by Peter Tonkin
‘By accident or by design?’ asked Richard. ‘I mean, could there be a sinister side to the sudden disappearance and reappearance of the search and rescue team?’
‘Come on,’ said T-Shirt. ‘Who’d want a British Naval Antarctic Survey vessel and a cruise ship full of tourists cluttering up their neat little plan?’
‘Someone who wanted to get away from Armstrong no matter what?’ hazarded Richard.
‘OK,’ conceded T-Shirt. ‘Also I guess someone who had contacts or a market waiting aboard one of them.’
‘That’s pushing it too far, I think,’ said Richard.
‘Maybe. But then it’s a bit of a village down here. And I guess it’s easy enough to get gossip from Ushuaia. Or from the Net. Folks can live in each other’s pockets pretty well down here. A guy from Armstrong wouldn’t find it too difficult to discover the identities of passing ships at any particular time. Especially if they were owned and run by a competitive foreign power in the market for the same hardware. Like, say, the Russians.’ T-Shirt looked around the dining room.
‘Who in Russia has enough money to buy something like that these days?’ asked Richard.
Then he and T-Shirt answered the question together. ‘The Russian mafia.’
‘But all that supposes that the men who pilfered the Power Strip from the suit want to sell it.’
‘Sell it, barter it, trade it for power, honour, sex, drugs, rock and roll,’ said T-Shirt. ‘Why else take it?’
‘That’s not what I mean. What if they don’t want to sell the thing itself? What if they just want to pull it apart, understand the whole design, then sell the information? They could do that over the phone.’
‘Is that possible?’ said Richard. ‘Surely there’d be a lot of, I don’t know, graphics, say.’
‘Easy,’ said T-Shirt. ‘Use the Internet. Get your design, your specs, your graphics — down to the molecular level for the programmable carbon, chips and micromachines — shove it all into a computer with a modem, and a satellite dish down here, and sling it onto the Internet. Very tight security. Complex company code. Limited access destination website. Couple of minutes to send. Couple of hours to download maybe, but once it’s in the e-mail tray or whatever, who gives a damn?’
‘So,’ said Jolene, ‘we seem to be looking for a team rather than an individual. There’s got to be a fixer, a scientist and a computer freak in it at least. Not to mention a murderer.’
‘At first,’ said Richard, ‘I was tempted to think of him as a saboteur. The major’s death could have been almost accidental; the explosion of the Skiddoos could definitely have been a piece of contrived sabotage which killed poor Thompson by accident. Even the fact that no one was actually killed when the transport and storage all went up at Armstrong could point to that.’
‘But the bastard came after me on purpose to kill me,’ said Jolene. ‘Came after me with my own gun, Richard. Don’t forget that.’
‘No. I’m not forgetting that,’ said Richard quietly. ‘And it’s something we have to bear in mind if we’re right and these people are on board here now. You could well still be a target. Especially if they found a way to smuggle guns from one place to another, as well as everything else.’
‘Any way we can prove any of this?’ asked T-Shirt. ‘Test it, even? Without putting Jolene at any more risk?’
‘Well,’ drawled Jolene, ‘the guy who was put in charge of the Glock was Killigan. He was head of security so he should be able to tell me about the suit and how it was being held when it was tampered with.’ She looked round the table. ‘I need to talk to him. I’ll put that on my list of things to do next. Meanwhile, can our little group break down the Power Strip and put it on the Net at Armstrong?’
‘Only if Gene Jaeger is involved, or if they’ve got independent access like the system you brought with you,’ said Richard. ‘The colonel’s procedures may be a little slack, but he’s got a tight personal hold on communications. Did Agent Jones mention anything about independent access to the Net?’
‘No,’ said Jolene.
‘OK. Say Gene is not involved. They can’t get to the Net from Armstrong unless they go through him.’
‘Or over him,’ said T-Shirt.
‘Or find some way of fooling him. They’d need open access, private time, nobody paying much attention.’
‘They’d get that today, I guess,’ said T-Shirt. ‘Please, Colonel, can I say Happy New Millennium to the folks back in Old Moscow; couple of minutes on the Net?’
