Beneath the Ice (38 page)

Tapping the microphone several times, the American managed to restore a semblance of order.

‘After due consideration, the United States of America concurs with the Chilean proposal,’ he said. Sensing what was coming, silence gripped the room. ‘We support their motion that the Antarctic Treaty be suspended in its entirety pending a review.’

The announcement was greeted by shock. When the Chileans had tabled the motion nearly an hour ago, it had been met with incredulity and all but dismissed out of hand. But now the Americans had just added their weight to it, and in so doing had made it all but certain that it would be passed.

In just a few hours a treaty that had remained in effect for over sixty years would be dismantled. It had survived the pressures of the Cold War when Russia and America had skirted the continent, building science bases in lieu of military ones, and had competed in every indirect way imaginable. But always they had respected the ban on the commercialisation and militarisation of the seventh continent. And by extension the same adherence had rippled out across all the other nations vying for position in their wake. Against all odds, the Antarctic Treaty had worked.

‘In light of the unprecedented environmental damage we have seen,’ the American continued, switching his focus to the Russian delegation seated opposite, ‘we propose to send our fleet immediately to the Southern Ocean, to make an initial assessment and begin doing what we can to reverse this terrible tragedy.’

As if to remind the assembly what he was referring to, he glanced behind him at an enormous projector screen. A satellite image depicted the Southern Ocean and a basic outline of the Antarctic coastline. A rough boundary line had been overlaid depicting the extent of the de-oxygenated water. It covered thousands of square miles of ocean, spreading out like a great stain on the face of the planet.

The single piece of positive news was that the reaction had been slowing over the last forty-eight hours, and at three o’clock that morning they had received an unconfirmed report that it had actually stopped.

‘The United States of America has the capability to perform this task and she will do so, the best she can.’

He stopped on a patriotic note, gaze still fixed on the three men fronting the Russian delegation as if daring them to retort. They remained silent, faces still flushed at the sheer extent of their vilification.

For them the emergency meeting had started in a whirlwind of partial information and unconfirmed reports as everyone fought to understand the extent of the crisis. As one of the two major players in Antarctica, Russia had an interest in almost every facet of life on the continent and had never been shy of voicing her opinion. But then things had shifted. Slowly but surely, it had been implied that responsibility for the calamity lay with them.

At first it had been only muttered accusations, which the Russians had hotly denied, but then a consensus seemed to build and so-called evidence was circulated. Only after it had passed through the hands of almost every other nation around the table were the Russians finally shown the damning report, leaving them reeling. How could it have come to this?

As the long-standing head of the prestigious Antarctic Research Institute on Bering Street in Saint Petersburg, Sergei Lukinski had at first refuted the report in a fury. Little over an hour later he slumped back in his chair, steeped in shame and disbelief. What was there left to say?

He had been a colleague of Vladimir Dedov’s for the last thirty years and, while Lukinski had always found the man to be a headstrong maverick with little regard for the rule book, he just couldn’t believe Dedov capable of an ecological crime on this scale. If there was one thing Lukinski was sure of, Dedov had always loved Antarctica. He would never knowingly have tried to harm it.

But somehow the British had irrefutable evidence of his involvement. Lukinski’s mind boggled as to how they had procured it so quickly, but he had had little time to dwell on that. As the news spread that a member of the Russian Polar Academy was responsible for such unimaginable destruction, the other delegates had distanced themselves as though the disgrace had suddenly become contagious. Nations that would never have dared so much as to voice a word of dissent, now stared with brazen hostility across the table. It was as if the Russian shame was shining like a spotlight on their placard.

Lukinski was an intelligent man, well suited to politics, but in the face of such united condemnation he could only look on as the Americans took centre-stage. As the motion was officially tabled for a dismantling of the Antarctic Treaty under Part 12, Protocol 7, he lowered his gaze to the floor. Cloaked in the most impenetrable legal language, he knew that the underlying message was actually very simple. Antarctica was up for grabs. And once the land claims started, every nation would be forced to follow suit or risk being left with nothing.

