“No, nothing like that,” Jonas chuckled. “This is nothing to do with me knocking on heaven’s door. This is much more serious. This is research.”
4
Callum stared at his friend. “A field survey?”
“On Harmsworth Island. It is in the extreme north-east of the archipelago. Nobody even knew that it existed until recently, not even the Russians.”
“But it must be at eighty degrees latitude. The whole place must be under ice.”
“Eighty-one,” Jonas corrected. “But apparently this island has only a single, comparatively small glacier in the centre. The rest is open tundra, which can be surveyed like anywhere else during the summer. At least that is what I am told.”
“And you want me to go there instead of you?”
“I have suggested you to the powers that be, yes, and they have said that if I am satisfied you are the most qualified replacement then they are happy for you to climb aboard, pending all the usual checks.”
“And who are they exactly? I mean, who’s proposing to fund all this?”
Jonas threw a glance around the nearby tables. Then in a low voice he said, “One minute I am working on the report for the Malsnes excavation and the next minute head of department Clive Berridge is in my office telling me that he has had a phone call from the Arctic Council and that they have requested me to go to Franz Josef Land and carry out the survey.”
“The Arctic Council?”
“It is an inter-governmental department promoting cooperation in the Arctic. All eight of the Arctic nations have signed up.”
“I know who they are, Jonas, but what have they got to do with archaeological research?”
“Nothing. At least not directly. But what they do have to do with is regulating the impact of the Arctic oil and gas industries.”
“They’ve struck oil then?”
“Close. The G&S Consortium have found gas in the seabed around the island. A substantial volume by all accounts. They will build a large processing plant and other facilities on the island itself, no doubt making a great big mess of the place. Then they will build a huge underwater pipeline to transport the gas to the mainland.”
Callum whistled. “Sounds like they’re throwing some serious ruble around.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe! This will be a true sea monster.” Jonas cast another glance around, evidently relishing his involvement in something quite so hush-hush. “But also, the company involved is interested to do things properly. They sold Clive a line about wanting to be a responsible twenty-first century corporation, etcetera etcetera, but what it really comes down to is them trying to avoid the condemnation of the international community, though I happen to think that this is inevitable. Anyway, they have commissioned a full environmental impact assessment on the island in accordance with the Russian Federation’s energy strategy and the stipulations of the Arctic Council. They want ecologists, marine biologists, geologists, archaeologists, the full works.”
“An island-wide environmental survey?”
Jonas nodded as if it wasn’t unprecedented.
“And they think there might actually be some archaeology out there?”
“Do you not agree?”
It was not the question. It was Jonas’s bluntness that told Callum the man’s mind was already set. “Look, I can understand them getting eco-geeks and rock-botherers out there, but the likelihood of there being any ancient sites at that latitude is remote, you know that.”
“Prehistoric reindeer antler has already been recovered on at least two of the islands.”
“Yes, I heard about that, and I’m not doubting that there were reindeer there for a second.”
“Where there are reindeer, there are reindeer hunters.”
“Maybe—”
“And just look what Berg’s team turned up on Svalbard only last year. There we are thinking that the earliest inhabitants are seventeenth-century whalers, but then they discover one small prehistoric settlement on Nordaustlandet and suddenly the human history of that island is back ten thousand years!” He banged his palm down. “Just like that and we push back the date of man’s relationship with the Arctic not by years or centuries but millennia. People were living in these areas. You know it and so do I. So why not Franz Josef Land?”
“Okay, but if we’re talking why nots, then why not use Russian archaeologists? Why have they asked a Norwegian? More to the point, why are you asking a Scot?”
Jonas’s eyes flashed. “Well, this is where it gets interesting. Not only have G&S agreed to the Arctic Council’s request for an environmental impact assessment, but they have also agreed that the team will be an international one and not just a bunch of home-grown yes-men. Representatives from all of the Arctic nations will be involved to one extent or another.”
Callum sat back. “Sounds like one big political powder keg.”
“Welcome to the Arctic,” Jonas beamed. “Now, unfortunately time is not on our side. You can appreciate that suitable survey conditions are fleeting at such high latitude, certainly no longer than two months in the year. There is a very narrow window of opportunity for you to get on the ground.”
“So when exactly do you need me there?”
“Two days from now.”
Callum’s heart sank. “Two days? Jonas, I can’t. It’s the first time this year that I’ve had any real time to spend with Jamie.” Their eyes moved in unison to where the boy had kicked a mass of pebbles into a pile and was now attempting to knock the top one out into the loch with a driftwood golf club.
“He is a gorgeous boy and I am sorry to have to ask this of you,” Jonas said, holding Callum’s gaze, “but this is the opportunity of a lifetime for you and a lifeline for the department. Like you said, the company is throwing some serious ruble around and,” he lowered his voice again, “as you know, the department’s future is far from certain right now.”
