Walcott gripped the desk in anticipation of the reprimand coming his way.
“Clearly, some poor decisions were made,” Arnold said.
“Poor decisions?” Day laughed. “This same constable busted a fugitive out of a Coast Guard cutter brig, stole a motorboat, and vanished.”
“Not quite,” Arnold said. “We apprehended the fugitive in the mountains.”
“You apprehended bits of him, Hal. He’s going to need a closed coffin…”
“The family doesn’t know,” Walcott said. “In fact, we haven’t recovered the body.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Well, don’t try too hard.” Day ran her hand through her hair as she thought. “Okay, tell me about the radio.”
“Maratse is using radio shacks in the mountains to talk to the people,” Walcott said.
“Turn him off,” Ibbot said.
“It’s not that simple.” Walcott leaned forward over the desk to look at the camera. “The radio shacks are an integral part of the telecommunications infrastructure. They are remotely powered.”
“Cut the damn Internet.”
Walcott sighed, as if explaining something to a small child. “The locals aren’t listening to Maratse on their phones or computers. They’re using actual radios.”
“Transistors?”
“And VHF in the fishing trawlers, including handheld units.” Walcott leaned back in his seat, waving an arm to one side as if encompassing the whole of Greenland. “Every family has at least one VHF or radio in the house. We can’t jam the signal.”
“Then take out the shacks,” Ibbot said.
“And in doing so, we cripple our own communications along with the country’s. These shacks bounce signals through the mountains. The only alternative is to switch to satellite communications. That’s expensive. And given my budget…” Walcott shook his head. “We can’t do it.”
“Then there’s only one thing left,” Day said. “One course of action.”
Walcott turned to look at her screen.
“Flatten your speed bump.”
“Ma’am?”
Day looked directly into the camera, and said, “As of now, Constable David Maratse is a High Value Target. Removing him is top priority.”
“You want us to bring him in?”
“Yes, Hal. Bring him in. Whole, or in pieces, I don’t care. But I want him removed within seventy-two hours.”
“Three days?” Walcott said.
Day nodded. “After which, if you have failed, other measures will be brought into play.” She shifted her gaze to another screen. “Farran?”
“It’s Eagle, ma’am.” A shadow flickered across the screen of the anonymous member of the group, followed by a gradual sharpening of the picture as Eagle removed a length of tape from the camera’s lens. “But now that we’re all acquainted…”
Walcott studied the man as he came into focus, noting his thick hair, grey at the sides, stretching down to the salt and pepper beard filling out an otherwise gaunt face. Farran’s pale blue eyes were almost glacier white.
“What can you do, Farran?” Day asked.
Farran smiled, and said, “I have some moves I can make. But…” He pointed a stubby finger at the camera. “Let’s give IGA the benefit of the doubt. In the meantime, I’ll put some things into play.”
“Okay,” Day said. “Walcott?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’ve got seventy-two hours to get Maratse off the air – permanently. After that…” She nodded at Farran’s screen. “I let the dogs out.”
Day clicked her mouse and her screen went black, followed by the rest of the screens until Walcott was left in a very dark room. He blinked as the lights came on, and the tech assistant who had given him the remote came in to usher him out of the room.
“Isra El-Hashem is waiting for you in the corridor,” she said.
Walcott bit his lip and then nodded. “Thanks.”
“Have a good day, Mr Walcott.”
Walcott opened his mouth to respond, thinking that the day could only get better, but then it all depended on a certain police constable.
“Maratse,” he breathed. Although, from the look on the woman’s face, he might just as well have cursed.
Part 2
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The wind teased long strands of Kamiila Sorsuttartoq’s jet black hair across her face as she fiddled with the zip of the first aid kit from her pack. She turned her face into the wind as she tugged the zipper along the stubborn teeth, then smiled as she pulled a long pair of silver scissors out of the pack. She took a pane of broken glass and positioned it at an angle on the wooden deck surrounding the radio shack on top of the mountain. Kamiila crouched, then took a breath and a handful of hair. She nodded at her reflection in the mirror and slid the scissors along the base of her palm, cutting her hair, letting the wind blow the strands into the clutches of crisp lichen petalling the granite rocks around the shack. She struggled with the hair at the back of her head, stabbing her hand more than once, but took most care with her fringe. She was tempted to leave it long, fashionable, but then a quick thought of the days, weeks, maybe even months ahead, forced her to take a different approach. Kamiila cut her fringe flat along her forehead, a finger’s width above her thick eyebrows.
“It’ll do,” she said, brushing hair from the shoulders of her sweater, before slipping the scissors back into the first aid kit. She took another look into the glass mirror, caught her breath as she imagined Nukappi smiling at her over her shoulder, then laid the glass flat on the deck, fighting back the tears as she did so. Kamiila dropped the first aid kit inside her pack, picked up her .22 saloon rifle, and wandered along the ridge.
She laughed at the wind as it tickled her neck, lifting her face to the sun, closing her eyes for a moment to feel its heat on her eyelids. She walked until the ridge flattened into an open slope leading down the eastern flanks of the mountain. She slowed to a more observant pace, avoiding the crunch of tell-tale lichen beneath her boots as she
