Devour

by L. A. Larkin

  You frown. ‘My computer may be compromised,’ you say. Bonus points to Olivia! ‘An article I emailed to Moz just disappeared. No record of me ever sending it. And I swear my files have been rearranged.’

  You noticed? My mistake.

  ‘Get your laptop checked out when you get home. Until then, be careful what you write. Someone may read it, or even make it public.’

  Fuck off, Jerry! You’re raining on my parade.

  ‘I’ll use my phone instead.’ You pause. ‘I think we can rule out Lalzad,’ you say. ‘I can’t see one of his goons deleting stuff just to be annoying.’

  Butcher clears his throat. ‘Look, Olivia, I have some news you’re not going to like.’

  I’m all ears. Has this news something to do with the letter I stole on my last visit to your Balham flat? You give Jerry one of your penetrating stares and I can tell from your jerky jaw movements that you’ve started to play with your tongue stud.

  ‘Just tell me, Jerry.’

  A slight pause. ‘Davy has been released.’

  ‘What!’ Your eyes are wide as walnuts. ‘Why wasn’t I warned?’

  ‘I checked with Prison Services. You were sent a letter, as is the rule, with details of his imminent release.’

  ‘But I never got it. Shit! When is this happening?’

  ‘He got out eight days ago.’

  You cover your face with your hands and say something barely audible.

  ‘Say again?’ says Jerry.

  When you remove your hands, the colour has drained from your face. You look horrified. I wish I could get that reaction from you.

  ‘To think Davy could’ve been watching me, and I didn’t even know,’ you say. ‘He knows I value my privacy, the security of my home.’ Then your face brightens. You sit straighter. ‘But weird things have been going on for the last six months. So it can’t be him.’

  ‘But it could have been Claire. She blames you for putting Davy away. Maybe he asked her to scare you, and now he’s out of gaol, he’s doing it himself? Payback.’

  I’ve already looked into the manslaughter conviction of David Wolfe. Did it as soon as I read the Prison Services letter. It got big media coverage: an ex-Second Tank Regiment squaddie-turned-nightclub-bouncer beats a nineteen-year-old punter to death. In the Daily Mail there’s a great photo of eighteen-year-old, pink-haired Claire Spiers, clutching newborn Joe, outside the court just after sentencing, telling everyone who’ll listen that Davy is innocent and Olivia is a liar.

  In the Guardian, there’s a longer piece on David Wolfe’s family life and background. The reporter describes Davy as ‘a time bomb waiting to go off’. An angry boy, never finished school; he joined the Army at eighteen and spent five years with the Second Royal Tank Regiment. Accused and acquitted of the unlawful killing of an Iraqi man in Basra, he left the Army shortly after and worked as a security guard, then nightclub bouncer.

  Harry Coleman, the nineteen-year-old victim, had been goading Davy all night. A fight broke out when Coleman tried to leave the club with some beer he’d bought at the bar. Coleman wandered off but a few minutes later returned and spat in Davy’s face. CCTV footage shows Davy dragging Coleman down a laneway. But the CCTV camera covering the laneway wasn’t working that night, so the prosecution relied on witness statements to convict him.

  ‘But doesn’t an early release mean he’s subject to recall for any breach of conditions?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘Yes. One of the conditions is he stays away from you.’

  ‘So stalking me is a big risk.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks it’s worth it.’

  ‘How did he get out early?’

  ‘Good behaviour and found God, apparently.’

  ‘Found God? How can the parole board be so gullible?’

  ‘Got some shrink to testify on his change of heart and his remorse.’

  ‘He’ll never forgive me.’

  20

  The decision has been made. The Russians fly back to Lake Vostok early in the morning and take their equipment with them. Trankov is doing a great job of pretending not to be upset, but Snigir ate her dinner in sour silence and left the mess tent in a huff. Wolfe imagines her guarding the re-crated and controversial drill nozzle and probe, sleeping between them in the cargo hold. The other person to leave the Weatherhaven quickly is Yushkov. He’s received the cold shoulder from the Brits and Russians alike. As the evening progresses, Wolfe notices the visitors take turns eating dinner so that at any one time there are always two of them inside the Il-76.

