He was in the valley at the bottom of the wooded hillside below the snow-hole within a few minutes of midnight on Day 2 — having started from the snow-hole with Sophie just after 0400 on Day 1. So the trip had taken less than two days in all, instead of the three in which he’d told the Americans he’d hoped to make it. But this return trip hadn’t been as fast as he’d hoped: and it had taken just about all his strength. He still had the climb, too, up the steep, thickly-treed hillside, and it would take at least an hour, maybe more. They’d slid and ploughed down it in about twenty minutes, he remembered.
He found the same line of tracks — deep and hard-crusted now. If Spetsnazi had searched here, they couldn’t have helped finding this steep trail. His heart was thumping hard, and he hadn’t even begun to climb. He told himself, Forget it. They’ll be there. You’re a day ahead of schedule…
Climbing. Skis on his back. No glimmer of moon tonight. The snow was hard-crusted where their floundering descent had broken through it, crunching under his Lundhags boots, but in the drifts when he blundered into them — sightless, seeing only the blur of white and black uprights and diagonals — it was waist-deep. He was exhausted — he could admit it to himself because this was journey’s end at last — and also scared. For the Yanks, what he might find, as he climbed higher and closer to the moment of truth. Remembering Gus Stenberg’s flat statement of I’m a desk man, and the sharp disappointment he’d felt when he’d heard it. After the near-miss of the avalanche, when Gus had produced a hand-gun and taken charge of Isak in a quick, business-like manner, he’d had hopes of him, relief in the thought that he was about to get some help. Then that admission. And Gus’s humility — as if it could have been his fault they’d unchained him from a desk and sent him on this mission without any preparation. None of it was anyone’s fault: no-one had known they were going to war.
He stopped climbing, tested with his back against a tree. He hadn’t made the transit any faster on his own than he had with Sophie, but obviously having done it non-stop must have taken its effect. Also it had been the return journey, more than eighteen hours’ yomping on top of the first nineteen, and without much sustenance… Leaning back, in pitch blackness and a wind like razor-blades cutting through the bare trees, he could have let himself fall asleep. He felt the desire to sleep, temptation to shut his eyes, allow the brain to fold in on itself and nurture the start of a dream that was partly deliberate, wishful thinking — Gus Stenberg crouched at the snow-hole entrance behind that bullet-stopping wall: ‘That you, Ollie? Back this soon?’
He’d begun to slide down the tree, he realised. Could have ended sitting at its foot, freezing into co-identity with the iced environment, only to de-freeze with spring’s white torrents rushing… Catching himself again in the act of slumping, mind wandering: he pushed himself off the trunk, forced himself to resume the climb. It was heavy going now, seemed a lot steeper going up than it had been coming down. Telling himself, About halfway now. They’ll be there, you’ll see…
It would be best to get Sutherland out by night, he thought. It wasn’t going to be easy, with just himself and Gus to handle the ski-stretcher. You’d need the help of darkness, when you were hampered like that. Unless there was more snow to come, of course — heavy snowfall would be ideal, much better than night travel… Cramming raisins and broken biscuit into his mouth, he decided that the first thing he’d go for, inside the snow-hole, would be a mug of strong, fresh tea. And then hot food. There’d be some beans left, at least, and they couldn’t have eaten all the reindeer meat yet. Tea — food — sleep…
Carl’s leg. The doctors would very likely have to separate the tendons, if they’d begun to mend in the wrong places, and re-set it properly. Presumably you could do that to tendons, same way they’d break a bone that hadn’t set as it was supposed to. Or Carl might be lucky, it could have joined up correctly just by chance. He’d weathered the shock of it extraordinarily well, better than one might have expected… Climbing, panting into the frozen darkness, re—hearing Carl’s muttered, I have to convince myself this is me here…
He whispered aloud, ‘With you in two shakes, gents.’
The trees thinned here, ended not far to his left. So this was the top at last, he was close to the snow-hole. Where he’d started down with Sophie close behind, one of her hands on his shoulder as they’d begun wading down through the snow which at that time had been soft and fresh with none of this crust on it.