Once it was done, it could never be undone. No one would ever willingly give back land. Finally, the last unclaimed chunk of the planet was to be carved up. Lines would be drawn and argued over, the true nature of ownership made all the more surreal by the sheer absence of natural features in the vast, frozen expanse.

Lukinski only half-listened to the translation echoing in his earpiece. By controlling the clean-up operation, the Americans would make themselves ‘responsible’ for almost the entire eastern ice shelf of Antarctica. With three thousand summer workers already stationed at McMurdo, plus their showcase station at the Geographical South Pole, they would soon control the lion’s share of the continent.

Lukinski knew that under any other circumstances he would have insisted that Russia play an equal role in the clean-up operation and mobilise their winter fleet. But no one would accept their involvement. Not now. Not after such absolute disgrace.

As the American turned to walk off the stage, head bowed with grievous duty, Lukinski eyed him warily. It did seem as if the Americans were remarkably well placed to be able to action the clean-up so soon. They were driving things forward at an unstoppable pace, and by coincidence, seemed to have the right assets in place to back up each move.

Lukinski’s eyes darkened. To him this stank of a set up, but as suspicious as he was, he knew that once the memorandum was passed and the Treaty dismantled, the world would forget the details. In the confusion only two points would be remembered – Russia had caused the disaster, while the US had cleaned it up.

The American seemed to pause at the edge of the stage, eyes briefly connecting with someone hidden in the wings. He then took his place at the great table and, with all the gravitas of a man charged with saving the fate of the Southern Ocean, began issuing orders to the tide of underlings already massing behind his chair.

Fifty feet away, Eleanor Page exited the room through an unseen service entrance towards the back of the mighty ballroom. She moved at a brisk pace down the whitewashed, utilitarian corridor, heading for a car parked just outside. As she walked her eyes stayed locked on the small screen of her mobile phone, waiting for the signal to register.

On the face of it, she had much to be pleased about. All but two of the fleet were already heading south from Cape Town, while the other boats were in the final stage of preparation and would be clear of the harbour by the end of the day. Her other main concern had been the Russians at the emergency meeting, but they had been far less vocal in their defence than she had anticipated. She shook her head, amazed even now by how proud the Russians were, and how easy it was to manipulate that pride. Once they had been publicly shamed they had stared like sullen schoolchildren, reeling from the injustice of it all.

It had been remarkably easy to persuade the rest of the world that Vladimir Dedov was to blame, and as long as she managed to quash any evidence to the contrary, she now felt certain that things would run their course.

One of her security detail was standing by the exit, holding the heavy door to the street ajar. Passing through into the daylight, she immediately pressed the redial button on her phone as the waiting car started its engines. There was a frustrating pause, during which Eleanor felt the muscles of her cheek twinge several times, before the line finally connected.

‘Get me Kieran Bates,’ she said.

The only thing that remained undone was to find the flashcard Beatrice Makuru had hidden. It was all that linked Pearl, and by extension America, to the seed.

A FLURRY OF
sand swirled into the room as Bear opened her eyes. She watched it settle across the meagre furnishings before there was the sound of the barn doors being slammed shut against the wind. Outside, a storm was raging across the Karoo Desert.

Her gaze slowly drifted from one item to the next in the room. She could see the underside of two faded plastic chairs only a few feet away; further back along the side of the breezeblock wall coils of rope hung on nails. Closer up, she could see a thin plastic pipe running down into her own forearm, the end lost to a gauze bandage that ran tight across the muscle. Bear stared at it for several seconds, trying to work out what it was. She had been unconscious for so long that everything felt abstract and new. Eventually, she realised what she was looking at – they were giving her a blood transfusion.

Bear shifted her weight on the mattress. Immediately, an intense cramping pain shot up through her stomach. She gasped, waiting for the throbbing to subside, when from somewhere deep within her subconscious, a sudden panic took hold. Delving her hands between her thighs, she started to tremble as the memories came flooding back.

