Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  He had already gone through a good thirty or so batteries in almost a week. The SPP2 was picking up normal radioactivity for the region, sometimes up to four hundred shocks a second. On three separate occasions, it had registered minor peaks of almost five hundred shocks a second. Routine stuff for any experienced geologist. But now, it was different. For the first time, the readings were up into the next scale, measuring up to fifteen hundred shocks per second. The SPP2 was whining louder. Over seven hundred shocks per second. Racagnal looked again at the boulder. It wasn’t granite, but an altered block, with a fissure running through it. He took a deep breath and gazed around him. The bare, snow-capped hills kept their secret for now, but he would make them talk.

  “Stay here,” he told Aslak.

  Racagnal unhooked the trailer and climbed aboard the snowmobile, armed only with his SPP2 and his hammer.

  “Go fetch, Bulldog!” he muttered, gunning the engine.

  He didn’t have to ride far, just a hundred yards along the hillside, crushing a few dwarf birches in his path. He stopped on the edge of a shallow dip. Several large rocks lay scattered below, but one in particular, a little bigger than the first, caught his attention. He took out the SPP2 and switched it on. The device whined so loudly he was forced to switch to the next scale, a second time. Up to five thousand. The reading set his heart racing. The SPP2 registered four thousand shocks a second. Racagnal threw down the machine, grabbed his hammer, and smashed it onto the rock, roaring like a lumberjack with the effort. He picked up a piece and saw the same bright gleam of vivid yellow, deep in the black rock.

  “Fuck.” His voice came in a slow whisper. “It isn’t gold. It’s uranium.”

  He raised his head and looked around. The Sami was sitting on the reindeer skins, facing him. From this position on the hillside he could see down the valley, stretching into the distance. The sun was bright now, behind a thin veil of cloud. The snow glittered and shimmered, its surface broken here and there by the naked branches of birch trees, forming dark, impressionist touches on the immaculate white. Soft, blue-gray mountains bordered the horizon. He felt an exquisite tremor of excitement.

  “That idiot farmer thinks he’s looking for gold, and his priceless fucking mineral seam is fucking uranium ore.” Racagnal’s voice rose slightly as he spoke.

  He smiled faintly. “Well, that changes everything. Playtime’s over now…”

  And he hollered aloud, the icy air rasping in his throat. “Fucking idiot! Uranium! Fu-u-uck!”

  The Sami herder watched everything from his distant vantage point. He didn’t catch everything. But one word, at least, was perfectly clear.

  * * *

  Klemet parked his Volvo in front of Olsen’s cowshed. He and Nina had decided he should go alone to ask Olsen about the portrait Berit had mentioned—a joint delegation would be too high profile, given that the Reindeer Police were officially off the case. Meanwhile, Nina was touring the service stations in Kautokeino, making discreet inquiries as to the types of oil used in snowmobiles in the area, hoping for a match for the oil found on Mattis’s reindeer-skin poncho.

  Klemet knocked at the farmhouse and heard footsteps. Olsen opened the door, hunched forward, his head lowered slightly. A moment’s surprise was quickly concealed and he eyed Klemet with an air of deep suspicion.

  “The Reindeer Police. In plainclothes. Well, well, see this!”

  “Good morning.” Klemet was politeness itself.

  “What do you want?” Olsen snapped back.

  “I was wondering if you could take a look at a photograph.” Klemet proceeded with caution.

  “Something to do with the drum and Mattis, is it?” Olsen’s tone was aggressive.

  “I don’t think so,” said Klemet evasively.

  “Because I heard you were off the case, see? You wouldn’t be coming around here without good reason, against orders, by chance, now would you?” The old farmer’s tone was insinuating.

  “Absolutely not,” said Klemet. “This is just out of sheer curiosity. My old uncle thought he recognized someone you know might know, on a photograph he found.”

  Giving Olsen no time to respond, he took out a close-up of the expedition photograph showing the man with the mustache.

  “What about it?” growled Olsen.

  Klemet said nothing, but held the picture up for the farmer to inspect.

