Saturday night was movie night. Danny had made popcorn. All the staff had gathered in the mess room at Zodiac: Dr Kobayashi and Professor Hagger, Spoons and Mac and Greta the base mechanic; Dr Torell, who looked like a Viking, and Dr Kennedy, who (unlike the others) was a ‘proper’ doctor. Mac had spent most of the last twenty-four hours in his medical room, sticking to his story that he’d got lost in the fog, and hoping Danny had kept quiet.
Dr Fisher, the Base Commander, stood in front of the television and addressed them.
‘A few announcements before we start the film. There’ve been some rumours going around, and I wanted to clear them up.’
Mac’s chest tightened.
‘As you know, Dr Kennedy will be taking over as Base Commander for the winter.’
A few people clapped, or gave ironic cheers. Torell put his arm around Kennedy in mock sympathy.
‘After that, BSPA have announced that my successor next spring will be Francis Quam.’
The name drew a blank from the watching faces.
‘I worked with Francis in Antarctica a few seasons ago.’ Fisher’s mouth tightened, as if at an unpleasant memory. ‘I’m sure he’ll run a tight ship. Those of you who are coming back next year, I hope you’ll give him your full cooperation as he gets used to life at Zodiac.’
No one echoed the sentiment.
‘Secondly, as you may have heard on the grapevine, the DAR-X team at Echo Bay lost a man two days ago. It seems he went off alone to explore Nadezhda and was struck by a piece of falling debris.’
The audience didn’t look as sorry as they ought. There weren’t many who’d shed tears for an oil man. Mac squirmed in his seat, his cheeks burning. He hoped the others would think it was the frostbite.
‘Obviously, it’s a tragedy, and all the more so because it’s an avoidable tragedy. For the rest of the season, I’m declaring Vitangelsk, Nadezhda and all the mine sites out of bounds. There’s one week to go and I don’t want any accidents. I’d also remind you that it’s our policy never to go off site without a partner. Anyone who violates this policy will be confined to base.’
‘Popcorn?’
Danny had come round and was offering him the bowl. Their eyes met as Mac took a fistful. Danny gave a small, reassuring nod. He’d keep the secret. Maybe he had his own.
‘Enjoy the film.’
The movie was Inception. As the credits started, Dr Torell leaned behind Mac and whispered to Hagger, ‘Did you see the news? What they did to the Greenpeace ship?’
Mac craned around. Lying in the medical room, catching up on his sleep, he hadn’t even had a chance to check his e-mail yet.
‘What’s that about the Greenpeace ship?’ he asked.
‘You know how they boarded that Russian oil platform on Wednesday? First thing on Thursday, the Russians stormed the ship and took the crew hostage. They’re towing it back to Murmansk as we speak.’
‘That’s impossible.’
Torell glowered. ‘You’d think. International waters, Dutch-registered ship. But when there’s oil money involved, nothing’s impossible.’
‘That’s not … ’
He squeezed out of his seat and ran to the radio room, a cupboard stuffed with communications equipment. Called up the BBC website on the antique computer there. Even forty-eight hours later, it was still front page news. Russian security forces have boarded the Greenpeace ship Arctic Sunrise at gunpoint and are holding the crew captive. All contact with the ship was cut off at 4.30 pm BST on Thursday.
He checked the date three times. Checked two other websites. No one knew much about what was happening, but they all agreed on two things. First, the ship had been boarded some time on Thursday — maybe around the time he’d been daubing graffiti on the storage tanks at Echo Bay. Second, the Arctic Sunrise had been approximately sixty miles off the Russian coast — hundreds of miles from Utgard.
But Louisa had called the ship to arrange a meeting. He’d heard her talking to them.
Dizzy, he went to the Greenpeace website and found a phone number. Took a satellite phone from the wall. It would cost a fortune, and he wasn’t authorized, but he didn’t care.
It was six o’clock in London, Saturday night, but the office was still manned. Probably dealing with the fallout from what the press were beginning to call the ‘Arctic 30’. A young, weary-sounding receptionist answered.
‘I need to speak to someone about the Arctic Sunrise,’ Mac said.
‘I’m sorry —’
‘I know someone who was on board. I’ve got important information.’
The urgency must have told in his voice. She hesitated. ‘Please. It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘Hold on.’
He felt the memory stick in his pocket, where he’d kept it since he came in from Nadezhda. Don’t look. It’s better that way, she’d told him. But if everything else she’d said was in doubt …
He plugged the memory stick into the computer. The old machine seemed to take forever recognising it.
A voice came on the line, a well-spoken woman who sounded harassed. ‘Yes?’
He introduced himself. ‘The people on the boat, the Arctic Sunrise. I saw one of them two days ago.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any information on them at the moment. We’re waiting for the Russians to let them see our lawyers.’
Accessing device … said the computer.
He had to make the Greenpeace woman understand. ‘She wasn’t on the boat. I — she — we’re on Utgard. I helped her infiltrate the DAR-X camp. Deep Arctic Exploration.’
A pause. ‘I’m sorry. Who are you talking about?’
‘Louisa.’ Like a fool, he realised he didn’t even know her surname. ‘She’s from Harpenden, north London.’
‘There was no-one called Louisa on the Arctic Sunrise.’
Searching for files … said the computer. A little torch waved a yellow circle over the screen.
‘She wasn’t on the boat. She was waiting for it to come and pick her up. From Utgard.’
An even longer silence. ‘We don’t have any personnel on Utgard.’
‘I saw her here two days ago.’
‘I’m the Project Director for Arctic actions, and I can guarantee you we’ve no one on Utgard, and no one called Louisa working for us anywhere in that area.’
On screen, the memory stick had finally opened. He stared in disbelief at the file folder. The data he’d risked his life to steal.
The device is empty.
‘But she … ’
‘I’m afraid I‘ve got a lot to be getting on with … ’
He hung up in a daze. Through the door, he could see the film playing out on screen, dreams masquerading as reality. Or was it the other way round?
He ran down the long corridor that formed the spine of Zodiac Station. Past the gun rack and the log book, through the boot room and out the door. A heavy wind was blowing snow down from the glacier; the cold air pinched him so hard, he thought it was the only thing holding him together.
Where did she go?
What did I do?
He gazed at the snowflakes swirling around the base, trying to find a pattern in their movement. He looked at the shapes behind them, looming shadows like monsters in the dark. For some reason, he remembered the figure standing on the walkway at Nadezhda, huge in the moonlight. He thought of the blood seeping from under the hat.
What the hell is out there?