‘No, no, no,’ she groaned, raising her hands and tilting them towards the light. There on her palms was a weak stain of blood and for the longest time she stared at it, transfixed by the sight. Then, suddenly, she begun pawing at the hospital gown she was wearing, dragging her palms across the fabric as she tried to wipe the stain away. But with each attempt, the blood only seemed to smear further up her wrists. She started to scream, thrashing from side to side on the mattress, until two arms shot out, pinning her down.

Bear looked up and into the face of a man with a dishevelled black beard and a pursed slit of a mouth. He was regarding her with a look of utter dispassion, like a butcher might a carcass on a meat hook. With a heave of his brawny arms, he wrenched her off the mattress and on to a stretcher set on a gurney standing just to one side. At the sudden movement the IV line whipped round, nearly detaching itself from Bear’s arm.

‘Careful!’ shouted a voice from somewhere behind. ‘Do it slowly!’

Concealed in the shadows at the back of the room, Kieran Bates looked on. He wore a light blue T-shirt and desert-style camouflage trousers, and stood with arms folded tight across his chest. His expression was fixed, masking a virulent contempt for the American brute in front of him, now securing Bear’s body to the stretcher with thin cargo straps, ratcheting them tight as if he were packing boxes.

‘Get her into the van,’ Bates ordered, trying to keep his tone level, before he turned and vanished into the sandstorm outside.

Bates walked across the windswept courtyard with his body tilted forward. His eyes were narrowed almost to closing as the visibility had dropped to only a few metres. Several seconds passed before he was even able to find the security door in the neighbouring building. He ran his card down through the slot and heard a low buzz as the lock clicked open.

Once inside he dusted down his shirt before running his fingers across his face, trying to get the worst of the grit out of his eyes. When he finally looked up, the base commander of the interrogation site was staring at him across the makeshift office.

‘We still haven’t been able to reach Langley,’ he said, tilting back in his chair. ‘Satellites are down in this goddamn storm.’

Bates shrugged as if disappointed. ‘Storm or not,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to get her moving. You heard what the medic said.’

The commander nodded, having no intention of letting one of the detainees croak on his watch. With the British agent volunteering to escort her out, he wouldn’t even need to sacrifice some of his already overstretched team. There were only fourteen of them on the entire site and, with the wind as it was, he was going to need every available man just to secure the farm’s dilapidated roofing. Already a chunk had been ripped off one of the smaller, outlying buildings.

Although the British agent was ostensibly in charge of the new detainee, he knew well enough that any transfer off the base had to have the prior consent of Langley, even in a medical emergency. The commander had been trying to reach them for the last three hours, but so far all communication had been severed by the dust clouds and swirling storm outside. It had happened once before and lasted nearly two days.

‘Sure you don’t want to wait till this clears up? We can get a chopper in as soon as the wind drops a little. Looks like it’s rough out there.’

Bates sucked in air through his teeth, as if deliberating. In fact, he had spent nearly an hour speaking with the medic, plaguing him with doubts as to the seriousness of Bear’s condition. Previously the medic had been content simply to monitor the situation and see how things went. Now he was advocating an immediate evacuation, such was the power of persuasion and the desire of most people to cover their own back.

After a moment’s pause, Bates shook his head. ‘Used to drive the Land Rover 110s in Iraq so I’m used to this kind of storm. And truth be told, I could do with getting out of here myself. Got a touch of cabin fever.’

The commander nodded, appreciating the sentiment. He swivelled in his chair, turning straight on.

‘What did you Brits call those things again?’ he asked casually, but the years of supervising interrogations had given him an intuitive need to verify every fact. He had done two tours of Iraq himself and once been briefly seconded to the Regiment, as the British liked to refer to the SAS.

‘The 110s?’ Bates asked. ‘Pinkies. Comes from the old desert rat days.’