The Ice Star (Konstabel Fenna Brongaard Book 1)
Page 1
Contents
Front Matter
Insert
Title
Quote: Isblink
Author's Note
Map: Greenland
The Cabin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Ship
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Schoolhouse
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
The Office
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
The Beach
Chapter 34
Greenlandic Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Ice Star
By Christoffer Petersen
Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2016
AARLUUK PRESS
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or organisations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
Christoffer Petersen
The Ice Star
CHRISTOFFER PETERSEN
Sun has failed me,
Light has bolted,
Polar Night's Darkness,
On Earth folded.
Author’s translation from
ISBLINK
by
LUDVIG MYLIUS-ERICHSEN (1872-1907)
Solen har svigtet mig,
Lyset er stængt,
Polarnattens Mørke
paa Jorden sænkt.
Author’s Note
The Sirius Sledge Patrol (Slædepatruljen Sirius) is an elite special forces unit within the Danish military with the primary mission of maintaining Danish sovereignty in Northeast Greenland. Since 1814, Greenland has been recognised as a part of Denmark, with Home Rule established in 1979, and Self Rule since 2009. When Climate Change finally captured the interest of the world’s politicians in 2007, the question of who owned Hans Island - a tiny piece of barren land in the Nares Strait between Ellesmere Island (Canada) and Greenland (Denmark) - had already been dramatised with the Canadians and the Danes both laying claim to the island. Today, the political battle for ownership of Hans Island has been superseded by a far greater goal: ownership of the North Pole itself. In 2017, Canada and Denmark are both allies and players in the great stakes game of Arctic Sovereignty.
The Cabin
NORTHEAST GREENLAND
Chapter 1
ITTOQQORTOORMIIT, EAST GREENLAND
The wheels of the AugustaWestland AW139 slammed onto the gravel helipad of the remote arctic settlement with a bloated squeal of rubber and ice. The rotor chop of the phoenix-red twin-engined helicopter thundered through the fog. As the side door of the aircraft slid open, two men clad in arctic camouflage jumped down onto the gravel. A crewman inside the aircraft fiddled with the gun holstered on his belt as he dragged a woman from the helicopter’s functional interior and out of the door. The camouflaged men hauled the woman out of the aircraft and dumped her limp body into the back of a pickup truck, nodding at the crewman and waving at the pilot as he twisted the collective and pulled the aircraft up and into the fog. The walls of the wooden houses dotted about the settlement shook until the aircraft was clear of the long, broad, frozen fjord.
The woman stirred in the bed of the pickup. Thick strands of her matted chestnut hair falling across her wind-bronzed and blood-speckled face in the aircraft's wake. There was more blood clotted between the fibres of her wool sweater, crusted in patches on her windpants, and grooved in the frost fractures of her hands. The shorter of the two men, a Nepalese man similar in height and skin tone to the Greenlanders, jumped into the back of the pickup and pressed his knee into the woman’s spine. His breath misted in the cool air as she coughed beneath him. The second man, tall and blond with a build that challenged the seams of his Arctic smock, yanked the passenger door open and slid his muscled frame onto the torn leather seat. He stared out of the cracked window as the Greenlandic driver turned the pickup in a tight circle around the helipad and accelerated along the gravel road.
The driver, wearing the dark overalls of Mittarfeqarfiit, the Greenlandic Airport Authority, jerked through the gears, braking to a stop outside a frost-beaten wooden house at the top of the hill above the fjord. The flaked timbers and paint of the house, once red, was now salmon-coloured, skinned and gutted by Arctic hurricanes. The blond man and his Nepali partner exited the pickup, splashing through the meltwater streaming along the side of the road as they carried the woman up the wooden steps and into the vacant house. The Nepali closed the door as the driver crunched the pickup into gear and drove down the hill, as the last whop of the helicopter disappeared. He watched the pickup drop out of sight and turned to nod at his partner.
In the dusty silence of the house, they bound the woman’s hands with a length of puppy chain and dragged her across the bruised wooden floor to the wall opposite the door. They gripped her arms and pulled her into a sitting position, wrapped the end of the thin chain around a thick nail in the wall, ripped the boots from her feet and tossed them into the centre of the room.
“Wake her up,” said the tall man. He handed his partner a syringe of milky fluid.
The Nepali unscrewed the cap and pressed the needle into the woman’s neck. He injected the fluid into her body, tossed the empty syringe into the corner of the room, rocked back onto his heels, and waited.
The woman noticed the chain first as the thin rusted links bit into her pale bloody wrists. She opened one eye and blinked until the room stopped spinning. In the dim interior of the house the woman tugged at the chain and closed her eyes. Images of dogs in harness, blood-spattered snow, the smell of burning wood and cordite fumes chattered through her mind. The memories jolted to a stop with a chain rattle as she tried to wrap her arms around her knees.
The first backhand slap across her face split her lip. Her head rebounded off the wall. She licked the blood from her lips, opened her eyes and stared at the short Nepalese man leaning over her. He hit her again. She snorted blood out of her nose and wiped it from her face with her sleeve. The Nepali took a step back; the floorboards creaked beneath his stubby polar boots.
