres from his defenceless body.
T MINUS 2 DAYS, 21 HOURS, 57 MINUTES
7 March, 2:03 pm (UTC-07)
If the smoking chimney and the recently cooked meal hadn’t been enough to tell Robert that his quarry had only just left Bettingtons, the Westerners’ pungent body smell gave them away. He grimaced. Of course, Westerners themselves wouldn’t notice.
Before studying economics at Harvard, Robert had only spent time with Han Chinese. His father had warned him that non-Han Chinese smelled like rotting corpses. Even with a daily shower. The General had exaggerated, his disgust fuelled by his hatred for all things American. To this day, Robert never understood why he’d been allowed to study in the United States. He suspected it had much to do with his father’s shame: if Robert wouldn’t join the army, then he wanted his wimpy son as far away as possible.
Robert recalled his white American roommate, Chet, who would come back from his morning rowing practice stinking of sweat. But even when the guy was showered and in clean clothes, Robert could still detect a foul meaty smell. And these Australians hadn’t washed for days. Despite the cosiness of the warm stove, Robert had to open the window for some fresh air.
His men scurried like bull ants around the hut. Alone in the kitchen, he discovered the bloodstained towel. One of them was wounded. Good, that would make capture easier. He ran his fingers along the spines of books until he came across one that caught his eye: An Approach to Landscape Painting, published in 1950. He frowned with concentration as he turned the slightly curled pages, pleased they had escaped mildew. It illustrated how to sketch a landscape against a grid, how to handle perspective, and the principles of composition. He smiled at the English country scene, complete with neat hedgerows, creamy stone walls and a Saxon church. He had visited the Cotswolds once, and had been struck by a feeling that while the rest of the world had modernised, rural England had refused to budge. He pocketed the book as a keepsake.
Robert heard a crash come from the dormitory, and charged in to find one of his men trashing the place. The mattresses were on the floor, as were the books, clothing and games. A rusty oil lamp had shattered. Robert grabbed the soldier’s collar and yanked him backwards.
‘Show some respect! These early explorers were heroes.’
Robert held the man by the collar with his right hand and slapped him across the cheek with his left. Captain Wei, also in the room, stared at Robert, clearly dismayed that Robert felt it was acceptable to dishonour the dead but not the rubbish they left behind. In Robert’s mind, there was a big difference between Hope Station and Bettingtons. He admired the early Antarctic explorers’ single-minded determination and bravery, battling the elements to achieve their goal. The inhabitants of Hope Station, however, were his enemy. Any threat to his project had to be eliminated.
‘Find the Australians,’ he ordered. ‘But do not destroy this place.’ He released the man’s collar and then gestured around the room. ‘This is a museum. Would you trash a museum?’
‘No, sir.’ The man looked down.
‘Wei, have you checked every room?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then go outside and search.’
The soldier almost ran away, his boots tapping down the wooden steps. Wei followed.
Robert wandered to the tools room and noticed some maps near a decrepit radio. They were rolled up and bound by a mulberry coloured ribbon – except one. Robert unrolled it. Dated 1951, the Walgreen coastline had been incorrectly drawn. He smirked at the naivety of the error and then considered how unique the map was. It would look good framed and mounted behind his office desk. He placed it in his backpack and turned to see Captain Wei in the doorway, his fur-lined hood and goggles obscuring most of his face. Did Robert see a sneer, or was it his imagination?
‘Sir, we found footprints that lead to a cliff edge and a half-eaten corpse in Hope Station colours. A seal is still eating him.’
‘A seal?’
‘Yes, sir. A leopard seal. There is very little left of him.’
‘Seals don’t attack people.’
‘Normally not, sir.’ Wei hesitated, unsure if he should dare to contradict Robert. ‘I believe leopard seals are an exception, sir. A female scientist was taken a while back. A British woman.’
Robert bristled and pulled his shoulders back. ‘Show me.’
***
Luke was nowhere near the leopard seal.
As Robert’s men had searched the hut, Luke had been roused from unconsciousness by the sound of the predator dragging its huge body up the beach. His backpack had softened his fall but his head throbbed. Battling dizziness, he had set his pack on the beach as near as possible to the cliff to prevent it getting washed away. He had then picked up the stuffed, bloodstained freezer suit and leaped onto sea ice.
His first step had been terrifying. If the surface had collapsed, he would have lasted just a couple of minutes in the freezing water before his muscles seized up and he drowned. The ice slab lurched but it bore his weight. The further out he went, the more likely the killers would believe his stuffed freezer suit was a mauled body, and the less likely they’d inspect it. He had left the ‘body’ fifteen metres out from the shore, on a flat piece of pack ice, then he had hidden himself in a U-shaped iceberg that resembled a skateboard half-pipe.
