He pulled off his goggles and hood, crouched painfully, weapon at the ready, slid the inner door wide. Bliss. Warm air, defrosting his lungs.
It was the dormitory van — fold-down bunks, toilet, basin, shower. Raul, back to the door, was watching John eat his meal. On his canvas chair-back was screen-printed: BABY, Pole to Pole.
Raul didn’t even turn, certain it was Bell or Mullins. He still must have been agreeably sauced and convinced he was invincible.
Cain tried to stand, almost didn’t make it. ‘You’re next, Raul.’
As John looked up, relief on his face, Raul craned around, eyes saucers, then quickly composed his face to a smile. ‘We’ve been discussing the devil, an invention that, fortunately, never got as far as the sub-continent.’
‘What have they done?’ John said.
‘Killed three of the crew, Nina and her mother. What did he say when he heard firing?’
‘That his men were high-spirited today.’
‘And kept sitting here, calm as a swan? The parasitic turd.’
The pope said, ‘I thought they’d shot you.’
‘So did shithead here.’
Raul was determined to tough it out. ‘Cain, you look all in. Grab a pew.’
‘Fucking social terrorist. Your chat over lunch killed two women — almost three.’
‘I haven’t touched anyone. So stop posturing. You know you won’t shoot. You’re far too civilised for that.’
‘Be careful,’ the pope told Raul. ‘He has authority to kill anyone he likes.’
‘That’s absurd.’
Cain played back the man’s words. ‘Admit all possibilities.’
‘I’m unarmed and no threat to you, Cain.’ He made an expansive gesture. ‘I’m also intolerant of intolerance.’
‘Too late for word games, Raul.’
‘Come on, man. This is silly. I’m an unarmed civilian.’
‘So were the crew of this traverse.’
Raul tried his winning smile then winced as his lips split further. ‘Don’t be tedious. Bell did that. Regrettably. Where is he?’
‘Miles back. Gut shot out.’
Raul’s damaged face sobered. ‘Mullins?’
‘Head’s half off.’
A stammer breached his superior role. ‘I’ll g-give you money. Four million in US notes. Paid to a Swiss bank account. No tax trail.’
‘I’m a rich man, Raul. Save it for your funeral fund.’
‘This is madness.’ His voice cracked. One hand went up, pleading. ‘Please…’ It was an act — to mask a slight movement he’d made behind the canvas back of the chair.
But Cain had read the pope’s startled look. Raul had an automatic pointing behind him beneath his arm.
The chair-back shredded as Cain riddled him. Raul fell across the floor, the pistol flopping wide in his hand.
Cain staggered out again for Hunt. When he dragged her into the warmth the pope was kneeling beside the dead man.
As Cain got Hunt onto a bunk, started removing her shredded windproofs, the pope looked up. ‘Would you have killed him anyway?’
‘Why not?’ he puffed. ‘Why excuse the generals that order the dirty work? He’s already taken out five and had Bell torturing this one to death. Need warm water, med kit.’
‘Even false prophets have uses.’
‘You’d let the maggot live?’
‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’
You couldn’t please everybody. Cain found it prudent to shut up.
While the pope went looking for what he needed, he got the shredded layers off the woman, checking her face for pain, concerned about fractures. Why had Bell left all her gear on? To prolong her death?
It had saved her.
As he worked on her abraded body, he found no permanent damage. She was young, fit and had an excellent circulation because the frostbite was still superficial. Combat survival had helped her as well. She’d been trained in the four environments — arctic, sea/coast, arid, jungle — had been taught to endure intense weariness, hunger, thirst, heat, cold.
‘Hurts,’ she gasped.
‘You’re an OAE. You’ll survive.’
‘Mullins?’
‘Dead. Area secured.’
Tears helped thaw her frosted lids.
49
TOWERING CONUNDRUM
When he had Hunt fed, thawed and patched up, he called the driver on the interphone and suggested he stop for food. But the man, frightened by the shooting, refused and hauled them on.
He left the pope with the swaddled, sleeping Hunt and dragged the dead onto the catwalks… Raul, Eve, Nina — naked except for her socks — Mullins, the three from the traverse crew and Zia with the knife still a feature of his face. He would have jettisoned them except there was enough garbage on the continent already. Cold, tired, mind shutting down, he retreated inside.
He swabbed the blood stains back to smears, stuffed things back on shelves like some crazed housewife, then collapsed on a bunk and slept.
A jerk in the cable woke him. They’d stopped.
Shouting outside.
For the first time it struck him that the bodies would startle civilians. He peered through the small half-iced window, saw the other traverse, now uncoupled, and six gesticulating men.
He said, ‘I’ll try and sort this. You two lie low for now.’ He placed the burp guns and the sniper’s rifle out of sight on a top bunk, dragged on his parka and limped out.
Hooded masked faces stared up at him. He adopted the right body language, submissive, nonthreatening. ‘Your crew are dead as you can see. Not my fault. I shot the man who shot them. He’s back on the plateau.’
A big-framed man who seemed to be in charge stepped forward. ‘So don’t tell me. You’re from the EXIT base?’ The furious voice was Irish/American.
‘Escaping the place. Been a lot going down.’
‘That the best you can do?’ He waved an arm at the carnage.
‘To fill you in…’ He ticked the bodies off, told them the general history. How he’d been their prisoner, counterattacked.
The man’s expression was invisible but his indignant voice said it all. ‘This is a private expedition.’
‘Life’s a bitch.’
The other men stood warily as if expecting an ambush. None of them was armed.
‘Just three left alive,’ he told them. ‘Me, a woman and an old man.’
A chorus of angry comments. But no off-colour words, which was odd. What were they? Christian Outreach? They kept turning around to gaze at the girl’s provocative body, the skin now grey, the pubic hair a triangle of frost, the small nipples pointing to the sky.
He shrugged again, starting to shiver. ‘Could we discuss this inside?’
Three men warily followed him up the steps. Two stayed outside the van while the leader cautiously entered. The sight of an old man and a stunning woman reassured him. He pushed out again and gave his backup the all-clear. ‘Check the other vans, then get back to it. We’ve got to finish tonight. And line up the sledges. Met says we’re due for a blow.’
The big man returned, took off his headgear, revealing himself as around fifty with a strong face and reddish hair. Cain introduced himself as Ray, the pope and Hunt as John and Karen.
‘Peter Reilly, ground crew controller. Dear God, this is a terrible business.’
Cain gave the story again, while Hunt and the pope confirmed it. They regretted the loss of his men, insisted they were friendly, while the flabbergasted Reilly listened. During it, they heard sledges uncoupled and later were shunted backwards. It took time for Reilly to vent his protests and be persuaded by truth, lies and blandishments that they were other than rogues and marauders. ‘So what do we do with the dead?’ The man, his psychology massaged, finally aired the question nagging him.