Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  Berit fell silent again. The flame was sputtering.

  “Aila was never the same after that. Sometimes she would cry out, ‘Lapsi, lapsi’—‘child, child’—like a wounded animal. And she would throw her hands up in the air over her head. As if she was trying to catch something. She never spoke again.”

  The candle flame died, leading a tiny swirl of smoke. A shaft of moonlight shone through the window, its pale gleam lighting up the faces of the three people sitting at the table.

  “How do you know this?” asked Nina.

  “From Aslak. He knew she was with child, and he stood by her. He knew what she had planned to do when the time came. It was the last time we spoke to one another. I never dared speak to him again after that. But Aslak never forsook Aila. He took care of her, like a saint.”

  Nina saw Klemet nodding in the darkness. He understands, she thought.

  Berit stayed sitting in her darkened kitchen when the police officers got up to leave. They had reached the door when they heard her voice, faint and almost unrecognizable, speaking out of the darkness.

  “Do not harm Aslak.”

  51

  Thursday, January 27

  Central Sápmi

  André Racagnal was keeping an eye on Brian Kallaway. Mickey Mouse hadn’t tried calling him the “Buddha of the Boulders’ a second time. Racagnal was still suspicious, though. He stood close by whenever the kid put a call through on the radio, listening in.

  Kallaway was unnerved, and not just because knew he was being watched. After several hours coaxing the rocks to give up their secret, taking measurements with the SPP2, searching the maps, situating their finds on the old geological map, he pushed one of the maps across to Racagnal with trembling hands.

  “It’s there…,” he stammered. “We’ll be over it tomorrow morning. I’m positive. I recorded spikes at eight thousand shocks with yellow material. Incredible. We’re heading toward something huge.”

  “So that’s what the guy drew on his map,” said Racagnal, as if talking to himself. “Probably had no idea what he’d found. Saw yellow in the rocks. Thought it was gold. Didn’t understand he’d found uranium.”

  “You’re right, I’m sure. This map looks pretty old. Uranium wasn’t of much interest prior to the Second World War. But it’s a different kettle of fish now! This is an incredible find, do you realize? We’ll need a whole lot more readings and some exploratory drilling. But if the seam delivers the goods, the SFM could become the world leader in uranium. This is massive!”

  “Yeah. You said it. But remember, kid. For the moment, you keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?”

  “Sure. Of course.” Kallaway had hoped his colleague would relent slightly, on the brink of such a massive breakthrough. He hesitated a moment, then went on, “One thing’s bothering me, all the same.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Well, I’m not worried as such. Just a niggling detail.”

  “Go on, let’s have it.”

  “OK. According to my calculations and projections, and the findings we situated on the old map, the comparisons I’ve made, and—”

  “Spit it out, for fuck’s sake!”

  “This huge uranium deposit could be right next to the Alta River. Mining it, if it’s commercially viable, will be extremely tricky. Very little room for maneuvering. We’d need maximum security—the risks are huge. Not a problem for us, I don’t think; we have the expertise. But imagine if a smaller outfit got there before us. The consequences could be appalling. Imagine tons of radioactive residue pumping straight into the Alta. I don’t need to spell it out to you. An entire region contaminated, every town downstream evacuated. And the end of reindeer breeding at the same time. Thank God we know how to avoid all that. It’ll be expensive. But worth it, in my view.”

  “Class over?” said Racagnal. “May we continue? We’re going to pack everything up, transfer the bivouac so we’re ready to start at first light tomorrow. Everything has to be done tomorrow, get it? That’s the deadline for lodging the license applications ahead of the decision round on February 1. Our last chance. Yours, too, if you want any kind of future in this business, do you get me? You’ve got your work cut out, kid.”

  Racagnal turned around, feeling the Sami’s eyes on his back. He pointed at the guide. The man hadn’t understood a word, but Racagnal knew he had been watching him all the time.

  “And you! Get this bivouac packed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

  Racagnal was wrong on one point. Aslak sat chewing quietly on a thin piece of reindeer bone, but he wasn’t looking directly at Racagnal. Instead, he was staring hard at the tag on Racagnal’s silver wrist-chain, as he had done before in his tent. The tag Aslak’s wife had recognized.

