by L. A. Larkin
‘I’d like to see the cockpit, if that’s all right with you? Always been fascinated by these big birds.’
‘Of course,’ Trankov nods. ‘Mikhail will show you.’
‘I’ll take him,’ says Ironside. ‘Need to sort out the runway.’
‘Let’s get inside, then,’ says Heatherton. ‘Follow me.’
It has been agreed that only Heatherton, Beer, Price and Matthews will meet the Russian delegation until the exact purpose of their visit is established. After much argument, Wolfe has been allowed to join them, but no recordings, no notebooks. Harvey is apparently more interested in the plane than in the impending showdown.
‘Ah, it is tropical here, I think,’ says Trankov. ‘You British are too soft to cope with the temperatures at Vostok.’
Heatherton flinches at the jibe. Inside the mess tent, the four Russians are offered tea and coffee; in honour of their arrival, the last packet of chocolate biscuits is opened. As the Russians sit on one side of the trestle table and the hosts on the other, it reminds Wolfe of the many peace talks she has reported on.
‘So, Alexey,’ says Heatherton, ‘it’s always a nice distraction to have visitors, but I’m sure this is not a social visit. Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?’
Trankov has removed his red puffa and put on metal-framed glasses. He smiles warmly. ‘We have come to help you with your problem.’
‘Really?’ says Heatherton. The sarcastic tone appears lost on Trankov. ‘But I have already made it clear that we don’t need your help. We have made our own arrangements.’
Trankov nods. ‘You did, my friend. That is why I fly thousands of kilometres to ask you to change your mind. You must wait three more days for replacement parts. This mean the bore hole, it will freeze tight.’ He twists his hands as if throttling a small animal. Wolfe’s mind is spinning with questions she’s dying to ask, especially how he knows about their arrangements for the new parts. ‘This means you must drill a new bore hole, which is a big risk for you. You may run out of fuel. Many things can go wrong. But if you start to drill now, with our drill, you can use the bore hole you have. No problem! So!’ Trankov pauses for dramatic effect, his arms raised high like a magician about to reveal that his assistant has disappeared from the box. ‘Our drill is sterile. And no pollution.’ Trankov winks at Dr Price, who flushes, livid. ‘I think you will like it.’
Beer leans forward and places a clenched fist on the white Formica table top. ‘What makes you think it’ll take three days for us to get new parts?’
‘There are no secrets in Antarctica. Everybody knows your first samples have been destroyed. I tell you this. Somebody here is sick in the head.’ Trankov scrutinises the faces of the four people opposite.
‘Hold on a second,’ Price says. ‘Are you saying you’ve developed your own hot water drill?’
‘This is correct. We had, how do you say . . . a few problems with our last drill. Using Freon and kerosene to lubricate the bore hole and antifreeze to keep it open upset many scientists and killed our living samples. We learn from our mistakes. So we develop a sterile hot water drill.’
‘But it’s already too late,’ Price retorts. ‘You’ve contaminated Vostok, one of the last totally pristine lakes in the world. You should be ashamed.’
‘Stacy!’ warns Heatherton.
‘We have not contaminated the lake, Dr Price. Just our samples.’
‘Rubbish,’ Price replies. ‘Why do you refuse to allow other countries to test the water?’
Heatherton intervenes. ‘Let’s not beat around the bush, Alexey. Your drill design has been a closely guarded secret. Likewise, we have kept ours under lock and key, because it’s one of a kind, developed specially for this project. Are you seriously going to share your unique design with us?’
Trankov nods.
‘But why? If it gets damaged, you can’t use it at Vostok.’
‘Because we cannot progress. We are hindered by very cold weather. The forecast is bad. It says it will stay minus sixty or seventy for the next two weeks. You will have completed your mission by then. I do not want to come second. But, I am happy to be joint-first. With you.’
Price mutters, ‘It’s not a fucking race.’
Trankov raises a white eyebrow. ‘I think you are being naïve, Dr Price.’
‘How dare you—’
Beer cuts in. ‘Can we see the drill? Then we decide if we want it.’
‘No way!’ Price blurts out. ‘And anyway, this is pointless without a sediment probe.’
