Tundra Page 12

  ‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘The problem is knowing whom to trust to do it.’

  ‘You’re suggesting you do it?’ Medievsky’s tone was incredulous.

  ‘Of course not. And you can’t do it yourself. You’re in charge, and needed. No. I suggest you pick someone who can handle a gun, and about whom you feel the most confident.’

  ‘Haglund.’

  ‘Again, no.’ When Medievsky opened his mouth to protest, Purkiss went on: ‘I’m not doubting that you trust him. But he’s the engineer. He’s crucial to the running of this place. He can’t be tied down.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Who else do you feel comfortable with? Montrose?’

  ‘No,’ said Medievsky quickly. ‘Frank Wyatt.’

  Purkiss felt a small punch of triumph in his gut. He’d read Medievsky correctly. The team leader wasn’t going to ask either of the women to stand guard, nor was Avner a likely candidate. And Purkiss had seen enough of Medievsky’s interactions with Montrose to know that he didn’t trust his second in command. Which left Wyatt, by process of elimination.

  ‘Okay.’ Purkiss paused. ‘What are you going to do about Keys’s body?’

  This time Medievsky had an answer, and looked relieved about it. ‘Gunnar and I have already discussed it. We’re going to move the body into the cold storage locker.’ His manner became suddenly brusque, as if he was annoyed at the way the questioning had been turned round on him. ‘You still have not told me how you would go about finding who it is. The killer and saboteur.’

  Purkiss collected his thoughts. ‘Any of us had the opportunity. It was the dead of night, and nobody heard anything. So you won’t find out that way. The way to do it is to establish why. What the motivation is behind all of this.’ He allowed a pause, before saying: ‘And you know what it is, Oleg, don’t you?’

  Medievsky rose, slowly. He looked utterly appalled, wonderingly so, as if Purkiss had just approached him and punched him in the face.

  ‘You say... I am the killer?’

  ‘No. I don’t think you are. But you have an inkling, at least, what his or her agenda is.’

  Medievsky remained standing. The desk between them seemed to be all that was stopping him from stepping up to Purkiss.

  ‘You had better explain.’

  ‘When you spoke to me, in this office, after the episode with my snowmobile. I said the fuel leak was down to bad luck. You hesitated.’ Purkiss leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared at Medievsky’s eyes. ‘You knew it was sabotage, just as well as I did. You knew somebody tried to kill me out there. And it’s not the sort of thing a scientist would normally consider. You had a reason not to be surprised.’

  Medievsky returned his gaze, his features angry, but riven by conflict.

  ‘Why was that, Oleg?’ said Purkiss. ‘Why exactly did the possibility of attempted murder here at Yarkovsky Station come as no surprise to you?’

  Medievsky’s eyes flicked away for an instant, then back. Purkiss pressed home his advantage, his voice low, urgent. ‘Come on, Oleg. I was the one on the receiving end, remember? I came close to having my innards strewn across the tundra. I have a right to know.’

  Something Purkiss had said seem to snag Medievsky, cause him to look away again, but with a puzzlement that hadn’t been there before. This time he didn’t make immediate eye contact again. When he sat down once more, folding his hands in front of his face, his elbows on the desk, there was an air of renewed confidence about him.

  ‘Perhaps I am not the only one keeping secrets, John,’ he said with quiet emphasis. ‘Perhaps you too have not been entirely truthful. Because yes, you are right. I did suspect your vehicle had been tampered with, and I am now all the more convinced that it was. But this raises the question: why would somebody wish to kill you? You, in particular? A journalist?’

  By now his manner was forceful, triumphant, even. He leaned closer across the desk.

  ‘Who are you, really, John Farmer?’

  Purkis sat back.

  ‘We seem to have reached a stalemate.’

  *

  Purkiss took the first turn.