‘OK,’ said Jolene. ‘But there’s a problem. The Power Strip isn’t at Armstrong. At least it’s nowhere the FBI can find it. They found traces of the suit but that was all. The Strip itself isn’t there. Which means it’s nowhere useful. And since the second explosion and the fire, most of the labs are out and the computer system’s none too hot.’
‘Then it came out somewhere along the line. Or the information about its design did. Or both,’ said T-Shirt.
‘Onto Erebus’ said Richard. ‘But it’s not much use there. Limited access to labs. Very limited access to computers. No access to the Net at all.’
‘Then it’s here,’ said T-Shirt. ‘The Strip itself or its design specs. And the guys who stole it and want to send the information out are here.’
‘I’ll buy that,’ said Jolene. ‘So, could they have sent their information over the Net already?’
‘Under the noses of Irene Ogre, Vivien Agran and Vasily Varnek?’ said Richard. ‘I think not.’
Jolene opened her mouth to respond but her voice was drowned out by a massive shout of, ‘Five!’
The three of them looked up, and realised that while they had been talking the room had filled.
‘Four!’ yelled the voices.
Richard looked across to the doorway and there were Robin and the twins running in, the twins adding their voices to ‘Three!’
Distracted, he glanced out, still far removed from what was going on immediately around him, struck by how much darker and more threatening the weather had become. He felt the deck heave and wondered whether Irene had put out the ship’s stabilisers yet.
‘Two!’
Then Robin and the twins were beside him. Colin and Kate, their faces aglow, were just behind them. Richard rose and turned as everyone chorused, ‘One!’
He looked in the same direction as everyone else was and saw the great screens filled with a picture of a clock tower framed with darkness and television lighting. Showing the time ticking down, second by second, to midnight, as everyone, himself included, bellowed, ‘Zero!’
The big clock by the screen showed 08:00 local time, but they were all cheering and clapping with the people of Auckland and Wellington. Both here and there, the champagne corks were popping and the parties getting seriously under way. For in New Zealand, and all points north to Kamchatka, the Siberian Sea and the deserted, benighted North Pole, and all points south to the Ross Ice Shelf, and to Amundsen-Scott South Polar base itself if they chose to recognise it, the new millennium had begun.
As the cheering was echoing round the room, interspersed with the tolling of the first midnight bells, the screens flickered and died. An uneasy silence fell and as it did so, the wind made its presence known by throwing itself against the ship, massive, grey and intractable as an angry rhinoceros. As though shocked back to life by the power of the gust, the signal flickered back onto the screen, catching an effusive commentator in mid-platitude. The cheers began again, though a little muted this time. Richard hugged his excited offspring, swapped a grin with Robin, and began to move away from the table.
‘Where are you off to?’ she yelled.
‘Business. This lot’s going to last all day. It’s sixteen hours to midnight at this longitude.’
‘I know, but even so. Let the twins get settled in, at least.’
Richard felt a flare of irritation, instantly smothered. The family were here at his behest. In twelve hours’ time, at supper time this evening, it would be London’s tur
n to count down to midnight and the twins, William in particular, would be upset by the parties and excitement at home he was missing. One sight of the Millennium Dome in London would probably set him off. The only positive way through was to make sure they were having so much fun that they didn’t mind. But the atmosphere here was resolutely adult, the fun on offer entirely unsuited to two rising nine-year-olds. Only he and Robin could work the magic needed.
And yet, here he was, caught up in Jolene’s investigation, with heaven knew what dangers threatening.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ll be back, I promise …’ And he was gone, shouldering his way through the cheering crowd, turning down champagne and kisses alike.
Jolene and T-Shirt caught up with him in the corridor outside.
‘I’m going to talk to Killigan,’ said Jolene.
‘If we’re going to get sense out of anybody we’d better be quick,’ warned T-Shirt, and Richard nodded his agreement. He suspected he was the only tee totaller aboard. And alcohol was the least of the stimulants — or depressants — on offer.