Heatherton glares at her. ‘I think you’ve said enough, Stacy.’
She looks away, mortified at her mistake.
‘I can help you, once again,’ says a smug Trankov. ‘Our probe is on the plane. And, yes, you can inspect both. But if you decide to use our equipment, then we get equal credit for whatever is discovered in Lake Ellsworth.’ Trankov peers over the top of his glasses at Heatherton.
‘It does no harm to look,’ says Beer.
‘No way,’ says Price. ‘This has taken us ten years. I’m not giving equal credit to someone who shows up at the last moment offering a solution we don’t need.’
Matthews has listened quietly until now. He unfolds his arms. ‘I agree with George: it does no harm to have a look. But, and here’s the big but. We’d have to be convinced it carries no contaminants. It needs to be absolutely sterile.’
‘But we don’t know how to use it,’ says Heatherton.
Trankov pipes up. ‘That is why I have my engineers with me.’
‘Alexey,’ says Heatherton. ‘I’m happy to see your drill and probe. I will then talk in private with my colleagues. If we decide we do not want to use it, we ask you to get back on your plane and leave. Today.’
‘What kind of hospitality is this?’ asks Trankov, again with a dramatic gesture. ‘It is a long journey from Vostok. We must refuel. My people are weary. We must stay the night.’
‘We’ll see,’ says Heatherton. ‘Shall we take a look?’
One by one they leave the Weatherhaven. Beer turns to Wolfe. ‘It’s going to be an uncomfortable night.’
18
Their boots clatter on the steel floor of the Il-76, the sound amplified within the tunnel-like confines of a cargo hold that can carry four armoured trucks and fifty soldiers, no problem. Wolfe follows Yushkov inside. Before entering, he glances around at the brightly lit interior, then stands near the exit, well away from the rest of the group.
The big man has waited until all the Russians are inside the plane’s belly. He has not spoken since the visitors arrived, but his eyes are watchful and his body as tense as a drawn bow. The Il-76’s ceiling is padded insulation, exposed pipes, electric cables and a few down-lights. It’s in need of some TLC. Running the hold’s length, on both sides, are overhead lockers, and beneath them, folding metal chairs, screwed to the floor. It is a workhorse. No comfort provided. The cargo hold is almost empty, except for two long crates, secured by straps. Wolfe can guess their contents: the Russians’ drill head and probe. Beyond the crates, a rectangular bladder of aviation fuel, as big as a family swimming pool, is strapped to the floor.
‘It is time for the . . . how do you say? Unveiling?’ says Trankov, who is clearly a bit of a performer.
Snigir and Magnitsky take control of unstrapping the first crate. Grankin assists. They speak in hushed Russian.
‘What are they saying?’ Wolfe whispers to Yushkov.
He is observing them so intently he doesn’t even register her question. Grankin uses a crowbar to carefully lever open the crate’s lid. Magnitsky releases the second crate from its bonds and, also, forces open its lid. The Lake Ellsworth engineers - Beer, Ironside and Rundle - move closer, drawn to the boxes’ contents like children to presents under a Christmas tree. The rest of the British team follow suit. All except Yushkov, who holds back.
Snigir squats next to the box containing their hot water drill nozzle. The seams of her waterproof pants strain as the flesh of
her strong but chubby legs swells. As she points out the key features of the drill, Grankin translates.
Rundle kneels next to Snigir.
‘Fuck me!’ Rundle says, interrupting Snigir’s fast talking. ‘It’s like ours.’ He looks up at Yushkov. ‘Vitaly! You’ve got to look at this.’
All eyes are on Yushkov. He takes careful steps towards the open crate as he pulls on latex gloves and kneels opposite Snigir. He asks her in Russian if he can pick it up and she nods. He is much easier for Wolfe to understand as he speaks slowly and deliberately. Yushkov lifts the drill nozzle a few centimetres and peers at the circular drill head through its protective cover.
‘The nozzle assembly is brass and steel, 1,400 millimetres long, has forward-facing jets.’ He looks at Snigir and reverts to Russian. ‘Has this sterile bag been opened?’
