Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  “Frankly, I can see your intuition is telling you the same thing as mine, dear boy. Officer. Things are slow to come together, but patience is a virtue, in your line of work and mine.”

  “I know. But now I just don’t have the time.”

  “Well, all I can do is wish you good luck.”

  Eva was toasting Klemet one more time when Nina emerged from the little office, her eyes shining. She asked him to step inside, making her excuses to Eva.

  “I began by calling a colleague in Oslo. The antiques dealer has a shop between City Hall and the Stortinget, so quite a chic address. He specializes in antiquarian books, polar and scientific literature, Arctic fauna and flora, that sort of thing. He sells through the shop and online, but he also does searches to order for private clients.”

  “Why would he be interested in a Sami drum?”

  “It wasn’t for him. He was acting as an intermediary. His specialization makes him a useful contact. The Sami are an Arctic people… According to my friend, he’s had a hand in a couple of shady affairs, too.”

  “Someone you’d get in touch with for a rather special job.”

  “So I called him,” Nina went on. “He made no secret of the fact that he had contacted Henri Mons. The rest is complicated. He didn’t want to break his professional confidentiality by giving me the name of his client, especially since it came to nothing anyway, because Henri Mons didn’t want to sell.”

  “How did he know Mons had the drum?”

  “From what he said, his client had spoken to him about the prewar expedition. The dealer did some research—not too difficult for him. One of Paul-Émile Victor’s colleagues had published an account of the trip. He didn’t go into detail because he knew nothing about it, but apparently the book mentioned that the drum had been given to Mons. Nothing more. The lead to Mons was easy enough for the dealer to follow.”

  “So who commissioned him to approach Mons about the drum?”

  “Someone who knew about it long before it hit the newspapers.”

  “Someone close to the expedition at the time…”

  “…or a descendant of one of the participants,” Nina finished her colleague’s sentence.

  “Mattis? I can’t see Mattis getting in touch with an antique dealer in Oslo. Nor any of the other Sami on the trip, most of whom were Finns, in any case. We can discount the French contingent. Flüger’s dead.”

  “There are the two Swedish scientists,” Nina added.

  “And the mustachioed character with the thin nose who disappears just after Flüger and isn’t seen again.”

  “And whom your uncle thought he recognized.”

  “What did Mons say about those three?”

  “Nothing. He had lost touch with them, what with the war breaking out just after the end of the expedition. One of the Swedes spent two years in Germany at the beginning of the war, at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of Anthropology, Human Heredity, and Eugenics in Berlin. He was called back to Uppsala in 1943.”

  “Yeah, when things started to turn bad for the Germans in Stalingrad. Neutrality is a flexible concept. Typical of Sweden. I always felt ashamed about that.”

  “He spent a few years in the Directorate of Health and Social Affairs,” Nina went on. “And he died in the mid-1950s, in a car crash. The second one had a successful career as a doctor. He ended up as professor of geriatrics at the Karolinska Institute and sat on the Nobel committee. He died, too, in the late 1980s.”

  “So that leaves our friend with the mustache.”

  “He was from around here. From the Finnmark,” said Nina. “A Norwegian. A local. He provided logistical support.”

  “If he was from the region, he’s either left the area or died some time ago, or I’m sure Nils Ante would have identified him.”

  “It might be worth paying your uncle another visit, just to be sure. That’s our only firm lead now, at any rate.”

  36

  Friday, January 21

  4:55 p.m., Central Sápmi

  Aslak had followed the stranger for hours, in silence. In the thick darkness, a sliver of moon was enough to make the vidda sparkle. Clumps of snow caught in the bushes glittered in its light. He obeyed orders without protest. He was watching. Ever since this man had set foot inside his tent, he had been pondering the best way to kill him. He could have done it there and then. He knew how to handle a dagger better than anyone. His father had given him his first knife when he was five years old and impatient to have one of his own. He had whittled toys out of birchwood, like one of his uncles who carved figurines—reindeer, or toy sleighs. His father had indulged his efforts, giving him a man’s knife, even then. That was important for a Sami. He still had that knife today. The birchwood handle was well greased. The finely carved reindeer-bone sheath was broken in places, but the blade was still almost perfect.

