And then what?
He was glad neither of them had asked that question. Maybe they hadn’t because they could guess as easily as he could that if the Spetsnazi did find the snow-hole they wouldn’t last five minutes.
Everyone had turned in at about eight p.m., because he wanted to leave by 0400, to get six hours of travelling behind them before dawn. Then they’d have a good chance of reaching the log-cabin for the night’s rest. While it was dark they’d keep close together, but in daylight they’d ski well apart, so that if one of them was spotted the other might not be, might have a chance of getting away. He’d reminded her an hour ago, ‘I’m holding you to that agreement, Sophie. As far as I’m concerned it’d be — well, as near impossible as anything I can imagine — I mean to leave you and make a run for it — but I’ll make myself do it if I have to. You mustn’t hesitate either. No matter what either of us feels, the vital thing is for one of us to get through.’
She’d agreed. But he’d seen the nightmare in her eyes too.
She was asleep now. There was something to be said for physical exhaustion. The candle flickered slightly from the draught that came in through the tunnel, rose with a degree or two of warmth in it and was trapped for a time under the vaulted, gleaming roof. Sutherland, with one forearm across his eyes to shield them from the dazzling, mirror-bright ice walls, slept on his back and snored continuously, a rhythmic droning. Ollie went on thinking about Sophie. A mental picture of her as she’d been in the bivvy with her ski-pole at Isak’s throat, the horror at what she was being called upon to do so stark in her expression that he’d had to take over, release her, and known as he did it that he was in love with her. Even if he hadn’t known it before that moment. But now, there was a quality of desperation in his feeling for her, arising from the clear possibility that they’d never be able to do anything about it.
He could hear her asking him, D’you think I’d let you just say goodbye?
Imagining it — or trying to: having to ski away, turn down some forest slope and leave her, if she’d run into a Spetsnaz trap…
Hell of a lot easier to be the one who stayed put. If it had to happen at all, pray to be allowed that privilege. Because it was an entirely realistic scenario. For example — and putting oneself in the mind of the Spetsnaz commander — no trace of the American party in those woods, except for their leavings, two men dead and one of them your own guy. You’d order a search for ski-tracks or other signs. Tracks would have been snowed over, but to a really expert eye there might still be traces, clues here and there. Then if the one who’d been near that tent with binos trained up the mountain, and maybe others whom one hadn’t spotted — if they swore blind that no one had passed north or east of that river confluence — well, wouldn’t the Spetsnaz leader be well able to put himself in your mind?
10
He told them as he wormed up out of the tunnel into the brilliant light, ‘It’s not snowing now.’
Quarter to four, pitch-black night, a wind with ice in it and fresh snow all over freezing into a hard crust but having nicely camouflaged this snow-hole and its front wall. He added, ‘For the moment, it’s stopped. Might start again, if we’re lucky.’
Stenberg grunted — about the maximum response you could expect at this time of night and from a man not long out of sleep. He was crouching at the stove, stirring breakfast porridge — having already made tea, enough of it to fill their Thermos flasks as well. Sophie had glanced up from waxing her skis, but didn’t comment. The fact that no snow was now falling meant their tracks would last, would be there to be seen and followed — in both directions. He doubted if there’d be any new falls in the near future either: it was too cold for it, and getting colder.
‘You guys ready to eat your porridge?’
‘Dish it out, Gus, would you?’
He’d had the last watch, and roused the others at three-thirty. He’d tried not to wake Sutherland, but the professor had stirred into life anyway when they began to move around.
His leg was aching. He was sitting up now, massaging that foot with the other one inside his sleeping-bag, and had declined an offer of more painkillers, saying he’d keep them in case the leg really began to hurt, as distinct from aching, and in any case the pills were going to have to last three days.
With luck, Ollie thought, he’d be back here in three days. But then it would take another two for him and Stenberg to move the injured Sutherland to and over the border, where he hoped a helicopter pickup might be arranged. But on the other hand the opposition would most likely be still around; you couldn’t take anything at all for granted.