This was where Luke lay now. If the killers were determined enough to follow, he hoped his camel-coloured coat might make him look like a crabeater seal. It was a faint hope but he clung to it. He pulled his legs in tight and tucked his boots under the fabric. He was on his side with his head resting on his right arm, which was now numb. He tried to move it a little to readjust the pressure, but his sleeve was stuck to the ice.
Luke was worried about Maddie and listened intently for any sign of her discovery. He was also aware that his berg might suddenly flip over, not only tossing him into the sea but in the process foiling his ruse and signalling his presence. Luke couldn’t keep his head still as his teeth chattered. In the dip where he lay there was a pool of seawater, left behind
from the last time the berg rolled. Luke was at its edge, trying to keep his woollen coat from getting sodden. He heard a shout and then another voice replying. Had they found Maddie? Silence again. He waited.
A voice barked an order. It sounded much closer now. Luke braced himself. His pulse pounded away the seconds and minutes. Eventually, the voices started to move away. He exhaled loudly, wondering if his luck would hold out.
***
Robert wasn’t convinced. ‘I can only see one body.’
Wei responded, ‘Sir, the woman’s probably been eaten. We have searched everywhere. There’s nowhere else she can hide.’
‘Hmm,’ said Robert, looking around him. He had to be certain. ‘Wei, widen your search along the coastline, and you and you,’ he said, pointing at two soldiers, ‘come with me.’
As he strode back to the hut Robert checked his watch. He had to leave in thirty minutes so he could oversee the explosives test. His radio sparked into life.
‘Bowers to Commander Scott, are you receiving?’
‘Bowers’ was Tang Juwu, his explosives expert. Li, the glaciologist, worked with him, but his knowledge of explosives was inferior to Tang’s.
Robert lapsed into Cantonese which was Tang’s first language. ‘Loud and clear,’ Robert replied. ‘What is it, Bowers?’
‘I’ve been asked to confirm that the test will proceed at seventeen hundred hours as planned, sir.’
‘General Zhao?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Robert sighed loudly. ‘Yes, seventeen hundred hours. Ensure all equipment and men are well away from the blast site.’
‘Will do, sir.’
He remembered Li Guangjie’s concerns. ‘Do you have a camera set up to monitor the impact on the Fitzgerald Fissure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Out.’
Robert folded his arms across his narrow chest and contemplated the wooden structure before him. Were there any secret nooks a woman could hide in? He kneeled down and examined the space under the hut.
‘You!’ he shouted at his soldiers. ‘Move all that crap out here,’ he ordered, pointing to the rubbish under the floorboards.
They did as they were bid. Robert stayed on his knees, fascinated by the volume of building materials the British had brought with them.
‘Sir! We’ve found her,’ called a soldier. ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘Pull her out, man!’
The two soldiers materialised with a body wrapped in a grey shroud, and lay it on the ice. Robert could just about see a pale freckled face, eyes closed. Was she dead or faking? The soldiers aimed their QBZ-97 assault rifles at her.
‘Open the blanket and check for a pulse.’
One soldier pulled away the blanket as the other placed his hand on her neck. Robert was dazzled by Maddie’s golden rivulets of hair. Her photos hadn’t done her justice. As he noticed her bandaged leg, he heard a cry of pain from the soldier feeling for a pulse. Maddie’s right fist had smashed into the soldier’s face and he stumbled backwards in shock, his mouth bleeding. Her good leg kicked out at the other soldier straddling her, her boot connecting with his testicles. But the first soldier had recovered himself and was about to shoot her.
‘Stop!’ shouted Robert. ‘Hold your fire.’
The woman was now trying to crawl away. He was impressed by her courage.
‘Madeline Wildman,’ Robert called out in English. ‘Where do you think you are going?’
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Murdering scum! Get it over with,’ she yelled.
He walked up to her, his arms open wide. ‘You’re safe now. Luke Searle can’t hurt you anymore.’
T MINUS 2 DAYS, 21 HOURS, 24 MINUTES
8 March, 8:36 am (AEDT)
Wendy waited for Anthony Chan inside the walled sanctuary of the Chinese Gardens at Darling Harbour. Before that, she had ridden around Sydney for an hour and a half, too jittery to stay in one place. There had been a short morning shower and her hair was wet but she didn’t move from the bench. She watched a woman in her sixties practising tai chi with extraordinary fluidity and grace, but the woman’s flowing movements only added to Wendy’s sense of unreality. Surely this couldn’t be happening to her?
Chan appeared almost to glide through the gardens like a phantom, as the moisture on the paved path began to steam in the heat. Despite the humidity, Chan was wearing a dark suit and tie, and as he sat next to her he wiped his forehead with a crumpled cotton handkerchief.