  Aslak had other knives, but he kept this one for his most important tasks. His way of honoring his father. He had never known a mother’s love. He regretted that, but he had never missed his own mother. How could he? Mattis had asked him about that one day. But how could you miss someone you had never known? Aslak had not understood what Mattis meant. Mattis could be strange at times. Mattis had lost his way and harbored odd notions. The only comfort, the one soft touch Aslak had known as a child, was the thick reindeer skins lining the floor of his tent, and the sleighs. A good feeling. Like the clothes he wore now. Reindeer skins kept you warm when you needed it most. They could save your life. One day, when Mattis had been drinking, he had ventured to talk to Aslak about gentleness, and the lack of tenderness in his life. Another strange idea, a sign of how far Mattis had strayed. Reindeer skins showed no tenderness. Tenderness couldn’t save lives. Reindeer skins saved lives. Aslak’s father had shown him how to treat the reindeer skins, how to bring out their softness. It was the most important skill his father had handed down to him. He never spoke, other than to tell his son to respect the reindeer and to name the lead animals in the herd. His father was often away. Aslak had gone with him, sometimes. But he had been absent a great deal, too. And one day, he hadn’t come back. His father had been a God-fearing man, but men had killed him. Aslak knew that. Men brought nothing good, no tenderness. He thought of his wife. She had enough to eat for a few days, enough wood and reindeer skins. Perhaps she could hold out. If her attacks were not too violent.

  She had held out for so long already.

  Sometimes her shrieks were unbroken for hours at a time. She would tear at her throat. In her worst fits, she would raise her arms to the sky, shriek and wail. Aslak knew there was nothing he could do. He had to let her scream, show her that he was there. She would calm down once he managed to catch her eye, after her gaze had wandered for hours over the sky. As if she had found her way once again. Often, though, his wife stared straight through him. That was a strange feeling, like being invisible, and then she would cry out, with her arms lifted to the sky. He knew why she screamed. He understood why she screamed. It was necessary for her to scream.

  One day, a representative from the Reindeer Administration had come by on his rounds, to try to talk about it to Aslak. He was a decent man, a Sami who had known Aslak’s father. He had asked Aslak if he thought his wife should see a doctor. Out of respect for the old friendship between this man and his father, Aslak had said he would think about it. The man came back several times but, finally, he had understood that there was no point in talking about it further. Aslak’s wife’s unearthly shrieks had become a legend in the vidda, like the mysterious seam that made everyone so tense.

  He looked around. They were on the surface of a frozen river. Low on the horizon, a thin band of cloud merged with the mountains to their left, earth and sky forming a single, gray mass. Only by the bare, snow-free rock could one tell them apart. The wind had cleared the snow in places, revealing strips of bare earth parallel to the crest of the ridge. On the gentler, flatter slopes at the foot of the mountain, a few thin tree trunks held the thicker snow cov
er in place. A handful of reindeer, mostly indifferent to their presence, were digging into the layer of white, looking for lichen. The lifted their heads to watch as the men passed, then plunged into the snow once more, their bodies almost completely covered.

  The mountain dipped gently down to the river. Massive boulders lay scattered over its flank. The geologist made his way up to inspect them—some were huge, others smaller. He looked at them carefully, taking a special interest in the larger ones, rapped them with his hammer, and scanned them with his strange device. He took notes, consulted a map. The stranger reminded Aslak of a fox on the scent, every sense sharp and alert. Ready to bite and run. As he had done with Aslak: bitten hard, then kept his distance. Protected by the invisible threat at the other end of the radio. Aslak thought again of the sign his wife had traced in the dust.

