by Tim Stevens
Purkiss listened, and asked questions, not taking notes as might be expected but rather absorbing the flow of new information en masse. He’d spent an hour studying the layout of the station from the material Vale had given him back in London, and much of what Medievsky told him was familiar.
Purkiss didn’t ask the questions he really wanted answers to.
Questions such as: What were Medievsky’s impressions of Frank Wyatt. And under what circumstances exactly had the ninth member of the team, Feliks Nisselovich, disappeared in late December.
Avner sprang up, pushing his chair back, and settled his cap more firmly on his head. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’
*
Avner kept up the kind of constant chatter that might have been irritating if it hadn’t seemed so integral a part of his nature.
‘Let’s check out the labs. You know anything about science, John?’
‘A little,’ said Purkiss. ‘Purely a layman’s working knowledge, from popular accounts. I’ve no expertise.’
‘Okay.’ Avner led him down the broad corridor leading towards the west wing. ‘You probably know all of this already, but Yarkovsky Station is primarily a weather and soil research facility. We’ve got the soil analysts, Budian as well as Medievsky himself. Ryan Montrose is the microbiologist. Frank Wyatt’s the climatology guy. He’s always out there in the howling storms, checking temperature and wind patterns and whatever the hell it is he does.’
Avner pushed open a door with an opaque glass panel set into its upper half. The room beyond reminded Purkiss of the chemistry laboratory at his old school in the nineteen eighties. Wooden counters arrayed with glass and metal equipment were brightly lit under ceiling lights. At the far end, Oleksandra Budian looked up, the light flashing off her owlish glasses. She was seated on a bench, her back arched over a microscope.
‘The main lab,’ said Avner. ‘If I wasn’t such an asshole I’d take my cap off every time I came in here. This is the nerve centre, the shrine, the reason this whole place exists.’
Purkiss nodded at Budian, glanced around. On one wall, a huge corkboard was almost entirely covered by a yellowing and intricate chart. He peered at it. It was a map, encompassing a vast area of North-Eastern Siberia. Within moments Purkiss identified Yakutsk, and Yarkovsky Station itself.
‘Anyhow, the eggheads will fill you in on the finer points,’ said Avner, and before Purkiss could comment the younger man was bustling through the door. Purkiss strode after him.
Avner spoke over his shoulder. ‘So those are the hardcore scientists. Medievsky, Budian, Montrose and Wyatt. Next down in the pecking order are Patty Clement and me. Clement’s the psychologist, studying us all. How we work, what effects physical isolation has on us. Don’t tell her this, but I suspect Washington or Moscow has planted her here to keep tabs on us all, to spot when one of us is about to go apeshit crazy and embark on a killing spree.’
‘And your field is anthropology,’ said Purkiss.
‘Right.’ Avner glanced at Purkiss from beneath the peak of his cap. ‘But I’m not the kind of anthropologist who goes to live among the Bushmen for a year and writes papers saying how wonderful their lifestyle is compared to us effete, overcivilised Westerners. No. My shit is Neolithic culture. There’s a site near here which is one of the most perfectly preserved examples of Stone Age existence anywhere in the world. Twelve thousand years old. Bones, tools, dwelling places, you name it, it’s there.’
Avner smacked his palm against his face. ‘Oops. Getting geeky. Believe me, John, a few days among us and you’ll want to murder us all. If you haven’t died of boredom first.’
‘I’m interested in all of it,’ said Purkiss. ‘Honestly. In fact, I’ll want to know about it in detail.’
Avner stopped, turned to face Purkiss.
‘You Jewish, John?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t mean religious. But, you know – is or was your mom Jewish?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Purkiss. It was close to the truth. He’d never known his mother, who’d died in a car pileup in a rural Suffolk lane when Purkiss was three years old. His researching of her had revealed little other than that she’d been an intelligent, educated woman who had married a wealthy farmer and landowner, and had probably already started to cultivate a profound sense of boredom by the time of her death. Of her ancestry Purkiss had been able to discover almost nothing.