  There’d been a lot of back and forth, a succession of silences, all necessary steps in this type of awkward situation in which each party recognised the need for disclosure but was uneasy about making the first move. Purkiss let Medievsky be the one who made the suggestion: we each tell one another the full truth. He’d agreed, even though he had no intention of doing anything of the kind, and knew Medievsky knew it.

  Purkiss had learned through years of experience that lies were most convincing when intermingled with statements that were true to varying degrees. So he began with an outright truth. ‘I’m not a journalist.’

  Medievsky’s look was one of quiet satisfaction.

  ‘I work for the British government.’

  It was also true, in a sense, though in fact Purkiss remained unclear himself about the ultimate identity of his employers. He worked for Vale in a freelance capacity, and had no real idea about who it was Vale was answerable to.

  ‘And I’m here to investigate a potential security breach, by one of your staff.’

  (True in the broadest sense.)

  ‘Though I don’t know which one of them it is.’

  (A lie.)

  Medievsky listened intently. When it was clear Purkiss wasn’t going to say any more, at least not spontaneously, he said: ‘A security breach.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of what nature?’

  ‘Your turn, Medievsky.’

  The Russian seemed to consider, and his features pronounced him satisfied so far. He said, ‘Unlike you, John – if that’s your real name – I am who I say I am. A scientist in the field of soil composition research, and leader of the team here at Yarkovsky Station. But when I was first appointed as head of station, two years ago, I received a visit at my office in Moscow from some officials of the Russian State.’

  FSB, thought Purkiss.

  ‘I was congratulated on my appointment, and my visitors expressed confidence that I would see Russia proud with my leadership. It was clear to me, however, that the gentlemen had not come simply to flatter me. And indeed, they revealed that Yarkovsky Station was of critical importance not just for the scientific work carried out here, but for another reason.’ Medievsky hesitated, as though aware he was about to cross a line, betray a confidence.

  Purkiss waited.

  ‘There is something out there in the tundra, some item or location in the broad vicinity of the station, which is of vital import to the security of the Russian State. I do not know what it is, or where it is. My visitors would not tell me, and cautioned me in no uncertain terms that it would be highly inadvisable of me to try to find out more about it. But they said there were others who were seeking it, and they asked me to be vigilant for any suspicious or unusual activity at Yarkovsky Station and to report it to them immediately.’

  ‘Nisselovich’s disappearance,’ said Purkiss.

  ‘Of course. But that had to be reported anyway, in its own right.’ Medievsky glanced down. ‘I should also have reported my suspicion that your snowmobile had been sabotaged. I did not.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ said Purkiss.

  Anger flared in Medievsky’s eyes. ‘I’m a scientist, John. Not the eyes and ears of the authorities, not some FSB apparatchik. My loyalty is to the facts of nature. I did not want a posse of State functionaries coming here and trampling all over my station, based on the speculation that a leaking fuel tank represented an attempt at murder.’ His jaw tightened. ‘I am old enough to remember how things were under the old regime. The fear, the grovelling obedience to one’s masters. Not everybody in Russia welcomes the return to the old ways we are now seeing. Not all of us want the past back.’

  Purkiss studied him. Some item or location in the vicinity of the station. He wondered if he was making a leap too far, fitting the facts to suit the idea that was growing in his mind.

  ‘A
s you mentioned, you’re a scientist,’ said Purkiss. ‘You’re curious by nature. Weren’t you tempted to investigate further, even though you’d been warned off? To find out what this great secret was that you’d been told to guard?’

  Medievsky gave a soft laugh. ‘I said I refused to be an FSB flunky, John. I didn’t say I was stupid, or naïve. Yes, of course I was tempted. My career is solid, my reputation growing. It wasn’t worth jeopardising that for the sake of idle curiosity. If Moscow had discovered I was nosing around – and they would have – my time here at the station would have been terminated. As I myself might even have been.’

  ‘But you must have speculated about it.’

  Medievsky shrugged. ‘I assume there is some sort of government base nearby that we don’t know about. Military, perhaps.’

