‘Get the undergarment off too,’ said Gallen. ‘Got dry coveralls.’
The sound was very faint but they heard it at the same time, tensing against each other. It was the hatchway opening, a tiny squeak above the lapping of the water.
Ducking further behind the gear boxes, Gallen realised he’d left his fins in the open. As he unwrapped the SIG handgun as quietly as he could, Gallen felt a hand on his forearm and then Winter was holding a Ka-bar combat knife in front of his face.
As the new arrival moved into the divers lock, Gallen remained absolutely still as Winter shifted into a crouch.
The footfalls continued to the other side of the dock and they could hear the person sit on a gear box, the thick plastic groaning slightly. A flashlight beam lit up the area, making Gallen wince again. The flashlight strafed the water and was switched off.
Gripping his SIG, Gallen stayed silent, almost holding his breath. After twenty seconds, there was a small sound beside the intruder— his flashlight came on and, as the man stood to check on the noise, the white flash of a second form moved on him. Standing, Gallen moved around the dock as the gurgling death throes of the man sounded above the lapping water.
‘Cameraman?’ said Winter in a whisper as Gallen arrived.
Gallen thought he’d been the sound guy from Du Bois’ film crew; whoever he was, he lay on the grated floor, a bloody smile inscribed around his upper throat.
‘Light,’ said Winter, and went to work on the body as Gallen cupped the lens of the flashlight and peered over the Canadian’s shoulder. The dead man’s build was strong and professionally fit, but not in a gym-bunny way.
Winter checked the man’s shirt pockets, then shifted to the jeans. Empty. He took off the boots and socks and then pulled down the man’s pants.
‘Jox,’ said Winter. ‘This guy’s not standing out in any way.’
‘Which means he’s standing out.’
‘Which means I’m not buying the environmentalist horse shit,’ said Winter. ‘You ever met a greenie who isn’t trying to make a fashion statement?’
Gallen got what he meant: environmentalists weren’t this stripped down. They had silly hats and issue T-shirts, and tattoos of Maori symbols. They weren’t ‘clean’ in the intel sense of the word.
‘Underwear is basic North American,’ said Winter, pulling down the blue Jox, ‘but he’s circumcised.’
Gallen nodded as Winter pulled them up again. ‘Doesn’t make him Israeli.’
‘Okay,’ said Winter, his teeth chattering slightly. ‘But I’m going to check his teeth; if there’s more than twenty grand’s worth of crowns in there, no way this dude’s a Frenchie.’
‘Israelis ain’t the only ones with a thing about their teeth, Kenny,’ said Gallen, wanting to get the insulated overalls on.
‘Yeah, but the only others I can think of are Americans and Singaporeans, and this dude don’t talk like a Yankee and he don’t look like no Chinaman.’
‘Okay,’ said Gallen. ‘Check ‘em.’
Winter opened the man’s mouth, and Gallen shone the flashlight inside. The mouth looked huge and pink contrasted with the dark, and Winter didn’t need long.
‘This has the same smell as that dude we found in the snow cave. I think we’re down here with the Mossad.’
‘Great,’ said Gallen, standing.
‘Ideas?’ said Winter.
‘Find the hostages, drop the bad guys.’
‘Works for me,’ said Winter.
The Ariadne felt deserted. With the power off there wasn’t even the hum Gallen would have expected from such a large submerged vessel. What did worry him was the oxygen supply — with comms shut off to the Fanny Blankes-Koen, and the power down, the vessel could get heat and air from emergency back-up batteries, but for how long?
At the main junction, where the control room sat, Gallen and Winter spread out. There was an eerie, abandoned quiet to the place. Looking over the console for clues, Gallen couldn’t see a thing. It was shut down.
‘I’m lighting up,’ he said, and switched on the marine flashlight, cupping the lens as he made a quick search of the computers and screens of the console. It was still warm. Walking around the console, Gallen walked into the back of Winter.
‘The captain — what’s his name?’ said Winter.
Gallen cupped the flashlight and looked down at the focus of Winter’s interest.
‘His name’s Menzies,’ said Gallen.
Menzies sat slumped against the legs of the control desk, a third eye in his forehead. His arm extended unnaturally up and over the control modules and Gallen followed it: there was a handcuff on the dead man’s wrist to which was secured a security card, jammed in a slot.
They leaned in: above the slot were the words Emergency ejection system.
‘What the fuck’s an emergency ejection system?’ said Winter.
Gallen saw the set-up and he saw someone who’d been lured into the open and forced to put his card into that slot, probably at the end of a gun. When the job was done, Du Bois’ team had executed him.
‘You hear that?’ said Winter, grabbing Gallen by the arm.
They stood in silence, listening to a faint voice coming from somewhere in the vessel.
Holding the SIG in front of him, Gallen led Winter along the hull that held the dorms. At the end of the hull, he could make out a crack of light escaping through an incompletely closed hatch, the voice growing louder, recognisably female.
Pushing into the room with his SIG in front of him, Gallen saw Martina Du Bois, in Ariadne coveralls, talking into a camera on a writing desk. There was a light shining on her face and the whole thing was attached to a tractor battery.
‘… for the last time has the arrogant West and the hegemony of the big oil companies trodden on the rights of the animals and the indigenous inhabitants in the Arctic Ocean. ArcticWatch has traced the arrogant Oasis Energy as they have lied and deceived their way to the point where they now control most of the Arctic sea floor, and we can now reveal to the world exactly how they were going to make it so profitable: not only were they going to mount an ingenious pumping station on the sea floor, but they were going to power it with a nuclear reactor. Yes, that’s right — Oasis Energy has placed a nuclear power plant in the heart of the last untouched wilderness in the northern hemisphere, purely so they can operate year round and prove sustainable profits to Wall Street…’
Gallen stepped forward, checked the room for assailants, and placed the gun against Du Bois’ head. ‘You’re not an environmentalist, you’re a murderer. Now get up!’
‘Ah, it’s our very own John Wayne,’ said Du Bois, turning. ‘Smile, you’re on CNN and Fox, Mr Gerry.’
‘Where’s the crew, what have you done with the power?’ said Gallen, as Winter moved into the room to join him.
‘Good question, Mr Gerry,’ she sneered. ‘You’re just in time for my announcement: the STAR nuclear power plant has been ejected from this vessel and now lies on the sea bed.’
‘That’s useful,’ said Gallen.
‘No, Mr Gerry,’ said Du Bois. ‘It’s a statement; a statement no oil company will ever forget.’
CHAPTER 62
‘Where’s the crew?’ Gallen asked Du Bois again as he disconnected the camera.
Du Bois smirked. ‘They’re safe.’
Gallen gave a nod to Winter. The Canadian left and Gallen pushed the terrorist against the wall. ‘Where are they?’
‘Perhaps not they, Mr Gerry.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Sneering, she was no longer so beautiful. ‘Your boss has behaved arrogantly, Mr Gerry; now she’ll learn some humility.’