  The pilot, Mikhail Nikolaev, has been the most affable, probably because he is not directly involved in the Lake Vostok project. He works for TransAVIAexport Airlines, a Belarusian cargo line. Nikolaev’s anaemic pallor and gaunt features belie his outgoing personality. He regales whoever will listen with his aerial Antarctic adventures, in stilted pidgin English. Heatherton and Matthews listen politely. Ironside, his cooking duties over, has joined them. Wolfe is seated at another table, next to Sinclair.

  ‘Toby, any idea what’s really going on?’ she asks.

  He stares down at his bowl of chilli con carne. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he mumbles.

  ‘But there’s got to be more to it.’

  ‘I have a theory. Well, a kind of a theory, but I don’t want you quoting me.’

  He blushes and scoops another spoonful into his mouth.

  ‘Off the record, then,’ Wolfe says.

  Sinclair avoids eye contact as usual. ‘Nobody has been allowed near Vostok Station - other than Russian personnel - since they first drilled into the lake,’ he whispers. ‘My guess is they have already drilled a second bore hole using their new drill, and found they’ve destroyed the lake’s pristine environment.’

  ‘Can kerosene and antifreeze contaminate the whole lake?’

  ‘Ah, no, that’s not what I mean. I was talking about them introducing microbes from our world. Easily done if the equipment isn’t kept sterile. It’s possible an ancient life form will be vulnerable to attack from modern-day bacteria or viruses.’

  ‘So Trankov needs another subglacial lake to drill?’

  ‘It’s just a theory, of course.’

  Sinclair lapses into silence. As Wolfe mulls over his idea, Sinclair unexpectedly pipes up again. He shifts his chair closer to hers and keeps his voice low. But he needn’t worry: Nikolaev’s booming voice fills the tent.

  ‘Dr Trankov is under enormous pressure, you see. The Kremlin is watching his project very closely.’ Wolfe can’t help staring at Sinclair. Where did he get this information? ‘A major scientific breakthrough will bind the federation together with nationalistic pride. You know, like putting a man on the moon. Apparently, Putin believes such a momentous discovery would help his re-election.’

  This is news to Wolfe, who prides herself on keeping up to date with world politics.

  ‘But Putin can’t be President again. He can only be re-elected once.’

  Sinclair shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’ll know more about politics than me. I’m just telling you what Vitaly said.’

  ‘Vitaly?’ Of all the people for Yushkov to confide in, she finds it hard to understand why it should be the shy and awkward Sinclair. ‘What does he think our Russian friends are up to here?’

  ‘Ah, he hasn’t said. But I think he’s quite upset. Trent was out of order laying into him like that. He put Vitaly in a really awkward position. Antagonising Russia at the best of times is a risky business, but when you’re a defector - well, pissing off someone as well connected as Dr Trankov is a really bad idea. If I were in his shoes, I’d have done exactly what he did. Tried not to rock the boat.’ Sinclair looks furtively at Trankov and Grankin eating. ‘The sooner they’re gone, the better.’

  Wolfe tries to keep a poker face. ‘Do you know why Vitaly defected?’

  Sinclair stares at his lap. ‘N . . . no. I don’t. He’s talked about the Second Chechen War and the atrocities on both sides . . . Maybe he just couldn’t stomach it any mo
re.’

  Sinclair clams up. Wolfe tries to keep the conversation going.

  ‘I did some reporting on the Ukraine crisis in 2014. I met locals who’d survived the Battle of Grozny during the previous Russian-Chechen war you’re talking about. Vitaly’s right: it was brutal. What often gets forgotten are the innocent people in the way. The women and children. I wanted the rest of the world to know what the war was doing to them.’

  Sinclair looks up at her, eyes wide, as if he’s seeing her in a whole new light.

  ‘You know, I think I remember your article: it was about the Russians bombing civilians queuing for bread.’

  ‘That’s right. You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘I do. Almost photographic.’ He frowns. ‘Didn’t you report in Afghanistan too? On drone attacks killing civilians?’

  ‘I did. A great and brave journalist, Marie Colvin, once said that the “truth of history demands witnesses”. I believe that’s our job: to bear witness,’ Wolfe says.

  ‘But nobody cares, Olivia. What do the military call the women and children killed by drones? Collateral damage. How very compassionate.’ For the first time, Sinclair looks her straight in the eye. He is no longer whispering. His face is flushed with indignation. ‘Drone strikes are inaccurate and data on casualties is kept secret. It’s only through people like you that we get any information at all, because you’re there, witnessing murder.’

