“That’s mine, you know,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah, but until folk round here start thinking straight, I think I’ll hang on to it.”
Walcott watched the three Greenlanders walk along the path. “Shit,” he said. “We didn’t get their names.”
“The woman,” Isra said, swiping the screen of her tablet, “is Innuina Eqaluk. She’s twenty-nine.”
“Inu-what?” Mitchell said.
“Doesn’t matter.” Isra turned the tablet towards Walcott, showing him a close-up of the woman’s face, fierce eyes beneath thick black eyebrows glared out of the screen.
“And the girl?” Walcott relaxed as Isra swiped to the next photo.
“Kaatsiaaja. Seven years old. She’s the daughter.” Isra swiped the screen to the right, flicking through a series of photos before stopping at the image of an older man. “Kilaasi Qingalik. Sixty-two. Probably related to the woman.”
“So,” Downs said, after a quick glance at Isra’s tablet. “We’re sending a girl, her mother, and an old man into the mountains hoping they find Maratse and encourage him to walk back down here so we can pick him up. Did I get that right?”
“That’s right,” Walcott said.
“Okay. And how long is it going to take them to find him? How far are they going to walk? And how are they going to keep warm in that one set of clothes? What are they going to eat?”
“What’s your point, Downs?”
“My point?” Downs laughed, then nodded at the police cutter just visible as it sailed to a new position in sight of the path. “We just shot at a bunch of Greenlanders. And we did that after Mitchell tackled that poor woman...”
“Hey…”
Downs raised his finger, cutting Mitchell off with a shake of his head. “No, you have to think about this. We all do. Forcing people out of their homes is bad enough, but I can live with that. We’re giving them better homes. I get it. But we just beat up and shot at unarmed U.S. citizens.”
“You mean Greenlanders,” Isra said.
“No,” Walcott said. “He’s right. They are U.S. citizens. At least, that’s what they’ll call them on CNN.”
“And you just shot at them in full view of the Greenland police.” Downs pointed at Sisak III.
“And sent them fleeing into the wilderness.” Walcott turned to look at Downs. “You’ve made your point. But right now, our priority is putting a muzzle on Maratse. Taking him out of the picture. You saw the look on the woman’s face.”
“She’s pissed,” Isra said, with a nod at Mitchell.
Mitchell frowned and said, “What did I do?”
“You frightened her,” Walcott said. “You scared the crap out of her kid. And then I did the same, only I made her angry now, and that anger is what we need. It’ll bring Maratse out of the mountains.”
“Yeah, and that I still don’t get,” Mitchell said. “This guy – this constable. I think we’re overestimating him.”
“Overestimating?” Isra laughed. “That’s an awfully big word for you, Mitchell.”
“Yeah? You think so?” Mitchell spat, and said, “Fuck you, Isra.”
“Knock it off,” Walcott said.
He turned to watch the woman lead the man and her daughter further along the path, until they dipped below a rise and out of sight.
“Whatever we think of Maratse,” he said, turning back to his team. “He has reach. He’s reaching out to his people from these radio shacks in the mountains.” He pointed along the path. “They turned to him. How many others will?”
“We don’t know…”
“What? Isra? What don’t we know?” Walcott took a long breath. “Here’s what we do know – Maratse has the ear of the people, and we have less than three days to cut it off. The clock is ticking, and we need results. That little family is going to provide them.”
“And Maratse?” Downs asked. “What do we do with him when we get him?”
Walcott shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. And I’m not even sure it’s up to me. All I know is we have to get him. It’s that simple.”
Walcott gestured for the team to head back to the settlement. He took a last look along the path, then another at the police cutter. The figure in the bow wore black, contrasting sharply with the white wheelhouse behind it. Walcott waved, but the figure made no move to wave back.
“Right,” Walcott whispered as he lowered his hand. “Not so simple after all.”
Part 5
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“The problem is not what you’re talking about, but how you’re talking about it.” Kamiila led the way along the path, checking the map, the horizon, turning her cheek to the sun, sniffing the wind. Maratse followed, hands in pockets, a cigarette trapped between his teeth. Kamiila stopped at a steep section of the route. “It’s like you haven’t grasped it yet.”
“I haven’t grasped it?”
“Naamik,” Kamiila said with a shake of her head. “You’re just playing at it.”
Maratse snuffed his cigarette between his finger and thumb, then tucked the remaining half back into the packet. He slipped his hands back into his pockets and waited for Kamiila to continue.
“The Americans took our country,” she said.
“They bought it.”
“From the Danes.” Kamiila stabbed her finger in the chill air between them. “They had no right to sell it.”
“I agree.”
“And the Americans… They have no right to move us from our homes.”
“Iiji.”
Maratse watched Kamiila’s brow knit into a deep frown. He took a long breath as the tears welled in her eyes.
“They killed Nukappi,” she said. “Killed him.”
“I know.”
“And you…” Kamiila caught her breath, took another, and then said, “You talk about sledging, hunting, kaffemiks, and…”
Maratse waited.
“… little things. Inconsequential.”
“It’s the little things that hold us together,” Maratse said.
“It changes nothing.” Kamiila turned to look down the side of the mountain at the fjord, and the corner of Kussannaq, just visible in the distance. “They told us to move. You told us we didn’t have to.”
“Iiji.”
“Then,” she said, whirling back to Maratse, taking a step closer, fire in her eyes. “You saved