Avner said: ‘I only ask because you seem a little different from all the rest of them here. More like me. And I don’t mean you’re a wiseass motormouth, because you’re obviously not.’
He watched Purkiss’s eyes, then threw his hands up.
‘Okay. You don’t know what I’m talking about. Hell, maybe even I don’t.’ Again he adjusted the peak of his cap, a behavioural tic Purkiss realised was part of his repertoire. ‘Let’s just call you an honorary Jew. It can be our little secret. You and me versus the goyim.’
Purkiss followed Avner down the corridor to the next door, trying to make sense of what Avner had just said. He looked through the open door into a smaller laboratory, one festooned with photographs of what appeared to be excavation sites. The single desk was littered with haphazardly piled paper and stale coffee mugs.
‘My lab,’ said Avner drily. ‘The messiest place in the station. Medievsky allows it, because I’m the only one here doing what I do, and he feels sorry for me.’
Purkiss said, ‘You haven’t mentioned Dr Keys.’
‘Ah. Yes. Old Doug.’ Avner shrugged. ‘He’s not a scientist. He’s support staff, as far as I’m concerned. He feeds us antibiotics when we get sick, treats us for frostbite. Otherwise he hangs out on his own. He’s marking time until his pension, and is pissed about being here, if you want my opinion.’
Footsteps announced the arrival of Medievsky, who looked in the open door of the laboratory. His face was flushed and tight, as though he’d just come in from the bracing cold. He gave Purkiss a nod.
‘Had a good rest?’
‘Raring to go, thanks,’ said Purkiss. ‘Efraim has been showing me the labs.’
‘You have time for a more detailed chat?’ Medievsky was massaging warmth back into his fingers.
‘I’ve got all the time in the world. Whatever suits you.’
Purkiss thanked Avner, who waved a hand. He followed Medievsky back past the labs to the collection of offices. Medievsky’s was cramped, and filled with books and files. The computer on his desk was a few years old. On a shelf at the back of the room stood a large stainless steel trophy.
Purkiss nodded at it. ‘What’s that for?’
‘The Service to Science Award, 2002.’ Medievsky said it matter-of-factly, with neither pride nor false modesty. He gestured Purkiss towards an armchair and took a seat in a swivel chair behind his desk. ‘So. First impressions?’
Purkiss wondered if he meant the station or the people who worked there. ‘Truthfully? It’s smaller than I expected.’
Medievsky laughed. ‘And more old-fashioned looking, yes? Not the high-tech moon base of your imagination.’
Purkiss smiled. ‘That too.’
Medievsky leaned over and poured tea from a samovar into two mugs, pushing one across the desk to Purkiss. ‘We are all old school, John. Raw data collection is what we are after. Our instrumentation is modern, and sufficient for us to gather what we need. But the land around us is harsh, unwelcoming. To introduce the trappings of luxury into the tundra would be to invite trouble. And yes, I am Russian and therefore naturally superstitious.’
He ticked off on his fingers: ‘Six snowmobiles, four of them able to carry two people. Our all-terrain Ural truck. Enough food and fuel to last six months. Ten rifles.’
‘Why the guns?’ asked Purkiss.
‘Bears, chiefly. We are slightly too far south of the Arctic Circle for polar bears, but the brown ones we encounter sometimes. Usually it is when we are venturing on field trips. On occasion, one will wander near the station in search of food.
We have not had to kill one, yet. But they are not like wolves, which are shy and will avoid human contact wherever possible. Bears are strange creatures. Nobody fully understands them. One moment they are placid; the next, on a whim, they become marauders.’
Purkiss allowed a few seconds to lapse. He said: ‘Dr Medievsky. Oleg. I might as well ask you this now, otherwise it’ll hang over us.’
Medievsky raised his eyebrows.
‘Feliks Nisselovich, your botanist. What happened?’
