Author: Christoffer Petersen
Date: 2021-11-02T04:00:00+00:00
Description: As the hunt for rogue police constable David Maratse intensifies in Greenland, the whisper of help from Denmark brings hope to the cause, while opening up another front in the shadowy battle for the future of Greenland. Arctic Recoil continues the stand-alone speculative storyline begun in Arctic State , set in Greenland in the near future. Arctic Recoil is the fourth book in the Guerrilla Greenland series of novellas. Pick up Arctic Recoil today and join the guerrillas fighting for Greenland.
Publisher: Aarluuk Press for Arctic Noir, Action Thrillers and Greenland Crime
Rights: World

Contents

Arctic Recoil

Introductory Note

Real People

Location

Map: Greenland

Arctic Recoil

Greenland

Part 1

Denmark

Part 2

Greenland

Part 3

Denmark

Part 4

Greenland

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Denmark

Part 8

Greenland

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Denmark

Part 17

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Copyright Information

Arctic Recoil

A Constable David Maratse stand-alone novella
set in Greenland

Don’t miss novellas 1, 2 and 3 in the series:

Arctic State

Arctic Rebel

Arctic Rising

by Christoffer Petersen

Introductory Note

Arctic Recoil is the fourth novella in the Guerrilla Greenland series, inspired by President Trump’s suggestion that American should buy Greenland in what he said was basically a real estate deal. Well, it’s not. And it bothered me, and in frustration I wrote Arctic State, the first novella in the series.

Like all good rebellions, things take time. Now, almost two years later, I have reached the fourth novella in the series, and I’m thinking there might be scope for more. I’ve already begun to explore more ideas with the short story Radio Free Will, but I’m not quite ready to write the fifth novella in the main series. Things need to simmer a little while longer. In the meantime, you might like to read more about Inniki Rasmussen in Narkotika.

If you’re joining me on this insurrection, and you’ve already read the first three novellas, then you’ll know that these stories feature familiar characters but in a different timeline to my other Greenland books. So, if it bothers you that Petra is married with children, don’t read this story! On a personal note, writing in the Guerrilla Greenland series enables me to keep things fresh, and yet provides the repeat offenders among you, with an alternative slice of same but different.

I hope you enjoy your stay in Guerrilla Greenland.

Chris

November 2021

Denmark

Real People
not

Real Estate

Location

Location

Location

Arctic Recoil

Greenland

Part 1

Splinters of the wood the length of Constable David Maratse’s hand lanced through the mist above his head. He ducked behind the wooden trash can, wishing he had run when Kamiila Sorsuttartoq told him to. If he had, he might have made it behind the red schoolhouse where Kamiila and the slighter younger but equally impressionable man with thick-rimmed glasses, Tilleq Allinartoq, fired their stolen assault rifles at the dedicated and, unfortunately, very effective IGA team trying to flank them. Maratse had argued against visiting Silassorissoq, just like he argued against visiting almost all the settlements on the west coast of Greenland, for fear of getting pinned down, trapped, and potentially killed. He waved to Kamiila that he was all right, as the mist drifted across the brush of snow on the ground between the buildings. The mist was knee height, licking the steps and gathering beneath the decks of the houses of the tiny settlement. Perhaps Silassorissoq would go down in history as the place of the last battle of the short-lived guerrilla resistance opposed to the American occupation of Greenland. Of course, it wasn’t an occupation as Special Assistant Spenser Walcott of the Office of Intermediary Greenlandic Affairs insisted every time he was interviewed by the media – foreign and domestic.

“The role of the IGA is to effect the smooth and peaceful transition of Greenland into the United States of America. That’s all we’re trying to do, and it is our sole focus.”

Maratse could just picture him, squaring his shoulders as he looked straight into the camera lens. He might put on a smile, but the scar across his left cheek – a souvenir from the helicopter crash Maratse had pulled him out of – had a way of drawing his top lip into a sneer when he tried to appear friendly and gentle. And so Walcott never smiled on camera.

As for the friendly and gentle approach to the so-called peaceful transition, whenever he was asked, Walcott would always respond with a deep intake of breath before he answered the journalists’ questions.

“It is true that a small, misguided group of Greenlanders are violently resisting the transition. For outrageous and destructively selfish reasons of their own, I might add.”

Maratse might add a few choice remarks of his own, especially as Walcott’s team pressed the advantage and maintained an effective rate of fire that kept him firmly pinned behind the trashcan, the outer wooden shell of which had all but disintegrated.

