Not for the first time during his trek, the thought of Christmas entered his rambling mind. After all, he was in Greenland, though that shouldn’t have brought Christmas to the forefront of his mind because Christmas hadn’t had any meaning to Will for as long as he could remember. Every year, he’d either been working overseas during the festive season or sitting at home on his own. Right now, either seemed preferable to what he was doing. Seeing Santa Claus’s alleged base of operations up close and personal in winter was frightening. It was a lonely place to be. Maybe that was apt.
Dean Martin’s “Let it Snow” began playing in a loop in his head. He didn’t know why, as snow was the very last thing he wanted, but he let the jingle continue while thinking about tree lights and warm log fires: anything that took his mind off the fact that it was getting dark, the headwind was becoming stronger, and if he collapsed to the ground it was unlikely anyone would find his body until spring.
He wondered what his neighbors at his new home in Southwark did at Christmas. Perhaps David the mortician invited art dealer Phoebe and retired major Dickie Mountjoy into his apartment for some home-cooked mince pie and a glass of mulled wine. Maybe David would extend the invitation to Will.
He’d like that.
Shards of ice hit him as he moved alongside the base of a mountain and encountered a stronger wind. Visibility was very poor now; no more clear air playing tricks on the mind, instead a dark sky and weather that was howling.
Then lights were ahead of him, exactly where they were supposed to be, illuminating SUVs, a house, a track, and a small Islander aircraft.
His destination.
But as he looked at the isolated settlement, part of him wondered if it was preferable to walk on by and take his chances with the elements.
The four people who operated out of the remote place had always said that they’d help him so long as he continued to keep his mouth shut about their work here and in Canada. The protocol to get in touch with them was a call from a specific pay phone in Greenland’s west coast town of Maniitsoq, a message placed in a dead-letter box in the same settlement, followed by one of the men clearing the DLB and leaving instructions there as to how to make human contact. Will had no ability to get all the way across the country to follow this protocol, so he had no choice other than to turn up uninvited at their home. That would make them ill at ease, and rather than help him, it was just as likely that they’d club him over the head, chop his body into small pieces, and scatter his remains in the surrounding countryside where they would be quickly eaten by wildlife.
He was sure all four of them were here, because the tiny Islander aircraft was next to the house. Were it not here, at least two of them would be out of the country, meaning he’d have a chance to negotiate with the remaining two and get their help or overpower them and flee if they refused to aid him. With all of them here, he might as well be walking into a lions’ den.
He wished he had other options, someone like the trawler captain who could hide him in a boat and sail him across the Davis Strait to Canada. But he didn’t, so he continued toward the lights while holding his pistol underneath his jacket.
Many times during his journey here, he’d considered different scenarios of approaching the house — waiting for one of the men to exit the place and approaching him while he was away from the others; placing a message through the front door or under the wipers of one of the SUVs and then retreating to a place of his choosing where he could watch them approach while he had his gun trained on them; maybe grabbing one of the men and holding a gun to his head while he negotiated terms with the others. But all these options were too aggressive, considering that he needed their trust and significant help. He had to put his life in their hands, even though the thought of doing so made him feel sick.
Nor was he willing to wait for two or more of the men to get in the Islander and fly off before he made contact with the remaining team. Waiting for the right time to approach the captain’s homestead in Norway had nearly killed him. He wasn’t going to put his body through that agony again.
Marsha Gage made a call to Assistant Commissioner Danny Labelle of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. After she told him about her role in hunting MI6 officer Will Cochrane and explained that she was already in contact with his compatriots in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, she said, “It’s a long shot, I know, but there is a chance he may be trying to reach the States by infiltrating the east coast of Canada. Can you let me know if you spot anything suspicious?”
Labelle laughed. “You have any idea how long our eastern coastline is? There aren’t enough Canadians, let alone Mounties, to cover that area.”
“I know. Just want you to let me know if anything lands in your lap that doesn’t feel right.”
“Okay. I’ll put out the word, plus speak to our Coast Guard. Why Canada?”
Marsha stared at her map of the world. “Like I say, a long shot. But I’m wondering if I missed Cochrane in Greenland, and if so whether he’s headed to the next nearest landmass. And that would be Canada.”
Will approached the house, knocked on the door, and took five quick steps back so that he was partly bathed in darkness. Other lights came on in the house, movement could be heard from inside, and the door was opened.
A person, silhouetted in the doorframe, said in Danish, “Yes?”
Will hesitated, then responded in the same language, “Thomas Nigh. I need your help. I’m sorry that…”
“You’re sorry?” The man laughed.
Will gripped his handgun tighter. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Actually, desperate.”
“That doesn’t excuse you being here.”
“I know.”
Silence.
“You want me to leave? Forget this happened?”
The man’s face was now visible in the hallway light. “Too late for that.”
“It’s never too late.”
“Oh, it is.” This was another man’s voice. From behind Will.
A gun barrel against the back of Will’s head was unmistakable. “I see.”
“Bet you do.”
The man in the hallway said, “I think you’d better come in so that we can decide what to do with you.”
Will was sitting at a kitchen table, his hands flat on its surface. His handgun was lying on a bench on the other side of the room. Next to it were rolled-up charts, maps of Greenland, compasses, a sextant, microscopes, plastic bags containing soil samples, a pile of academic papers, a jar of loose rolling tobacco, and a laptop. The four people were standing, watching him. One of them was smoking; the second was making hot drinks; the third was twirling a butcher’s knife; and the fourth was standing stock-still while pointing a handgun at Will’s head.
The person making the tea was the leader of a team that the scientific community of Greenland believed was Finnish and here to carry out research in geophysics and climate change. Nobody paid them any attention during their frequent expeditions north and to the west coast, as Greenland was awash with similar scientific outfits. But even if anyone took an interest in their activities, the trips within Greenland were purely for show. Their low-level flights into Canada were most certainly not.
They were a covert team of Russian GRU military intelligence operatives who used their cover in Greenland to make secret sorties into Canada, where they would refresh buried caches of weapons and supplies, monitor the activity of Canadian and American naval deployments in the Arctic, and report back to Moscow anything of interest that could support a Russian assault on the United States via Canada. It was a task for a bygone era; now the Cold War was over and Russia had no appetite or ability to engage head-on with America. But there were still some in the Russian high command who yearned for the good old days, hence this team was under direct orders to maintain and observe the Canadian flank. Though it was a futile task, it did nothing to diminish the risks the team took or the hardships it endured, particularly at this time of year. Typically operating in two-man teams, they would spend days and sometimes weeks in Canada’s harshest terrains, usually in the northern archipelago, before being picked up by the Islander and returned to Greenland. Will admired their professionalism, even though he was also well aware that they were highly trained killers.