Soft polar light persevered through the salt-grimed windows, edged with tired wood, flecked with fly shit. The woman winced as she stretched her legs, one eye on the Nepali man with the brutal backhand, the other on a glass of water on the floor. She jerked her head backwards as the blond man stepped into view and his large military boot connected with the glass, kicking it against the wooden wall where it smashed, showering her in jagged shards and splinters.
“Konstabel Fenna Brongaard, my name is Burwardsley. We met on the ice.”
The man crouched in front of Fenna. He picked a shard of glass from her knee, studied it in the light. “You probably don’t recognise me,” he said. “I was wearing a ski mask. However, you might remember my friend, Bahadur.” Fenna shrank into the wall as the short Nepali stepped forward, the wicked curve of his kukri knife in its black scabbard prominent upon his white camouflage fatigues. “Ah, yes,” Burwardsley said with a grin. He flicked the glass onto the floor. “You do remember Sergeant Bahadur. I call him Bad, for obvious reasons,” he laughed. “Sergeant?”
“Yes, Saheb?” Bahadur said and smoothed the wrinkles of his combat smock.
“Piss off outside and check on the neighbours.”
“Yes, Saheb,” Bahadur nodded and left the room. He pulled the door closed with a quiet snick of the lock.
“You are here so we can have a little chat,” Burwardsley said. The floorboards creaked as he stood. “There are some things that need clearing up.”
Fenna stared up at Burwardsley, the ceiling of the room less than half a metre above his head. His thick northern accent irritated her. He’s definitely English, she thought. And that name, something upper class, way back in the family tree. She pushed her observation to the back of her mind, focused instead on the physical, more immediate details, and threats.
Burwardsley tucked his hands into the broad webbing belt around his waist, a Browning Hi Power 9mm fighting pistol hung in a canvas holster at his right hip. “Bahadur,” Burwardsley said and nodded toward the far window, “found your partner.” Fenna shivered. “Gregersen, wasn’t it?”
Fenna focused on a patch of dried blood on her trousers, covering her right knee, she tried not to think of Mikael.
“Oversergent, I think his rank was. It doesn’t really matter; he died by a bullet from your Glock.” Burwardsley walked over to the wall and leaned against it. “Did you hear what I said, Konstabel? He was killed with your personal weapon. You killed him with a bullet to the head.”
“No,” Fenna thrust her chin forward. That's not right. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Back of the head,” Burwardsley rubbed his palm through his blond hair just above his neck. “Execution style. Then you pulled his body into the cabin and set fire to it.”
“No,” Fenna said with a shake of her head. “I didn’t kill Mikael.” That doubt again, lurking in the splintered memories of the past twenty-four hours.
“You didn’t?” Burwardsley pushed his body away from the wall with his shoulder. Dust puffed from beneath his boots as he clumped around the room. “Somebody did. It took four hours for me and Bad to get to the cabin. That damned storm, the one that grounded your unit, I’ve never seen anything like it.” He stopped in front of Fenna. “Convenient, eh?”
“Mikael was alive when you and your gun-thug stepped out of that helicopter.”
“Really?” Burwardsley shook his head. “I don’t know about the Danes, but in my navy we don’t kill our mates, no matter how big the pay off.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“You just keep telling yourself that, love.”
“I’m not your love,” Fenna spat.
Burwardsley pulled his hands free of his belt and crushed Fenna’s stocking feet beneath his boot. He gripped the chain and pulled her arms straight above her head. Fenna choked for air as Burwardsley punched her in the stomach with his free hand.
“You, my love, will be anything I want you to be.” Burwardsley released the chain and Fenna slumped to the floor. He strode out of the room, ducked into the tiny kitchen and returned with a wooden chair. Burwardsley herded Fenna into the corner, slamming the legs of the chair onto the floor, pinning her shins beneath the cross bar. He sat astride the chair, his long legs bent higher than the seat, the back facing Fenna. “It’s time for a more intimate chat, Konstabel.”
Fenna’s knees pressed tight against her chest, her elbows caught in the gap between the slats of the chair back. She stared around her forearms, wiped sticky strands of hair away from her cheeks and stuck out her chin. I will not be afraid. Her eyes flickered across Burwardsley's face. “I did not kill Mikael.”
Burwardsley leaned forward, his breath tickled the ragged cuffs of Fenna’s greasy, wool sweater. “The evidence suggests otherwise. Do you have another version of events? A witness perhaps?” Fenna pulled her head back behind her arms, strands of her hair caught in the chain pressing into her wrists. “Perhaps there is a witness? You tell me, Konstabel.” Burwardsley gripped Fenna’s metal leash between thick fingers. “Where is the Greenlander?”
“What Greenlander?”
Burwardsley yanked the chain. “Don’t get smart, love. Where is the fucking girl?”
“I don’t know,” Fenna shook at the end of the chain.