“Reasons that deny any reason,” Walcott said at every opportunity. “I mean, who would say no to modern, comfortable, housing?”

Maratse remembered how Walcott liked to strike each item off his list, tapping his outstretched fingers with his thumb, one item at a time.

“Running water. Flush toilets.”

Kamiila shouted to Maratse, to be ready for a big bang.

“And a fully stocked convenience store with a wide variety of goods well within their sell-by date. Which, as you know, was not a given in Greenland before the United States stepped in.”

Walcott never mentioned how people would pay for the rent, the utilities, or the goods in the stores. There were few enough jobs for untrained Greenlanders in the towns and cities to begin with. And nor did he ever mention healthcare or social security. But as Kamiila prepared the big bang, Maratse shoved the counter argument to one side and got ready to move.

He couldn’t remember when Kamiila had found the dynamite, only that she had been very excited about it. It could have been after Constable Aqqa Danielsen told her about the mine in Uummannaq fjord, and how the IGA seemed to have overlooked it. Kamiila had disappeared for a few days, and, Maratse remembered, she was very excited on her return. And then, as she shouted for him to get ready, he realised she had brought the dynamite with her to Silassorissoq, even when he had explicitly told her not to.

Tilleq dropped into the snow at Kamiila’s feet and fired a sustained burst at the IGA positioned on both sides of the gap between the small red store and the yellow school opposite Maratse. Kamiila stepped out of cover and tossed two sticks of dynamite taped together; the fuses fizzled and sputtered in the mist as the dynamite sailed through the chilly air.

“Run,” she shouted, as the dynamite spun through the mist towards the IGA team.

Maratse waited for the bang, then leapt out of cover and charged to Kamiila’s position. Bullets clipped the ground at his heels but stopped when a second bang from a third stick Kamiila threw for good measure blew the outer wall from the store straight at the IGA team. Maratse slid into cover, and Kamiila grinned.

“Big bang,” she said, her eyes wide, brighter than searchlights.

“Dangerous, and destructive,” Maratse said.

“And you’re welcome.” Kamiila pulled Maratse to his feet and pushed him ahead of her. “Back on the path. We have to get to the boat.” She snapped her fingers at Tilleq and said, “You first. Make sure he comes with you. I’ll follow.”

“Kamiila…” Maratse said, his finger raised as if he was about to tell her off.

“No time,” she said, shoving him after Tilleq. And, “Later,” when he tried again.

Tilleq grabbed Maratse by the arm and pulled him around the back of the schoolhouse. He said something about the people of Silassorissoq hiding in the mountains, but Maratse was more concerned with the distance between them and Kamiila. He looked over his shoulder, saw her change magazines in the assault rifle – a prized possession captured during a spontaneous raid a few weeks earlier. She nodded that she was fine, shouted that he should Go! and then the air around her blitzed in a brilliant flash with an accompanying bang that flattened the young guerrilla warrior.

“Kamiila!”

Maratse turned to go back, but Tilleq stopped him, pulling him back as two IGA agents, clad in black armour and helmets, and carrying big, gnarly assault rifles, blistering with attachments, grabbed Kamiila and pulled her out of sight. Maratse tugged his pistol from the holster at his side, wrenched his arm free of Tilleq’s grip, and charged towards Kamiila’s last known position.

He ignored the sporadic return fire from the IGA agents dragging Kamiila between them, but had to stop and take cover when their teammates opened fire as Maratse reached the corner of the schoolhouse.

“Maratse, stop!”

Tilleq tackled Maratse to the ground, pressing his body on top of him and pinning him to the ground, just as effectively as the IGA had done with controlled bursts from their weapons. They watched the IGA retreat into the winter mist until all that remained of Kamiila was the twin furrowed tracks in the snow from her heels as they dragged her to the boat moored on the pebble beach on the western shore of Silassorissoq.

“She’s gone,” Tilleq said. “They took her. We have to go.”

“You go,” Maratse said, pushing Tilleq off him. He stood up, picked up Kamiila’s assault rifle, and checked the magazine. “I’m going after Kamiila.”

Denmark

Part 2

Inniki Rasmussen tapped the arms of her chair as she stared at the tall black man leaning against the pool table opposite her. She had already surmised that the room was a recreation room of sorts, most likely for a youth club, tucked in the basement of a school, or a large apartment block, or even an office building somewhere on the outskirts of Copenhagen. The traffic on the road to her right was too loud and constant to be an ordinary road, and although she couldn’t see it – there were no windows in the basement – she guessed it was a motorway, which might place her closer to Kastrup, Denmark’s primary international airport.