  Was that it? Purkiss wondered. Had the site of the mammoth fossils, the Nekropolis, been taken over for military purposes? But why that particular locale?

  ‘It seems we’re on the same side here, Oleg,’ said Purkiss. ‘In answer to your question about the security breach I’m here to investigate: my employers are being as tight-lipped as your visitors, as you call them. I don’t know quite what I’m looking for, either. I’ve just been told to watch out for suspicious behaviour among the staff at this station, and to look into it further.’

  ‘Then I am prepared to cooperate with you,’ said Medievsky. ‘Within the bounds of reason, and of my responsibility to this station and my team.’ He stood up. ‘I will interview the others, for completeness’ sake. And I will tell Frank to stand guard over the generators.’

  Purkiss rose also. ‘How long will it be before anyone on the outside notices we’ve been cut off?’

  ‘Forty eight hours,’ Medievsky said immediately. ‘We establish routine contact every two days with Moscow and London and New York. The weather here causes temporary connection failures from time to time, so a loss of contact for twenty four hours isn’t considered remarkable.’

  ‘And the nearest manned location is the other station to the north?’

  ‘Correct. Saburov-Kennedy Station, almost one hundred and forty kilometres away. But the terrain in between is harsh, John. Harsher than anything you have seen so far. There is no road. It would be hazardous in the extreme to try to make the journey.’ He gestured around him. ‘We have food and fuel to last us many times over. Forty eight hours, and assistance will come.’

  Unless something else happens first, thought Purkiss.

  Sixteen

  The call came at ten past ten in the morning, an hour after Lenilko had returned to the office.

  He’d left, finally, at eleven the previous evening. Natalya had greeted him with less hostility than he’d been expecting. The twins were fast asleep.

  ‘I’ll spend some time with them tomorrow,’ he promised. And he had, waking at seven to prepare Sunday breakfast for them all, romping with them on the new carpet of the apartment’s living room floor. He’d left standing instructions for any call from Yarkovsky Station to be routed to his personal cell phone, but it had stayed silent through the night.

  At eight thirty, with a sense of guilt assuaged, which made him feel guilty in itself, Lenilko set off through the new snowfall to Lubyanskaya Square.

  When Anna put the call through to his office, he detected a trace of her usual exuberance again. She was one of only four of five other staff in on a Sunday, and as he’d expected had got there before him, her greeting pleasant but nervous.

  From nearly six thousand kilometres away, Wyatt’s voice said: ‘There have been major developments.’

  Lenilko felt his pulse stir. He glanced at the time-zone clock on the wall. Just after four p.m. in Yakutsk.

  ‘The doctor, Keys, was killed last night. And the satellite link is down. The dish has been sabotaged.’

  Lenilko listened to Wyatt’s concise, impassive account with a growing excitement, avoiding interruptions until it was clear Wyatt had finished. He said: ‘Purkiss?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Why the doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Lenilko breathed deeply. The sabotage of the communication system meant some kind of action was imminent.

  Wyatt asked, ‘What am I looking for, exactly?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘Time’s short.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lenilko.

  ‘Medievsky’s told me to guard the generators. I’m on my way there after this.’

  Lenilko thought about it. ‘He trusts you.’

  ‘Or he wants me out of the way for a while.’ Wyatt paused. ‘Purkiss may have put him up to it. The two of them have just been talking in private.’

  Lenilko closed his eyes. Yes. Of course it had been Purkiss.

  With a sense of stepping off the edge of a precipice, he made his decision.

  ‘My order to you yesterday. About treating Purkiss as an untouchable.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m revoking it.’

  Silence for a few seconds.

  Wyatt said: ‘You’ve received new orders?’

  ‘Whether or not I have is my business. You take your orders from me.’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’

  ‘Call me three hours from now, if you can,’ said Lenilko. ‘Regardless of whether you’ve learned anything new.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lenilko put down the handset and turned gently in his office chair, one way and then the other.