  Price has been deep in close conversation with Harvey. She turns round at Sinclair’s raised voice.

  ‘You all right, Toby?’ Price asks.

  ‘Yes, um. Been, you know, a stressful day.’

  He gets up. Wolfe and Price watch him leave.

  ‘Highly strung, is our Toby,’ Price says. ‘Brilliant mind, but very sensitive. He likes order, routine. And today is anything but.’ She looks at Wolfe. ‘What was he saying about murder?’

  ‘We were talking about my war reporting. I didn’t mean to upset him. I might go after him and make sure he’s okay.’

  Before Price can ask anything else, Wolfe leaves the mess tent. Outside, the light is muted, the sun hidden by grey cloud. The wind is little more than a murmur. She scans the two rows of red pyramids, then the shipping containers, all locked up, and further in the distance, the drill site, now cloaked in a tented structure to keep prying eyes off the equipment. Rundle has volunteered to sleep in the container with the damaged drill and probe, so ‘those thieving bastards can’t touch them.’ In the opposite direction, the Il-76 squats on the ice, its side door open. Someone in a red parka, hood raised, sits on the top step, smoking. His legs are long. She guesses, Grankin.

  Wolfe heads for Sinclair’s tent and spots a second smoker, his identity obscured by the row of red pyramids. She sniffs the air and recognises Yushkov’s brand - Belomorkanal. Wolfe hesitates. Is this an opportunity to talk to Yushkov in private? There’s a flash of red clothing as someone moves along the row of tents towards him. Wolfe ducks down and waits. She hears two male voices speaking Russian. The men can’t see her crouching on the other side of the tent. She listens, wishing her Russian was better. Yushkov’s greeting to Grankin is short, his tone wary. Seconds pass as the men smoke in silence.

  ‘Why do you work with these people?’ Grankin asks. Wolfe is fairly certain she has understood correctly. ‘They treat you like the enemy.’

  Yushkov spits. Is he going to ignore the jibe?

  ‘Russia made me an enemy. The British gave me asylum, gave me citizenship. I owe them much.’

  Grankin laughs, tilting his head back, and his hood falls away, revealing fair hair.

  ‘You owe them nothing. They cannot operate the drill without you and yet they shun you, ignore you. Treat you like a . . . ’

  Wolfe cannot translate the last word but she suspects it must be something like ‘outcast’.

  ‘I am here to do a job and I will do it.’

  ‘They think you killed Kevin Knox, yes?’

  ‘I don’t care what they think.’

  ‘Tell me who killed him.’

  Grankin speaks with authority. This is not an engineer in idle gossip.

  ‘He died in a blizzard. It was an accident. Nothing more.’

  ‘My friend, you are blind if you think that.’ Grankin makes clicking noises with his tongue, as if reprimanding a child. ‘You should be working with us. Russia still wants you.’

  Does he mean the Russian Arctic & Antarctic Research Institute, or something more sinister?

  ‘Russia wants me in a military prison.’

  ‘Perhaps you will be pardoned?’ Grankin says. ‘Perhaps I can make this happen?’

  Pardoned for what? Defecting? Or is Yushkov really a deserter? And how can an engineer pave the way for a man with Yushkov’s past to return to Russia?

  ‘You are Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki?’ Yushkov asks if he is with the Foreign Intelligence Service, known as the SVR.

  Wolfe’s heart beats so loudly she swears Grankin will hear. She doesn’t move an inch. If Grankin is SVR, the Russian equivalent of MI6, he will be armed. She holds her breath, listening for Grankin’s response.

  ‘Come, come, my friend. You are paranoid.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Yushkov demands.

  ‘Come, let us walk.’

  ‘So I end up dead like Kevin? I don’t think so. We talk here or not at all.’

  ‘Walk with me to the plane. It’s not far. What I have to say is for your ears only.’

  ‘I do not wish to hear it.’

  Yushkov’s head appears to the left of the pyramid. He’s heading for the mess tent. If she stays where she is, he will see her. But if she moves and makes a run for it, Grankin will see her.

  ‘Your sister wants to see you,’ Grankin calls out.

  Yushkov stops dead. He turns on his heels and takes angry strides back towards Grankin.

  ‘Leave my sister alone,’ he roars in Grankin’s face.

  21

  Grankin doesn’t flinch at Yushkov’s fury. Now he’s hooked his prize, he walks away.

