by Tim Stevens
Like all successful people in his line of work, Lenilko had learned over many years to mask his emotions. Not to deny or suppress them, but rather to handle them internally and maintain an outward appearance of calm. He saw his face in the mirror on the wall behind Konstantin, and noted with a detached satisfaction that his features were as smooth and expressionless as if he was asleep. But the rage in him was so intense, so primal, that he feared it would find another outlet through the wall of his chest, erupting like a tormented beast.
‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Take your personal items with you. There will be no disciplinary process. You are summarily dismissed.’
Even at the last, Konstantin’s composure didn’t crumple. He simply bowed his head, turned and left.
Lenilko gazed at the door for a few seconds. He was aware of Anna, still seated, her face in her hands. Her breathing was rapid.
‘Anna.’
She raised her head, her eyes wide but, he noticed, dry.
He stared into them for a long moment.
‘Were you aware of this?’
Her reply didn’t come too quickly, nor was it the grovelling denial it might have been. She said, simply: ‘No.’
After a few seconds more, he nodded.
‘It’s just the two of us now. So you’d better get back to work.’
Fourteen
Four hours’ work, and Purkiss, by nature a patient man, felt frustration boring through him like woodworm.
He was seated at the small table in his room, his laptop open before him. Every so often he got up to stretch, take a turn round the room, or gaze out of the window at the whiteness beyond. The snow had been coming down relentlessly all morning, and Purkiss could no longer make out any horizon at all.
The hard drive he’d cloned didn’t contain a lot of files, which was one reason he’d been able to copy it relatively quickly. Much of what was there was standard fare: word-processing programs with added facilities for the recording of scientific data, protocols regarding safety and maintenance at the station, topographical maps of the surrounding area and of Siberia as a whole.
One folder looked potentially interesting. It was titled Historical, and contained assorted files, both original reports and scanned or downloaded newspaper and journal articles, pertaining to the history of Yarkovsky Station. Much of it Purkiss already knew. Established in 1992, in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet order and in a new spirit of international scientific cooperation, it was named after Ivan Yarkovsky, a nineteenth century Russian-Polish engineer who died in obscurity but whose work on the effects of thermal radiation on asteroids was now recognised as of great importance.
There were further lists of research projects carried out at the station, and of publications that had resulted. Purkiss read through the titles quickly. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but nothing seemed remotely controversial. Another file listed the personnel who’d worked at the station over the last twenty-two years and the dates of their tours of duty, as it were. The names meant nothing to him, apart from the most recent ones, those of the staff currently at the station. And, of course, Feliks Nisselovich.
A last subfolder contained files with data on the known history of the region, which included accounts even of Siberia’s prehistory and of the Neolithic archaeological and palaeoanthropological discoveries there. Avner’s field. Most of the data was centred on the last hundred years, as might be expected, and in particular the period since the late nineteen twenties when the young Soviet regime had extended its colossal industrialisation drive into the north. Purkiss felt the torrent of facts and dates blur past his eyes. It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, except he didn’t even know if a needle was what he was looking for.
A word caught his eye: Nekropolis. The excavation site Budian had told him about, with the mammoth remains. Purkiss began reading. The article had been scanned from a 1990 edition of National Geographic, and amounted to a twenty-page feature detailing the history of the site and its descent into dereliction a couple of years earlier. The piece ended with a lament about the defunct status of the site, and an expression of cautious hope that activity there might be resumed now that the Soviet Union had opened up to the world. Interestingly, there was mention of several American companies which had offered to contribute funding to the revival of the site.
Purkiss read the article again, slowly. Something bothered him; something wasn’t quite right. He knew little about the topic of mammoth fossil excavation, but the account was easy to follow and quite riveting in its own way. Entire family groups of the animals had been discovered, perfectly preserved beneath the ice. The research station had grown rapidly in the decade after its establishment in the late seventies, both in size and in staffing numbers. And the yield of fossils had continued, one of the largest hauls having been discovered in the summer of 1986.