  “It’s my father,” said Olsen finally. “The old man’s been gone a while now. Dropped dead, just like that. Aneurysm. Boom. All over. But that’s an old photograph. Where’d you find it?”

  “Seems he was with a group of people hiking in Lapland just before the war.”

  “Dunno. Never heard about that. Nothing to do with all this. Why are you showing it to me now? Why come here?”

  “No need to worry, Karl.” Klemet smiled soothingly. “What did your father do?”

  “He was a farmer, fool! What the hell kind of question is that?”

  Klemet nodded. “He never mentioned an expedition with some foreigners right before the war? Nothing about a mine, I suppose?”

  “A mine? Guarded by trolls, I suppose? Fairy-tale nonsense! The old man never said much. Hardly spoke at all, really. He just worked the land. And then, boom, aneurysm. End of story.”

  Klemet could see there was no point in insisting. He didn’t want to arouse Olsen’s suspicions even further. He thanked him with a nod of the head, raised a hand in a gesture of parting, and left. Then paused and turned.

  “A French geologist has been taking a look around here for a while now. Obtained a permit from the mining affairs committee last week. You wouldn’t happen to know if he mentioned anything about an old geological map he might have in his possession?”

  “I never met the man,” said Olsen. “He asked to see me. But I don’t know him. Never heard anything about a map like that.”

  Klemet thanked him with another nod.

  Driving slowly past the house, he saw Olsen in his kitchen, talking into the telephone, gesticulating nervously.

  * * *

  The hours that followed were some of the most hectic Racagnal had known in a long while. He continued his exploration of the zone, checking his old and new maps, covering the pages of his field book with sketches, taking samples, brandishing the scintillometer all over the place, measuring the radioactivity. Progress was slow, and he cursed the rapidly fading daylight. Still, he was convinced.

  When the sun had disappeared below the horizon, and the bivouac was installed for the night, he settled himself in front of his radio set. The Sami was boiling reindeer meat—a little treat Racagnal had allowed himself, to celebrate his discovery. Taking the Sami’s gun, he had shot a reindeer a few hours earlier, and his guide had taken charge of cutting it up and preparing the meat. The quartered carcass had been placed in the dwarf trees nearby, their branches bending under the weight.

  First, the geologist called Brattsen. The acting superintendent asked him to wait while he found a quiet place to talk, then came back on the line. Racagnal was brief.

  “You can tell Olsen I’ve found something. Perhaps something very big, if what I think is confirmed. But it’s not what he thought. Get ready for a big surprise.”

  “What then?”

  “I can’t say more over the radio. I need a few more days. But tell Olsen our fortune may be more than made.”

  Brattsen was excited and intrigued, Racagnal could tell. He relished the thought of the two Norwegians waiting impatiently for news. He gave them his current position and outlined his plan for the days ahead.

  “Sure you know what you’re doing?” said Brattsen.

  “No worries on that score. Couldn’t handle it without the Sami guide, though, even if I am the best in the business. And rest assured, I’ll be discreet.”

  He ended the call.

  Next, he contacted his company’s operational logistics center. At La Défense on the edge of Paris, in the tower housing the offices of the Société Française des Minerais, a
special department was on call 24/7 to dozens of teams scattered across the globe. Racagnal identified himself and explained that he needed to contact the chief duty geologist straightaway. He was put through immediately. The man in question was well used to making quick-fire decisions. Paradoxical, really, thought Racagnal, in the world of geology, dedicated to studying the evolution of the earth itself, measuring time in tens of millions of years, carrying out explorations often for decades at a time. But the mining industry was a slave to the rules of the purest form of capitalism, where the only time that mattered was the time frame of the trading floor. The announcement of even a minor discovery could have extraordinary or terrifying repercussions for a company’s share price. Which meant making fast, often highly profitable decisions.

  The chief geologist had known Racagnal for years. Knew him through and through, including his darkest side. He had decided long ago that it was no concern of his if the man preferred adolescent girls to mature women. He knew when Racagnal was deadly serious about a find, too, even though he stated nothing in plain terms over the radio. Whatever it was, it clearly had huge potential. He gave Racagnal everything he wanted.