‘I’ll go up on the bridge. We’re always welcome there,’ he added with a glance towards the nearest flashing box. ‘I expect Varnek and Irene will be there, though I don’t know the duty officer, the third. In any case, someone will be able to tell me if anyone’s booked to use the Internet at any time in the next twenty-four hours — or, indeed, if anyone sneaked onto it in the last twenty-four without anybody noticing.’
‘Right,’ said Jolene. ‘Then where will you be?’
‘I’m a twenty-first-century man, near as dammit,’ said Richard. ‘I’ll be looking after the kids, of course.’
*
Irene Ogre was in the big chair by the radio room looking worriedly out at the morning. Soiling the otherwise virginal white of her lap was a print-out of the storm currently tearing the heart out of the Bellingshausen Sea, all too near to the west of them. A great black-based wall of cloud was sweeping towards them with the self-assured majesty of an unstoppable army. There was little light left in the young day and it had the pathetic demeanour of a sickly child. The last of this light glimmered westwards and the Stygian depths of the approaching clouds were shafted by cold blue brightness as though some devil had thrown open the gates of a frozen hell.
‘There’s a lot of ice out there still,’ said Richard automatically. Irene stirred, separating the two flimsies in her lap to show that beneath the storm so unflinchingly delineated by the satellites safe above, there was a wall of ice equally unmistakably defined.
‘You’re running hard north?’ he asked.
‘We are due at Ushuaia on Monday on the morning tide,’ she said.
‘The wind will hit hard from the west then swing to the south.’
‘During the next twelve hours, maybe sixteen,’ said Varnek, crossing towards the two captains. ‘Then we might get a couple of hours’ quiet before it hits again hard from the north.’
‘It’s a very tight system,’ said Richard, looking closely at the portrait of the storm. ‘What does it seem to be doing?’
‘Tightening,’ answered Irene a little dully.
‘Typical,’ said Richard. ‘Barometric readings?’
‘Going through the floor,’ said Varnek.
‘Through the lower basement floor,’ added Irene.
‘Wind speeds?’
‘Gusting past force twelve and strengthening. But that’s only an estimate. There aren’t any ships out in the Bellingshausen Sea today,’ said Varnek. ‘There was an automatic weather ship of some kind but it’s stopped transmitting. Registered a gust of one hundred and thirty-five knots and closed down.’
‘Safe havens?’
‘None. All west-facing; all of them choked with ice from the last few days’ activity, like Armstrong and Palmer.’
‘And Faraday,’ added the radio officer, entering into the conversation suspiciously cheerfully.
‘Kyril?’ said Varnek with a frown though his tone was accommodating, ‘have you been at the vodka? It’s nowhere near time.’ Kyril beamed at them. ‘Not so far off time,’ he said. ‘It will be midnight in Magadan in,’ he looked at his watch, ‘thirty minutes. Chef is from Magadan and has given a few favoured friends some vodka in case we cannot be together to drink the toast with him at nine this morning.’
‘We’ll have to ride it out then,’ said Richard thoughtfully, paying scant attention to the happy radio officer. ‘The islands should give you some shelter and maybe keep the ice off you too. In any case you have an ice-strengthened hull and some of the most up-to-date equipment I’ve ever seen. Put the stabilisers out and hope for the best.’
‘The stabilisers,’ said Irene glumly, ‘have been out since the morning watch.’
Richard looked at his Rolex. Half an hour. He had promised to be back in ten minutes twenty minutes ago. ‘I know this may sound fatuous,’ he began, wondering suddenly whether Russians would understand the concept of fatuousness, ‘but has anyone booked to send messages over the Internet recently?’
‘Many,’ answered Varnek at once. ‘We have men and women aboard from almost every state in Russia. Many have asked to send messages. Not to their families directly, of course — who can afford a modem in Russia these days? — but to businesses, local contacts …’
‘Any of our people?’
‘Of course. Most of the passengers, I believe. But they will not wish to send their messages until midnight our time or later, to arrive at midnight in their own time zones.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Only one,’ said Varnek. ‘Billy Hoyle, one of the men we brought aboard from Armstrong base. But he will not be able to use his booking, I fear.’
