Arctic Rising: A Constable Maratse Stand Alone novella (Guerrilla Greenland Book 3)

by Christoffer Petersen

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Petra said. She took Inniki’s jacket, and they left the girls to play.

  “I wanted to come sooner,” Inniki said. She slipped onto a stiff chair at the kitchen table, nodding as Petra offered her a mug of coffee. “But with everything going on, I wanted to do an extra podcast…”

  “I heard it,” Petra said, as she joined Inniki at the table. “The policeman is becoming quite popular.”

  “His name is David Maratse. I think you’d like him, and I think you’d appreciate what he has to say.”

  “I’m sure I would, but you know I don’t speak Greenlandic. I have to take your word for it.” Petra sipped her coffee, then tucked a loose strand of long black hair behind her ear. The light from outside lit her face, warming her soft light brown cheeks. “I have food,” she said.

  “Later.”

  Petra nodded.

  They sat in silence for several minutes, sipping coffee, listening to the girls switch between Greenlandic, Danish, and English – choosing the latter to talk about the cloth bag they were decorating for Inniki.

  Petra bit her lip as she smiled. “They don’t know you speak English.”

  “We won’t tell them.”

  Inniki put her mug down on the table, then took a moment to look around the kitchen, smiling at the mix of old and new – an old dresser full of small drawers of all sizes, each with a metal knob with a bright plastic cap of assorted colours. The surface of the dresser was piled high with schoolbooks, lunchboxes – more bright plastic – next to a laptop – open and charging. The plaster walls were almost hidden beneath a quilt of framed family photographs, and three years of wall calendars turned to favourite months and images of Greenland. The fridge door was a detective’s map of school schedules, bus timetables, drawings, and pizza menus, reminding Inniki of why she had come.

  “How long have we known each other, Petra?” she asked.

  Petra looked away as she thought about it. “It was at the social event at the Greenland House in Copenhagen.” She looked at Inniki. “A book launch, I think.”

  Inniki nodded. “That’s it. It was the year before my operation, before everything changed.” She paused for a moment than looked at Petra, and said, “I need your help.”

  Petra sighed. “I thought so. When you called…”

  “I know. I promised not to call.”

  “I don’t mind you calling,” Petra said. She reached across the table to take Inniki’s hand. “But…”

  “It’s difficult.” Inniki nodded. “With you and Lauritz.”

  “Lauritz is a good man,” Petra said. She glanced through the door at the girls in the next room. “He’s a good father.”

  “And a good politician. Popular, too,” Inniki said.

  “If he knew you were here…”

  “Which is why you brought me in through the basement.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise.”

  “It’s just... difficult,” Petra said.

  “It is difficult.” Inniki took Petra’s hand as she tried to let go, clutching it. “For everyone.”

  Petra caught Inniki’s eye, and said, “Lauritz wants to speak out about what’s going on. He really does. Not just for Greenland, but for the girls.” Petra paused. “And for me. He’s obviously not Greenlandic. But he’s not blind to what’s going on. I just don’t know what I can say to him to convince him to say something in public. I just don’t.”

  “It’s okay,” Inniki said. She squeezed Petra’s hand, then let go. “May I have more coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  Petra pushed back her chair to reach for the coffeepot. She topped up their mugs, offered food – again – then set the pot down on the table.

  “I think you might have misunderstood,” Inniki said. She looked at Petra, adding, “It’s not Lauritz’ help I need. It’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “You were a police officer.”

  “I was a constable. Not for long. I met Lauritz…”

  “In Denmark, on a course.” Inniki smiled. “I remember you telling me, how he swept you off your feet.”

  Petra laughed. “It was Jujitsu, and it was that one time.”

  “Enough for you to move to Denmark,” Inniki said.

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to marry him. To start a family. To give up your career.”

  “This is my life now,” Petra said. She held her mug in her hand, extending a finger as she gestured at the kitchen, the house, the girls, “Denmark,” she said.