Medievsky nodded. ‘I appreciate your forthrightness. There is not much to add to what you probably already know, what is publicly known. Nisselovich was a brilliant man, but ill-disciplined. He did not listen to advice, had no respect for the tundra. He went out on his own, against my express instructions, when we knew a storm was advancing. As soon as his absence was noted, we went looking for him. It was too late. The storm was upon us, and we had to retreat. He never came back.’
Medievsky studied his tea. Without looking up, he went on: ‘If you are wondering if I feel guilty about his loss, the answer is yes. But am I guilty? No. I am the leader of this group, it is true; but we are scientists, not a military outfit. There is no genuine chain of command. Everybody who comes to work here does so on the understanding that he or she is responsible for their own safety. Nisselovich was aware of the extreme risk he was taking, and he chose to take it. So I was not held culpable for his disappearance, and life here goes on just as before.’
‘Why do you think he went out on his own?’ said Purkiss quietly.
Medievsky looked up, surprised. ‘I know why he went out. He had discovered an unfamiliar species of grass growing in the tundra thirty kilometres to the north, and wanted to collect samples before the storm struck and buried it under impenetrable layers of snow. Already he had gathered samples, but he did not think he had sufficient quantities for an adequate analysis.’
Purkiss knew about Nisselovich from the briefing documents Vale had provided. They were mostly press cuttings, and all they said was that the scientist was presumed dead after disappearing during a field trip. The Russian authorities had mounted a search, but it was quickly abandoned.
‘Thank you.’ Purkiss decided to switch back to a more comfortable line of questioning. ‘Maybe you could tell me about a typical day here at the station, if there is such a thing.’
‘Yes.’ Medievsky’s manner became more businesslike, less reflective. ‘We work mainly independently when we are here at the station. Oleksandra Budian and I conduct our analysis of soil samples in the laboratory, Efraim has his artifacts to examine. Montrose shares our lab and often our samples, if microbial analysis is required. And Wyatt works on the data gathered by his meteorological equipment. Drs Clement and Keys do their own thing, Patricia writing or interviewing us, Doug attending to us when necessary or sometimes calling us in to the infirmary if he needs to follow up on some tests. Gunnar is always occupied with repairs or maintenance. Each member of the team will provide you with as much detail as you require about their everyday working schedule. In general, we all see each other at least once daily, for the evening meal, though this is not invariable if one or more of us are busy with work.’
‘How often do you go out in the field?’
‘There is no set schedule. Usually it is three or four days every week. Sometimes we will go on a large excursion together, four or five of us, if visiting a site which involves multiple areas of interest and expertise. Our rule is that we always go out in pairs, at the very least. No single-person adventures. That is one of the taboos Nisselovich violated. And we keep a strict electronic log of departures and returns, as a safety mechanism.’
‘What kind of communications systems do you use?’
‘There’s a satellite dish forty kilometres west of here, which provides internet and phone links. We have six satellite phones, two of which are taken out on each field trip. We have very little need for communication with the outside world during each three- or six-month expedition here, apart from the emailing of data. Unless of course there is a noteworthy event, such as the disappearance of Nisselovich. Or the news that a journalist is to visit us.’
Medievsky glanced at a wall clock. ‘There is an excursion to one of our main field sites planned for two o’clock. Three of the team are going: Wyatt, Montrose and Dr Clement. If you wish to join them, you’re welcome to do so.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’ Purkiss stood up. ‘How much free rein do I have here, Oleg? I mean, do you need to know where I am at all times, are there any areas that are off-limits for me, et cetera?’
Medievsky waved a hand. ‘All I ask is that you do not venture outside without informing me. And it might be better if you avoided the laboratories when nobody is using them.’
‘Fair enough.’
At the door, Purkiss almost collided with Montrose, who stepped back and peered at Purkiss through eyes sharp with suspicion.
‘Sorry,’ Montrose muttered. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
From behind his desk, Medievsky said, ‘John is going to be joining you and the others on this afternoon’s trip, Ryan.’
