by Olivier Truc
Aslak had worked as a guide before. The request was nothing new. But he was busy with his reindeer now, keeping constant watch over his territory to make sure the other herds didn’t mix with his own. He worked alone. He sensed that this man represented danger. Aslak knew nothing of fear. If anyone asked whether he was afraid, he would stare at them, uncomprehending. Mattis had asked that very question, once. He hadn’t known what Mattis meant. Fear? Aslak disliked questions that had no meaning. People might ask whether he was hungry, or tired, or cold. But not whether he was afraid. Aslak knew the things he needed to know. Fear was of no use to him and so he knew nothing about it. But he knew how to recognize danger. That was an instinct. A matter of survival, whether the source of danger was a wolf, or a storm. Or a man.
“It’s not possible now,” he said.
Clearly, the stranger had not been expecting a refusal. Aslak watched as his eyes narrowed. Like a fox stalking its prey. The man chewed slowly on his black bread. He took his eyes off Aslak for a moment and looked around the tent, as if taking a detailed inventory.
“I must insist,” he said, calmly. “It’s very important. And you’ll be well paid.”
Aslak shook his head but made no effort to reply. And to show that he had finished with the stranger, he left the rest of his salmon and helped himself to a beaker of reindeer broth, sipping it slowly, staring hard at the geologist all the while. The stranger stared back, nodding slowly. All at once, he seemed to reach a decision. He gathered his things and got to his feet, half disappearing into the smoke.
“I would advise you to think again. You’re alone here. It would be a dreadful thing if any harm should come to your head reindeer. Or your dogs. Or anyone else you care about.”
The stranger wasn’t trying to look friendly now. He fixed his gaze on the sleeping woman. “I have things to do. I’ll be back in two hours.”
He stepped outside.
Immediately, Aslak’s wife opened her eyes. She was wide awake. Aslak saw that she, too, had sensed the presence of evil.
* * *
9:15 a.m., Suohpatjavri
“You know, dear nephew, the legends told out in the vidda aren’t all hunting, fishing, migrations, love, and poetry.”
“I’ve never heard anything else from you,” said Klemet.
“True enough. I have a fondness for the finer things in life.”
“You were saying that the business about the mine and the curse reminded you of something.”
“More than ‘reminded.’ There are many strange tales told in the vidda. Did you know, for example, that when the Karelians came, invading our lands, bringing the curse with them, we––”
“Karelians? You mean Russians?” Another thought occurred to Klemet. “You think organized crime might be behind this?”
“Ignorant boy. I’m talking about the time before the Scandinavians. Over a thousand years ago. Two thousand, perhaps, for all I know, that’s not important. When they invaded, we Sami lacked strength, but we had plenty of cunning. The Karelians were cruel, but very stupid. We lured them to the edges of precipices. Some places in the vidda are still known as the Russian Cliffs today, because the rocks and lichen are stained red. With the blood of the Karelian monsters.”
Klemet decided to say nothing. He took a deep breath. Patience. His knew his uncle wouldn’t listen until he’d done his party piece. Told a few old stories.
“I hope you haven’t been telling Miss Chang about what the Sami did to their invaders. You’ll frighten her to death.”
“You think so? Oh, she has heard far worse tales than that, believe me. Stop interrupting an old man, Klemet. My days are numbered; indulge me for once. Yes, there is a legend about a fabulous seam. A hidden realm, deep underground. Unbelievably rich, but terrifying, dangerous, even fatal. The legend is a little like the story of the Karelian cliffs in reverse. Sami villages were decimated by a terrible evil brought by the white man.”
“The white man?”
“Try to keep up, Klemet! Has your uniform corrupted you to that extent? White men, the Swedes, the Scandinavians, the colonists, the invaders, call them what you will, but know that they brought with them a strange evil for us Sami.”
“What period are you talking about?”
Nils Ante frowned, thinking hard. “It’s a legend, of course. But it dates from the time when Sápmi was first colonized for its mineral riches. So the seventeenth century.”