*
Billy Hoyle sprang awake, the whole of his right side on fire. He was curled on a floor behind piles of stuff whose outlines he could only see in vague security lighting. Then he remembered where he was. And why he was there. He tried to move his right arm and groaned in pain. Trained in basic first aid, he lifted his arm, then lowered it across his chest and tried to hold it there. The best he could do was to shove his numb right hand through his shirt front like Napoleon. He probably looked stupid, but he felt better. Then he tried to sit up again. This time he made it with his back against the pile of softness which had seduced him into slumber — how long ago? He checked his watch. Jesus, more than ten hours ago.
He began to panic. Fought to control the fear. It was so late! What in God’s name was he going to do now? That stone killer bitch! Had she any idea what she and her pet thug had done to him? He opened his mouth and began to pant like a dog, hyperventilating, hoping to force some positive energy into his battered, scrawny body. Grimly, he began to enumerate to himself the range of chemical stimulants and depressants which would stiffen his spine and deaden his pain, all of them in the possession of the ice bitch Agran now; just when he really needed them.
Billy gasped, and groaned aloud as the pain lanced through his chest from the point of his right shoulder to the lowest of his left ribs. He wondered briefly if he was having a heart attack. ‘Come on there, Billy boy,’ he said to himself. ‘Move.’ And he pulled himself up onto his knees.
He was in a storeroom in the engineering sections, a deck or two below the weather deck, and lucky still to be undiscovered. But he needed to communicate with the world now, no matter what the risk. It was, literally, more than his life was worth to hesitate. At least he remembered to reach up with his left hand when he finally made it to the door.
The door opened inwards and Billy swung back on it, dazed by pain and light-headed. So that it seemed quite logical that a couple of cherubs should approach him suddenly; a boy and a girl cherub, wide-eyed and curly-haired; vaguely familiar.
‘Hello, Mr Billy,’ said the girl. ‘You look as if you’re in trouble. What can William and I do to help you?’
Chapter Twenty
Robin had never been so angry in her life. First Richard had dashed off on one o
f his wild-goose chases, leaving her in charge of a couple of bored, intransigent children in the middle of a party, and then, the instant her back was turned, the pair of them had vanished. Kalinin was a big ship. They could be anywhere, up to anything. Robin simply did not know where to begin looking for them.
But she knew a woman who would.
Mrs Agran had her finger on the pulse of the social side of the ship. She was in charge of a crew of entertainers, stewards and cooks, and according to Richard she controlled a security system comprising a network of cameras capable of scanning at least the common parts of the ship.
Robin knocked on Mrs Agran’s door, keeping her fingers crossed that the entertainments officer was overseeing her army of helpers from her command post rather than in person.
‘Come in,’ called a cheery voice, and Robin opened the door.
She took in the décor of the room with one sweep of her cool grey eyes. Whatever impression the velvet hangings, terracotta nudes and interesting prints made on her, no sign of it was evident in her expression. She explained her worries quickly. Mrs Agran courteously invited her to sit down and while she did a quick sweep of the common areas via her computer, Robin accepted a cup of tea from a tall blonde assistant called Gretchen.
The tea nearly slopped into the saucer as Kalinin gave a sudden sideways heave. Sidetracked, Robin put the cup and saucer down on Mrs Agran’s desk and rose. She crossed to the big oval porthole and looked out at the day with a frown. She was on the starboard side of the bridgehouse, looking over a sheer drop down the ship’s side and out to the black-fanged volcanic coast of Graham Land as Kalinin plunged north. Away ahead and to the port quarter she saw the chill blue light brushing the black bases of the approaching storm clouds. Then, suddenly, as though a curtain had been closed across the day, the first torrent of rain whirled up against the thick glass — and froze into opacity on contact.
‘No sign, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Agran. ‘Would you like to take a look around yourself before we institute a full search? They must be in the bridgehouse — unless they’ve slipped down into the engineering areas. They can’t get out onto the deck unless they are very strong indeed. Some of my big boys and girls can’t even open those heavy bulkhead doors.’