Beneath the Ice (18 page)

Lotta nodded hesitantly. ‘There’s a man . . . I only heard Pearl mention him once. He was sent out to Antarctica over a year ago.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was told to wait for Pearl’s arrival and to protect the lake. That’s all I know about him, I swear. But given the fact that Pearl has already had two of my work colleagues killed, I can only imagine what this man will do to protect the place. Whenever anyone gets too close, they are silenced. That’s how it works with Pearl.’

Bear slowly unclenched her fist, letting Lotta’s hand fall from her grasp. Everything hinged on the lake and now, more than ever, she felt a desperate need to speak to Luca. As the past had amply proved, he had a talent for putting himself in harm’s way. If this man Lotta was talking about had been sent to protect the lake, then Bear felt sure it would only be a matter of time before his path crossed Luca’s.

Rising from her chair, she took the napkin and pressed the flashcard into the small side pocket of her skirt.

‘Stay hidden, Lotta,’ she said. ‘Well hidden. No phone calls to anyone.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Bear replied, turning to leave, ‘but somehow I’m going to stop Pearl getting on to that plane.’

VIDAR STANG SWUNG
the hunting rifle off his shoulder and brought the muzzle round in a slow sweep while he surveyed the mountains. His left eye was clamped shut against the wind while his right was magnified by the telescopic lens of the rifle, monstrously distorting his eyeball.

‘Stang.’

The Norwegian heard his name again, whispered on the air across the expanse of ice. Having been alone in Antarctica for so long he was well used to the tricks of solitude, but this time it felt different. He stood motionless, forefinger curled tight against the trigger, drawing up the slack. Despite his gloves he could feel the metal begin to drain the heat from his fingertip, but knew that he could hold out a few minutes more before the first signs of frostbite would appear.

He brought the rifle left then slowly arced back across the mountain ridge, searching for the source of the sound. Another few seconds passed. Nothing.

Stang remained still, staring up from the lake at the towering façades of the mountains. They ran in a tight semi-circle around him, shielding him from the worst of the wind like a bay in an ocean storm. He watched as trails of snow streamed over the tops of the peaks before dipping down towards him through the cold, lifeless gullies.

The storm was getting worse. At first, he had heard nothing more than a low hiss as wind channelled through the surface cracks in the rocks. But now it funnelled into the deep mountain caves, creating a hollow, rasping noise that reminded him of the sick wheeze his father had made on this deathbed.

‘Stang.’

There it was again, this time clearer. Somebody was calling for him, but as soon as he tried to zero in on the sound, it seemed to fade back into the landscape. Stang waited another whole minute before finally letting his finger uncurl from the trigger and lowering his rifle.

Pearl. It had to be him. Stang wondered whether it could be just another of his tricks, but how could he have got here so fast? He had only received the satellite message three days ago informing him that Pearl was coming to Antarctica and that everything should be made ready for his arrival.

Upon hearing the news, Stang had spent hours staring at the single photograph he had stuck to the wall above his bed. Hours passed, maybe even days, and the whole time he’d revelled in the strength of his feelings. Finally, the time had come.

Clenching his hand tighter around the rifle butt, Stang felt the smooth, hard wood beneath his grip. It gave him a sense of reassurance and purpose. He was tired, he knew that, and should try to get some sleep. A constant headache had settled across his forehead, splitting his skull whenever he moved too quickly, but he fought the desire just to lie still for a moment and let his eyes close. There was still too much to do. Pearl’s imminent arrival had overturned every constant in his life. Now he must keep pushing himself to the limit.

Stang knew he was in good shape. The winter months of conditioning had seen to that. Now he could make the climb up from the lake to his base in thirty-nine minutes flat. Thirty-nine! The same distance had taken him over two hours when he had first arrived in Antarctica.

There was a whistle of wind and Stang’s gaze turned towards the mountains once again. Maybe it was his imagination, maybe not. But he needed to be sure. Straightening his back, he raised himself to his full height.

‘I see you, Pearl!’ he shouted, propelling each word towards the mountains like a prophet from the Old Testament. If Pearl wanted to play games then so could he.

