by Ponzo, Gary
Two other screens to her right, by the radar monitor, were the object of Carrie’s occasional glance. The first one streamed enhanced real-time images from two powerful cameras mounted at the nose of the cockpit. These images were useful mostly during summer flights because of the bright and sharp contrast between ridges and valleys, cliffs and plateaus. At this time of year, the staleness of the glittering snow and ice was blinding and mind-numbing.
The second screen displayed photographs taken by two infrared cameras installed on both sides of the helicopter’s cockpit. The infrared system enabled the detection of thermal energy emitted by all objects with a temperature above freezing. These waves were converted into colored photographs. The higher the temperature of the target, the brighter the red dots in the pictures. About half an hour ago, the system had displayed a few red dots, probably caribous or muskoxen, given their constant and rapid movement. A building, Danish or not, would emit a low and static amount of thermal energy.
* * *
Over the next sixty minutes, insignificant dots blipped occasionally on the infrared screen, but nothing worthy of a second glance. The Arctic Cordillera mountain range rose gradually along the eastern shore of Ellesmere Island. Carrie was careful to keep a reasonable distance from the majestic mountain peaks. A few of their summits stabbed at the sky, and some of them were over three thousand feet high. Baffin Bay was not yet in sight, but it was only a matter of minutes before they would marvel at the spectacular vistas of Ellesmere Island’s broken coastline.
“Where are we?” Anna asked, peering through the window. Her forehead pressed against the cold glass, and the vibration of the cabin sent a jolt through her body.
“We’re flying over the Manson Ice Cap, heading east, toward Baffin Bay,” Carrie replied.
“How can you tell?” Anna continued. “All I see is white powder and the occasional black mountain top poking from underneath.”
Carrie smiled. “I’ve got the map in front of me. Plus, the chopper knows his way around these mountains.”
They all laughed, except for Alisha, who kept staring at her laptop.
“Once we’re over the ocean, I’m gonna take us north, so we can search the coast. If we don’t find anything, we’ll turn around and search the inland valleys again before—”
She stopped, glanced at one of the screens, and fumbled with a few switches.
“What is it?” Justin asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. Let me check something.”
The helicopter lost some altitude, and Carrie steadied the aircraft in order to focus the camera for a clear image. From their distance of six hundred feet above the coastal cliffs, she could not make out the details of a large mass of white-yellowish debris at the center of the small screen. At first, she thought it was a colony of seals, but the infrared screen showed no thermal activity in the area. Could it just be ridges of exposed cliffs after a windstorm scraped the ice off their slopes?
“We’re dropping in for a closer look at that point, right there.” Carrie tapped one of the screens, so Justin could follow her words. “There seems to be something tucked in at that little bay. Maybe, just maybe that’s what we’re looking for.”
Justin glanced at the helicopter’s navigational screen then at the topographical map of the island on his laptop. He seemed to be comparing the two. He took a quick look outside the window at the bay growing larger by the second underneath them.
“That’s Cape Combermere, right?” he asked Carrie.
“Yes, that’s right,” she replied.
Chapter Seven
Cape Combermere, Canada
April 12, 11:10 a.m.
The debris was spread over a stretch of rocky ridges, about one thousand square feet. If it had been August, Justin may have thought this was the shipwreck of careless Arctic adventurers. But in mid-April, when the Arctic’s frigid weather could stiffen a man in a matter of minutes, Justin was positive the rubble was not the result of a human error or a natural disaster.
The prefabricated timber panels, although split into smaller fragments and scattered from one end of the site to the other, resembled the basic elements of a large shed. Two log pads created a flat platform over the hard-packed snow, sheltered about two thousand feet inland, away from sudden movements of menacing ice floes. High cliffs rose up on both sides of the narrow clearing, providing extra protection from the northern and eastern wind currents.
“What do you think, Kiawak?” Justin picked up a couple of the pieces then scratched the snow surface with the tip of his boots.