“I appreciate that, Jonas. But is there nobody else? What about Professor Cunningham?”
“Duncan Cunningham has never been north of Inverness,” Jonas spat. “He has half your field experience and even less knowledge of Russian archaeology. No, you are the only person qualified, the only person that I would trust to take my place. And at best we have only August and September. That’s two months for your survey and that is if the conditions hold out, which I think would be unprecedented. Two days from now is—”
“The first of August,” Callum said, his voice low with resignation.
“Yes, and they have already been very patient with us, given my personal circumstances. The rest of the team are out there as we speak, but they have agreed to hold the show until your arrival.”
Callum released a long, drawn-out sigh. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“There is always a choice,” Jonas replied, placing a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “The hard part is making it the right one.”
5
“This is Ptarmigan.”
For a few seconds the line was silent. Ptarmigan stared out of his cabin window and waited, watching as another fissure opened up in the remnant pack ice. It was melting fast, and the grinding of the fragments against the hull of the icebreaker produced a deep, constant groan that was as much a sensation as a sound.
“You are all set?”
Ptarmigan’s jaw clenched at the sound of the familiar robotic drawl. “I think so.”
“You sound uncertain.”
He caught sight of himself in the polished steel surrounding the window. He looked uncertain too. He also looked like shit; he always did when he was stressed. His skin was pale and clammy, and a finger of shaving rash glowed on the side of his neck. He rubbed at it. “You sound like a machine.”
“The voice distortion is for both of our protection.”
“Bullshit! What’s protecting me?”
“
I am.”
Ptarmigan snorted into the receiver. They had spoken only once before, but it had been enough to get the measure of the man who called himself Finback. He was an irritating know-it-all, overly fond of the sound of his own voice. But he was also a visionary. He was like some kind of goddamn activist messiah, at least in the circles Ptarmigan moved in. More importantly, he had proven himself to have the money and the resources to make things happen. The rocket launchers the group had used to blow up the new Barranquitas nuclear power plant on Puerto Rico prior to the installation of the reactor, the motorboats and charges used to board the Japanese whaling ship Shonan Maru III and send it to the bottom of the Southern Ocean, the information about Biocorp Research Laboratories personnel in Mexico, all of it, every last scrap, had come from Finback.
“It is okay to be scared.”
“Well, I’m not, it’s just—”
“It is nerves,” came the metered reply. “Remember what you are doing this for.”
“I do remember!”
“Those bastards at G&S can pretend to be as green as they like, toeing the environmental line. But you and I know that they are both about as green as an oil slick. Greed is what they are about. Profiteering and looking after themselves. There is no reasoning with these people and there is certainly no regulating them.”
“Look, Finback, I know all this. Do you think I would’ve come this far if I didn’t hate the way those corporate cocksuckers are raping this planet? I’m with the programme, okay, I just have an issue with the fact that innocent people are going to get killed on this one.”
“The cancer of capitalist ignorance can no longer be restrained by empty words and signatures on bits of paper. If we are to save this planet then blood will need to be spilt, and we must not be afraid to spill it.”
“I said there’s no need to keep feeding me the party line! I already told you I’m on board, literally. It’s the only way to open people’s ears, I know that. But then it’s still me setting the charges and then sneaking away, so cut me some slack, would you?”
Finback cleared his throat loudly. “Let me make this very simple for you. The race for the Arctic has begun. The Russians, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Canadians, the Americans, all of them, they are all poised and waiting to move in on the North Pole. Before the rest of the world has woken up to what is happening, the place will be covered with wellheads and tankers, and any remaining space will be disfigured with pipelines. A few years later and gone will be the wildlife, and one day, of course, gone will be the ice itself.
“We have the chance to try and end the whole ugly little relay. We lose the Arctic and we lose this planet. We save the Arctic and we give the best of humanity time to teach us all how to adapt and survive without the need to extinguish its beauty and exterminate its creatures and lay waste to the whole region. We save the Arctic and your children’s children, and mine, the children of anybody who dies on that ship, will have a shot at a future here.” He paused. “We must all die someday, somehow. I think that those who die for this cause will have died well. B—”
For an instant the line cut out and when it picked back up, Finback’s tone had changed. “…if you are no longer interested then say so now. There is still a chance that I can make alternative arrangements.”
“Look, for the last time, I’m in, okay?” Ptarmigan snarled. “You’re right. It’s just nerves, that’s all. Just tell me what next.”
“You received the plans I sent you?”
Ptarmigan fanned the pages of the book on the desk in front of him. It was called Ship of Fools by a woman he had never heard of. “Right here,” he said, adding, “Interesting choice.”