A branch snapped.
He’d stopped. Stopped breathing too. Straining tired ears and eyes. Allowing himself a spurt of optimism in the guess — or hope — Stenberg, outside the hole for a look-round or a pee…
The wall they’d built could only be a yard or two ahead. The whiteness that looked like a patch of open snow-slope might be it. He was still motionless, watching and listening: seeing in his imagination — that dry rustle — snow falling from an overburdened branch that had broken, somewhere to his right. It might have been no more than that.
Moving on, very slowly, cautiously. Wondering if it could have been his own weight snapping a fallen branch buried in the snow underfoot, and aware that the uncertainty was a symptom of his condition of exhaustion, loss of judgement. He’d reached the wall, though, a mound of hard-crusted snow hip-high and retaining the curve, the way he’d shaped it to protect the entrance to the snow-hole. He pulled the headover clear of his mouth, called softly, ‘Carl? Gus?’
Not expecting an answer. Because they’d be inside. But just in case — Stenberg could be outside, with the shotgun and tight nerves. He called more loudly, ‘Gus?’
Ice-crystals rattled down through bare branches. He was creeping to the right, to get round the end of the low barrier. Then he was on snow as hard as rock, beaten hard and icy between the wall and the entrance. He crouched, taking his skis off his back — to leave them here, come and fetch them and take them inside after he’d contacted the others. Then inching forward and feeling left-handed for the opening, gun unslung and in his right hand, just in case…
‘Gus? Carl?’
He’d called their names with his head actually inside the entrance. There was no glimmer of candlelight from inside: there should have been a reflection of it in the tunnel’s walls. Its absence revived earlier fear. He slung the MKS back on his shoulder, fumbled in his coat for the pencil flashlight. Then starting forward, crawling on his elbows, needing to be well inside the dip of the tunnel before he switched the torch on. Pausing, taking care that he had it pointing in the right direction. The small beam created a dazzling cone of reflected light between the curved, ice-gleaming sides and roof — a weird effect, blinding after the solid blackness. Then as his eyes adjusted to it — hearing the harsh intake of his own breath, seeing — ahead of him, instead of a vertically oblong opening into the chamber, some dark blockage. Hardly needing to focus on it to know what it would be. A body across the opening. He knew the worst, the truth carrying nightmarish impact all the more savage for its being compounded of truths he’d recognised and chosen to accept as risks. No real surprise in any of it: only a sensation of nausea — part exhaustion as well as part horror… Worming in through the dip and closer to Gus Stenberg’s body. The visible part was the torso, shoulders and face, and there was a bullet wound in the centre of the forehead, a black crust of blood around it and one frozen solidified trickle vertically downward. The body was on its side, facing this way, and across the entrance so as to hide whatever was behind it.
Up close, he saw the string.
They’d fixed it so that it passed under the body and up across the chest to the top of the left arm, where it had been knotted. Brown string, dark enough not to be noticeable — would have been invisible, without the flashlight beam directly on it — against the American’s waterproof coat. It was string he’d bought in Karasjok. If he’d pushed his way in, hadn’t seen this, his entry would have turned the body over on to its back and jerked the string taut. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the other end was
tied to. He edged to his left, cramming up against the side of the tunnel, up as close to the body as he could get without any danger of moving it, and shone the torch through the space above.
The shotgun was on the snow-platform that had been Carl Sutherland’s bed, and Carl’s body was lumped across it, holding it in position. Carl’s face and head were mostly gone, blown into pulp probably by that same gun at close range. Ollie, peering over Stenberg’s body, was looking directly into the AYA’s twin barrels, and the string from Gus’s body led round a ski-pole dug into the far end of the platform, and back to the triggers, noosed round both of them. Tug that string, you’d get a double load of number four shot in the face.
What you might call a Spetsnaz welcome mat.
He was glad he’d had the flashlight with him.
