Tundra

by Tim Stevens

  Medievsky’s jaw worked, his eyes flicking, calculating.

  Purkiss said, ‘How many people can your truck carry?’

  ‘The Ural? All of us. Three up front in the cab, the rest in the back.’

  ‘Okay. You need to get it ready. Load it up with whatever’s essential. Your research equipment, stuff you can’t save electronically. As little in the way of hardware as you can manage. And the rifles have to come with us. All of them.’

  Medievsky said, ‘There’s a problem with your plan.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The killer, the saboteur, the terrorist, will be coming with us.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ said Purkiss. ‘Or she.’

  Medievsky frowned.

  Purkiss said: ‘Because I’m going to identify, and neutralise, whoever it is. Before we leave.’

  ‘How?’

  On the periphery of his vision, Purkiss saw Haglund and Montrose break away from the group and come striding across the room towards them.

  ‘Give me access to your database,’ he whispered. ‘You said you keep logs of when each team member leaves and returns to the station. I think I know what I’m looking for.’

  With only a moment’s hesitation, Medievsky muttered two sequences of letters and numerics. ‘Username and password. The file’s named passages.’

  Purkiss hooked each of the sequences on the mental grid he used to memorise new strings of data. ‘Got it.’

  Before either Haglund or Montrose could speak, Medievsky turned to them. ‘We’re moving out. Get everything you consider absolutely essential, possessions and research material and the like, and bring it to the hangar as quickly as possible. I’ll sort through it and cull anything I don’t agree with.’ He tipped his chin at Purkiss. ‘You too, Farmer.’

  It was Purkiss’s cue.

  As he strode towards the door, the eyes of Avner and Budian and Clement following him, he heard the argument behind him: Heading out? from Montrose, and Medievsky’s clipped reply, and a grunt of disbelief from Haglund.

  He had access. It was of a kind he could have done with two days earlier, but there was no point in looking back.

  Purkiss headed down the corridor towards the west wing, hurrying before the door of the mess opened behind him and someone noticed where he was going.

  *

  He used Medievsky’s office, finding it locked but cracking the mechanism within thirty seconds. The computer took frustratingly long to boot up. Purkiss tried to ignore the distant whine of the wind outside, and the way it suggested the scream of approaching jet engines.

  The file was a spreadsheet, organised by date and time and logging each excursion over twenty-four hours by the individual team members, as well as their destinations. Purkiss took a minute to familiarise himself with the system.

  He selected December of the previous year. Beginning at the start of the month, he scanned through the records, day by day. He noted the clustering on two or three days of every week, while on others there appeared to be no recorded trips outside the station.

  Most of the excursions had been undertaken by five members of the team in particular: Avner, Budian, Montrose, Wyatt, and Nisselovich. Clement or Medievsky appeared on about one third of the trips. Haglund had gone out a handful of times, and there was only a single recorded instance of Keys leaving the station, presumably to attend to some kind of medical problem or injury. As Medievsky had said, the team members always went out in groups of two or more, never singly.

  The last inclusion of Nisselovich’s name was on the twenty-eighth of December, the day before his disappearance. He’d gone out with Wyatt, Avner and Clement to a location with an unfamiliar code number. On the night Nisselovich disappeared, Medievsky and Montrose and Haglund and Wyatt were recorded as having left the station at ten thirty and returned at eleven fifty. For once, no destination was specified for their journey. Purkiss assumed this had been the search party looking for Nisselovich.

  Purkiss glanced around Medievsky’s office, saw a laminated map pinned to one wall. It was a smaller-scale reproduction of the large map of the surrounding region he’d studied in the main laboratory. He peered at it, scanning it systematically until he found the code number of the last recorded location Nisselovich had visited. It was a spot some twenty kilometres west of the station, and meant nothing to Purkiss.

  His eyes were drawn to the area near the upper left-hand corner of the map, and the site marked Nekropolis. By his estimation it was eighty or ninety kilometres away. Between it and Yarkovsky Station, three coded locales were marked on the map.