But there was no point worrying on and on about it, either. You couldn’t make plans in detail, you just had to start, push it along as hard as it would go, cope with whatever hit you.
Leaving tracks all the way, though, for anyone with eyes to follow, and/or to track back to this hole. Like finding rabbits in a burrow: put in a ferret, flush them out. Easier still, collapse the snow-hole and kill whatever wriggled to the surface.
Christ, imagination…
But they did look so helpless. They probably didn’t realise just how vulnerable they were. Leaving them now felt like leaving a sort of decoy that might delay pursuit of himself and Sophie. It certainly was not a tactic, it was simply the way things had to be, the plain facts of a brutal situation.
The porridge was so thick he had to use a knife to get it off the spoon.
‘If you made enough of this, Gus, you could use it as plaster on Carl’s leg.’
Smiles… But smiling was an effort. They were awkward, self-conscious in a peculiar way, sharply aware of the imminence of a separation that might — Ollie guessed — feel to the two Yanks as if they were being deserted.
And they were, of course. It certainly felt like it to him, in these final minutes.
‘Carl, listen. Remember that although I’ll aim to be back in three days, all sorts of things could delay us, or delay me after I’ve seen Sophie on her way. Try not to get over-anxious. I’ll be as quick as I can — I want to get you to a doctor, get that leg fixed properly for one thing. Be patient, though. And for Christ’s sake—’ he gestured towards the tunnel ‘— don’t put your noses out there when you don’t have to.’
‘We’ll be here waiting.‘ Stenberg nodded. ‘As long as it takes.’
Sutherland said, ‘Sure, Ollie.’ He was in his forties but from the look of him in this viciously hard light he could have been sixty. ‘Just you two watch yourselves, hear?’
Ten minutes later they were shaking hands. Sophie kissed both of them. Stenberg said, ‘Now I know it’s a big moment.’
‘Oh, no. The big one will be when we get together again.’ She stooped to hug Sutherland again: ‘What a celebration, huh?’
‘You won’t keep me from that party.’
‘Good luck, Ollie. Take good care of our girl.’
‘You two take care of yourselves.’
It wasn’t a ‘big’ moment, it was a bloody awful one, and the only way to end it was to turn away and slide out through the tunnel, dragging skis and poles. Sophie came close behind him. He put a hand down to help her up, held her tight for about ten seconds… ‘Let’s try to walk it, down through the wood, put skis on later.’
‘OK.’
‘Meanwhile, stay close together.’
‘Tell you a secret, Ollie, I don’t mind how close.’
‘Tell you one — I love you.’
‘Tell me tonight in the fjellstue.’
‘It’s a date.’ And for the hundredth time, Please God… ‘But listen. It’s a hell of a long trek, and time’s vital, we’ve got to really stretch ourselves, OK?’
Downhill then, through dense but leafless birch, close together, leaving a track a drunken elk might have made.
*
By dawn they were in Norway. There’d been no border signs where they’d crossed, but there was a river — if it was the right one, which he was fairly sure it was because in th
e last ten kilometres on the Finnish side they’d crossed a configuration of rivers, lakes and then a mountain ridge all of which matched features shown on the map. This despite the fact that his map of this section was a Joint Operations Graphic (air), the shop in Alta not having had a ‘ground’ graphic of this part.
An upward plod from the river, with higher ground to the right and another string of small lakes to the south, took them into a growth of scrubby willow, birch and ash. From here with the light increasing there’d be a clear view back to that last bare ridge in Finland, he thought. The highest part of it was shown on the map as eighteen hundred feet, fields of virgin snow falling steeply northward and more gently south, which was where they’d crossed it. The object of pausing here was to look back at that high vista; if anyone was following, you’d see them.
It had been time for a breather anyway. In six hours they’d taken only two ten-minute breaks.
‘Might have a snack, while we’re at it.’ Then he saw she was already eating; preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed. She said, ‘They’ll be all right, Ollie.’ Misinterpreting his reason for looking back; so he explained it to her.