“I’m sure this doesn’t belong to Parks Canada. This area is not a part of the Quttinirpaaq National Park,” Kiawak replied. He crouched and inspected a few metal scraps next to the log pads. “It doesn’t seem to be a research station. They’re much larger and not so close to the ocean.”
“Is it Danish?” Anna asked and followed Carrie as she walked around and took pictures of a few orange tatters that appeared to be fragments of a large tent.
“Who knows?” Kiawak shrugged. “If it’s not Canadian, where did it come from?”
“Of course it’s Canadian,” Alisha said.
They all looked at her as she walked off the log pads. She stomped her feet on the solid snow. “Nuqatlak led us here and this was his stash, regardless of whether this stuff is Danish or not.” She pointed at the rubble and at the orange tatters. A strong wind gust was trying to pry them away from the ice. “Nuqatlak’s dead and the ‘mystery of the depot’ is solved. It’s over. There’s nothing more for us to do here. Let’s go on with our mission.”
“This is our mission,” Justin said. “This is what Nuqatlak wanted us to find, and we found it, but we can’t pack our bags and go. Not yet. The Danes put this depot here and filled it with their supplies. I’m sure when we dig down and discover what may still be here, we’ll find evidence that Danish icebreakers anchored here and left this . . . this ‘present’ behind. This evidence will convince whoever may still have doubts.”
Justin looked at Alisha, but she did not respond. Carrie and Anna headed over to the helicopter. A minute later, they returned with a couple of pickaxes and a snow shovel.
“It’s a waste of time and energy.” Alisha stepped aside, making room for Justin and Kiawak, who took to the excavation.
The only place Alisha would dig was in her pockets for a little extra warmth.
* * *
“Here’s a flare gun.” Justin handed Kiawak the only decent thing they had found so far.
The first ten minutes of chiseling ice and removing snow had rewarded them with nothing but trash. Chocolate bar wrappings, empty water bottles, and wood fire ashes were clear proof of recent human activity on the site.
“Why didn’t Nuqatlak take the flare gun?” Anna asked, staring at the orange pistol. She was shoveling away the snow Kiawak and Carrie had piled up in two large mounds.
“Maybe he ran out of space or left it behind for his next trip,” Kiawak replied. “Or maybe he thought this hut would make a good hideout, at least for a while, away from everybody. Then a blizzard came and wiped it out. The snow is fresh. The blizzard happened two, maybe three days ago.”
Justin lifted his pickaxe over his head and brought it down hard. They heard a sharp snap, unlike the constant ice cracking until that moment. Tiny slivers, like glass shards, sprang up from the two-foot-deep hole.
“What the hell was that?” Justin asked. He was glad the sharp slivers had missed his face. The goggles and the black balaclava everyone wore at all times when outside for a long period of time protected his entire face, but his nose and his mouth were still exposed.
“Easy with the axe,” Kiawak said. “Anna, can I have your shovel?”
He filled the square blade of the shovel with debris from the bottom of the hole and carefully lifted it up. He placed the mixed mass of ice, snow, and mud over a clear section of the log pads. Then he rooted nervously through the mass, examining each piece with great care. Finally, Ki
awak placed a tiny square-shaped transparent fragment on his left palm. He paraded it in front of Justin and Carrie.
“Is that what I just smashed?” Justin asked.
“It has to be, and it’s definitely not ice,” Kiawak replied. “I would say your axe smashed into a laptop or some other electronic gadget buried deep down there.” He stared at the hole. “Something with a clear screen.”
“Cellphone? Digital camera?” Carrie guessed.
“It could be,” Kiawak said. He dropped to his knees and began to clear the hole with his gloves. Carrie and Justin stepped back to give him enough room.
“Why don’t you take a drink of this?” Justin noticed Anna had begun to shiver and offered her a coffee thermos he fetched from his backpack. “It will warm you up.”
Anna nodded and took a couple of big gulps.