  “I’ll send Brian Kallaway,” said the chief geologist. “Brilliant kid, the best glaciologist on our books right now. Canadian. And Canadian geology is a perfect match for Lapland, as you well know. He can leave tomorrow morning and be with you in the field during the day. He can carry out the low-level reconnaissance flight for a radiometric survey. What’s your preferred method on the ground? Electric, electromagnetic, magnetic? Or a geochemical study?”

  “I don’t have much time,” said Racagnal, then corrected himself quickly. His deadline with Olsen was irrelevant here. “There’s another license round in a few days. I need to nail this right away or it might slip from under our noses. There are some Norwegians out here already. Send me this Kallaway, let him do the aerial survey and readings for the zone I indicated just now. But he’s got to keep a low profile. Prospecting is ultrasensitive up here, as you know only too well.”

  Racagnal cut the connection. This evening, he was dining on reindeer stew. All that was missing was a little minx. Like that Sofia, the one who wouldn’t cooperate. But soon, no one would be able to refuse him much.

  * * *

  Karl Olsen was waiting for Brattsen in the parking area next to their usual reindeer enclosure. The old farmer massaged his neck vigorously. The pain had got steadily worse over the past few days as his excitement rose. Two weeks had passed since their first meeting, and he had made good use of the time, he had to admit. Olsen poured himself a cup of scalding coffee and slurped it noisily. Sidelining Tor Jensen had sparked tension in the locality. The Labor supporters found themselves cornered. The Labor government in Oslo wanted results, and this was precisely the argument the Right had used at the regional level. To save face the Finnmark regional council, controlled by Labor, had announced that Jensen had been temporarily assigned to coordinate security during the UN conference, but no one was fooled. Olsen had made sure of that. He imagined the local Laborites would fight back once the conference was over, but he didn’t give a damn about that.

  He saw the policeman’s car pull up. Brattsen opened his passenger door.

  “Got a visit from your cowboy in the Reindeer Police,” said Olsen. “Asking questions, all innocentlike. With an old photograph of my father that I’d never seen before. I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all.”

  “Nango?” Rolf wore his usual hard, uncomprehending expression. He seemed bothered by the news, though.

  “You said on the phone you had something to tell me?” Olsen went on, turning painfully to face the policeman.

  “The Frenchman’s found something big, apparently.”

  “What, already? He’s done it?”

  “Apparently. Seemed very sure of himself. He’s got to get a specialist in from Paris to guarantee his findings.”

  “A specialist from Paris. I don’t like that, either. Reckon the bastard’s trying to get one over on us?”

  “He’s no choirboy.”

  “I don’t like that one bit,” said Olsen.

  “He gave me his position.”

  “Ah?”

  “About ninety-five miles from here. To the southeast.”

  Olsen massaged his neck and thought carefully. He poured his cold coffee out of the window and helped himself to another cup. He sipped it, then placed it on top of the dashboard.

  “We’re going to have to get out there ourselves. You can find some pretext. I want that man in my sight from now on.”

  “Not sure that’s wise,” said Brattsen. “The two breeders are being held for questioning. I’m expected to do the honors. And some people are surprised Aslak isn’t there at the station with Renson and Johann Henrik.”

  “All the more reason to go after him and the Frenchman, then. See, it’s all falling into place, there’s your excuse. And the questioning can wait. We’ll have to set off immediately.”

  “I can spin things out a little, but not beyond the end of the conference, for sure. I need to question the breeders tomorrow. I can get out to the vidda on Friday or Saturday.”

  “Well, you see, that’s perfect. I’ll leave for Alta this afternoon. A couple of days’ shopping. And then I’ll join you.”

  Brattsen nodded. Olsen could see he was out of his depth.