  “I understand.” Inniki sipped her coffee. “But Greenland is your home.”

  “It’s where I was born. This is my home.”

  “And your people?”

  Petra lowered her mug to the table. She shook her head. “That’s not fair.”

  “But is it true? Are the Danes your people?”

  “Inniki…”

  “Are they?”

  “They can be.”

  “They can be. I see.”

  A shriek from the living room broke the tension. Petra excused herself, then left the kitchen. Inniki listened as she talked to her girls, told them to play nicely, only to return to the kitchen with Jatsi in her arms when it was clear that, for the time being at least, they either couldn’t or wouldn’t. Petra sat down. She pressed her lips to Jatsi’s ear, blowing the curls on the side of her face, nibbling her ear, making her laugh, before she caught Inniki’s eye.

  “They can be,” she said, picking up where they left off. “But mostly, they are not. They are Lauritz’ friends. His colleagues. I’m the girl he fell in love with, the mother of his children. I’m not really much more than that.” Petra swallowed. “There. I said it.” She looked at Inniki. “Is that what you wanted to hear me say?”

  “I thought you might, when you were ready to say it.”

  Inniki turned back to her coffee as Jatsi said she was hungry. The conversation dipped into a trough between troublesome waves, as Petra fixed Jatsi a sandwich, then another for her sister. She sent the two girls back into the living room, agreeing that yes, just this once they could eat in front of the television. She fixed two more sandwiches and brought them back to the table, sliding one on a plate towards Inniki.

  “No more talk until you’ve finished it.”

  “Petra…”

  “Nope,” she said, before taking a bite.

  They ate in silence, swapping quick looks, raised eyebrows, and a smile when Inniki realised what she was eating.

  “Where did you get gravad laks?”

  “At the market.”

  “But this is Greenlandic salmon… with just the right amount of dill.”

  Petra raised her eyebrows – the silent Greenlandic yes.

  They said nothing more until Inniki had finished her sandwich.

  “So,” Petra said. “Now that I finally got you to eat something. What kind of help do you want from me?”

  “You’ll help?”

  “I’ll listen. Then I’ll think about it.” Petra leaned back in her seat and looked into the living room. The girls giggled between bites of sandwich and slurps of milk. Petra turned back to Inniki and waited.

  “It’s not really now that I need help, but I’m worried about the future.”

  Petra’s brow furrowed. “Are you sick?”

  “Naamik,” Inniki laughed. “It’s not like that. It’s just, lately…”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been followed,” she said, and then, “It’s okay. Not today.” She tugged at Petra’s hand as she twisted to look out of the window. “It’s quite casual. But noticeable. At least, to someone like me. Someone with my background.” Inniki let go of Petra’s hand and brushed the crumbs from the table into her palm. She dropped them onto her plate, and said, “I haven’t always been old, and I wasn’t always an exile. I used to work for the Americans, you know. And now…”

  “Yes?”

  Inniki shrugged, as if it really wa
sn’t that big of a deal. “I know their methods, Petra. Which is why I know I am being watched. And that’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  Greenland

  Part 4

  ________________________________

  Walcott tucked his hands into the armholes of his tactical vest and watched as IGA administrative officer Isra El-Hashem coordinated the evacuation of Kussannaq. The briny sea air tickled his nostrils, while the chatter of confused Greenlanders, and the crunch of rigid hulled inflatables landing on the beach, drifted on the wind in gusts and snatches. If he smoked, Walcott would have lit a cigarette by now. There was nothing else for him to do. The captain of the USCG cutter Logan put her officers in charge of filling the inflatable boats and shuttling the residents from the settlement to the ship, the helicopter crew provided additional security, while IGA muscle Casey Mitchell and Brantley Downs lent a firm hand to those families struggling with the basic orders of leave and now. The only fly in the ointment that Walcott could see was loitering just off the Logan’s starboard side. The Greenlandic police cutter Sisak III and its crew was the unknown element. Walcott wasn’t concerned about them intervening or preventing the relocation of Kussannaq’s residents, rather it was the signal they sent if they didn’t endorse the move. The red and white hulled cutter was all too visible against the backdrop of the dark blue sea, the green- and straw-coloured grasses, and the stark browns, greys, and blacks of the mountains.