  Purkiss memorised the codes, and turned his attention back to the spreadsheet on the screen before him. He used one of the program’s drop-down menus to sort the information from the entire spreadsheet, not only for December but for the two months since and the six months preceding, filtering the data by the team members’ names and the three location codes from the map.

  There’d been thirty-one recorded field trips to the three locations over the last eight months, over half of them in the previous four. Wyatt’s name came up most often in connection with the visits, followed closely by Nisselovich and then Budian and Medievsky, despite his overall record of fewer excursions than the others. Montrose had taken the trip a handful of times, the rest not at all.

  Frustration knotted Purkiss’s stomach. What did it mean, if anything? His idea had been that whoever was taking an interest in the crashed Tupolev might have suspected it was somewhere in the vicinity of the Nekropolis, and might therefore have visited the sites nearby in order to investigate further. But none of the names stood out as obvious suspects.

  Time was running out. Perhaps, Purkiss thought, he’d have to abandon the notion of identifying the enemy before they fled the station, would have to accept that he’d be journeying with a group of people one of whom could potentially turn on the rest of them at a crucial moment.

  He stared at the monitor, willing a clue to present itself, when the door opposite him opened and he tensed and Patricia Clement stepped into the room.

  Twenty-four

  ‘You think it’s me, don’t you?’

  She perched on the edge of the desk, her gaze unwavering as ever, the same half-smile playing at her lips. She’d closed the door behind her.

  Purkiss said: ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of my reaction to all of this. The way I seem unfazed.’

  Purkiss shrugged. ‘The thought had crossed my mind, yes. On the other hand, your apparent nonchalance wouldn’t be very effective cover. It’s a bit obvious.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Her expression became a shade more serious. ‘I know what you’re trying to do.’

  She couldn’t see the monitor from where she was sitting. Purkiss waited.

  ‘You’re looking at the movement logs. Trying to work out if anyone slipped up, left a trail. I suspect you haven’t been successful so far.’

  He watched her. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I assumed you hadn’t gone to your room, so the west wing was the next choice. I’ve been trying doors, seeing if you were using any of the offices. Bingo.’

  ‘Why were you looking for me?’

  ‘I may be able to help. The night Feliks Nisselovich disappeared, there was... something. It might be significant, might not.’

  ‘What?’

  She glanced away, as if remembering. ‘The last time anyone recalls seeing him was around nine in the evening. He and Efraim and Frank Wyatt were in the mess, shooting the breeze, and eventually he wandered out. I was in my office at the time, working on some notes. At ten after ten, Gunnar knocked, asking if I knew who’d taken one of the snowmobiles, saying he’d been to the hangar and discovered one of them was missing. I didn’t know. Next thing, there’s a big panic and Oleg gathers us together. Feliks is gone. Everybody knew he was pushing to head out to collect the plant samples, everyone knew he was crazy to think about it because of the storm that was headed our way.’
<
br />   She touched her fingertips to her lips.

  ‘So there’s a debate. Frank, Oleksandra, Gunnar, they think we should go after him, try to find him and bring him back. Efraim and Ryan, also Doug Keys, don’t agree, say it’s too dangerous, that there’s no point more of us risking our lives. None of the satellite handsets are missing, so Feliks hasn’t taken one and can’t be contacted that way. In the end Oleg decides to lead a search party. They make it halfway to the location where Feliks was headed when the storm hits. Oleg and the others are forced to turn back. He raises the alarm with Yakutsk, but weather conditions are so severe that they aren’t able to despatch assistance until the middle of next morning. By which time it’s too late, and Feliks is lost.’

  For the first time, Purkiss saw something in her expression other than ironic amusement. There was a sadness there.

  He said, ‘You mentioned you had something that might be significant.’