  Yushkov follows, trailing Grankin a fraction, a reluctant participant. Their conversation is muted. Wolfe cannot follow them to the cargo plane. There is nowhere for her to hide. Instead, she lies on her stomach and peers around the tent’s edge. She pulls out her camera and waits for Grankin to turn her way. Yushkov suddenly stops.

  ‘Shut up!’ he shouts, rubbing his bare head roughly, clearly agitated.

  Wolfe takes a couple of photos of both men, then zooms in on Grankin’s face. Grankin places an arm around Yushkov’s shoulder. Yushkov flinches, but he allows himself to be led on.

  Wolfe races back to the Weatherhaven and darts behind the makeshift curtain of her sleeping space. Is Grankin SVR? How does he know Yushkov’s sister? Why would Yushkov end up in military prison if he went home? Unlocking her backpack’s padlock, she pulls out her laptop and searches the Web for any images of Sergey Grankin, engineer. It appears he does work for the Russian Arctic & Antarctic Research Institute in St Petersburg. He’s been to Antarctica four times, twice to Vostok, once to Novolazarevskaya Station and once to Bellingshausen Station. But is the man with Yushkov the real Grankin? She finds a photo taken during the Antarctic summer in 2012 of ‘Crew Bellinghausen’ posing outside a red hut raised on stilts above the ice. Each person’s name is listed. She scans the faces searching for Grankin and finds a tall man with a thick beard in blue work overalls and black beanie. But she can’t tell if the man with Yushkov right now is the man in the picture. She keeps searching the site and finds a corporate-looking headshot of a slightly chubbier Grankin. Again, a bushy beard. His eyes are blue but his nose isn’t broken. It could be an old image. Wolfe can’t be sure.

  It is approaching midnight and Wolfe can’t rest. The daylight doesn’t help: it’s like England on a dull winter’s day but bright enough to disturb sleep. She can’t stop replaying the conversation between Yushkov and Grankin over and over in her head. Outside, the wind has picked up. The tent occasionally cre
aks but otherwise the camp is quiet. She’s emailed Butcher the photos she took earlier and told him she believes he could be an SVR agent, just as Butcher suspected.

  Her stomach churns, but not from hunger. There are too many unanswered questions and the Russians’ presence is unsettling. She turns on to her side and runs her hand underneath her improvised pillow - a fleece rolled into a sausage - to reassure herself that the knife is where she placed it. It is. Made from an extremely strong black plastic, Wolfe always sleeps with it for protection when on assignment. The ten-centimetre blade is sharp enough to slice flesh and passes through airport metal detectors unnoticed.

  She tucks her head down into the sleeping bag and closes her eyes. Wolfe drifts off but wakes with a jolt, unsure if she has slept for a minute or for hours. She listens. A clunk, like a door unlatching. If somebody is in the kitchen she’ll hear the squeak of boots on the rubber floor, but she hears nothing. The wind whistles through the campsite and the tent is buffeted by its force. Sitting up, Wolfe wriggles her arms free of the sleeping bag and removes the knife from its sheath. With her other hand she holds her Maglite torch, but she doesn’t switch it on. If there is someone on the other side of the partition, she doesn’t want them to know she is awake. As quietly as possible she wriggles her legs out of the sleeping bag and kneels. If she stands, her damaged knee will click. She tilts her head and listens. Can she hear breathing? She imagines Butcher yelling at her to stand up so she can defend herself. She risks it. Click.

  Someone charges straight through the dividing curtain, knocking her backwards. It’s like being hit by a snowplough, front on. She lands hard on her back, flattened by her attacker’s body weight. He grabs her knife-holding hand and slams it into the floor, forcing her to drop it. While he’s focused on the knife, Wolfe tries to smash the metal torch into his head, but he blocks her arm. He rips the torch from her fingers and throws it away. It hits the tent fabric with a dull thud. She has to get out from under him, otherwise she is lost.

  Wolfe slides her right arm under his chin and pushes upwards. At the same time, she puts her left hand on his hip and uses her left elbow as a stilt, forcing his hip up a fraction, giving her a little space to move. She locks her legs around one of his and then wriggles her hips out from beneath him so that she lies on her side, her knee in his groin, her right elbow in the crook of his neck. He can’t now use his weight against her. Her right knee slides across his stomach and she twists her body, forcing the man off her. He now faces away from her. A Brazilian jiu-jitsu move she’d learnt from Butcher.