  “What are they thinking?” Walcott asked Isra as she joined him. He pointed at the police cutter.

  “Them?” Isra shrugged, then tugged her notebook from the front sleeve of her tactical vest. “As long as they don’t interfere, what does it matter?”

  Walcott turned his attention to the families boarding the Coast Guard boats, noting each outstretched hand pointing at the police cutter, a wave, and a raised fist.

  “The hull is painted like the flag,” he said. “Red and white.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Walcott said. “I think, next time, we send the police somewhere else. I don’t like the way they just sit there. It’s like a quiet resistance.”

  “Danielsen is on that boat,” Isra said. “The constable you wanted to replace Maratse.”

  “I know.” Walcott bit his lip, gave Sisak III one last look, then turned to Isra. “How we doing?”

  Isra flipped through her notebook. “I’ve got forty-one adults on my list.” She lifted the flap on her vest to reveal the administrative documents and the tablet she was using to record the status of each resident during the evacuation. “This is just shorthand,” she said, returning to her notebook.

  “I thought there were forty-two residents?”

  “Originally, there was. But Kamiila…” Isra ran the tip of her finger beneath Kamiila’s last name, spelling it out, “S.O.R.S.U.T.T.A.R.T.O.Q.”

  “Right,” Walcott said with a nod. “She’s the one who took off with Maratse.”

  Isra lowered her notebook and pointed to an older couple clambering over the side of one of the Coast Guard inflatables. “That’s her uncle and aunt right there.”

  “You interviewed them?”

  Isra snorted. “Yeah, and how am I gonna do that?”

  “Right.”

  “We really need an interpreter.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  A whistle from Downs turned their heads from the boats on the shore, back to the buildings and houses of Kussannaq.

  “Runners,” Downs shouted, jabbing his finger in the air, pointing at the last row of houses.

  “They’re headed for the path into the mountains.” Isra swore as she tucked her notepad into her vest. She checked her pistol, secured it in the holster strapped to her right thigh, then started to move. Walcott stopped her with a hand on her arm. “What?”

  “We’ll let them go,” he said.

  “Really? It’s going to be a pain in the ass to round them up again.”

  “They have another purpose.” Walcott let go of Isra’s arm and gestured at the mountains behind the settlement. “They’re going to send a message to Maratse.”

  “Okay, I get that. But…” Isra nodded as a man in full tactical gear charged after the Greenlanders fleeing for the mountains. “But you might want to tell Mitchell.”

  “Shit.” Walcott shook his head, then pressed the transmit button on the radio clipped to the left shoulder of his vest. “Mitchell. Let them go.”

  Isra chuckled as Mitchell raised his fist and extended the middle finger. “I think that’s a no from Mitchell,” she said.

  “Why are you laughing? He’s one of yours.”

  “Under your command,” Isra said.

  Walcott swore a second time, reached for the radio, then thought better of it. “Come on,” he said. Walcott nodded for the Coast Guard door gunner to stay with the helicopter, then called Downs on the radio as he and Isra started to run. “He needs to let them go,” he said, then again as Downs joined them. “This is how we get Maratse, how we draw him to us.”

  “Mitchell doesn’t know that,” Downs said. “That’s not how he thinks.”

  “No shit,” Walcott said.

  Isra, the lightest of them, pushed forward, gaining on Mitchell as the big IGA man tackled the woman closest to him. Walcott winced as the woman screamed, then again as Mitchell clapped a gloved hand across the woman’s mouth, pinning her arms to her sides with his arm.

  “Mitchell, let her go,” Isra said, as she reached him.

  “She’s running.” Mitchell nodded at the older man, catching his breath on the path in front of him. A small girl peeped out from behind the man’s legs. “They all are.”