‘Nyet,’ she replies firmly. ‘Sterile,’ she adds proudly in English.
‘I cannot be certain until the bag is open,’ Yushkov says to Rundle. ‘But the design looks . . . ’ He chooses his words carefully, aware Russian and British eyes are on him. ‘ . . . almost identical. It is a miracle.’
He gently places the drill nozzle back in the crate.
‘See!’ says Trankov. ‘I tell you we have sterile hot water drill, and it is true!’
‘But that’s just not possible,’ says Rundle. ‘Our drill is one of a kind. There’s no way another design team could’ve come up with something like it.’ Rundle shoots up from his squatting position, his tone indignant.
Beer has been quietly inspecting the bagged drill nozzle. He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know how you did it,’ he says to Snigir. ‘But that’s our drill you’ve got there.’
Heatherton takes a closer look.
Grankin translates and Snigir’s eyes disappear under her puffy brows as she fires out words like machine-gun bullets, pointing a finger at Beer in angry emphasis.
Grankin speaks. ‘This is not your drill. It is our design and engineering. It is arrogant to assume that we have copied your design. Perhaps you have copied ours!’
Rundle jumps up and opens his mouth to retaliate when Heatherton speaks up.
‘We’re not accusing you of anything, but you have to admit it’s extraordinary.’ It’s clear from his troubled expression that he thinks the coincidence is more than extraordinary. ‘Let’s move on to the probe, shall we?’
Rundle and Beer focus on the next open crate: the probe is sealed in plastic but clearly visible.
‘So how does it operate?’ Rundle asks, trying to keep his cool. He gives the female engineer his most winning smile, but she’s unimpressed.
Snigir flicks a look at Trankov, who nods. Grankin translates. ‘The probe consists of two pressure cases. The lower contains the majority of the instrumentation, and the upper the power and communications demodulation systems. These two vessels are separated by the water samplers. Data is delivered in real-time, and water and sediment samples are recovered for post-retrieval analyses.’
Beer gawps at Snigir. Rundle, young and not prone to diplomacy, storms over to Heatherton. ‘Michael, for fuck’s sake, it’s the mirror image of ours!’
‘Dr Heatherton,’ says Trankov. ‘I urge you to control your people. These accusations are unfounded. This will not end well.’
The tension in the confined space is like static.
‘Vitaly!’ says Rundle. ‘You haven’t said a word. Come on, man, what do you think?’
Yushkov takes a deep breath. He looks into Grankin’s eyes and Wolfe swears she sees Grankin shake his head almost imperceptibly. Yushkov stares at the floor, his jaw muscles tense. Wolfe recognises the look of a man faced with a terrible dilemma. A dilemma that could have dangerous repercussions. She has watched whistleblowers with that same look in their eyes as they decide whether or not to destroy their lives and careers to do the right thing. A mix of terror and weariness, pride and doubt.
‘Well?’ demands Heatherton.
Yushkov looks at his project leader. ‘I cannot be certain until I inspect the machinery. It is possible for separate teams to produce similar designs.’
Rundle yells at Yushkov. ‘That’s a cop-out and you know it. You’re on their fucking side!’
Wolfe looks round at Grankin and catches him smirking. Yushkov holds his ground for a few seconds and then turns his back on Rundle and leaves.
‘You’re meant to be on our side!’ Rundle shouts after him.
Heatherton clears his throat. ‘Dr Trankov, I think our teams should go about their duties, while you and I have a talk in private.’
19
Your Skype conversation is with Jerry Butcher. My spyware enables me to watch both of you. Behind Butcher is a bookshelf so neat, so ordered, it’s as if the books are cardboard cut-outs for a show home. On the middle shelf there’s a framed photograph of him shaking hands with none other than the biggest piece of filth of all, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner.
‘Aren’t you well connected, Jerry, old boy? Not that it will do you any good.’
You, Olivia, are multiple layers of clothing, like a robin puffing out its feathers to keep warm. But I want you stripped. Exposed and vulnerable, as I was when you left me to die. Dr Sharma is delighted with my progress. Almost did a little jig when I described the flashback. This is the first new memory I can hang on to, recall over and over again, even if it is sometimes so painful I want to throw up. So I guess it is progress.