‘But they will be, anyway. They are very well hidden, aren’t they?’ Her eyes shifted: ‘Except I suppose our tracks-’
‘Right. That’s the problem. Or most of it.’ The light was growing from back there where he was looking; the wind, coming over that ridge, had stung like a whip, and they’d been glad to get down to the river. He said, ‘It’s a matter of luck. But I don’t believe we had any alternative.’
If a skier or skiers appeared on that high ground now, you’d know for sure you’d lucked out. As would Messrs Sutherland and Stenberg. They’d have discovered it already, he guessed.
‘Do you think they would be so close behind?’
‘No.’ He turned to face her. Chewing — raisins and biscuit… He swallowed. ‘No, but if they were there I’d like to see them before they see us… You fit for the next six hours now?’
‘Have to be, I think.‘
‘How d’you keep in such good training? Squash, gym?’
‘Also swimming. Skiing, of course, weekends out of Oslo. And the last two days have been good training. Should we go on?’
‘Just like to make sure of this. The light’s better every minute.’
‘If they were coming, what would we do?’
‘Depends.’ He shrugged. ‘Most likely pick a spot where I could send you on while I ambushed our trail.’
Which of course they’d expect, be watching out for.
There was nothing in sight, nothing moving on that milky haze of snowfield. On the other side, dead ground from here, it would be fully light by now; this was the shade side.
‘If they had found our tracks, they would also find the snow-hole?’
‘It’s — probable.’
Finding where the tracks started, they’d back-track up through the trees. They’d have found the tracks of two skiers and they’d know there’d been four in the party the day before, so they’d know there had to be two holed-up nearby.
Sophie caught her breath. Pointing…
He’d seen it too. A movement — something dark against the white crest of that far-off shoulder. Focusing hard on it, mittens curved to shut out peripheral light, wishing again he’d brought binoculars … Two others, now. Then a fourth…
‘Reindeer!’
She was right. It wasn’t so much the creatures’ shapes, at that distance, as the drifting movement of deer grazing, slowly shifting their ground, a movement that had nothing in common with that of men on skis following a trail.
*
There was nothing slow about the way they shifted their ground in the next two hours — on a weaving course, following contours and using ground where trees gave cover. Climbing slowed you down and used up energy best utilised in covering distance. No breath to spare for talking — not even in the pauses, brief stops when there was a good view back eastward. Then reassured, plugging on again, running out of trees, crossing the high, naked vidda, the rolling emptiness Sophie had previously found so compelling. For compulsion, he thought, read acute anxiety: the map showed there’d be at least twenty kilometres of this open land to cross, and if Spetsnazi showed up it would amount to a race — chase — no cover, no place to hide or ambush.
Another hour. By any standards this was a fast and gruelling yomp. He didn’t know how hard Sophie might be finding it, but she hadn’t once slowed or asked for a rest — and except for those few short pauses they’d been trekking for more than nine hours. He knew he was feeling it… Running downhill now, though — and dreading the end of it, the inevitable climb that would follow — but for the moment quite a fast descent on snow that had been crusted hard by the blast-freeze action of the wind. Sophie was leading, three to four hundred metres ahead of him, slanting down parallel to the course of a frozen stream to where the land flattened into an expanse of bog blessed with a scattering of trees.
Mountains ahead…
This had to be getting close to the Finnish border again, Ollie guessed. They’d be in and out of Finland for a while, following a reindeer fence that was shown on the map, presumably therefore was permanent, not one of those strands of old wire or string with bits of plastic flapping… Running downhill had already become a past pleasure, a long plod now first across the bog and then up towards an opening in the range of hills, or mountains. You came to it, you crossed it, looked ahead, saw what came next.
Another hour. Snow’s crust scrunching as the waxed skis bit into it and gripped. Legs and arms driving like pistons.