Then, in April 1988, the plug had been pulled. Existing projects were wound down rapidly, staff were withdrawn, and by the end of the summer the site was closed.
The National Geographic article didn’t waste time on speculation as to the reason. It mentioned the context – that the Soviet Union was bankrupt, that Gorbachev had accepted that the game was up, and that priorities had to shift drastically – but otherwise seemed to accept the closing of the site that would become Nekropolis as a sad inevitability.
Purkiss leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes. April, 1988. He ran through what he knew about the time. There weren’t any events of enormous historical significance that came to mind.
He knuckled his forehead. This was a moment when internet access would have been invaluable. Perhaps he’d ask some of the others, Budian or Medievsky or even Clement. Though he suspected none of them would be in the mood for questions of such apparent triviality, given what had happened to Keys that morning.
And given their current predicament, the absence of telecommunications links with the rest of the world.
Purkiss glanced through the remaining files. There was nothing that caught his attention. He closed the folder and stared at the laptop screen.
The sudden, unexplained closure of a major research facility, more than a quarter of a century ago. It was all Purkiss had come up with. Could there be any link with what was happening at Yarkovsky Station?
Far away in the depths of the building, voices echoed off the walls, and he wondered if Medievsky and the other two had returned.
*
They assembled in the mess once more, Medievsky’s face raw from the outside cold, his silence portentous. Purkiss glanced at Haglund and Wyatt, but their expressions gave nothing away. Avner had emerged from his room as Purkiss was passing it, and had stared at him dully before falling into step beside him.
When they were settled, Medievsky, remaining standing, said: ‘The satellite dish has been damaged. More than that. Destroyed. There was no chance that Frank or Gunnar might fix it.’
Clement spoke up, and Purkiss was struck by how seldom he heard her voice. ‘Damaged, how? The weather?’
This time Wyatt answered. ‘The dish itself has been smashed, carefully and systematically. The supporting apparatus is wrecked. It’s been sabotaged.’
There was no ripple of reaction as there had been when Medievsky had said earlier that Keys may have been murdered. Instead, it was as though the group held its collective breath, waiting for some further revelation.
Montrose broke the silence. ‘How?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ began Wyatt. ‘An axe, possibly. Or –’
‘I don’t mean how,’ said Montrose testily. ‘I mean who?’
All heads turned to Medievsky. He shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable under the expectant gazes.
‘There are no other bases anywhere within the vicinity,’ he said. ‘No human outposts of any kind. The saboteur came from Yarkovsky Station.’
Nobody made eye contact, even though people glanced about. The concept hung heavily, like a shroud over the gro
up.
One of us.
Medievsky clasped his hands in front of him, stood with his feet apart, a posture of authority. ‘I need to establish timings. Which of us last used either the internet or the telecom facilities? And when?’
Avner, who hadn’t spoken yet, said, ‘I sent a couple of emails at around one a.m. I can check the exact time signatures on them.’
‘One a.m. Good. Anyone later?’
Heads shook. Medievsky ticked off on his fingers: ‘So. Between one and seven this morning, when Gunnar first determined the connection was lost, the dish was destroyed. We assume a half-hour journey to reach the dish, minimum. We were all of us present at the station at seven. The sabotage therefore took place between one and half past six.’
Haglund said, ‘It was before that. I was in the hangar by six-ten, taking another look at the damaged Cat. All the vehicles were present.’
‘Had any of them been used recently?’ asked Medievsky.
‘I don’t know. There was no cause for me to examine them.’
‘Five thirty, then, let us say.’
Purkiss chimed in. ‘You have to consider the time of Keys’s murder in, don’t forget.’
All heads turned in his direction.