  The stranger was a fox. But Aslak was a wolf. He had spent his life in the wild, tracking animals. He was close to them. Knew their behavior. He did not see them as strangers. A wolf could bite, too. And never let go. He was waiting for the right moment. He would wait a long time if he had to. The wolf was more patient than the fox. The fox gave up if he was not quickly satisfied. Not the wolf.

  “Get a move on, dammit!” the stranger yelled. “I need the bag. Quick, while there’s still some moonlight!”

  Aslak hurried over, but still his movements were supple, minimal, his chest thrust forward, arms at his sides, his disturbing presence undiminished. The stranger was kneeling beside a round boulder the size of a sleeping reindeer. He took the equipment he needed out of the bag, scratched the stone, and poured some sort of liquid onto it. From time to time he glanced suspiciously at the Sami, but Aslak gave nothing away, responding with a vacant stare that seemed to irritate the other man intensely. His face was set in an ugly grimace, one corner of his mouth raised, creasing his cheek.

  The stranger peered at the shard of rock under a magnifying glass, apparently disappointed. He swore in an unknown language and put away his equipment. Then he sent a short radio message, similar to the others. Showing Aslak that he was still under threat.

  “We’ll get back to the bivouac. Carry on along the river tomorrow. Move! I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. Get a fucking move on, we need wood, and supper. Move it, damn you!”

  Aslak loaded the bag onto his shoulders and turned away. He barely felt the fifty pounds. He could carry a reindeer weighing a hundred or more pounds on his back, if he had to, over long distances. The other herders had seen him do it. Even the ones who thought of themselves as real hard men had been impressed. Walking ahead of the stranger, finding his way with ease in the fading light, Aslak heard the man swearing in his wake. He couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he felt that the longer it went on, the better it was for his purposes.

  5:50 p.m., Kautokeino

  Berit Kutsi crossed herself. She had just finished her day’s work at Olsen’s farm. The old man was nervous and jumpy, even more unpleasant than usual. Berit had spent a long while seeing to the cows. They were far less shy than the reindeer and allowed themselves to be stroked quite happily. You could talk to them. Berit told them things she dared not confess to the pastor. The cows were good company, for sure.

  During this season, there was little work to be done out of doors. Olsen checked and repaired his machines. When his back wasn’t playing him up, he would clear the roads with his snowplow. But he grumbled and cursed all day long. Occasionally, he would ask Berit to dust indoors. But he kept the house obsessively clean: there was seldom anything more for her to do. Berit sometimes thought he called her in just for the pleasure of taunting her. She was ashamed to think such things, but God knew she was a good woman at heart.

  She always crossed herself on leaving the stable, so that the Almighty would spare a few thoughts for her companions. Cows did not have souls, but they were God’s creatures, Berit knew that. Their good nature deserved some small reward. One day, she had confided her little ritual to Pastor Lars, and he had become angry.

  For the first time in her life, she had decided to lie to him. When he asked her next if she was still praying for her cows, she had assured him she was not. She felt bad about that, of course, and now she dreaded talking to the pastor for any length of time. She was terrified he would give her one of his penetrating stares and force her to confess. He was quite capable of that.

  Berit had feared her father the same way. He had been a strict Laestadian. She never remembered seeing him laugh. Not once. He wore the thick neckbeard of the older faithful, and a white shirt buttoned up the neck. He was hard but fair.

  Berit’s mother had converted in adulthood. She was a believer, of course, raised as a Protestant. But she had found the true Laestadian faith late in life. She had confessed to Berit that before her conversion, she had always wondered whether her faith would hold fast in the face of death. A friend had told her mother that she knew a man who had just such faith. That man had become Berit’s father. Since her conversion and marriage, Berit’s mother had never doubted. Berit’s six brothers and sisters were all Laestadians, too. Her mother’s faith was unshaken by the death of two of them. It had grown stronger, if anything, in the face of adversity. Berit had grown up hugely impressed by her mother’s radiant light. Her smile—because she did smile—was never excessive, always measured, and she knew how to contain her laughter. An admirable woman who had passed too soon.

