‘Okay,’ said Winter, grinning. ‘So what?’
‘You might want to call up the Sikorsky.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to get back to basics, see what’s what.’
‘Like?’
‘Like the soldiers from the Little Bird helo,’ said Gallen. ‘One we found dying in the snow and we ratted him.’
‘He had that accent, you didn’t think it was Russian. But we found nothing on him.’
‘And I shot another out of the helo, up behind the lookout.’ ‘Yeah, you did,’ said Winter, keeping one eye on the Bruins. ‘So?’
‘We didn’t rat him,’ said Gallen. ‘Judging by the newspaper reports, the Mounties never retrieved his body.’
‘Why are we going to do this?’ said Winter. ‘You’re supposed to be resting, boss.’
‘Because now we’ve seen this report, it’s time to assess our watchers. Who’s to say this other guy was working clean?’
‘Long shot,’ said Winter.
‘We’re up here anyway. What’s the harm?’
Winter wasn’t convinced. ‘So you think Mulligan is trying to retrieve the Newport report?’
‘Someone is; why not Mulligan?’
‘And Bren and Simon Smith may have been another group?’
‘Sure.’ Gallen nodded. ‘But if you can have two crows on the road kill, why not three?’
‘So, Reggie’s men bombed the jet?’
‘Well, I keep thinking about that soldier’s language and his accent,’ said Gallen. ‘And I don’t believe it was Russian.’
‘No?’
‘No, Kenny. I think there’s another crew in this.’
‘I promised that doctor you’d rest, Gerry.’
‘And you promised Jesus you wouldn’t swear,’ said Gallen. ‘How’s that goin’ for ya?’
The skies were clear and there was no wind as they poked the snow banks with avalanche probes: long, thin poles that rescuers used to find bodies under the snow.
The weather being fine, Gallen had asked the pilots to leave and give them two hours alone. Now, after the first hour, Gallen sat panting beside Winter as they ate sandwiches from the hotel kitchen.
‘Coulda sworn it was around here,’ said Gallen, still feeling weak.
In front of them, halfway into the large snow bowl that Florita had slid down for her life, was the chopped-up area they’d just covered in a grid about thirty yards wide. Gallen had been certain the shooter had fallen into this part of the bowl.
‘I shot from this rock, and the helo was right there,’ he said, happy at least for the sun on his head. The northern tundra played tricks on the eyes, making everything look the same. They’d tried to trig it back by sight-lines, but the area wasn’t yielding a body.
Looking across the snow bowl to the other side, Gallen focused on the overhang at the top of the opposite rise. The thick ice and snow cascaded off the lip of the overhang but there seemed to be a space under the cascade and a small trail in the snow leading away from it.
‘What would that trail be?’ Gallen pointed across the bowl.
‘That’d be a fox,’ said Winter.
Gallen looked at the Canadian. ‘Would a fox show interest in our shooter?’
‘Sure,’ said Winter. ‘They’d save the carcass, bury it somewhere.’
Gallen looked up the slope. ‘It’d be too heavy to drag up to the den.’
‘So they’d drag it downhill,’ said Winter, pointing. At the bottom of the bowl was a small ravine that led into the neighbouring bowl. ‘They’d want it where the sun don’t shine, down there in the shadows.’
Finishing their lunch, they waded down the side of the bowl to the ravine and walked through it, shoulder to shoulder, probing the snow with their poles at every step. They worked their way into the next bowl then came back through the ravine, probing again. Nothing.
‘Shit,’ said Gallen, gasping for air. ‘I can’t do too much more.’
‘Let’s think like the fox,’ said Winter, looking around. ‘I want to keep the meat preserved, so I drag it downhill to a ravine and bury it…’ He pointed his probe at the ravine. ‘There. Under the overhang.’
‘The fox could drag the body that high?’ said Gallen.
‘No, the fox would dig straight back from the floor of the bowl.’
Probing along the flat face under the overhang, they still found nothing, until Winter put his hand up. ‘That’s hollow.’
Pulling fold-up shovels from their backpacks, they scooped away the snow under the ravine’s overhang until there was a small cavern in front of them. Hands on knees, catching his breath, Gallen looked up and into the darkness. At the base of the hollow was a body in black arctic fatigues. The shooter from the helo.
‘Shit,’ smiled Gallen, stepping towards their prize.
‘No,’ said Winter, hand slapping across Gallen’s chest.
Pulling up, Gallen looked at Winter, who was pointing at the overhang. ‘You don’t wanna be under that when it comes down, boss.’ Pulling a climbing rope from his backpack, Winter made a loop in it and beckoned Gallen forward. ‘Use your pole to push up his ankle.’
Leaning forward, Gallen got the twelve-foot avalanche pole under the soldier’s booted left foot and levered the ankle up so Winter could get a rope under the heel. The Canadian got the loop over the ankle at the fourth try and they dragged the body out into the open. The man’s face had been eaten off and most of his entrails pulled out.
‘Is the fox going to take exception to this?’ said Gallen, looking around, trying not to focus on the partly eaten soldier.
‘Fox will stay away, but we could always get a visit from Mr Grizzly, wanting to know what we’re doing in his meat-locker.’
Winter kneeled beside the soldier and started with the pockets in his parka and insulated fatigue pants. There was a packet of PK gum in a chest pocket of the parka, and two full rifle magazines in the other. They were twenty-five-round clips from the Checkmate company and had rubberised pull-grips on the bottom of them, a sign that the shooter had experience.
‘Pro,’ mumbled Winter, checking the other pockets and opening the parka. Against the man’s left armpit, where there were still military thermals, was a small military two-way radio which was slung across the chest, a mic attached to the man’s throat.
On his belt was a 9mm SIG Sauer handgun, which Winter checked for load and action and pushed into his own parka pocket. There was a G-Shock on his right wrist.
‘Much the same as the other dude,’ said Winter, standing. ‘Hi-Tec boots, generic arctic fatigues and thermals, standard mags and ammo for an M14 DMR — MIA, if you’re getting fancy. Even the watches are straight out of the PX. Nothing to ID these boys. They’re working clean.’
Gallen thought about it, his breath having returned. You could often get a feel for an enemy by ratting him — small elements usually provided clues. Elements on this shooter suggested Western forces, probably North American. The clothing and weapons could have come straight out of Chase Lang’s warehouse in Longbeach. The watches were a favourite of US soldiers and even the gum was standard North American. Yet the swarthiness was not right and neither was the accent of the other soldier they’d found.
It was almost as if this crew had dressed themselves deliberately to deceive people like Winter and Gallen.
‘PK?’ said Gallen, accepting a smoke from Winter. ‘Don’t the boys all chew Extra these days?’
‘Yep,’ said Winter, dragging on his smoke. ‘And there’s this.’
Looking down, Gallen watched Winter’s boot hit the shooter’s hip, where the thermal leggings met the shredded thermal top.
‘What?’ said Gallen.
‘If you’re from Wyoming or Saskatchewan, would you wear your cotton underwear underneath your thermals?’