Which puts me even closer to Sweden, she thought as she wondered if the extradition rules were different for Swedes, and just how the man called Gage Farran intended to change her nationality so he might extradite her to America.

It was the most logical assumption she could come up with, although the Swedish part of it was the shakiest. Either way, the man leaning against the pool table had yet to say a word other than the first and last words he uttered after moving her from a tiny room with a single bed to the recreation room.

“Sit there. Don’t move. Don’t talk. And,” he said in English, almost as an afterthought, “drink this if you’re thirsty,” as he pressed a bottle of water into her hand.

Inniki tucked the bottle down the side of her chair, between her hip and the cushion. What she really wanted was a cup of coffee and a cigarette. She wondered if they might be offered later, in return for good behaviour.

“Will Gage be coming soon?” she asked, smiling as the man scowled at her. “Only, I can’t imagine you brought me in here for a game of billiards.” She tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear. “I’m not that good at it, so it would be rather one-sided. But of course, she added, with a smile, “if you wanted to play for cash, I’m sure you could make a bit of pocket money, perhaps enough to take your girl out for a fun evening.”

“You shouldn’t talk,” he said.

The man wore a large pistol clipped to his belt. Inniki recognised it as a Beretta 9mm. She knew the pressure it took to squeeze the trigger, and how she, personally, preferred a two-handed grip to compensate for the slight, but definite recoil such a pistol tended to incur when she fired one. It had been several years since she had had the pleasure, and the thought of handling the pistol made her smile. The man frowned as he followed Inniki’s gaze to the Beretta on his belt and he twitched as if she might suddenly lunge for it.

“I shouldn’t worry,” she said, as he shifted position. “I’m in my seventies, you know. Even if I was so inclined, I’m hardly likely to disarm a big fella such as yourself.”

“Don’t believe her for a second, Daquan,” said a stocky white man in his thirties as he stepped into the room. “Ms Rasmussen has a long history of physical violence.”

He stopped to dump a thin folder of papers onto the pool table, which was when Inniki caught the smell of coffee as he lifted the mug he carried to his lips and took a sip, watching her over the lip of the mug as he did so. She caught his eye, smiled, leaned back in the chair, and crossed her legs as he smiled back at her.

“Hello, Gage,” she said. “I thought you’d show up.”

“Inniki,” he said, with a nod.

Gage offered her the last of his coffee, and she took the mug greedily.

“Qujanaq,” she said, to which Gage nodded once more.

“What you need to know about Inniki,” he said, turning to Daquan, “can be summed up in two words.” He made a fist and popped out his thumb. “One, she’s dangerous. And two,” he said, straightening his index finger. “She’s old, which kind of deflates the first thing. Isn’t that right, Inniki?”

“When you put it like that,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the mug. “I suppose so. But then, that begs the question why you and your muscle-bound associate felt the need to grab me off the street and bring me to this charming, and probably secret, location.”

“Touché,” Gage said as he conceded the point. “But let’s save that for later, shall we?”

“Of course.” Inniki paused for a sip of coffee. “I don’t seem to be going anywhere at the moment. Unless you’re keeping me in the dark – literally – about additional travelling arrangements that, hopefully, do not include black hoods and smelly vans. It wasn’t very nice, Gage,” she said, resting the mug on the arm of the chair as she gave Gage her full attention. “Or is the CIA struggling to operate in a modern democratic country such as Denmark? Not quite the ally you thought she was, perhaps?”

“Everything is running to plan and on schedule,” Gage said, returning Inniki’s smile.

“Of course it is,” she said. “But then – and again, I’m just speculating – perhaps there has been a slight shift in your relations, now that you own Greenland. You need to exercise more caution now that the eyes of the world are firmly fixed – even more so – on my country.”

“Your country?” Gage plucked the mug from Inniki’s hands and finished the last of the coffee. “You were expelled from your country. Remember?”

“I remember. But…” Inniki gestured at the two men and her surroundings with a twirl of her fingers. “But here we are, together again, and, while I admit it is but a guess, I’m guessing that you picked me up because of my country, and the expulsion is a moot point. You’re clearly not done with me, and you obviously don’t like what I’ve been saying on my podcast. But instead of simply mocking my podcasts and twisting them into conspiracy theories to be laughed at – a classic trick your country and your leaders often use to discredit difficult truths.”