It was as well to have something to be glad about, too. Having left them here in order to get Sophie out. He’d had to choose, he’d chosen: now, he was looking at the outcome of that choice.
But — not only to get her out. Primarily, it had been to get the message out. And there was something else to be glad for — that you hadn’t left her here too, made a dash for it on your own. It had been an option that he’d considered, at some point.
Breath short, heart pounding: forcing himself to think and act logically, controlling emotion and ignoring physical weakness. Sighting over Gus’s body with the beam probing around the chamber, making sure there was no back-up to the booby-trap. He needed to get inside, in the hope they’d left the food and his gear; and there could be another string, another stage… He didn’t think there was but he wasn’t in a state to trust his own judgement, made himself check it again, double-check…
And it was OK. If you could call such a scene ‘OK’ in any sense… The gun end of it was the place to look, and the string they’d led around the gleaming ski-pole was the only one, with no others leading to it. No other strings anywhere in sight either — leading to other weapons, grenades, whatever.
He used his knife to cut the string, sheathed the knife, reached over the hard—frozen body to jerk the loose end of string from under it and toss it clear. The shotgun still menaced him as he pushed through into the chamber. Sutherland would have had this view of it — the twin black circles like empty eye-sockets — in his last moments … Out of the line of fire at last he didn’t bother to unload it, only pushed back the safety-catch, then used it to lever the deep-frozen corpse up from the snow-bed to which it had become rooted, so he could then pull the gun away from under it and put it down beside the body on the platform. Its barrels pointed towards the tunnel again and he could grab it quickly if he had to. He thought they most likely would be back. Having set a trap, you’d surely want to see whether or not you’d caught anything. He found a candle end and lit it, pocketing the torch. An idea was forming, in connection with the likelihood of Spetsnazi returning to this hole. Enough of an idea to persuade him to leave the bodies as they were; until this moment his intention had been to behave conventionally, arranging them in more dignified positions.
But first — gear, and stores. It looked as if it was all there, untouched. Either the Spetsnazi had all the supplies they needed or they’d been pressed for time. Probably the latter. Having found these two here, they’d have been in a hurry to find two more: or to report the situation, or — whatever… They’d have set the gun-trap in the belief that one or both of those others might be coming back — not an illogical conclusion, since the two Americans had been just sitting here, obviously waiting for something, and one of them immobilised.
He re-packed his bergen with the items with which he’d lightened it for the westward yomp with Sophie, and with most of the rations — meat, cans of beans, chocolate… The bivvy-bag he’d let Sophie use; also the pulk’s tarpaulin cover, the naptha stove and one fuel flask. One shovel…
Going where?
The answer was obvious — north, into Norway, the way he’d have gone if he’d had these two with him. There was nothing he could do now, down here in Finland — except vanish, as rapidly as he could make it… He began to take some of the rations out of the bergen, realising he couldn’t possibly need so much. Two, three days trekking, and only himself to feed. The thought of another journey and the need to get started soon reminded him of his state of weakness and depletion, consequent lack of concentration. Accompanying this, renewal of the longing for a hot drink, food an rest.
Take a chance — set up the stove again, make a quick brew and then move out?
It wasn’t a chance you could take — he thought… He wasn’t sure, wasn’t confident he had all the factors entirely straight in his mind, but he felt he ought not to chance it. For instance — well, anyone outside there would smell a fire, or cooking, at least a mile away…
The shotgun had moved.
It had swung round, turning its barrels away from the mouth of the tunnel. He’d caught the movement in the periphery of his vision as he stooped over the bergen, delving to extract some of the heavier items. Light had gleamed on the dull metal of the barrels as they turned, swivelling until the stock met Sutherland’s body and stopped the movement. A first reaction — after one frozen spasm of fright — was to dismiss it as hallucination deriving from the fact he’d come so close to his limits.