Stang waited for an answer, but none came. A smile crept across his face. It was a thin smile, brimming with deadly intent. Let Pearl play his games. He would find a very different Vidar Stang waiting for him in Antarctica. The snow blindness had drained away the last of his naivety and misplaced trust, just as much as it had robbed him of the colour of his eyes.

Gathering his faded Bergen rucksack off the snow, he swung it over his shoulders and fastened the buckles. Despite his being in the lee of the wind, it was getting dangerously cold and he needed to be back inside. He started jogging across the deep snow of the lake, before reaching a narrow, zigzagging path that ran up towards his base.

Stang ran faster. He could feel his breath quicken, the cold air burning his throat as he pushed himself harder and harder. Sweat beaded down his lower back, welling out from under the shoulder straps of his Bergen. Normally, he would never have allowed it to happen as the moisture would make him far more susceptible to the cold the moment he stopped moving. But today was different.

Screw Pearl and his games. Today Stang was the master of his own environment, not a slave to it. Nobody could best him out here. Nobody was as fit or strong as he.

His thighs burnt as he rounded the last bend in the path and caught sight of the huge slab of rock that stood like a gateway to his base. Passing to the left of it, he came to a halt and glanced down at his stopwatch. Thirty-eight minutes flat. A full minute off his record!

Although now exposed to the full force of the wind, Stang swaggered the last few yards, moving deliberately slowly. His core temperature was still up, making him feel impervious to the elements, but it was more than that. It was the fact that he was Vidar Stang – a Norwegian hunter, forged from Viking stock – and nothing on this entire continent could stop him.

As he entered the base, he sealed off the dilapidated wooden door and moved further into the adjacent rooms. Ditching his Bergen and outer Gore-Tex jacket, he hurried along the corridor of stacked equipment, arriving at his metal chest. Quickly propping up his hunting rifle next to it, he stood and stared, picturing the cover of the magazine within.

Why not use up the very last of the perfume? His time in Antarctica was done. Soon, he would be back in Europe and able to realise every one of the fantasies he had played out in those dark winter months. It would be an orgy of long-denied pleasure and Stang vowed once more that he would give himself over to it fully. While he relished the thought, he felt a bead of sweat run down behind his ear and through the stubble of his shaved neck.

Yanking the key from the leather strap at his neck, Stang lunged forward, nostrils flaring greedily. Just as his hands took hold of the chest, his rifle, resting nearby, slowly toppled over on to the floor. There was a crack of gunfire, the report deafeningly loud at such close range, before the bullet ricocheted off one of the base’s metal supports, sending shock waves across the room.

Stang reeled back in surprise. Instinctively, he covered his ears with his hands, but it seemed as if the sound itself was still echoing within him. Then the full realisation of what had happened dawned on him – he had fired his weapon accidentally!

The implications were too shocking to contemplate. It was the one absolute in weapons handling that had been drilled into him, right from the start. In the past, he had always been fastidious about his rifle. He had prided himself on having perfect control. Now, all that was gone.

Tears of confusion began to well up in the corners of his eyes, before flowing freely down his face. Stang could taste the salty liquid in his mouth as his entire frame began to shake. He gasped, feeling as though the air was sticking to his windpipe, while his vision blurred. Shadows stretched across the room, merging like the blots of a Rorschach test.

How could he have made such a stupid mistake? The ill discipline was unforgivable!

Emotion wracked him, intensifying with each moment that passed until he could take it no more.

‘The circle,’ he managed to say in a cracked voice.

Stang crawled there on his hands and knees, bashing against the corner of the metal chest as he raced forward with one purpose in mind – he had to reach the circle.

In one corner of the room a neat ring of rocks had been placed. Each had been painted white, while lying dead centre was a small paper bag of the type used for airsickness. Scraping his massive thighs as he crawled over the stones, Stang curled into a ball and jammed the open end of the bag over his mouth and nose. The bag inflated and deflated as he tried to regulate his breathing and slow the onset of the panic attack.