“How could a gold seam decimate entire Sami villages?” said Klemet. “And what would that have to do with the drum, the theft, or Mattis’s murder today?”
“Well, you’re the cop in the family.”
All at once, Klemet felt the lingering effect of his hangover. Which reminded him, he would have to confront Nina soon. He drank some coffee.
“The very existence of the legend is proof of a kind,” Nils Ante went on. “Don’t forget that, at the time, the Sami were press-ganged into working in the first iron-ore mines established here. Until then, they had had very little contact with the outside world.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“Think what happened to America’s First Nations. They were decimated by diseases previously unknown to them.”
Klemet sighed. He rubbed his temples. Nils Ante’s legends were taking them too far from the object of the inquiry. Still, he was intrigued by what his uncle had to say. “How would you establish a link between this legend and the stolen drum?”
“There’s your Sami guide, back in 1939, the man who entrusted the drum to the Frenchman on the expedition. There’s the legendary gold seam. The curse. What was it the old gentleman in Paris said to your young colleague?”
“He was making suppositions. He thought the gold seam was real, too, but that the curse might be linked to the destruction of pasture or migration routes, leading to the death of entire herds.”
“And back then,” said Niles Ante, “the death of a herd meant the death of the Sami whose lives depended on it.”
“Fair enough,” said Klemet. “But why would this drum in particular still be of interest to anyone today?”
“Well, we would need to see it in order to find out.”
“And there we are, right back where we started. Fuck!”
Klemet couldn’t help swearing out loud. His uncle stared at him in astonishment, then amusement. Miss Chang popped her head around the door, making sure everything was all right, and disappeared again just as quickly. Klemet took another deep breath.
“Dear God, why didn’t I think? We don’t have any pictures of the drum. But I have a photograph of the shaman who gave it to Henri Mons.”
Klemet went outside and came back a few minutes later with an envelope. He spread a number of photographs on the table in front of his uncle, and pointed to the Sami guide.
“His name was Niils. We don’t know his family name.”
“Look no further. That’s Niils Labba.”
“Mattis’s father?”
“His grandfather, Niils Labba. Mattis’s father was called Anta. Funny, when you think of it, their two names come together to make mine. Niils was the grandfather Mattis never knew, I would think.” Klemet’s uncle reckoned up the dates in his head. “How old was Mattis? About fifty?”
Klemet took out his notebook. “Late forties. He was born in 1963.”
“That’s right. I think his grandfather died before or just after the war. As for Anta, Mattis’s father, he died…about five or ten years ago.”
Klemet rang his finger over the rest of the group in the photograph. “These are the French, and those two are the Swedish researchers from Uppsala. This man was German. He died on the expedition, and the others are Sami. I imagine most of them would have come from Finland—the expedition started out from there.”
“Very probably. Though people around here aren’t afraid to travel long distances. Do you know, I even went to IKEA last weekend? I found a small chair, perfect for sitting in front of the computer.”
Klemet smiled. The locals had been like a bunch of excited kids since IKEA had opened in Haparanda, on the Swedish-Finnish border. The store was about 250 miles from Kautokeino, but as his uncle said, distance counted for nothing in the Far North. People would drive sixty miles to buy cigarettes. Like a trip to the corner shop.
“This person looks like someone from around here, though.”
Nils Ante was pointing to a man with a narrow nose and a drooping mustache covering the corners of his mouth. Klemet remembered that he and Nina had wondered who the man was, noting that he seemed slightly apart from the rest of the group, and didn’t appear on some of the photographs. Klemet said he was neither Sami nor French, nor one of the scientists.
“But I can’t quite place him.” Nils Ante bent over, peering closely at the photograph. He straightened up. “Chang-Chang!”
The young Chinese woman appeared almost immediately.
“My sweetest amber pearl—would you be so kind as to fetch my magnifying glass, on my desk?”