  “All over soon, lad,” he said reassuringly. “They’re handing out the mining licenses soon enough, and after that nothing will stand in our way. We just need to be sure the Frenchman has found our gold seam. And doesn’t get up to any tricks. But you’ll take care of that, eh? Future head of security at the mine, and all that…”

  48

  Wednesday, January 26

  6:40 p.m., Kautokeino

  Nina had returned from her tour of the service stations in Kautokeino by late afternoon. Under the thick cloud cover, it was already pitch-dark. And bitingly cold after the milder daytime temperatures. Or maybe I’m just tired, she told herself. She went straight to Klemet’s tent, pushed back the flap and crouched down beside the fire. She took off her gloves and rubbed her hands vigorously. Klemet was sitting on the other side of the hearth, reading through the files.

  She spoke first, still rubbing her hands over the flames. “The oil on Mattis’s cape doesn’t come from a snowmobile.”

  He closed his file, waiting for the rest.

  “I’ve checked the components on the cans sold in the service stations, talked to people filling up, and the attendants. No doubt about it. Snowmobiles don’t use oil of that type. Nor cars. It’s a type used in tractors, big mechanical diggers, that kind of thing. And heavy-goods vehicles. It wasn’t a brand I’d heard of.”

  Nina reached deep into her parka and pulled out her notebook. “Arktisk Olje is the maker’s brand. And the oil is called Big Motors Super Winter Oil.”

  “It’s a special oil for tractors and big farm machinery?”

  “Yes, and heavy-goods vehicles.”

  The tent flap was raised, letting in a draft of cold air. The Sheriff took a seat next to Klemet, then unbuttoned his parka and the jacket of his over-tight fatigues, exhaling in relief.

  “So, where are you both up to? The patrol car’s been parked outside the house for a little too long. You shouldn’t hang about here.”

  “I know,” Klemet cut in. “But for pity’s sake, Tor, we’ve been following up a whole set of leads at once, centuries apart, across a vast area. And all in hiding, right under Brattsen’s nose, in a region where everyone knows everything in the blink of an eye.”

  “You’ve got the drum. You know who took it. That’s fantastic work already, Klemet.”

  “I stopped by Olsen’s place just now. Thought he seemed very suspicious.”

  “Olsen, the Progress Party councillor?”

  “Yes. Our mysterious mustachioed man in Henri Mons’s photo is Olsen’s father. I could tell he didn’t want me to know.”

  Nina looked up at the new
s.

  “His father?” said the Sheriff. “Olsen’s father and Mattis’s grandfather were together on the 1939 expedition? Now there’s a coincidence.”

  “Well, not really, when you think about it. History repeats itself down the generations. Mattis worked at Olsen’s place sometimes,” Klemet reminded them. “Berit told us he worked with two other herders there, Jonne and Mikkel, but all as mechanics.”

  “On the old man’s tractors and agricultural machinery,” said Nina, staring straight at her colleague, the realization dawning as she spoke the words.

  * * *

  Karl Olsen’s farm lay in darkness when Klemet’s red Volvo rolled slowly into the yard. He had made sure no one saw him turn onto the track leading to the buildings. He would have a hard time justifying his presence here, with no warrant, in plainclothes, when he was supposed to be out in the tundra “counting reindeer.” A quick call to Berit, ostensibly making sure she was still available for questioning, was all it had taken to discover the old farmer had gone to Alta for a couple of days. Jonne and Mikkel would be coming to do some maintenance work on the small machinery and tools, she said, but not before tomorrow morning. Berit herself would stop by only tomorrow afternoon, to see to the cows.

  The Sheriff had been uncomfortable with the idea of the unlawful nocturnal visit. Nina had been more categorical: it was absolutely out of the question. Klemet had muttered something inaudible and the Sheriff had taken the deciding vote, saying he would talk to the examining judge in Tromsø the next day and was practically certain to get everything approved. On this commonsense decision, the trio had separated.

  Once his colleagues had left, Klemet had gone to his garage, filled a small bag, checked the street was deserted, and driven off. It had taken him fifteen minutes to reach the farm, with a few detours en route. Parking behind the barn, he would have to walk just a hundred yards or so, avoiding the main approach to the house.