“She was there. At the cabin. I saw her,” Burwardsley pointed to the door as Bahadur walked in. “He saw her. Where the fuck is she?” Burwardsley pulled at the chain, the nail ripped out of the wall. Fenna smacked her forehead on the back of the chair. “Come on, Konstabel. Where is she?” Burwardsley stood. He threw the chair against the wall and pulled Fenna onto her chest. “Grab her feet, Bad.”
“But, Saheb,” Bahadur took a step forward.
“Just fucking do it.” Burwardsley dragged Fenna across the floor to the opposite wall. He wrapped the chain around the radiator and reached for the kukri at the Nepali’s waist. He ripped it free of the scabbard and gripped Fenna’s sweater. He pressed rough, frost-chapped knuckles into the small of her back. “Where’s the fucking girl, Fenna?”
“Saheb,” Bahadur gripped Burwardsley’s arm.
“Shut up and hold her legs, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Saheb,” Bahadur said and lowered his eyes.
“No.” Not like this, she thought. Fenna screamed as the Nepali Sergeant gripped her legs, one on each side of his waist. He stretched her, pulling her legs tight against his body. The chain rattled around the radiator. Burwardsley nicked a strip of Fenna's skin from her back with the tip of the kukri as he pared the sweater in two. It hung from her shoulders like a matted fleece.
“It’s your thermal top next, love. How about that?”
“No,” Fenna cried as tears stung her chapped lips.
“Then your bra.”
“Please, God, no,” she mouthed. She twisted her head to stare at Burwardsley, glaring at him through her tears.
“Then tell me, Konstabel, where is the girl?”
“I don’t know where she is.” Stretched taut, Fenna squirmed within Bahadur’s grip.
“I warned you, love,” Burwardsley said with a renewed grip on Fenna's leash. “Now I’m just getting started.” Fenna screamed as Burwardsley pressed the tip of the kukri into the tear in her thermal layer.
She wasn't trained for this. But he is, Fenna realised as Burwardsley gripped the chain and Bahadur stretched her legs.
Chapter 2
Fenna screamed one more time. She bit back another and forced herself to stare straight ahead. She looked out of the window and caught the eye of a young Greenlandic girl standing astride the iron pipes insulating the water supply between the houses. The girl held a toy dog whip in her hand. Sledge dog puppies tugged at the frayed plastic rope curled on the dirt-speckled snow at her feet. The girl’s deep, brown eyes widened as her mouth opened. Fenna shook her head. The girl turned, disappearing into the fog rolling in from the sea, trailing a wake of fat puppies in front of a dark blue police Toyota that slewed to a stop in the gravel outside the house.
“Saheb. Police,” Bahadur said and dropped Fenna’s legs to the floor. She crumpled onto her knees and elbows.
“Fuck,” Burwardsley said and slapped the handle of the curved blade into the Nepali’s palm. “Unchain her.” He strode to the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Bahadur sheathed the kukri and unwound the chain from the pipes. Fenna collapsed against the radiator. “Put on clothes,” he roughed Fenna's sweater around her shoulders. She flinched at his clipped English – sharp like the kukri. “If ca
n’t put on, hold in place. Now stand up.” Bahadur stood behind Fenna. He pulled her to her feet. The sweater fell from her shoulders. He kicked it into the corner of the room, turning Fenna to face the door as the men entered the house. The Toyota’s engine growled outside.
“Here she is,” Burwardsley said and gestured at Fenna as he opened the door, standing to one side to allow three men to enter the room – two Danes, both wearing naval uniform, and a Greenlander. The Greenlander, a policeman, slipped in past Burwardsley. He leaned against the wall and cast a glance at Fenna, taking in the room. “We held her here until you could take her into custody.” Burwardsley addressed the Danish officer, the senior of the two Navy men entering after the policeman.
Fenna watched the Danes strut into the room. Not Sirius, she thought, but my own people at least.
The officer, his uniform partly hidden beneath a bulky Canada Goose parka, turned his head toward Burwardsley, wiped his glasses and pointed at Fenna. “You said something about evidence?”
Burwardsley walked into the kitchen, unwrapping an oil cloth as he returned. He presented the officer with a Glock 20 pistol, the magazine lying next to the pistol grip.
“Petersen will take care of that,” said the officer. He watched as Burwardsley wrapped the pistol in the cloth and handed it to the Danish Sergent standing at the door. Petersen carried the pistol out of the house, the echo of his footsteps rumbling through the floor as he left.
“Konstabel Brongaard,” the officer said and stepped forward. “My name is Premierløjtnant Vestergaard. I’m the investigating officer for your case and you are now in my custody,” Vestergaard said and waved the policeman forward. “Cuff her, Maratse.”
Fenna watched the Greenlander as he walked towards her. About the same height as Fenna, he wore the classic Greenlandic look of casual indifference together with a matching swagger. Fenna studied him as he approached. She glanced at Vestergaard and then flicked her eyes back to the policeman. He is Greenlandic. He understands this place. She allowed herself a breath as Bahadur let go of her arm. He might understand me.