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ he said, his breath heavy and fast. ‘You said it was urgent?’ He glanced at her leather jacket folded on the bench but managed to suppress his normal look of disapproval. He also chose to ignore her untidy and wet hair.
Wendy scanned the faces of the people nearby. Nobody seemed to be listening to their conversation. Regardless, she moved closer to Chan. ‘Anthony, my father trusted you implicitly. I need to know you haven’t betrayed that trust.’
‘What? How can you ask such a thing? After all I’ve done to try to free your mother!’
For a moment she gave him a penetrating stare and then leaned close to his ear. She whispered, ‘I think Dad was murdered.’
Chan’s fine eyelashes fluttered. ‘What can you mean?’
Wendy started to gnaw at an almost non-existent fingernail, then gave up. ‘Dad was bugging a Chinese diplomat called Xu Biao. I found a listening device sewn into the collar of a suit Dad had made for him. I think that’s how he learned about a new Dragon Resources project in Antarctica that was going to turn the company around, and that’s why he bought all those shares.’
Chan’s eyelashes continued to flutter. He took her hand and squeezed it.
‘You don’t believe me?’ she said, yanking her hand free. ‘I have the bug in my pocket …’
‘Oh, my dear.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I do believe you.’
It was Wendy’s turn to be stunned.
‘Jack asked me never to tell you, but now I feel I must,’ Chan continued. He turned away from her and looked at the ground. ‘I don’t know how he got the information, I swear. All I know is that he was desperate to raise a large sum of money and—’
‘What for?’ she interrupted, her voice raised.
‘Hush. Keep your voice down.’ Chan eyeballed a passing couple. ‘Someone senior at Heizuizi agreed to release your mother and get her to Japan, where Jack was going to meet her and bring her here.’
Wendy gasped. She tried to speak but she had no voice.
‘He’d exhausted all the legitimate channels. He was desperate. That’s why he risked everything to raise the money.’
‘She’s alive?’ Wendy asked, barely able to breathe.
Chan clasped her hand again. ‘So your father was told. But after twenty years in that hellhole, I have my doubts. I’m sorry, Wendy. To survive that place … I mean, very few do. I think it was a scam, and I warned Jack. The amount of money they wanted was outrageous.’
‘How much?’ Wendy demanded.
‘Two million dollars.’
‘What?’ Wendy’s eyes narrowed in fury and she slapped the wooden park bench. ‘Fuck! He should have told me. Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
Chan, who abhorred swearing, said nothing and waited for Wendy to calm down. With her head back, she looked up at the blue sky, her lips stretched into a wry, humourless smile. ‘Fuck, I’m an idiot,’ she murmured. ‘I should have known he’d never give up. If I hadn’t been so selfish, I might have been able to stop him. And now he’s dead.’
‘Nobody could have stopped him. Not even you.’ Wendy made no response and Chan decided to focus on what was to be done. ‘Wendy, if you really think Jack was murdered, you must report this to the police. But, doing so may not help your mother, if there is the remotest possibility she is still alive. If the Australian police reach out to their Chinesecounterparts, who in turn talk to the prison … well, I fear your mother will simply disappear.’
Wendy’s head spun round. ‘So
meone killed my dad! I can’t just forget about it.’
Chan squeezed her hand. ‘No, you can’t, I agree. But where is your evidence?’
‘I have the bug,’ she said, tapping her pocket. She blinked a couple of times and sighed loudly. ‘But you’re right. It doesn’t prove anything.’
‘If you’re serious about this, talk to the forensic pathologist who did the post-mortem. I have his name back at the office. He confirmed it was a heart attack but he may have missed something. And I don’t know how you might do this, but I would strongly urge you to find out if Woo Ling is alive. Then consider if you want to start making waves.’
‘I will,’ said Wendy.
‘Be careful, my dear. Be very careful.’
T MINUS 2 DAYS, 20 HOURS, 50 MINUTES
7 March, 3:10 pm (UTC-07)
Luke heard a snowmobile fire up, then a second and third. He listened as the engine noise dwindled into the distance. At last, he sat up. His body heat had melted the ice beneath him and the woollen coat was saturated, which made it very heavy. If the soldiers were gone, he wouldn’t need its camouflage anymore.
He attempted to stand but his legs were numb and the surface slippery, and he fell back. The berg creaked and wobbled from side to side like a seesaw. Luke held his breath, hoping it wouldn’t tip over.
When it stopped swaying he managed to stand. He could see the snowmobiles on their way up the Hudson Mountains. He counted three red shapes. The hut was intact, and no soldiers appeared to have been left behind. He scanned the coastline. Nothing but seals. Thank God.
Luke took his first careful step onto a slab of wobbling pack-ice. Then another and another, heading back to shore. He spied the yellow freezer suit where he’d left it, the ice beneath it now stained a gory red. The hood had been torn off and the shoulder ripped.