More deer ahead there. The shallow pass was full of them. There must have been several hundred, he guessed, without bothering to count the scattering of brownish, greyish animals. Lapps prized white reindeer above all others, Sutherland had told him. And the wild deer tended to have more white in their coats than the husbanded animals did. In some herds the owners had used captured wild deer at stud, and within a few generations — a few years — you saw the increase in whiteness. Silken coated, running like the sunbeams, reindeer springing like the windstorm… Not that this lot — or three or four other herds they’d seen during the transit of the high fjells — were doing any springing or resembled sunbeams. More like antlered donkeys… Looking ahead then, remembering Isak’s other yoik which she’d translated that night in camp as Big and lovely, best girl in the country…
She’d stopped. Looking up to her right. He felt that bang of the heart: thinking Here we go… She’d swung round, shouted something, but he didn’t catch the words. Ears muffled… He began to run, poling hard and running, skis thumping into the crust as he clattered up towards her. Then he saw them — two skiers traversing down from higher ground on the right, straight down towards her. He shouted to her, ‘Here! Come here!’
Because she had the down-gradient, could make it a lot faster than he could get up to her. She’d heard, was on her way. He stopped, dug his poles into the snow in front of him — crossed, each pole through the other’s leather wrist-strap. Unslinging the Swedish gun, he pushed the selector switch from ‘safe’ to ‘semi-automatic’. Fairly sure they’d be Lapp herdsmen, but not taking any chances on it. That one on the snowscooter had been a Lapp herdsman, after all, Isak could hardly have been the only Lapp on that side. Sophie christie’d to a stop beside him. He was standing, cradling the gun, but if those two came on now he’d kneel, using the crossed poles for a rest and put a warning shot over their heads. If they still came on after that you’d know you had trouble.
So would they.
They’d stopped, though. Gazing down in this direction. Sophie said, ‘Only Sami. With this big herd. I’m sorry, I thought—’
‘Better safe than sorry.’ He switched to ‘safe’ and was about to sling the gun on his back again when an idea hit him. ‘Hang on. Let’s take a look up there, just on the off-chance…’
‘Climb up there? Ollie—’
‘I know. But it might be worth it
.’ He jerked his poles out of the snow, put them both in his left hand. ‘Come on.’ He began to herring-bone up towards them. They seemed to be waiting for him; and in better perspective you could see they were short, squat men, leaning on their ski—poles. They’d see the gun — if they hadn’t already, and Samis — Sutherland had mentioned, after Isak had reacted badly to the sight of the AYA — didn’t like firearms, except in hunters’ hands. He had its sling over his right shoulder, the gun itself in the crock of his arm, barrel outward from his body.
‘You’ll frighten them, with that. They’ll guess we are — well, like—’
‘I know. I want them to take off.’
Before he was halfway up they obligingly kick-turned and started away, passing from left to right upslope of him, heading down towards this side of the grazing herd. He grunted, climbing on and without much breath to spare, ‘Won’t waste time, you’ll see.’
Regretting the use of time, all the same, knowing there were probably no more than two and a half or three hours of daylight left. He passed the place where the two Lapps had been standing, climbed on to the top of the slope, a sort of rounded plateau.
‘Now, look here…’
Both of them breathless — and seeing ski-tracks everywhere, tracks leading in all directions. Deer-tracks too, and droppings, like big sheep-droppings. The herdsmen must have been around here since first light, getting the herd together, bringing in strays. Ski-tracks radiated south, west, north, northeast. His eye followed the line of one pair of tracks that left the trampled area and led away westward — fresh-looking, and no others near them.
‘That’s the way to your deer-fence, right?’
She confirmed it. Beginning to catch on, he thought. The point being that anyone trailing them had been following two sets of tracks, not three, and there could be three from here on. There was also a nice set of two skiers’ tracks diverging northwestward. Such a change of direction wouldn’t seem unlikely; at this point you had the Finnish border right ahead, while that way you’d stay inside Norway, near enough on course for Kautokeino.
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