Then: ‘Christ…’
Grabbing for the gun. But the creature in the tunnel spoke sharply — in Finnish, Lappish ? — tilting up the barrel of his rifle, lining the sights on Ollie’s eyes. He’d used that rifle-barrel a moment ago to poke the AYA so it wouldn’t point at him. He rasped the same thing again — comment, instruction, whatever it had been — in the same snarling tone… Russian?
Not Russian, surely. Candlelight glittered in blue slits of eyes set in brown, deeply-lined skin, skin like parchment. Grey straggly beard — sparse bristles, more than beard — and bared, yellowish teeth. Fifty or sixty years old maybe. You could see the tension in him — readiness to shoot, to kill… The rifle was an Armalite AR-7, the civilian version of the old AR-5. A gimmicky weapon, as one remembered it, with the unusual property of being buoyant. He wondered if he was dreaming, if this was nightmare, in which case he might wake up to find Sutherland and Stenberg alive, grinning at him, asking him what in hell he’d been dreaming… Crouching under the low, vaulted roof of hard-packed snow, hands out from his sides as he faced whatever this was: the rifle-barrel was lower now, pointing roughly at his heart, the old guy tight-nerved, almost quivering, ready to kill and as secure in the tunnel as a rat in its hole.
‘Amerikaner?’
He knew enough Norwegian to shake his head and answer, ‘Brite.’
‘Hunh!’
Whether that had been an expression of surprise, pleasure or disgust was hard to tell. His glance flickered over Stenberg’s body, the severed length of string, the AYA. A hiss of breath accompanying some kind of thought process… Then the blue eyes had fastened on his own again: ‘Sprechen Deutsch?’
He nodded. Surprised at the question but not sure enough of his own judgement to know whether or not surprise was warranted. Lowering himself slowly into a squatting position: this was more or less a reflex, an instinctive move to reduce the tension, the chances of that old rifle being used. ‘Ja. I speak some German. I’m British and my name is Lyle. Are you a Finn?’
‘Finn.’ The sparse beard jerked sideways as he spat. ‘Sami, Suomi. Both. I’m called Juffu… These were Amerikaners?’
He nodded. ‘I was sent here to look after them.’
‘Protect them from the Ruoša-Tsuders?’
‘From anyone. From you, maybe.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I never heard of a Ruoša-Tsuder. But they didn’t know they had enemies here at all. That one was a professor, he was studying Samiland and the Sami people — history, culture, and so on.’
‘Helped by that shit Isak?’
‘Isak was supposed to guide us. He tried to have us killed.’
He felt
dizzy, thought he might pass out if this went on much longer. On top of tiredness, thirst, cold and hunger was a growing sense of unreality. It was the second stage, he remembered, in the list of six symptoms of exposure in the order of progressive deterioration. Feeling of weakness, muscle incoordination, slow stumbling pace, mild confusion… Next would come stumbling and falling, slow thought and speech. Or maybe that was the stage he’d reached already. He’d considered himself fit, for God’s sake! Because he always had been fit, he supposed he’d taken it for granted. But there’d been months in the medics’ hands, then the period of living it up in Brighton with — whatever her name was…
Where did loss of memory appear in that list of symptoms?
Juffu had lowered the rifle. He was pulling himself out of the tunnel, into the chamber. Spare, stringy — when you allowed for some layers of protective clothing including the reindeer-hide outer garments. He said in fluent though accented German, ‘Isak loves the Ruošas. Or he likes the promises they make him. To make him king, maybe. There never was a Sami king, you can forget those old fables… What will you do now they’ve killed your Amerikaners?’
‘Go north, back into Norway, after I’ve rested.’
‘They kill your companions, you only walk away?’
‘What else can I do?’
‘They murdered my nephew. A young boy. Martti. He was a soldier. I taught him his lessons, all of it. To shoot, trap, track, live in the forests. They’ve killed him, so I’m the end of it now. My own half-uncle was Turi, Johan Olafsson Turi, who with my other distinguished ancestor — his name also was Juffu — was the hero of the stupidity in Kautokeino.’ He turned to spit again. Then: ‘They will come back here soon. At least one of them will come.’
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