Miss Chang brought the magnifying glass and left it on the kitchen table, planting a delicate kiss on Nils Ante’s forehead at the same time. He watched her leave the room with an expression of rapt enchantment.
“An angel has come into my life, Klemet. And what about you, my favorite nephew? Still unattached?”
“You wanted to check a detail in the photograph,” said Klemet, holding the magnifying glass out to his uncle.
Nils Ante shook his head and took it from him. “No, I can’t put a name to him. I couldn’t swear he’s from around here, but he does look familiar.”
Klemet took the magnifying glass and peered slowly at each figure in turn, coming back to the stranger with the elegant mustache. Then he noticed the man was carrying something at his side, slung on a strap across one shoulder. He could only see part of the device, but it looked like a metal detector.
Clearly, he thought, the 1939 expedition had been interested in more than Sami customs and costumes.
* * *
10:05 a.m., Central Sápmi
It was extraordinarily quiet. Profound, almost deafening silence. André Racagnal could hardly remember the last time he had experienced such silence. Not for months. Maybe even years. The tiniest sound carried far across the landscape.
He watched from a distance as Aslak put on his skis. He could just hear them gliding and crunching on the frozen snow. He hadn’t expected Aslak to be an easy customer. Hadn’t expected him to say yes straightaway. On principle. Racagnal was a pragmatist. He always got his way in the end, because he was always ready to do what had to be done. He knew when to step back. He wasn’t burdened with pride. Not like so many others, people who gave up and had no clue what to do at the first sign of serious resistance. The geologist adjusted his field glasses. Men living like Aslak were easy to handle, really: every decision was a matter of life or death for them. There was nothing superfluous or trivial in the breeder’s existence. He wasn’t a victim of consumer society. Trapping people who were in debt wasn’t difficult, either, for example. The same rules applied—the tricks were just that little bit more subtle and technically advanced. With Aslak, he was working in the raw. Anything the Sami lost would have a direct impact on his survival out here. The survival of his herd, too. And his wife. Simple as that.
It hadn’t taken him long to come up with a plan. That was the advantage of a character like Aslak. His entire life was there in plain sight. No hidden bank accounts, no second home. His reindeer were grazing in the distance. Here were the camp, his wife, and his dogs. Racagnal was almost sure he had singled out the right one. It would come as a shock, but it would kick-start negotiations. The Frenchman didn’t want to miss this.
He trained his field glasses on Aslak. There was enough light now. It had been difficult earlier, in the dark, but he had found one of the dogs keeping watch. He had been discreet. He couldn’t afford to spread panic among the animals, or noise.
“Now,” said Racagnal to himself. Aslak had his back turned just at that moment, dammit. But the Sami stood frozen to the spot. He had just discovered his dog’s body. Or, rather, its head.
Racagnal decided to give it another thirty seconds. Time for the herder to absorb the shock and realize the immense loss represented by the dog’s killing. Time, too, to make the connection between the killing and Racagnal’s visit. Thirty seconds, but no longer. He mustn’t give Aslak time to recover and think about how to respond.
Now.
The geologist unhooked his radio and called Aslak. From where he hid, he could almost catch the crackling inside the tent. After a moment’s hesitation, the Sami went back inside. A few seconds later, he answered the call.
“Treat the dog as a warning,” said Racagnal straightaway. “I’m serious. We need your help. If you refuse once more, we’ll kill your head reindeer. Refuse again, we’ll kill your wife. Come with me, and your dog will be replaced. You’ll get three new ones. The best. I’m coming over now. And we’ll be taking a trip, just the two of us. Not for long. Any trouble, and my men will deal with your reindeer. If you’ve understood, come out of the tent and take off your chapka.”
Racagnal ended the call. He reckoned Aslak would appear in about fifteen seconds. He raised his field glasses. Nothing moved. The silence was absolute. Racagnal could feel his fingers turning numb.