“Do you want to wait in the chopper?” Carrie asked.
“No,” Anna said. “I’ll be OK. We’re not gonna be here much longer, I assume, once we discover our little treasure.”
“Well, here we go,” Kiawak said. He had completed his excavation of the fragile article and gently brushed the snow from a black object that fit easily in his hand. The object resembled a large cellphone, like an old model from the nineties, but sleeker looking, with a leather coating and numerous buttons.
“It’s a multiband radio,” Justin shouted over the rising wind. “A military radio.”
“You’re sure?” Carrie asked. “I haven’t seen our army use them.”
Kiawak flipped the radio over, scrapped a thin layer of ice from its back side, and read the white inscription. He shook his head. “Bingo,” he shouted and passed the radio over to Justin.
“What’s going on here?” Their excitement had drawn Alisha’s attention. She stepped closer to the action.
“We’ve found the evidence. This is a Danish army radio,” Justin said, his eyes focused on the radio.
“And how can you be sure of that?” Alisha’s voice rang out as an accusation.
“Because it says in the back, you dimwit,” Justin snapped at her and pushed the radio toward Alisha. “Read it for yourself. ‘The Royal Danish Army’ is stamped on the back!”
“That’s not how you talk to a lady,” Alisha replied and quickly but calmly withdrew her hand from one of her jacket pockets. Her fingers were wrapped around a pistol, which she pointed at Justin’s head.
“OK, no reason to get angry,” Kiawak replied, lifting up his arms slowly and gesturing for her to stop. “Put the gun away.”
“Hands up. All of you,” Alisha barked.
“What the hell are you doing?” Justin shouted back.
Alisha pulled the trigger. A bullet whistled by Justin’s head. He dropped to his left side, raising his hand to his ear.
“Stay down and don’t move,” Alisha yelled, taking a step back in case Justin decided to charge toward her. “You,” she shouted at Carrie, who still was holding her shovel. “Are you deaf or something? And you, the shivering beauty, hands up, turn around and face me!”
Anna brought her hands above her head, the left one still carrying Justin’s coffee thermos.
“You’re . . . you’re going to kill us?” she mumbled.
“What a bitch.” Carrie threw the shovel on the ground.
Alisha grinned. “I told you, all of you, to stop nosing around this Danish story and to stop looking for clues.” Alisha brandished her gun, pointing it at their heads. “Things would have been much easier if you would have listened to me and agreed the Russians were pulling the strings. But no, you didn’t want to do that. What did you call me, Anna? Self-righteous? Am I being difficult, Justin? We’ll see how difficult this will be for each one of you.”
“So you work for the Danes?” Anna asked. “You’re their spy?”
“Yes. The pay’s much better, and I get to kill whoever gets in my way.”
“Alisha, this won’t work,” Justin said in a shaky voice. “Whatever the Danes and you have been plotting, it will fail.”
“Think about it, Alisha,” Kiawak said, still kneeling by the hole. “This is your country, your home. This is Canada.”
“On the map, yes, this is Canada,” Alisha replied in a calm voice. “As for my home, that will be wherever I want it to be. Justin, you had no idea what was going on here and even now, right before you die, you still don’t have a clue. And you will all go to your graves as ignorant fools.”
“Alisha—” Justin began.
“Enough,” she shouted. “Give me your guns. Now!”
Justin removed his Browning 9mm pistol from his holster inside his jacket. Kiawak hesitated for a brief moment. Alisha took a firm step toward him, and his hesitation melted away. He handed over his gun. Carrie tossed her Browning pistol on the snow. Anna placed the coffee thermos in front of her feet.
“I don’t carry a gun,” she said.
“It would have done you no good.” Alisha said as she gathered their weapons. “But you have a satellite phone and a PLB. Drop everything on the ground. Everybody, do it! All electronics and anything else in your pockets. Empty them out! Come on!”
They placed their satellite phones and personal locator beacons on the log pads.
