“Another airplane hangar, about a quarter mile from the charter office where we went last night,” Abbey said. “Looks like your Russian scientist might have slept there. The guy who owns the place is pretty hacked off. I guess they ate the pastrami sandwich he had planned for his lunch today.”
Five minutes later Quinn had splashed water on his face and stuffed his gear in the waterproof pack. Two minutes after that, he and Beaudine sat in Abbey Duncan’s Tahoe heading back out toward the airport in the steel gray grip of predawn twilight.
“This your first trip to the bush?” Abbey asked, glancing at Beaudine in the rearview mirror.
“It is,” Beaudine said through a long yawn.
Abbey kept her eyes forward on the snowy road. “They say you find three things out here: money, missionaries, and misfits.”
“Which are you?” Beaudine said.
Abbey shrugged. “Jury’s still out.”
“No it’s not,” Quinn said.
The trooper radio on the dash crackled to life.
“Hey, Abbey,” the voice said. “I got more news about those folks you were lookin’ for.” It was Angus Paul.
“We’re on our way to take a look at the break-in now,” Abbey said. “Whatcha got?”
“Just talked to Millie Beaty at Tusk Charters. She says Earl flew out to Bornite Lodge about fifteen minutes ago with an older man and a teenage girl.” Gussaq was the not entirely friendly word Inupiaq people used for white people.
Abbey kept the microphone to her mouth, but shot a look at Quinn. “Interesting,” she said.
“You better come over here,” Angus said. “There’s somethin’ else you need to see.”
Angus Paul was waiting at the perimeter fence, still wearing no more than his light jacket against the morning cold. He held the gate open so Abbey could drive the Tahoe straight inside, and then jumped in his truck to follow her across the snowy taxiway. Private aircraft heaved against their tie-down ropes in a steady breeze. A few had quilted wing covers and appeared to be well maintained. Far too many were tattered and covered in snow, icicles drooping from their props as if they were sad at being abandoned by their owners.
“How far away is the Bornite Lodge?” Beaudine asked when they’d gotten out of the car. She wore her waist-length jacket hunched up around her neck. Her thin fleece watch cap was pulled all the way down around her ears, eclipsing all but the tiniest wisps of frosted hair.
“About two hours northeast,” Abbey said. She turned to Angus Paul. “You said there was something we needed to see.”
Angus’s eyebrows shot upward, the Inupiaq equivalent of nodding his head. A homemade sign bearing the image of a huge bull walrus hung on the small metal hanger behind him. It was the base of operations for Tusk Air Services.
He turned around without a word and started toward a bare patch of snow outside the hanger. Quinn motioned for Beaudine to follow.
“The Tusk plane was parked here when everyone got on board,” Angus said, squatting low and holding an open hand over a patch of snow ground. “See that track there?”
Quinn leaned in close enough to see the faint impression of a chamomile flower in the tread. “If we’re right, that’s your Dr. Volodin and the girl heading for the lodge.”
“That’s not the most important part,” Angus said. “Millie said three other guys came by right after Earl took off. She described ’em as Russian thugs. They told her they were supposed to meet a friend — some old guy. Sounds like it might be your escaped scientist.”
“He didn’t escape,” Beaudine said. “We just need to talk to him.”
“Anyhow,” Angus said, giving her a wary eye that said he didn’t quite believe her. “Millie feels really bad about it, but she accidently let it slip Earl was headed to the Bornite. They musta chartered Corey Morgan’s plane because Millie saw ’em leave a few minutes later.”
Quinn mulled over the new information. Russian thugs trying to locate a Russian chemical-weapons expert on the day after the attacks turned this into an entirely different mission.
Beaudine was on her phone immediately, talking to what she called HBO — Higher Bureau Offices. The pinched look on her face and the way she kept throwing her arms in the air said the conversation wasn’t going the way she wanted it to.
The roar of another airplane overhead pulled Quinn from his thoughts. Landing lights twinkled in the gunmetal morning sky as a blue-and-white Piper Cherokee Six crabbed in, angled into the stiff wind.
“That guy’s coming in early,” Abbey said. She craned her head to watch the plane touch down before she turned back to Quinn. “I’ll go to talk to Millie and see if I can get a better description of those three Russians.”
Quinn couldn’t help but grin as the newly arrived plane taxied off the runway and rumbled across the lumpy ice and snow toward them. “Actually,” he said, his voice rising to be heard over the roar of the approaching airplane. “I need you to do me a favor, Aunt Abbey.”
“Of course, my dear,” Abbey said. “What is it?”
“We have to get out to that lodge and our ride just got here,” Quinn said. “I need you to loan Agent Beaudine a bigger coat.”
Beaudine was still arguing with someone in the Bureau hierarchy as the pilot of the Piper Cherokee applied the brake to one wheel and gunned the engine to spin the plane so it faced back toward the runway before coming to a complete stop. A slightly built Alaska Native girl climbed out. Her chopped orange hair, uneven as if it had been cut with a pair of garden shears, hung almost to her shoulders. A pink fleece swallowed her up, two sizes too big and grimy around the cuffs from constant wear. A black ball cap was embroidered with LOVITA AIR in bold pink letters. Her faded jeans were ripped above both knees in the way city girls found stylish, but Quinn knew was evidence of the intensity with which Lovita Aguthluk lived her life.
“What in the actual hell?” Beaudine groused, hand over her phone. She enunciated each word like the angry Texas girl that she was. “How come she gets to wear denim jeans? I thought you said cotton kills.”
“All bets are off with the folks who live out here.” Quinn grinned. “We’re just wannabes. They’re tundra tough.” He nodded to the little thing walking toward them. “Especially her.”
“Quinn!” Lovita squealed when she saw him, standing on tiptoe to smile and give him a stiff wave like a schoolgirl with a crush. She was the twenty-two-year-old niece of his friend James “Ukka” Perry from Mountain Village down on the Yukon River. Giddy as she was at seeing Quinn, Lovita was an extremely traditional Alaska Native woman. A prominent tattoo of three green lines ran from the tip of her chin to her lower lip, tying her visually to the ways of her Yup’ik and Inupiaq Eskimo ancestors. At the same time, orange hair and a half dozen tiny stainless steel hoops in her left ear put her squarely in the modern world of a young adult trying to make a statement about her individuality. Lovita had become a pilot as soon as she was old enough to get her license, spending every penny flying and maintaining the Piper Super Cub she’d inherited — even saving Quinn’s life with her flying skill. Quinn recognized the young woman’s potential as soon as he met her and took her under his wing as best he could. With his help and a healthy dose of grant money, she’d recently invested in the twenty-five-year-old Cherokee Six and started her own bush charter service.
Quinn had contacted her before he left Anchorage. The roads leading out of Nome didn’t go anywhere, but there were quite a few of them and he thought a dedicated aircraft might come in handy in the search for Dr. Volodin. He figured he might as well give a little business to Lovita Air.