  * * *

  Eva Nilsdotter had just arrived from Malå. The director of the Nordic Geological Institute found Patrol P9 installed back at the police station. Rolf Brattsen hadn’t been seen for a while. He had finished questioning the two Sami breeders and had left shortly afterward, saying he had to check some facts out in the field. No one dared asked what. He had seemed tightly wound, aggressive, and excited all at once. No one knew when he would be back.

  The protestors were still outside in force. The custody of the two Sami men, both of whom were politically active, had sparked a chain reaction. Some factions in the Norwegian parliament had started expressing concern about what was going on in the Far North. All the more so because according to reports on the NRK television news, banners demanding “Sápmi for the Sami” had begun to make their appearance.

  Eva found Klemet and Nina in the latter’s office, studying a map. The geologist seemed to be thinking hard.

  “My dears, you’ve hooked a monster, if you only knew it. First thing, none of the old maps in your farmer’s attic correlate with Flüger’s field book. But we know he was extremely interested in something. On the other hand, I’ve been giving a little more thought to your case and the clues on the drum, trying to put the two together, with some help from my teams. Remember Flüger mentioned yellow minerals and blocks of altered black rock. We cross-checked it all with some aerial survey records, and here”—she pointed to a spot on the map—“we have a radioactive zone with granite, and graphitic schists—the kind that can be used to produce uranium. Stop looking at me like a couple of boggle-eyed fish—it means that potentially, you have a uranium deposit somewhere in this vicinity. If it gets into the hands of some small-fry operation, if they feel at all tempted to used explosives to get at some samples deeper down without waiting for the proper boring equipment, it will lead to contamination and a major ecological catastrophe, with the river flowing so close by. Not to mention the risks from radon gas. I mentioned that to you before. It’s never a problem in a properly installed uranium mine—with employees properly equipped, the right ventilation, you can get on with the job. But without that, radon is a one-way ticket to lung cancer, practically guaranteed. And if you smoke, too, you’re a dead man walking. Radon’s an absolute bitch. I wonder if that isn’t what did for the population on your drum. Show me the photograph of it.”

  Klemet took out an enlargement.

  “See here. The hallucination, or whatever it is, the motif connecting the mine to the coffins. A clear link. I don’t know when your drum dates from, but the miners may well have succumbed to radon gas, which is odorless. It’s still present in some mines even today, in Africa and elsewhere, where the men are never warned about the dangers. And if the miners smoke, they die very quickly. Radon is insidious stuff. I’m quite sure the Sami were all raging tobacco fiends back in the day. Drank too, of course. The Swedes lured them in with booze and smokes—the usual tricks when you’re trying to tame the noble savage anywhere on this earth.

  “No one knew anything about uranium when the drum was made or the mine was first exploited, obviously. People were interested in the yellow pigment because it was used by the royal courts of the day to decorate porcelain and glassware. If the mineral carted off on the s
leigh is indeed uranium, you can be sure it will have wreaked havoc with the laborers in a toxic little mine with no ventilation whatsoever. Guaranteed.”

  * * *

  Rolf Brattsen and Karl Olsen met on the outskirts of the town of Maze, on Highway 93, halfway between Alta and Kautokeino. The acting superintendent looked thoroughly bad-tempered, as usual. He had left his car discreetly parked and driven to meet the old farmer in his pickup.

  The latest message from the French geologist had been urgent and hurried. Olsen didn’t trust the man. The more he thought about it, the more he worried that the Frenchman was planning to get ahead of him. Because if the deposits were that spectacular, he might be tempted to go ahead and declare the find behind Olsen’s back, despite all the checks and balances he had arranged. And he, Karl Olsen, who had pursued his old father’s dream his whole life, would be left high and dry. There could be no question of that.

  He turned awkwardly to face Brattsen, wincing from the shooting pains in his neck. Brattsen had not brought good news. His lenient attitude to the French geologist’s sexual harassment charge had aroused suspicion among his colleagues back at the station. People were getting angry.