“What are you going to do now?” Justin asked.
“Can you fly the chopper?” Alisha asked Kiawak.
Kiawak nodded.
“Good, collect all that junk.” She pointed to the team’s belongings. “Put it in Justin’s backpack and walk in front of me. Very slowly! To the rest of you, all I have to say is . . . stay warm.”
Alisha began her retreat, carefully examining Kiawak’s every move.
“You can’t take off and abandon us,” Anna shouted. “We’re gonna freeze to death.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s the idea,” Alisha replied, “but that’s part of the plan. I would say it’s about minus four now, which isn’t that bad. I’ll give you a couple of hours, but I would be surprised if you haven’t turned to ice cubes by nightfall.”
“Next time we meet, I’ll tear your heart to pieces.” Carrie jabbed the air with her arms and made violent gestures of ripping something apart.
“Maybe you’ll meet me in hell,” Alisha scoffed, “where you’ll be dropping by tonight. Dressed in a cold white gown, as if you were a pretty little bride.”
Chapter Eight
Viborg, Denmark
April 12, 5:45 p.m.
The Toyota Previa police van carrying the convicted man turned onto Gråbrødre Kirke Stræde, the road in front of the High Court building. A jury had just found him guilty on two counts of assisting in a conspiracy to commit terrorist acts, since it had been proven he was funneling money to terrorist camps. He was now being taken to the Horsens Penitentiary, before being transferred to the Copenhagen Prison, the toughest jail in Denmark, a place filled beyond capacity, ruled by thugs, and flooded with drugs. Mr. Sargon Beyda was looking at spending at least twenty years behind bars, away from his wife and young children.
Two police officers sat in the backseats of the van on either side of Sargon, who was in handcuffs, his head hanging low, almost touching his chest. Their batons and pistols were ready, in case Sargon made an escape attempt or someone else tried to help him to break away. The officers knew they were the most vulnerable during the transport of detainees to and fro the courthouse. There had been a great commotion in the courtroom when the jury forewoman had read the verdict. The officers were on high alert.
The escort team leader was sitting in the front passenger’s seat. He kept his eyes on the side mirror and the rearview mirror, checking and double-checking all vehicles around them. The traffic had grown heavier now that they were on Lille Sankt Mikkels Gade, the road taking them to Horsens, a city sixty miles south of Viborg. Lake Søndersø appeared on their left, between green trees and shrubs hedging around two-story, red-roofed houses.
“Sir, check out the Opel right behind us. There are two people in the car,” the driver said.
&
nbsp; The team leader turned his head around to inspect the vehicle. The silver Opel Vectra was unmarked, and it was gaining on them. One of the officers in the backseats involuntarily placed his hand over his holster.
“Is it trying to pass us?” asked the team leader.
“I’m not sure, but it’s getting really close.”
The team leader checked his pistol, as the driver steered closer to the side of the road. This gave the Opel enough room to pass them. It also gave the team an extra second to avoid a crash. The driver kept checking his rearview and left side mirrors, keeping both hands on the steering wheel, ready for any last-second maneuver.
The Opel picked up speed. The team leader stared at the dark-tinted windows of the sedan, trying to make out the features of the strawberry blonde woman in the passenger’s seat, who was wearing sunglasses. Once both vehicles were neck and neck, the Opel lost its haste. The team leader saw something glinting behind the passenger’s window as the woman began to unroll the glass.
He pulled out his pistol. The driver clenched the steering wheel, gearing up to drive into the bushes along the road, if the glinting object turned out to be a gun. But the sight of a brass badge, which the woman held in her right hand, signaled the team was not under attack. The team leader squinted, but the letters engraved on the badge were too small. The shield shape of the badge did not resemble anything familiar to him.
“What does the badge say?” the team leader asked the driver.
“I can’t tell, but it looks like an MP badge.”
“The Opel’s unmarked,” one of the officers said. “And who asked for the MPs’ support?”