‘Really.’
‘Looking forward to it,’ Purkiss said cheerily.
He felt the man’s dislike boring into his back.
*
Purkiss entered his room with care. The first trap he’d set, a tiny sliver of wood pressed into the door jamb, hadn’t been sprung; the splinter was still there. It didn’t mean much. If anyone had gone in, they might have spotted it and replaced it.
The trick was to lay enough traps that just one of them would betray a search of the room.
There was the copy of Newsweek, folded open in a precise way on the bedside table. An obvious one, and it hadn’t been triggered. Purkiss examined the angle of his suitcases on the floor of the wardrobe. Nothing different there. The cold tap at the bathroom sink was marginally less tightly turned off than normal. Again, it was as he’d left it.
Twelve small, almost imperceptible identification points, and none of them were other than as they should have been. Purkiss was satisfied.
His room hadn’t been disturbed.
As yet, he hadn’t learned exactly where each member of the team had his or her own quarters. It wouldn’t take long to find out, but until he did, the one piece of equipment he’d brought along that wasn’t for journalistic cover would remain unused.
At some point, it would be natural for him to ask for internet access, which he had no doubt Medievsky would grant him. But Purkiss didn’t think such access would be of much use to him. He had to assume Wyatt would be monitoring every email, every search engine enquiry, that emerged from the station.
Purkiss began to set a new series of traps. As he did so, he thought about the complications he faced. He had anticipated a straightforward focus on Wyatt and his intentions. But it was clear there was something else going on at Yarkovsky Station.
Since his arrival, he’d encountered overt hostility from Montrose. The medic, Keys, had displayed a sullen resentfulness which appeared to be directed at everybody, not just Purkiss. Although Efraim Avner came across as genuinely affable, there was a neediness about him, as though he was in search of a friend, or at least someone who would validate him. Patricia Clement seemed out of place, a cool observer more at home in a diverse, urban environment.
They were an odd group, with an eccentricity that might be a reflection either of the academic world they moved in or of the isolated setting in which they’d been thrown together.
Or it might be due to something else.
And there was the matter of Nisselovich and his disappearance. Purkiss hadn’t given it much thought when he’d first read about it in the briefing documents, assuming that the official line was correct and that the scientist had been a straightforward casualty of the terrain and the weather. But Medievsky’s account put a different spin on things. Purkiss found it hard to believe that a man of Nisselovich’s education and presumed intelligence
would have ventured out alone in the face of an impending Siberian storm, purely to gather grass samples.
He had the sense that Medievsky found it implausible, too.
Six
Lenilko was speedreading and digesting a memorandum of such utter tedium he wondered if its author was playing a joke, when the door to his office opened almost before he’d registered the knock.
It was Anna. ‘Yarkovsky Station,’ she said as neutrally as she could, though her flushed face betrayed her excitement.
Lenilko stabbed his finger repeatedly at the handset on his desk and Anna disappeared, closing the door behind her. A few seconds later the phone rang. Lenilko drew a long breath and picked it up.
The voice echoed hollowly as though filtered through water.
‘I would have been in contact sooner but I needed time to reflect. The journalist arrived last night. John Farmer.’
Because of the delay on the line, it took Lenilko a few seconds to realise the voice had paused.
‘Yes?’ said Lenilko.
‘I recognise him.’
Lenilko felt a pulse beat in his throat.
He said, ‘Who is he?’
‘British Intelligence, I think. I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen his picture before. He looks vaguely like the Reuters photo. You need to enhance that one and cross-reference it again with your SIS files, see if he comes up.’
‘Can you provide a better photo?’ said Lenilko, trying to keep his voice calm, and managing to do so, he thought.
‘Not yet. He’s about to accompany us on a field expedition. I haven’t had the opportunity to take his picture, and out there the conditions won’t allow it.’
‘What are your impressions of him?’
‘Too early to tell. He’s taking pains to be friendly and not to get in our way. Some of the others are reacting badly to his presence.’