  “Thanks to those two fucking Sami detainees and their networks. Bad as the Commies, the lot of them. Proper shit stirrers.”

  Brattsen’s newfound promotion was in the balance.

  Olsen knew he couldn’t count on Brattsen. The man was a stubborn, bone-headed ass. But he glimpsed a solution, nonetheless. It was just possible he could save Brattsen’s skin—he would need him in the future, after all—and secure the gold seam, all at the same time.

  “Have we got the Frenchman’s position?” Olsen asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Yeah, that’s one thing we do have. He’s in a completely deserted area. No pasture anywhere near. No one ever goes there, it’s miles from anywhere.”

  “Simple, in that case. Don’t you worry, lad, everything will work out. We’ll pay a call on our French friend, keep an eye on him from a distance, then move in close. And when we’re sure he’s found what he’s looking for, we pounce. Understand? You’ll be the one who brings him in, under arrest. The others won’t be able to say a thing. Do you see that, lad?”

  “Yeah, fine. But that won’t stop his company submitting the application for the drilling license.”

  Olsen said nothing. He knew the answer to that, but he wanted Brattsen to come to the obvious conclusion himself.

  “Well yes, of course. And there’s a risk he’ll talk under arrest, too.” The old man sighed in mock resignation.

  “Yeah, a risk he’ll tell everyone he was out prospecting on your behalf,” said Brattsen crossly.

  “Oh, I wasn’t even thinking of that,” said Olsen. “I was thinking that he might tell everyone how you delivered young Ulrika into his clutches, remember? The little fifteen-year-old barmaid?”

  He watched with satisfaction as Brattsen’s expression changed abruptly.

  52

  Friday, January 28

  Sunrise: 9:02 a.m.; sunset: 2:02 p.m.

  5 hours of daylight

  7:30 a.m., Central Sápmi

  Racagnal and Kallaway set off very early after a short, cold, and restless night. Kallaway found the tense atmosphere exhausting. He chewed his breakfast, explaining to Racagnal precisely what had to be done next. Thanks to the boulders, he had identified the path followed by the ancient glacier. The ice had probably advanced about three feet a day. By tracing the line back and studying the geological maps, they were getting close to the mother seam. And after looking at the old geological map that Racagnal had come by (though he refused to say how), Kallaway was in no doubt: according to his calculations, they were about 325 yards from a hugely important uranium deposit.

  “Can we go now?” Racagnal cut him short, leaning on his long Swedish hammer.

  The sun had not yet appeared over the horizon, but the glare reflecting off the snow would soon give adequate light. There was no time to lose. The drilling license had to be registered with the Administration on Monday at the latest, for approval by the mining affairs committee meeting in Kautokeino, on Tuesday, February 1.

  Kallaway had loaded his snowmobile and checked the radio. He pictured himself announcing the news to Paris. This would be huge. He smiled to himself, unaware that Racagnal was watching him, and raised his hand in a discreet gesture to the Sami guide. Kallaway was in a cheery mood now. Followed by the Frenchman, he quickly covered the few hundred yards between the camp and the mountainside. Never had he experienced such a feverish sense of excitement. For the last leg, he fastened on a pair of ultralight snowshoes. They moved forward until they were close to the crest of a ridge rising steeply above them.

  When Kallaway was almost at the top, he stopped. Just over the flat summit, a section of the mountain fell away abruptly in a kind of ramp. Kallaway moved forward again along the crest, to get a better view. His expression froze. In the middle of the slope—impossible to see if you were not standing directly over it—he saw a shadow. Or perhaps just a strangely shaped piece of fallen rock. He took out his powerful field light and shone the beam down onto the spot. The shadow disappeared, leaving a small dip in its place. He made his way carefully down the slope toward it.

  “Racagnal!” he yelled. “Down here, quick!”

  The Frenchman was following close behind. Leaning forward on his hammer, he saw straightaway. “The entrance to an old mineshaft.”