At last, the tent flap moved. He had underestimated. Twenty seconds. Aslak stepped outside and stood motionless for a long time, scanning the surrounding landscape. After what seemed to Racagnal like an eternity—another fifteen seconds—he raised his hands to his head and removed his chapka.
32
Thursday, January 20
11:30 a.m., Police Headquarters, Kautokeino
Klemet glanced at his watch and realized he had to get back to the station. He had stayed at his uncle’s house for as long as he could, but now it was time to confront Nina. Running away was not an option. He promised his uncle he would be back before the vultures, took his leave of Miss Chang, who waved cheerily, and set out along the road back to town, driving at an abnormally cautious speed.
He took a deep breath before knocking on Nina’s office door, then entered, his opening phrase at the ready. He stood staring open-mouthed at what he saw. She was there, hands stuffed into the pockets of her navy-blue police fatigues. But her office was transformed. Copies of the expedition photographs were arranged on the wall opposite her desk. A dozen reproductions of Sami drums were taped to the windows. Photographs of all the protagonists encountered so far were pinned to a large board resting on an easel. She had even found some Sami music online and was playing it on her computer, to add to the mood. The office had become an operations center.
“You’re forgiven,” said Nina brightly, leaving Klemet no time to mumble his excuses. “Next time you’ll get my fist in your face. Now, look at this.”
Taking one hand out of her pocket, she led him over to Henri Mons’s photographs. Klemet was dumbfounded—as much by her work as by her reaction to him. She had decided to keep control of the situation by taking the initiative. Once again he was left speechless, out of his depth.
“Nina, I just wanted to––”
“Don’t make things any more complicated, please, Klemet. Now, look at these photos.”
He went along with it, feeling relieved, in fact. He concentrated on the pictures, especially the fifteen shots of members of the expedition.
“So, what do you see?”
Nina seemed excited. She must have found something. Which would explain why she was in such a hurry to forget last night’s incident.
“No idea yet,” he said, looking closely at each picture. “I’m thinking. But I can tell you something. Niils, the man with the four-pointed hat—his family name was Labba. Ring any bells?”
“Mattis’s father?”
“His grandfather.”
Nina’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. She seemed to be thinking fast.
“So Mattis’s grandfather wa
s in possession of a drum that was stolen seventy years later, and which may have caused the death of his grandson.”
“Don’t take short cuts, Nina.”
“Sure. But it’s bizarre all the same. The drum goes off to France for seventy years. And a few days after it’s returned to its place of origin, the original owner’s grandson is murdered. Klemet, do you really believe we’re still dealing with a vendetta between reindeer rustlers?”
He was silent for a moment, mulling over the problem, looking at the pictures.
“Well?” she asked.
Klemet remembered the detail that had struck him on the photographs he had taken to his uncle’s house.
“There’s a metal detector in one of the pictures. They were searching for ore. I think the drum, or the expedition, may be linked to the existence of a gold seam.”
“It’s quite possible. Was Mattis involved in mineral prospecting, in any way?”
“Not as far as we know.”
“Look again.”
Nina’s eyes sparkled, to Klemet’s great discomfort. He focused on the pictures again, thinking aloud.
“We found out that the German geologist had gone off…on the twenty-fifth. No, between July 25 and 27, 1939, accompanied by Niils Labba.” He checked his notes. “And that Niils came back alone between August 4 and 7.”
“Yes. And?”
“And…the others are all there, and they carry on with their expedition, because they’re all on the later photographs.”
“Really? Are they?”
“Yes. The French contingent. The two Swedish researchers. The interpreter. The cook. The…”
Klemet thought again about his uncle. If he hadn’t singled out the man with the slender nose and the drooping mustache, he would have forgotten all about him. He was easy enough to overlook on the photographs.
“There’s someone missing on the later pictures. The one with the moustache.”
“Bingo.”
“I saw my uncle this morning. He said that man reminded him vaguely of someone local, but he couldn’t remember who. Why isn’t he on the later photographs?”