‘Keys was killed around three or four in the morning, in my estimation. I’m no expert, so if any of you have more specialised forensic skills, speak up.’ When nobody answered, he went on: ‘That narrows the window even further. Whoever sabotaged the dish did so either soon after Efraim last used the satellite connection, or else not long before Gunnar got up and went into the hangar. My bet is it’s the second, later in the night.’
‘Why’s that?’ Montrose asked.
‘Because it’s likely whoever killed Keys sabotaged the dish to stop us from summoning support afterwards. The killer could have smashed the dish first, then returned to kill Keys. But that’s a risky approach. Any of you might have got up in the middle of the night to do some work, perhaps use the internet or email, and would have discovered the severed connection. You’d have raised the alert, and everyone would have been up. The killer wouldn’t have had the opportunity to kill Keys in that case.’
Several pairs of eyes were on Purkiss. He tried to read what he saw there. Wyatt, Budian and Medievsky regarded him with considered interest. Efraim appeared dazed. Haglund and Montrose weren’t making eye contact, but stared grimly into the middle distance.
In Clement’s stare there was something close to amusement, as if she and Purkiss were sharing a secret.
‘You are assuming,’ said Medievsky, ‘that Keys was killed with premeditation. What if his death was accidental, after an unanticipated struggle?’
‘Then it’s all the more likely the sabotage happened afterwards.’
Medievsky clapped his hands together, in what Purkiss recognised as his sign that he was about to take action. ‘I’ll speak to each of you in turn. Wait in here until I call you.’
Montrose moved to join him at the door. Medievsky turned.
‘You too, Ryan. Wait here.’
Montrose’s glasses flashed. ‘I’m the deputy head of station.’
‘Nevertheless.’ Medievsky spoke quietly. ‘I cannot make any assumptions.’
‘You think I might be the saboteur,’ Montrose said flatly.
‘No assumptions.’ Medievsky nodded at Haglund. ‘You first, Gunnar.’
After the door closed behind them, the room let out its collective sigh almost audibly. People began to glance at each other again, though their gazes slipped away as quickly.
Purkiss got up off the arm of the chair on which he’d been perched and headed over to the kitchenette. He lit the gas stove and put the old iron kettle on the burner, opened the cupboards in search of coffee.
From the sofa, Avner laughed sourly, the first time Purkiss had heard him do so since the discovery of Keys’s body. ‘Hey, Ryan. Don’t take it personally. For all we know, Oleg’s the killer.’
‘Shut up,’ Montrose snarled. ‘It’s nothing to joke about. In fact, Efraim, I’ve had it with your jokey, phony crap. Really had it.’ He stood near the door, his fists clenched, his arms quivering.
Wyatt intervened: ‘Seriously, though, Ryan, he’s right. It could be Oleg. It could be any of us.’ He stared across at Purkiss.
Purkiss held his gaze. Was this it? The first direct, mocking acknowledgement Wyatt was giving him that he knew exactly why Purkiss was there at the station, and knew that Purkiss knew it?
Avner sprang up, spread his arms expansively. ‘Hey. If we’re going to be stuck here together, why leave Oleg to do all of the work? Why not conduct our own investigation? Sam Spade, man. Hercule god damn Poirot.’ He hunched over, shuffled past Patricia Clement, wagging his finger, and muttered in a passable approximation of Columbo: ‘Just one more thing, ma’am. Where were you between the hours of one and six o’clock this morning?’
Clement, who had been sitting upright and elegant all through Medievsky’s address to them and beyond, her hands clasped over one crossed knee, watched Avner, a half-smile at her lips. ‘I was in my bed, detective. Asleep. I didn’t hear a thing.’
She’s playing along with the hysteria, Purkiss thought. He’d seen reactions like Avner’s many times before, even in people without his personality type. Most often he’d seen them in doctors, who could display the most appallingly flippant callousness after an intense and gruelling struggle to save a patient’s life. Humour was a natural mechanism for coping with occurrences beyond the usual range of human experience. It helped to normalise them.