  “God damn it, Mitchell,” Walcott said as he stopped beside Isra. “I gave you an order.”

  “My orders are to evacuate this pissant village.” Mitchell relaxed his grip on the woman, and she crawled away. “They took off.”

  Walcott crouched beside Mitchell and gripped the front of his vest. He tugged at it to get Mitchell’s attention, and said, “We’re evacuating them for a reason. You have to think of the bigger picture, Mitchell. You need to think, period.” Walcott wrinkled his nose at the smell of Mitchell’s sweat. He let go of him and nodded at the woman, lowering his voice to a forced whisper before continuing. “We evacuate Kussannaq, and we force Maratse to respond. But we have no idea where or what he will do. But if these three trek into the mountains to tell him what happened here, there’s a chance he’ll come back to Kussannaq with them, to see for himself. A bigger chance than if he just hears about it. Plus,” Walcott said, giving the older man and the young girl a more studied look. “They have the added bonus of slowing him down. The old guy is on his last legs, and the girl’s legs are tiny.” Walcott stood, offered Mitchell his hand, then pulled the IGA man to his feet. “You get it now?”

  “The bigger picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah,” Mitchell said, shrugging free of Walcott’s grip. “I get it.”

  “Good. Now give me your gun.”

  “What?”

  “Your weapon, Mitchell.” Walcott held out his hand. He watched the woman rise to her feet, following her movement as she walked to the man and girl, drawing them both into a protective embrace.

  “What are you doing?” Isra said, as Walcott took Mitchell’s M4 carbine.

  “Well…” Walcott sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I never got the impression that Maratse was the sharpest tool in the box.” Walcott primed the weapon and flicked the safety off. “If we’re going to send a message, I think we need to send it loud and clear.” He raised the rifle, tucking the stock to his shoulder.

  “Walcott,” Downs said.

  “Save it,” Walcott said.

  He took a step forward, pointed the barrel at the woman’s head, then paused, curious about how she simply closed her eyes, pulling the man and girl tighter to her body. The girl started to cry as Walcott altered his aim, firing a short burst above their heads.

 
They didn’t move.

  Walcott fired again – another burst above their heads, then a third into the path between them. Splinters of dirt and twists of Arctic grass danced in the air until the woman grabbed the man by the arm and took the girl’s hand. She looked at Walcott, stared right through him, then turned her back on him and walked along the path. Walcott swallowed and then slipped his finger around the trigger, ready to fire one more time.

  “They get the message,” Downs said, pressing a big, gloved hand onto the barrel of the rifle, lowering it, then prising it from Walcott’s hands. He checked the safety, then slung the rifle over his shoulder.

  “That’s mine, you know,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah, but until folk round here start thinking straight, I think I’ll hang on to it.”

  Walcott watched the three Greenlanders walk along the path. “Shit,” he said. “We didn’t get their names.”

  “The woman,” Isra said, swiping the screen of her tablet, “is Innuina Eqaluk. She’s twenty-nine.”

  “Inu-what?” Mitchell said.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Isra turned the tablet towards Walcott, showing him a close-up of the woman’s face, fierce eyes beneath thick black eyebrows glared out of the screen.

  “And the girl?” Walcott relaxed as Isra swiped to the next photo.

  “Kaatsiaaja. Seven years old. She’s the daughter.” Isra swiped the screen to the right, flicking through a series of photos before stopping at the image of an older man. “Kilaasi Qingalik. Sixty-two. Probably related to the woman.”

  “So,” Downs said, after a quick glance at Isra’s tablet. “We’re sending a girl, her mother, and an old man into the mountains hoping they find Maratse and encourage him to walk back down here so we can pick him up. Did I get that right?”

  “That’s right,” Walcott said.

  “Okay. And how long is it going to take them to find him? How far are they going to walk? And how are they going to keep warm in that one set of clothes? What are they going to eat?”

  “What’s your point, Downs?”