  ‘Yes. After Oleg and the others had left to find Feliks, I met Doug Keys in the corridor, here in the west wing. This would have been around eleven. Keys was looking perplexed. I asked what was wrong. He stared at me vaguely, like he couldn’t quite place me, and said, “I just saw Nisselovich”. I asked where, and he said, “Outside, through the window.” I told Keys to show me. He took me back into the infirmary, pointed out the window. There was no sign of anybody. I said he must have misinterpreted something, and asked if he might be having a hypo – he was pale and sweaty, the way he used to get. He became agitated, almost shouting, and grabbed my arm, insisting he knew what he’d seen. I managed to persuade him to take a glucose sweet and he calmed down a little, but he stalked out, saying he was going to find someone who’d believe him.’

  ‘What then?’

  Clement shrugged. ‘I let him go. Keys could be awkward, and obstinate. I figured he’d get the same response from the others and would eventually give up on the idea. But next morning, before breakfast, I decided to check in on Keys. I found him in the infirmary again, on his own. When I asked if he was okay, he said he’d made a mistake the night before, that he hadn’t seen Feliks. He seemed ashamed. More than that, he appeared... scared.’

  ‘Why did you think that was?’ asked Purkiss.

  ‘I guessed he was worried I’d think he was losing his mind. He was always a little wary around me, because of what I do. Telling the resident psychologist you’re seeing things... well, he may have thought I’d report him or something.’

  ‘Did you discuss it with anyone?’

  ‘No. But he was even more avoidant of me than usual in the days and weeks after that.’ Her eyes probed Purkiss’s face. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Did you know Keys was a heroin addict?’

  Purkiss had never seen her surprised before, thought she probably seldom revealed when something startled her. But there was a flaring of her eyes, a slow drawing of breath.

  ‘My God,’ she murmured. ‘Yes. It makes sense.’

  ‘It doesn’t explain why he said he saw Nisselovich, though,’ said Purkiss. ‘You said he was sweaty and jittery, which suggests he might have been in need of a fix. Opiate withdrawal doesn’t cause visual hallucinations as a rule.’

  She continued to watch him, her gaze questioning.

  ‘Two possibilities come to mind,’ said Purkiss. ‘One is that you’re lying.’

  The amusement was back, playing around her mouth. ‘I suppose. What’s the other?’

  ‘The other is that Keys was right. He did see Nisselovich through the window.’

  Clement’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Here’s a scenario,’ Purkiss said. ‘Nisselovich starts to become suspicious about one of his colleagues. Maybe that colleague is showing an unusual interest in the Nekropolis when he’s out on field trips with them. Or he notices something incriminating on their computer. Or overhears something when they’re on the phone. So he manufactures this story about how he wants to collect plant samples in the middle of a storm. He disappears with one of the snowmobiles, assuming correctly that a search party will be organised. But he doesn’t go far from the station. Once the search party has left, he sneaks back reasoning there’ll be more chance of his avoiding being noticed now that at least some of his colleagues are away from the premises, looking for him. Maybe he intends to search the room of the person he’s suspicious about. But he’s out of luck. He encounters the person, who attacks him, either killing him then and there or chasing him out into the tundra, where he’s killed or dies of exposure.’

  Clement looked sceptical.

  Purkiss went on: ‘It’s rank conjecture, yes. We’ll never know exactly what happened. But it’s at least plausible.’

  ‘And Keys sees him.’

  ‘Keys sees him, tells everyone about it. Nobody believes him, except the person Nisselovich is investigating. That person disposes of Nisselovich, and then, later that night, pays Keys a visit. He discovers Keys has seen too much – has maybe even witnessed him chasing or killing Nisselovich – and blackmails the doctor into silence, either with a threat of direct violence or by using his addiction against him. That’s why Keys recants his story to you the next day, and it’s why he’s frightened. Two months later, I show up and interview Keys. The killer decides enough is enough, the end game has arrived, and Keys has to be terminated before he opens his mouth and scuppers the whole operation.’

  The room was quiet apart from the whirr of the computer and the thin whine of the wind outside.

  Clement said, ‘Okay. Let’s assume it played out like that, or something like it. It rules out any of the members of the search party as the killer. Oleg, Frank Wyatt – who obviously didn’t do it – and Gunnar.’