“You should read it,” Finback replied.
Ptarmigan was damned if he would.
Finback: “On the reverse of the back page, top corner, there are two eight-digit codes written in pencil. The first is the GPS coordinate for your explosive drop. You must collect this as soon as you can before the elements do what the elements do best and make it disappear. The second is the GPS coordinate for the rendezvous point. When it is done, make your way there. You may have to wait, but I will have somebody pick you up. An associate. If you really must contact me again, then of course you must only use this handset.”
“Is that everything?”
“It only remains for me to wish you good luck, Ptarmigan. Remember, you will be a hero to those who count.”
The line went dead.
“Patronising bastard!” Ptarmigan snarled after him. He crammed the wafer-thin handset back into the converted external drive port of his laptop. Now that he knew the secret compartment was there, it seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. But when the on-board security team had carried out their searches, it had been more than effective. They hadn’t suspected a thing.
He sat on the edge of his bed, feet planted squarely, hands clenched around his knees, and took a deep, energising breath. His pulse hammered in the side of his neck. His skin crawled.
“Patronising bastard,” he repeated, lower this time but still pointed. As he exhaled, he closed his eyes and imagined the negativity leaving him, anger and fear gusting out across his lips like toxic smoke, flowing from his fingertips like poison drawn from a wound. Then he began to chant the Buddhist daimoku: “Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo…”
As the seconds ticked by, his pulse slowed from a hammer to a tap, until he was no longer conscious of it. A deep calm washed over him. His mind focussed. He was no longer a practising Buddhist, but the devotion he had experienced in his youth had left him a valuable legacy. It had taught him the power of the mantra to recharge a man’s soul.
“…Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.”
He reopened his eyes, took his reading glasses and slid them gently onto the bridge of his nose. Then he picked up the book again and thumbed through to page fifty-four. As he parted the leaves, the content raised up off the page towards him. Only it wasn’t text. It was the first of twenty-three detailed 3D architect’s plans of the Albanov icebreaker, superimposed upon the print.
He slid the glasses to the end of his nose and peered over them.
Text.
He reaffirmed them.
Hull of the Albanov.
He slid them down again and skipped a few pages.
Text.
He reaffirmed them.
Albanov deckhouse elevation.
Though he had already studied the concealed plans in some detail, he couldn’t help but smile. “Finback, you piece of work!”
He refocussed and searched out the ship’s engine room. The amount of high explosive he would be planting there, nothing could be left to chance.
6
Murmansk Airport, Northern Russia
The man who greeted Callum in arrivals was short and dark-haired, with the familiar high cheekbones and pale-bronze skin of the indigenous Siberian people. He wore traditional beige trousers and a padded knee-length parka, both made of black-stitched, inverted hide. His nose and cheeks were wind-lashed, and his fur-lined hood was pushed back off his head, leaving a ribbon of paler skin encircling the centre of his face.
He shook Callum’s hand. “Hello, Doctor Ross. My name is Lungkaju. How are you, please?”
In truth, Callum felt sick. Just about as sick as he ever had. It was partly the turn of events. The shock of Jonas’s relapse. The physical exhaustion of the last two days travelling from Loch Ness to Edinburgh, Edinburgh to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to St Petersburg, Russia, and most recently the twenty-six-hour train journey from St Petersburg to the northern port city of Murmansk. But mostly it was the look on his son’s face when he had cut short their holiday together. There had been no screaming and shouting, no tantrum. Just an unbearably silent four-hour car journey back to Edinburgh followed by a look of undisguised betrayal as the boy had slipped away from the
ir perfunctory hug and into his mother’s arms.
“It feels like somebody’s replaced my brain with a bowling ball,” Callum replied at last.
Lungkaju looked blank.
“I’m tired, that’s all,” he said, failing to conceal a yawn. “Did my equipment arrive?”
“Yes, Doctor Ross, it is already on board. Now come on and I will get you to the outpost so that you can rest.”
As they approached the aircraft, Callum realised two things. The first was that it would not be an aeroplane transporting him to the ends of the earth, but what appeared to be a converted military helicopter. It was white with black engines, and a Russian logo was emblazoned on both sides in black and gold.
“We’re travelling in that?”
“Yes,” Lungkaju replied. “It is a Kamov, a military helicopter adapted to fly important people to the island and also back as quickly as possible. We are expected to land on the Anna Ioannovna research vessel in one and a half hours to refuel.”
The second thing Callum realised as they approached the Kamov was that he and Lungkaju would not be unaccompanied. Staring at them out of the rear passenger window were two pale eyes amidst a mass of mottled white and grey fur. Below the eyes, a damp nose was squashed up against the window, fogging up the glass with great gusts of breath.
Colony Page 3