You are wearing headphones, sitting at a table, your back to the tent wall so your screen can’t be seen by others. I don’t hear voices, so guess you are alone. The coffee mug you drink from has left a circular stain on the table’s white surface.
‘Did you find out anything?’ you ask Butcher.
‘I have something. Wasn’t easy to get, mind you. Met with an old mate from the Foreign Office. Retired now, keen to chat about old times over a few beers.’
You look around, checking nobody has entered the Weatherhaven. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Turns out Yushkov is a bit of a hero.’
You frown.
I frown.
I’m as surprised as you.
‘Do you remember two years ago when some maniac, Robert Zhao Sheng, blew up a massive Antarctic glacier?’
‘Of course I do. It was a big story. But the man who tried to stop him was Australian, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Luke Searle and an American, Maddie Wildman. But there was one other whose identity was kept secret. At the time, he was engineer on an Antarctic tourist ship.’
‘You’re not serious? Vitaly?’
You say his name out loud, then realise your mistake. For a moment you appear to be listening for something, then your shoulders relax.
‘According to my source, yes,’ Butcher says.
You shake your head in disbelief. I immediately google the media coverage at the time. Searle and Wildman are hailed as heroes. No mention of Yushkov. No mention of a third person.
‘But Searle and Wildman nearly died. Are you saying he helped them?’
‘I am.’
You run your finger round the table’s circular stain, lost in thought. ‘He helped an Australian and an American? Why? This flies in the face of an email I received yesterday.’
‘What email?’
‘I’ll send it to you now.’
Butcher receives the one-pager on Yushkov’s army career and cowardice.
‘Sent anonymously. Moz is getting it translated,’ you say.
Good. That would be helpful.
‘I’d regard anything anonymous and untraceable with a great deal of suspicion,’ Butcher says. ‘Perhaps someone is feeding you misinformation?’
Not me. Not this time. Someone is treading on my patch.
‘Maybe,’ you say. ‘But if he’s the hero you say, then why on earth would he keep it quiet?’
‘I’ve been racking my brains about that - or what’s left of them, anyway.’ Butcher grins. ‘To achieve a media blackout lik
e this needs government intervention at a very senior level. If the British Government did this, then MI5 would’ve been involved. Probably Six too.’
‘If that’s true, he must be extremely valuable.’ You shake your head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. What could he possibly know that’s worth all that trouble?’
‘Yushkov may well be a spy, Olivia.’ A pause. ‘One of ours.’
‘So what’s he doing here, in the middle of nowhere?’ You chew a fingernail, thinking. ‘Can your friend give us anything solid? Documents? Photos?’
‘You know me better than that, Liv. I’m helping you because I think you’re in danger, but everything I’ve just said is off the record and I certainly won’t give you confidential documents.’
Nice try, Olivia, but Butcher is a real by-the-book kind of guy.
‘Did your source say anything else?’
‘He talked about a cable between the Australian ambassador in Argentina and the Foreign Office in London. He claims they agreed that Yushkov’s involvement in what they refer to as the “Robert Zhoa Sheng incident” will be kept secret. The Ambassador confirms that both Searle and Wildman have agreed not to disclose Yushkov’s identity.’
‘Argentina?’
‘Yes, the Argentinian Navy was part of the rescue mission.’
‘I’m beginning to think our Russian friend might be the one in danger. No wonder our visitors are making him nervous.’
You are both silent for a while.
‘Any news on your mugger?’ you ask.
‘Nope. No witness, no street cameras and I didn’t see him. Makes him hard to find.’
‘Was your wallet stolen?’
‘Yes, but I think that it was just covering up the real motive. It was found in a bin. Cash and cards still in it.’
‘You think it was all about my house keys?’
I hold my breath.
‘Come on, Liv. Isn’t it obvious? It was your stalker.’
I whoop with delight and punch the air. Well done, Mr Detective!
‘If that’s true, then he’s escalated to direct violence,’ you say.
‘When you’re back in London, be vigilant.’