  Kallaway moved further forward. The mine entrance was tiny. A man would have to bend double to get inside. He shone his flashlight down the passage. His throat felt dry and tight. He turned back and felt the blast of Racagnal’s breath on his face.

  “Carry on,” said the Frenchman. “I’m right behind you.”

  Kallaway felt desperately uneasy. Bent double, he made his way along the narrow passage, trying not to slip. About six feet inside the opening, it turned a corner. They emerged into a small chamber about seventeen by ten feet. The ceiling was barely five feet above the rock floor. The rough walls showed signs of irregular blows from hammers and picks. Some sections of the rock had been hollowed out more deeply than others, showing the veins the miners had pursued.

  Kallaway whistled. “Can you imagine? Guys came all the way out here in search of ore.” He took his Estwing hammer and struck the rock wall. It looked for all the world like pitchblende, natural uranium ore. “When does it date from, this mine, do you think?”

  “No idea,” said Racagnal. “I know people were prospecting here in Lapland in the 1600s. Might be a mine from back then. We’re not here for a history lesson. Get your flashlight over here.”

  Kallaway shone the beam in the direction indicated. Racagnal switched on his SPP2, setting the scale to fifteen hundred shocks. The whine shot up to the maximum immediately. In the narrow chamber, the noise was unbearable. Kallaway covered his ears. Racagnal didn’t react. He turned the knob to five thousand. The whine reached maximum intensity in a quarter of a second. Kallway had lowered his hands but pressed them to his ears again immediately, grimacing. Racagnal showed signs of nervousness. He set the device to fifteen thousand. Only twice in his career had he needed to set the SPP2 so high: a few days ago, on a boulder, and once on a mission to Cigar Lake Mine in Canada, with the highest concentrations of uranium recorded anywhere in the world: 460 pounds of uranium per long ton of ore. Two hundred times more than almost any other deposit on the planet. Again, the whine rose quickly to the maximum. Fifteen thousand shocks a second.

  Kallaway stared at Racagnal, eyes wide behind his small round glasses. Cigar Lake had just been outclassed.

  * * *

  9 a.m., Kautokeino

  Patrol P9 was just about to set out on Racagnal’s trail when Klemet saw his uncle Nils Ante walking toward the entrance to the Kautokeino police station. Klemet was astounded. This had to be the first time he had seen his uncle come anywhere near a police station—one of the places he generally kept well away from, the other being
church. Klemet waved. To his equal surprise, Hurri Manker had come along, too. What was the drum specialist doing this far from Jukkasjärvi? What were the two of them doing here together?

  Klemet cursed under his breath. Racagnal had to be stopped before disaster struck. Added to which, there was still some doubt over the exact spot they were heading for. He would have to collect evidence and keep a record of tracks encountered along the way, too. The weather was on their side, fortunately. Tracks were much harder to conceal in winter, in the snow. He could have done without this extra worry.

  His uncle walked over. Klemet glanced anxiously at the sky. Just at that moment, the sun rose, working its usual magic. But Klemet saw worrying signs, too. By midafternoon, the weather could turn stormy. And bye-bye to tracks in the snow, then.

  “Greetings, nephew! Back in uniform? Doesn’t suit you, you know…I have a couple of things for you. Are we staying out here in the cold, or going back to your house? My friend Hurri, whom I haven’t seen for years, was quite overcome by your business with the drum. He absolutely insisted on coming to see me to talk about it. He’s come all this way, especially.”

  “Nina,” said Klemet, addressing his colleague who had already seated herself in the patrol car, “let’s go into the garage for five minutes. After that, we really have to go, Uncle.”

  The little group entered the police garage, its door still standing open. Klemet indicated a space to the side, where two old sofas had been installed facing one another. Between them, a rickety wooden chair supported two half-full ashtrays. The station’s smoking area. Everyone took a seat except Nils Ante. Klemet could hardly believe his ears when his uncle began singing a joïk. Police officers walking past the garage entrance stopped and stared. Seeing Nina and Klemet sitting with the joïker, they shrugged their shoulders and went about their business.