  The second satellite dish had been his idea, something he didn’t regard as a stroke of genius so much as a prudent precautionary measure. There was always the possibility of the Siberian storms knocking out the main communication system, and that would have cut Wyatt off entirely. Engineers employed directly through Lenilko’s department had installed the dish twenty-five kilometres to the south east of Yarkovsky Station a week before Wyatt’s arrival there.

  Wyatt was right. Time was short, and Lenilko didn’t know what Wyatt was looking for. He owed it to his agent, and to himself, to find out.

  He picked up the phone, his gut tight.

  ‘Anna. Get me Director Rokva. Yes, at home.’

  He replaced the phone and waited.

  *

  The restaurant was no more than a quarter full, caught as it was between the breakfast and lunch surges. Many of the people at the tables looked as if they’d come in only to escape the cold.

  Rokva was there already, alone in a corner booth. He’d ordered tea for them both. There’d be bodyguards nearby, but Lenilko failed to identify them among the clientele of the restaurant.

  ‘Semyon Vladimirovich,’ said the Director, after Lenilko had sat down. ‘You understand what it means, that I’ve asked you to meet here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ When Rokva had called back, Lenilko had said he needed to talk to him about the Yarkovsky Station project. Rokva interrupted him immediately, telling him to be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. Not his own office in the Lubyanka, not one of the usual dining venues frequented by officers of the FSB, but this middling establishment several blocks from Red Square. It meant that Rokva wanted to minimise the risk of their conversation being overheard. Audio surveillance was less likely here than even in his Lubyanka office.

  Rokva poured tea, added lemon to his cup. When he looked up expectantly, Lenilko realised he himself was supposed to start the ball rolling.

  ‘You no doubt know the essentials of my Yarkovsky Station operation, sir. I have an asset at the station, the Briton, Francis Wyatt. I placed him there in response to chatter on the Spetssvyaz channels, in which Yarkovsky Station was starting to come up as a topic too frequently for it to be coincidental.’

  Spetssvyaz, the Special Communications and Information Service, was the Russian Federation’s cryptologic intelligence agency, the service dedicated to among other things the interception and analysis of foreign communications. It was the approximate equivalent of the National Security Agency of the
United States. Its relations with the FSB’s various departments were complex, and its willingness to share information varied. The agency would sometimes release raw data to the FSB, leaving it to do the analysis. It was a series of these data dumps which had alerted Lenilko to the mentions of Yarkovsky Station, though the context was too garbled to bear analysis.

  ‘Wyatt has been in place nine weeks. Thus far, he’s had little to report. But he communicated with me via our clandestine satellite link up just minutes before I called you at home. The main satellite dish has been sabotaged, cutting the station off. And the resident doctor was murdered last night, his death made to look like suicide.’

  A tiny crease of interest appeared between Rovka’s brows. He sipped his tea. ‘What do you want to ask me?’

  ‘Director Rokva, something is happening, or about to happen, at Yarkovsky Station. The break in communications can only be temporary, as help will be triggered automatically after forty eight hours of silence.’ Lenilko chose his words carefully. ‘What is the significance of Yarkovsky Station? I mean, beyond the fact that it’s renowned for its research. What might an enemy be doing there? Be willing to kill for?’

  Rokva took so long to reply that Lenilko wondered whether the Director was waiting for more from him. At last the small man said, ‘It’s your project, Semyon. We allow independent work by officers of your seniority precisely because we expect you to show initiative, to come up with answers without handholding on our part. Isn’t it your job to find out what is happening at the station?’

  In other circumstances Lenilko would have been stung, would have felt rebuked, shamed into silence. But he thought of Wyatt, and of the speed at which events were following one another at the station, and he pressed on, emboldened. ‘With respect, sir, I believe you do know more about Yarkovsky Station and this whole business than you’re letting on. I believe there’s something you want to tell me, but are trying hard not to. You yourself remarked just now on the choice of setting in which you requested this talk of ours to take place. There’s something you need to say.’