  She once told Berit that she had been attracted to the Laestadian faith because it did more than take the forgiveness of sin for granted. You could actually confess your sins. Like the Catholics, Pastor Lars had assured her. Of course, the Catholics were no example in a great many other matters, everyone was agreed on that. But confession, and the forgiveness of sin, were wonderful gifts from God that enabled weak and fearful people like Berit to live with themselves and keep the fires of hell at bay.

  Pastor Lars had always told her that for a person to come to the faith, they must first feel the nature of sin.

  “He who did not kill the Lord Jesus his Creator has no need of salvation,” Pastor Lars had told her one day, shaking a trembling finger in her face. “And he who comes not begging the Lord for salvation from sin will never make a true Protestant.”

  There had been a time when Berit’s father had nurtured the idea that Pastor Lars would make a good husband for his daughter. But fate had decided otherwise. The pastor had returned from his travels one day with a taciturn Finnish woman. During his wife’s first pregnancy, the pastor had insisted to Berit, several times, that it was necessary to feel the nature of sin in order to come to the true faith. He seemed to be insinuating that Berit was not of the true faith. She had expressed her anxiety over this to her mother. And her mother, not smiling at all then, had stayed behind at church after the Sunday service to have a brief exchange with the pastor. Berit had no idea what was said, but the pastor never again alluded to Berit’s need to feel the true nature of sin. After the Finnish woman came into the pastor’s life, there had been no suitors for Berit. She had devoted much of her time to her younger, mentally handicapped brother. And she had allowed the few opportunities that had come her way to pass her by, fearful of the word of God and submissive to the will of her parents. And yet Berit burned with ardent fire, though she never dared talk about it. Even after her parents had both died, she led the spartan Laestadian life, far removed from the worlds of fashion, and television, and consumerism. These things were easy to renounce. The people she liked and spent time with—reindeer herders for the most part, though not necessarily practicing Laestadians—were hard workers, often living simple lives of poverty. Like Aslak.

  Berit closed her eyes. She crossed herself again and left the cowshed just as a car pulled up outside. She recognized the policeman at the wheel, the one who detested the Sami, and saw him rush inside Olsen’s house. Brattsen had been coming to see Olsen often in recent days. The old man seemed more and more restless, and nervous. Berit wondered if he was in trouble with
the police. She couldn’t imagine why. But then a lot of things escaped her.

  * * *

  6:05 p.m., Kautokeino

  “They’ve reached the spot. I got a radio message from the Frenchman. He must have found a way to persuade Aslak to go with him.”

  Olsen thought for a moment, then rubbed his hands together. “Ha! We may have picked a winner with this one at last,” he said.

  “Perhaps, perhaps. Don’t go counting your chickens, though. I had to tell the station that the Frenchman had left alone. And Nango knows he wanted to see you. I had to tell him you never saw one another.”

  “Well, you did right, lad. Didn’t meet him officially, did I, eh? And don’t you worry, your Frenchman and Aslak might not get along. Sparks may fly. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if they came to blows.”

  “What do you mean?” Brattsen had no idea what Olsen was getting at.

  “You told me the first time you saw the Frenchman he was in a fight at the pub?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Olsen was losing patience. He would have to spell it out. “You told me yourself, your first thought was that you suspected him of murdering Mattis.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So? See my point?”

  “But since then, I’ve been thinking it really was a vendetta between reindeer breeders.”

  “Bravo!” exclaimed Olsen emphatically. “And you’re the cop, you know better than anyone about all that. I’m just an old farmer. Intuition? Not me! All I know is the color and smell of the soil. I’m just saying, your Frenchman aroused your suspicion, and you followed your instinct, and that led you to the business with the little girls. See? You were right, there.”

  “True. I was,” said Brattsen.

  “That’s what good cops do, isn’t it, follow their instincts?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Brattsen replied cautiously. He still wasn’t catching Olsen’s drift.

  Karl Olsen frowned and turned to face the policeman. “And now your instinct is telling you that this business is all about the Lapp breeders settling their scores.”