“She’s got a point,” Gage said, slapping Daquan’s arm as if he should pay attention to what Inniki said. “And it usually works.”

“But if it was working,” Inniki said. “We wouldn’t be having this charming conversation, just the three of us, in the basement. Would we?”

“Right again,” Gage said as he reached for the papers behind him. “Inniki Rasmussen?”

“Aap?”

“That is your full name?”

“You know it is,” she said, frowning at the sudden change in Gage’s tone, and his change of tack. “What do you want?”

“What we want is quite simple.” Gage opened the folder and pulled out the first sheet of paper. He turned it towards Inniki so she could see the black-and-white photo of a Greenlandic man, about forty, with bushy black eyebrows and the beginnings of a wispy beard. “We want him.”

“David?” Inniki exhaled with a soft snort. “Of course you do.”

Greenland

Part 3

Maratse charged around the corner of the schoolhouse, ignoring Tilleq’s pleas for him to stop and to think about it. He stuffed his pistol back in its holster and tugged the assault rifle into his chest, holding it tight as he ran. Maratse barely noticed the debris from the wall Kamiila blew off the side of the store with her sticks of dynamite, didn’t even blink at the dust twisting between the empty shelves in the chill sea wind. He kept going, pounding past a team of excited and confused sledge dogs, testing the limits of their chains, anchoring them to the rocks just a few hundred metres from the sea. Two of the IGA team, acting as a rear guard, opened fire as Maratse charged into range. He dropped to the ground in a blister of snow as they fired short bursts above his head.

If he had been thinking at all, Maratse might have wondered why they didn’t shoot to kill. If he had taken just a second to examine the goals of the IGA’s mission in Silassorissoq, he might have anticipated their next move, and three moves further down the line.

But he didn’t.

Maratse rolled to one side, using the low-hanging blanket of mist as cover to find a new, better, position from which to attack, to keep going, and reach Kamiila. He tugged the assault rifle into his shoulder, sighting through the mist toward the IGA’s position, then shifting his aim as the mist cleared and the closest agent presented a perfect target.

It didn’t matter that the agent was female. Didn’t matter that she was looking the other way. Maratse took a shallow breath and slowly applied pressure to the trigger as he breathed out, his focus solely on the woman between him and Kamiila.

He never heard the thump of Tilleq’s feet on the ground, nor his grunt as Tilleq leapt onto Maratse’s back just as he pulled the trigger. The shot went wild, and the IGA agent twisted to look at him, but then retreated at a word from the team leader. Maratse growled at Tilleq, pulling back his fist as Tilleq wrenched the assault rifle from his hands.

“They are getting away,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“Aap.” Tilleq made the rifle safe and tossed it to one side out of Maratse’s reach. “And you have to let them.”

“Why?”

“Kamiila said this might happen.”

“Kamiila,” Maratse said, jabbing his finger at the sea at the sound of the IGA boat racing away, “is gone.”

“I know.” Tilleq’s breath staggered out of his mouth, parting in two as he reached up to press his glasses back onto his face after they slipped to one side in his tumble with Maratse. “But you were going to kill an agent.”

“Iiji.”

“Kamiila said that you haven’t killed anyone, and you shouldn’t. Because the second you do…” Tilleq waited for Maratse to catch on. “In that second…”

“They can call me a killer,” Maratse said.

“Not a killer.” Tilleq rocked back onto his heels as the tension between them dissipated. “They’ll call you a murderer and the resistance will be over.”

“Hmm.”

“Kamiila said you say we have to study the IGA and learn from their tactics.”

“I said that.” Maratse took a long breath, and then exhaled, staring at Tilleq as he did so, as if seeing him for the first time. “Where did Kamiila find you?”

“In Kussannaq.”

“You’re related?”

“Distant, but yes.”

“The people of Kussannaq were relocated.”

“To Maniitsoq,” Tilleq said with a nod. “I know. But I don’t like Maniitsoq. So I came back. It was after the fight, and the helicopter crash. I stayed there a while, and then Sergeant Danielsen came back on the police cutter.”

“Sisak,” Maratse said.

“Aap. He said I couldn’t stay there. So I went onboard, and he took me to Isaappaa, the village where they kept the IGA woman.”

“Isra,” Maratse said, as he remembered the tall IGA agent he was supposed to translate for when he was assigned to her team.