From behind the kitchen counter, Purkiss said, ‘Again, Efraim, you might be on to something, as Frank said. Why couldn’t the killer be Dr Clement?’
It wasn’t a gratuitously provocative comment. Purkiss found something odd, eerie even, about Clement’s behaviour through all this. She’d maintained her unfazed, scholar’s fascination with the people around her even in the face of the murder of a colleague and the revelation that their contact with the world outside had been cut off, with all that implied. He wanted to rattle her, to shake loose some of the confidence. It was difficult, in Purkiss’s experience, to get inside the head of a calm person. It was far easier to understand what made people tick when they were destabilised by strong emotion.
Clement turned her head to look at him. The smile was still there. She said, in her soft Alabama voice, ‘John’s quite right. It could be me.’
‘Could be you too, man.’ Avner had stopped in mid-pace. He said it amiably enough, but it was like a signal. As before, every head turned towards Purkiss. Even Budian, who’d stayed silent and was sitting on one of the sofas with her back to the kitchenette, raised her head and peered round.
Purkiss sensed a primitive, pack mentality taking hold in the room, subtle but palpable. He was the outsider. The intruder. And since his arrival less than forty-eight hours earlier, calamity had fallen on them.
He surveyed them, one by one.
Montrose was the first to move. He stepped forward, positioning himself close to the kitchenette but to the side, so that the others could still hold Purkiss in their lines of sight. The jury, and Montrose was the counsel for the prosecution.
‘You know a lot about dead bodies, and forensic science,’ said Montrose levelly. ‘And computers. And how to ride a snowmobile. And detective work.’ He allowed a pregnant pause. ‘You’re no journalist.’ Another step forward. ‘So just who, exactly, are you?’
Purkiss took down six mugs, lined them up. He began to pour coffee from the pot, carefully and methodically, into each one.
When he’d finished, he looked up at Montrose.
‘I’m the man who blew up his own snowmobile in order to divert attention from himself. The man who was the first to point out that Keys didn’t commit suicide, but was murdered. The man who’s helped to pinpoint the most likely time interval within which the sabotage of the satellite dish took place. So yes, I suppose I am a suspect. But in the pecking order, I’m not even out
of the cage yet.’
The silence lasted six seconds. Avner broke it with a whoop.
‘Hell, Ryan. He got you there.’ He trotted over to the counter, raised his hand in a high-five gesture. Purkiss waved a careless palm in response.
The mood was broken. But Montrose glared at Purkiss, his mouth tight.
The door opened and Medievsky put his head in and said: ‘John. You next, please.’
Fifteen
Purkiss let Medievsky run through his questions – did you get up at all during the night, who was the last person you saw – before holding up a hand.
‘It isn’t going to work, Oleg.’
‘What?’
‘This kind of questioning. It was the middle of the night. Everyone was in bed, apart from one person, obviously. Everyone’s going to give you the same answer. Nobody heard or saw anything.’
Medievsky considered him. They were both seated in Medievsky’s office, the scientist on the other side of the desk. Purkiss was relieved he’d been called in before Wyatt. He wanted to get back to his room before Wyatt went to his own.
‘Do you have a better suggestion?’ Medievsky didn’t sound irritated, but genuinely curious.
‘There are other priorities,’ said Purkiss.
‘Such as?’
‘You need to secure the safety of the generators.’
Medievsky frowned. ‘Explain.’
‘I’m assuming Keys’s killer sabotaged our communications to stop us summoning help. But that’ll work only in the short term. Before long, they’ll be sending out search parties. So, something else is going to happen very soon. Which means the killer might take other short-term measures. Such as destroying our power supply.’
Medievsky narrowed his eyes, pressed his fingertips against his lips. ‘But there is little that can be done to protect the generators. The outbuilding housing them is locked, but that won’t keep a determined person out.’
‘Then you need someone in there, armed, standing guard.’
Medievsky shook his head. ‘You see, of course, the immediate problem with your suggestion.’