The eating area looked exactly as they’d left it the night before. Hynd and Cally made a quick sweep of all the guestrooms, before Hynd came back with a thumb up. They all filtered into what had been Waterston’s room the night before, a suite even larger and more opulent than that which Banks had been afforded.
“You got your phone, Prof?” Galloway asked.
The older man took out his phone, and for long seconds, the only sound was the beep as he pressed buttons. He finally looked up from the screen.
“We’ve got a signal, but it’s weak,” he said, and handed the phone over to Banks. “And it’s not on the phone network, just on the internet browser.”
“That’ll do,” Banks said. But the next few minutes were frustrating as he tried, unsuccessfully, to get a contact back at base. In the end, he resorted to basics, and sent an email detailing their situation, copying in everybody’s email addresses he could remember. The phone’s battery was down to less than a quarter left when he was done, so he switched it off and tucked it in his pocket.
“I’ll hold on to it,” he said, and Waterston nodded in reply.
“Any joy?” Hynd asked.
“We’ll know if they email us back,” Banks replied. “I’ll check in half an hour. In the meantime, see if you can get us some coffee somehow. And rustle up some grub from the kitchen through the back. We might be here for a while. Take Wiggo with you; it’ll keep him out of trouble.”
The scientists were gathered at the large picture window overlooking the runway and the animal enclosures beyond, but they weren’t taking in the view, instead engaged in hushed but heated conversation. Galloway, in particular, seemed animated, almost angry, and Banks could make a good guess at why. He heard a clatter and curse from through the back; Wiggo had at least found the kitchen. He walked across to join the scientists, while McCally took the lull in proceedings as an opportunity to stand at the open door and have a smoke.
Banks was about to question Galloway as to what he did, or didn’t, know when a movement out on the boggy land caught his eye. He stepped up close to the window for a better look, and saw twenty of the large elk; females and young in the main, running, full-pelt from left to right across his view. The cause of their flight became obvious seconds later as four wolves, spread out to cover a wide area, ran behind the elk, keeping pace with them, keeping them running in the hope of wearing down a weak deer. Banks had seen this before in Labrador with timber wolves and caribou, but the larger size of the beasts involved here made it, somehow, awe-inspiring, and he couldn’t drag his gaze away, even as the procession thundered away into the thin fog to his right.
Directly ahead, just past the runway, mammoths, a score at least, were gathered in a close group, all in a circle facing outward, the larger males’ tusks forming a jagged barrier against any attack.
“The wolves won’t bother them,” Galloway said at Banks’ side. “But that big lion might make a move if it gets hungry. Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”
“As long as we get to see it from up here,” Banks replied. “And what about Wiggo’s fucking ginger gorillas? What kind of hunting might they be doing?”
“I’ve been wondering—worrying—about that myself,” the scientist replied. “We already know that they’re carnivores.”
“Aye, they are that,” Banks replied. “But what else are they? What the fuck did Volkov brew up in that lab?”
Hynd and Wiggins returned with two pots of coffee, and Banks sipped gratefully at the strong bitter brew while waiting for Galloway’s reply. When it came, it was measured and steady, but Banks thought he saw more than a hint of fear dancing in the younger scientist’s eyes.
“You know about Neanderthals, of course, who doesn’t? But the hominid line includes many more distant—and some very close—relatives than the general public imagination has grasped. From the so-called hobbit people of the Malaysian Islands, to Peking Man, and all manner of sizes and shapes in between, our family tree is a varied one with many scions. And then, there are the myths and legends. Most cultures around the world tell of ‘hairy men.’ We have Sasquatch in North America, Yowie in Australia, Yeti in Tibet, and even an Auld Grey Man in your Scottish Highlands.”
“And here?” Banks asked. Waterston arrived in the conversation with a bottle of single malt Scotch that he poured a slug of into each of their mugs. Just this once, Banks didn’t turn it down, despite the sacrilege of treating such good whisky with such disdain. He was concentrating on Galloway’s answer.
“As I said,” the scientist continued, “in Tibet, they have Yeti. Here, in the north of Russia, they have, and have always had, Alma. The tales are very similar, of a hairy primate that keeps itself to itself, roams places where man does not go, and can be fierce if riled.”
Banks laughed bitterly at that.
“Riled, like being locked up in a cage in the dark since birth? That kind of riled?”
Galloway nodded.
“Primates and captivity never have mixed very well.”
“So it’s a kind of ginger Yeti?” Banks asked.
Galloway smiled thinly.
“Best guess, yes. Volkov found some primate material, and decided to apply his process to it.”
“Why would he do that?”
Galloway waved at the view beyond the window.
“Your man, Wiggins, might have got to the nub of the matter when we first got here. Big grazing beasts are all well and good, but the spectacle is with the predators, and seeing them in action.”
Banks remembered his own reaction minutes earlier on seeing the wolves on the hunt, and knew that Galloway was right; the Russian had wanted something exciting, a show that would wow the public. Banks couldn’t take a guess at how much a performing Yeti might fetch on the open market—but it wouldn’t be cheap, he knew that much. He was still mulling that over when he saw Galloway’s gaze shift to look out the window again.
“Watch out!” the scientist shouted. Banks didn’t stop to think; his training kicked in and he ducked and rolled, sideward away from the open window towards the corner of the room where there would be most protection.
Seconds later, the window crashed inward and something roared into the room with the force of a cannonball.
- 12 -
Galloway and Waterston were quick enough to react, and went in opposite directions to either side. But Smithson had been standing with his back to the window and never even saw death coming. A rock the size and shape of a rugby ball hit him between the shoulders at the base of his neck, and Banks heard his spine break like a crack of a whip. The scientist was dead before he fell.
The momentum of the rock barely slowed; it careened on and slammed hard into the far wall of the room, taking out a three-feet-wide hole before landing with a loud thud on the floor of the corridor beyond.
“Fucking hell, what’s this now?” Banks heard Wiggins say somewhere outside, but by then he had his weapon unslung and was moving toward the smashed window. McCally was already by his side. Banks chanced a look round the edge of the window. A tall, hairy figure stood out on the tundra, well past the edge of the runway.
It was man-shaped, almost—thicker and sturdier around the belly and thighs, and longer armed. Matted red hair covered most of the body, and was longer below the waist, making it look like it wore a pair of hairy trousers. It had obviously been the thrower of the rock, for it had another in its hand, but the distance seemed too far, almost impossibly so for the strength with which the first rock had hit the room. But it looked like they were about to see proof, for the creature drew back an arm, looking more like an Olympic discus-thrower than any kind of ape, and was ready to launch a second cannonball. Banks sent three quick rounds at it, but he’d hurried and his aim was off. He succeeded in stopping the throw though, for the beast dropped the stone at the sound of the shots, and seemed puzzled by this new noise in its environment.