‘I’m inside. I’m inside . . .’ he repeated, the words bubbling out in a continuous mantra from somewhere past the back of his throat. The circle was his one place of sanctuary. Once he was inside, nowhere else existed for him. It was as if the stones themselves were able to blot out the world all around. His father had taught him to do this when they had crossed the wild expanses of northern Norway together.

Several minutes went by with just the soft crinkling of the paper bag before Stang shifted his weight. His massive body twisted awkwardly within the confines of the ring as he dragged himself on to his knees and finally raised himself higher.

Things were getting worse. He could feel it. Grinding his fingers into his temples, he tried to relieve the pressure but it still felt as if a vice were ratcheting tighter and tighter around his mind. With each turn it seemed to wring out the very last of his sanity.

He needed to see Pearl again. To confront him once and for all.

THE TWO SKI-DOOS
powered on through the blizzard, the buzz of their engines lost to the howling wind. All around them snow rushed past in an unending flow, with each gust threatening to topple the men from their saddles.

Luca sat in the first Ski-Doo with Katz directly behind. His body took the brunt of the wind, shoulders hunched as he tried to stave off the incredible cold. As he drove, his left arm was crooked upwards holding the Global Positioning System beneath his goggles. He didn’t bother to look up. Beyond the buckled windscreen of the machine, there was nothing to see but white.

Every few minutes, Luca would signal to Katz to check that the others were still behind. Swivelling in his seat, he could just make out the murky headlights of the second Ski-Doo and the dark smudge of Joel and Andy’s silhouettes. They were driving only inches behind, so close that he could have leant back and touched the front skids had he wanted to.

Nearly thirty minutes had passed since they had left the drill site and now the wind came in terrifying squalls. They hit every few seconds, rocking the Ski-Doos from side to side. But worse than the wind was the snow that came with it. Heavy and wet, it slapped against the hoods of their jackets and clung to the fabric of their outer clothing.

The snow was unstoppable, working its way into their mouths and noses while the ice-cold particles clung to any exposed flesh. They had each pulled their neck gaiters high over their cheeks, but almost immediately the fabric was encrusted in a thick layer of snow that threatened to suffocate them. They would raise their hands, quickly brushing off the worst of it, but more snow soon took its place, like sand draining back across a hole in the beach.

Without warning, there was a shunt from behind as Andy’s Ski-Doo smashed into theirs. Both Katz and Luca were thrown forward in their seats, jarring against the handlebars and causing them to swerve wildly to the left. Luca only just managed to keep the vehicle upright, leaning over with his whole body to correct their balance. Then, only a few minutes later, it happened again. It was obvious that Andy was getting too cold to continue driving.

Luca cursed, bringing the screen of his GPS even closer. They were only another kilometre from the old Russian base that Dedov had told him about. They had to make it there. It was their only chance.

Already, he could feel the numbing effects of the cold. No matter how hard he tried to focus everything seemed to have slowed, becoming abstract and unimportant. He knew that his mind was trying to retreat from the terrifying reality all around and that soon he would simply slip into unconsciousness. Soon there would only be the endless white of the storm.

There was a sudden dip in the snow, then another, making them almost bounce out of their seats. The ground then began a sharp incline, bringing them up towards the top of the storm. As they continued climbing visibility started to break through in places, revealing the peaks of the high mountains.

There was a roar from the tracks as they passed from the edge of the snowline on to exposed rock. The jolt sent Katz crashing forward into Luca, with his massive bodyweight pitching them both on to the ground. A second later Andy’s machine slammed into the back of theirs, engine revving high before it spluttered and stalled.

Luca slowly kicked off Katz’s deadweight and staggered to his feet. The right side of his face had smashed down on to a rock, bruising his cheek. As he stood up he swayed, almost unable to keep his balance. He could see Joel and Andy still seated on the snow machine directly behind, the one hunched into the other for warmth. They were both just sitting, waiting.

Andy wasn’t moving. His arms had slipped off the handlebars and now lay limply at his sides. As Luca approached Joel attempted to say something, but the words fell from his mouth in an unintelligible slur. His entire lower jaw was numb, the cold freezing it like a powerful anaesthetic. He tried again, but with no better result.