Johanson nodded. Lund was contending with the fallout from the recent North Sea Conference, at which the Norwegian Ministry of Fisheries had castigated the oil industry for expelling millions of tonnes of contaminated water into the sea every day. It had lain undisturbed in sub-seabed petroleum reserves for millions of years but was now being pumped to the surface by the hundreds of offshore North Sea platforms that lined the Norwegian coast. The oil was separated from it by mechanical means, and the chemical-saturated water discharged back into the sea. No one had questioned the practice until, after decades, the Norwegian government had asked the Institute of Marine Research to undertake a study. The findings dealt a blow to the oil industry and environmentalists alike. Substances in the water were interfering with the reproductive cycle of cod. They worked like female hormones, causing the male fish to become infertile or even to change sex. Other species were affected too. The oil companies were ordered to stop dumping the water and had no choice but to look for an alternative.
'They're right to keep an eye on you,' Johanson said. 'The closer the better.'
'You're a great help.' Lund sighed. 'Anyway, our recce of the slope took us pretty deep into the ocean. We did the usual seismic survey, then sent a dive robot down seven hundred metres to take a few shots. We weren't expecting to find worms so deep.'
'They're everywhere. How about above seven hundred metres? Did you find them there too?'
'No. So what are we going to do about them?'
Johanson rested his chin on his hands. 'The trouble with your worm,' he said, 'is that it's really two separate worms.'
She looked at him blankly. 'Well, I know that. I gave you two.'
'That's not what I meant. I'm talking about its taxonomy. If I'm not mistaken, your worm belongs to a new species that has only just come to light. It was found on the seabed in the Gulf of Mexico availing itself of the bacteria that live off methane.'
'Really?'
'And that's where it starts to get interesting. Your worms are too big. Sure, some types of bristleworm grow to over two metres and live to a ripe old age. But they're nothing like yours, and you wouldn't find them around here. If yours are the same as the Mexican ones, they've done a fair bit of growing since we found them. The worms in the Mexican Gulf measure five centimetres at most, but yours are three times as long. And there's no record of them ever being found on the Norwegian shelf.'
'How do you account for that?'
'I can't. Right now I can only think that you've stumbled on a brand new species. Congratulations to Statoil. Your worm looks like a Mexican ice worm but, as far as its length and other features are concerned, it's a completely different fellow. In fact, it's more like a prehistoric worm, a tiny Cambrian monster that we thought was extinct. But I still don't see how…'
He paused. The Norwegian shelf had been picked over with a fine-tooth comb. Surely the oil companies would have noticed a worm of that size before now.
'What?' Lund pressed him.
'Well, either we're all blind or your worms have only just got there. They may have originated even further down.'
'So why did we find them where we did?' Lund asked. 'And how soon can you let me have a report?'
'You're not going to start hassling me, are you?'
'Well, I can't wait a month, if that's what you mean.'
'Whoa.' Johanson held up his hands. 'I'll have to send the worms on a trip round the world. Give me two weeks – and don't argue. There's no way I can do it any faster.'
Lund sat in silence. The chicken stew had arrived, but she hadn't touched hers. 'They feed on methane, you say?'
'On the bacteria that feed on methane,' Johanson corrected her. 'It's a complex symbiotic system. And, remember, we're talking about a worm that may or may not be related to yours. Nothing's proven yet.'
'If these worms are bigger than the ones in Mexico, they're probably hungrier too,' Lund mused.
'Hungrier than you, at least,' said Johanson, with a pointed glance at her plate. 'Incidentally, I need a few more of those monsters, if you have any.'
'We're not about to run out.'
'You've got more in reserve?'
'A dozen or so,' she said, 'but there are plenty more where those came from.'
'How many?'
'Well, it's only a guess… but I'd say several million.'
12 March
Vancouver Island, Canada
The days came and went, but the rain kept falling. Leon Anawak couldn't remember the last time it had poured for so long. It must have been years ago. He gazed out across the perfectly still surface of the ocean. In the far distance a thin silvery line divided the water from the low, thick cloud, promising a break in the rain, the first one for days. You couldn't count on it though; the fog could always roll in instead. The Pacific Ocean did as it pleased, usually without a moment's notice.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the chink of light, Anawak opened the Blue Shark's throttle and headed further out to sea. The Zodiac, a big rubber dinghy with powerful outboard motors, was full to capacity. Its twelve passengers, covered from head to toe with waterproof clothing and armed with binoculars and cameras, were rapidly losing interest. They'd been waiting patiently for over an hour and a half to catch a glimpse of the grey whales and humpbacks that had left the lagoons of Baja California, and the warm waters of Hawaii in February on their way to their summer feeding grounds in the Arctic. The round trip would take them sixteen thousand kilometres, from the Pacific Ocean through the Bering Sea to their frozen pool of plenty, the Chukchi Sea, where they'd swim to the edge of the pack ice to feast on amphipods and krill. When the days shortened, they'd set off on their long journey home towards Mexico to give birth out of reach of their deadliest enemy, the orca. Twice a year vast herds of the enormous mammals passed through British Columbia and the waters off Vancouver Island, and during those months the whale-watching tours in coastal towns like Tofino, Ucluclct and Victoria would be fully booked.
Not this year, though.
So far not a flipper or fluke had been captured on film. The chances of spotting one or other species were usually so good at this time of year that Davie's Whaling Station offered free repeat trips if you didn't see a whale. To go a few hours without a sighting was not unheard-of, but to see nothing all day was seriously bad luck. A whole week would be cause for concern, but that had never happened.
This year, though, the whales seemed to have gone astray and today's adventure was over before it had begun. Everyone put away their cameras. All they'd glimpsed from the boat was the hint of a rocky coastline, and they hadn't even been able to see that properly because of the rain.
Anawak would accompany each sighting with explanations and comments, but now his mouth dried. For an hour and a half he'd held forth on the history of the region, trying to lift the group's spirits with anecdotes. Now everyone had heard enough about whales and black bears. He'd run out of ideas as to how to divert them and, besides, he was worried about the whales' whereabouts. As skipper, he should probably have been more worried about the tourists, but that wasn't his way.
'Time to go home,' he announced.
There was a disappointed silence. The journey through Clayoquot Sound would take at least three-quarters of an hour. He decided to cut short the afternoon with a burst of excitement. The Zodiac's twin outboard motor would give them an adrenaline-pumping ride. Speed was all he had left to offer.