“We can trade her for Kamiila,” Tilleq said.

“Trade?”

“Agree to a meeting, and we swap prisoners.” Tilleq shrugged, and said, “It will be difficult and dangerous. It should be on neutral ground. Maybe even on a boat.”

“Eeqqi.” Maratse said, catching on. “Not at sea. Somewhere public, where the world is watching.”

Tilleq nodded, and said, “In Nuuk. Of course.”

“Not Nuuk,” Maratse said. “Reykjavík.”

“Iceland?”

“Iiji,” Maratse said. He held out his hand and Tilleq helped him to his feet. “We’ll talk to Aqqa. We need to use Sisak to sail to Iceland.”

“I’ll tell everybody,” Tilleq said, as he turned, his eyes bright with the prospect of righting wrongs and the next adventure.

Maratse caught his arm and said, “Tell no one. I’ll talk to Aqqa. But first, I need you to help me get the people of Silassorissoq back into their houses. And,” he said, with a nod to the store, “we need to fix the wall.”

Tilleq picked up the assault rifle on his way back through the village, leaving Maratse alone with his thoughts.

Maratse walked to the beach. He knelt to study the grooves in the sand where the bow of the IGA boat had bitten into it. He stood up, lit a cigarette, and stared out to sea. The tips of the icebergs were visible, but the ice at water level was obscured by thick mist turned into fog.

As his mind cleared, Maratse thought about what Tilleq had said, throwing Maratse’s own words back at him. He smiled at the irony of it all, then frowned as he took it a step further and wondered what Walcott was planning. The IGA team was heavily armed – they all were – and it wouldn’t have taken much to turn the tables on Maratse’s small team and capture or kill them all.

They didn’t.

Nor did they seize the opportunity to capture or kill Maratse, which made Kamiila the target.

Every meeting with Walcott had been a struggle for Maratse, testing his English language skills with acronyms, abbreviations, and unfamiliar phrases and sayings. But it wasn’t just Walcott’s way of talking that puzzled Maratse, it was his attitude and approach to life. Maratse had to adjust to a new way of thinking. He understood that, but standing on the beach in Silassorissoq, it was difficult to see beyond the mountains, the beach, the snow on the ground, the fog at sea, and the ice – unyielding.

Someone has to yield, he thought, as he considered his next move. Perhaps, in taking Kamiila and Kamiila only, Walcott had devised a means by which they could yield. Maybe even talk, and reach an agreement, of sorts. The difficulty was, of course, knowing what to agree upon.

“Kamiila would know,” he thought, as he finished his cigarette.

The sledge dogs whined as Maratse walked back to the settlement. He stopped to fondle their ears, untwist their chains, and generally make a fuss of them. The dogs, like the ice, and the sea, centred Maratse, helping him understand what he was fighting for – the simple things, and the right to enjoy them. Sadly, he realised Walcott was unlikely to ever understand such things, and he smiled at the thought of Kamiila trying to explain it to him when they talked.

Maratse shuddered at the word talk.

Interrogate was the word he should have used. And while there were things that Walcott and the IGA didn’t understand, they had no problem with interrogation. It was something the Americans understood all too well.

Denmark

Part 4

Gage sent Daquan for more coffee and then dragged a chair from the wall to sit closer to Inniki. Despite the hoods and smelly vans with which Inniki challenged him, once they were alone, Gage spoke candidly, accepting that the situation could be better.

“You abducted me,” Inniki said. “You abducted a Greenlandic citizen, removed her forcibly from the street, against her will. On Danish soil,” she added as Gage opened his mouth to reply.

“First,” he said, tapping the arm of the chair. “You’re not a Greenlandic citizen anymore. Greenland is a part of the United States of America.”

“What am I then? American?” Inniki snorted. “You threw me out. Or did they not tell you that when they sent you to find me?”

“They told me,” Gage said. He nodded at the folder. “And I have your file – the bullet points, at least. You should be flattered. We rarely spend this much time and effort on stateless septuagenarians.”

“Stateless?”

“I’m afraid so, Inniki. You’re on your own.”

Gage paused as Daquan returned with the coffee. Daquan bent down to whisper in Gage’s ear, just loud enough for Inniki to catch the name Lauritz Karlsen and three times this morning.

“Problems?” she asked, as Daquan left the room.

“Politics,” Gage said, handing her a fresh mug of coffee. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You’re sure? You look worried.”