  Purkiss had been rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He stopped.

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘It rules out –’

  ‘No. I mean the names you listed.’

  ‘Oleg, Wyatt and Gunnar.’

  Purkiss turned back to the computer monitor, clicked through the spreadsheet until he found the date he was looking for.

  He stared at the entry.

  To Clement: ‘You’re one hundred per cent sure of those names.’

  ‘Yes. I have almost perfect recall.’

  Purkiss looked up at her.

  He said: ‘I know who it is.’

  Twenty-five

  His flailing arm caught the computer monitor and sent it toppling to the floor in a cascade of paper and pencils, the crash echoing off the walls and ceiling.

  Purkiss pivoted in his chair so that his back was to the desk, his head reeling, waves of nausea eddying up from his stomach. For a second the room around him took on the distorted quality of a dream image, and he felt himself on the cusp of passing out. He let out a groan through his clenched teeth.

  Clement, blurred through a river of pain, raised her arms once again, the trophy from Medievsky’s shelf poised in her hands. Purkiss lunged groggily sideways as the steel container came down, connecting with the side of his head where Haglund had kicked him earlier, reopening the scalp wound and flicking blood across his shoulder.

  He half-flopped over the corner of the desk and turned towards the door as it swung open. Medievsky stood with the Ruger raised.

  ‘What the hell...’

  Clement backed away into the corner, the trophy clanging on the floor. Purkiss straightened, peered at her. Her eyes were wide, feral, her greying hair tousled where it had escaped her pony tail.

  ‘She’s...’ Purkiss tried. ‘She attacked me. She’s the one. The terrorist.’ His slurring tongue struggled with the syllables. He thought: she hit me too hard.

  Medievsky’s gaze swept the room. His eyes flicked from Purkiss to Clement and back.

  ‘Out,’ he said. To Clement: ‘You first.’

  He backed into the corridor, the rifle level on her. Clement didn’t look at Purkiss as he stepped out of her way. He followed her out.

  Medievsky said, ‘Hands behind your head.’ He glanced Pu
rkiss over. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  To Clement, Medievsky said: ‘Walk ahead. Don’t run.’

  As they began to move down the corridor, he said to Purkiss, ‘What happened?’

  The walls were starting to tilt less alarmingly, and the nausea had morphed into a cracking headache at the back and the right side of Purkiss’s head. He focused on Clement, shuffling six feet ahead of the two men with her hands clasped at the nape of her neck.

  ‘I was checking the movements log. She came in, asked if she could help. I made two mistakes. I told her what I was doing, and I let her get behind me. Next thing, she’d cracked me with that trophy.’

  Avner emerged from his lab further down the corridor, a briefcase in each hand. ‘What’s going -’ He gaped at Clement, then at Purkiss and Medievsky.

  ‘She’s the killer,’ Purkiss said.

  Medievsky jerked his head. ‘Come, Efraim.’

  Avner watched them pass, then hurried after them, jabbering. ‘Hey. Wait. No way, man. No fuckin’ way.’

  The group moved along the passageways, picking up Montrose on the way. When Budian appeared, saw Clement, the gun at her back, she clamped one hand to the side of her face, her mouth wide.

  ‘Patricia -’ She made as if to approach the other woman.

  ‘Back,’ said Medievsky.

  In the entrance hall, Medievsky advanced and prodded Clement to a stop with the rifle barrel. She stood, facing away from him. The others wandered into a semicircle before her, like spectators at a circus.

  Purkiss said, ‘Where’s Gunnar?’

  ‘In the Hangar, loading the Ural,’ said Medievsky.

  ‘You need to get him in here.’

  Medievsky seemed reluctant to take his eyes off Clement. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because we have to change our plans.’

  Now Medievsky looked at him. ‘Change in what way?’

  The front door opened and Haglund came in, fully suited, carrying his rifle. He uncovered his head and face and started to say, ‘Where’s the rest of -’ before he registered the scene in front of him.