Gage smiled, then took a sip of coffee. “That’s good,” he said, as he put the mug to one side. “I like what you did there, playing an assumption.”

“It’s the only card I have. But I know the name Karlsen.”

“You do?”

“He’s a Social Democrat, quite liberal…”

“And with strong connections to Greenland, I understand.” Gage leaned forward, twisting his lips into a thin but loaded smile. “We can both make assumptions, Inniki. But unlike yours, my assumptions are backed up with facts and details, from observations and, shall we say, reconnaissance sorties in the more affluent parts of Copenhagen.” He leaned back and opened the folder in his lap. “Petra Jensen Karlsen,” he said, lifting another sheet of paper and turning it to face Inniki. “A pretty woman, long black hair, very Greenlandic. A little older than she looks, but that fits with her being a mother of two.”

“Stop,” Inniki said.

Gage ignored her.

“Abella is the oldest.” Gage looked up. “Six years old, I believe. Has her mother’s eyes. While Jatsi…”

“I said stop.”

“…recently turned four.”

Inniki gripped the coffee mug in both hands. She held it in her lap, trying to hold it steady as Gage continued.

“The reason I’m not worried about your Soc. Dem. friend is because he’s not actually your friend. Is he, Inniki?” Gage smiled as Inniki’s lips twitched. He gave her a second to respond, but then continued, turning to the next sheet of paper. “We have all this on file, digitally, of course. But,” he said, looking up to catch Inniki’s eye, “it’s far more dramatic to turn a piece of paper than it is to scroll up and down on a tablet. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t have a tablet,” Inniki said.

“I know. You’re just like me. Old school.”

Inniki took a breath, and said, “I’m nothing like you.”

“No? That’s curious.” Gage made a show of wrinkling his brow and running his finger down the list of bullet points highlighting Inniki’s background. “You worked for the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.” He tapped the paper. “It says so right here.”

“I did.”

“So you worked for an American government agency. Just like me.”

“Nothing like you,” Inniki repeated.

“And yet, like me, you were engaged in espionage, seeking to gain the trust of a target. But…” He waved his hand as if dismissing that particular thread. “No matter. Let’s just agree that your politician friend – the one who keeps calling – probably doesn’t know the extent of your involvement with Petra…”

“Piitalaat,” Inniki said. “Her Greenlandic name.”

“Thank you,” Gage said. He tugged a pen from where it was clipped on the last page of the folder. “Can you spell that? No?” Gage shrugged and scribbled a few lines on the page.

Inniki understood it was all for show, part of the intimidation routine. But she also knew he was building up to something greater. And it was that that made her tremble.

“Petra, or Pitaa-something, has kept her true relationship with you a secret from her husband. She is, of course, leaning on him to put pressure on my government – through the embassy, of course – to reveal your whereabouts. But what he doesn’t know, what he can’t know, is that every Tuesday, Petra – your friend – tucks a rolled-up yoga mat under her arm, takes a bus halfway across the city, and spends the evening – every Tuesday – in a rather dark school sports hall.” Gage reached for his coffee, took a sip, and smiled. “Now,” he said, resting the mug on the arm of the chair. “I’m no yoga expert but I do find it curious that the only people coming to Petra’s yoga class, half an hour before and after the so-called class is scheduled…” Gage stopped to laugh. “Scheduled. That’s also a bit odd, as there’s no mention of this class anywhere – not online, or in the local café, not even on the school noticeboard. Strange. But…” Another dismissive wave. “No matter. The only people coming seem to be Greenlandic men and women between the age of twenty and forty-five, maybe fifty. Twelve so far. Not all at once. But not one of them has a yoga mat like Petra.” He shook his head. “Not one.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point, Inniki, is that you have been busy. One might say you are inciting rebellion. And given your stateless status, that puts you in a rather difficult position, and presents me with lots of opportunities – well within the law, I might add.” He smiled, and said, “For the first time in my career working in the shadows, I get to step into the light.”

Gage pulled a piece of paper from the back of the folder. He handed it to Inniki, holding it as she put her coffee to one side.

“Once you get past the legalese,” he said, as Inniki read the paper, “you’ll see that it’s quite easy to understand. But, in a nutshell, let’s just agree that given the current situation in Greenland, I have certain powers that enable me to prosecute, and dare I say, terminate all potential threats associated with Constable David Maratse’s little insurrection.”

Inniki stopped trembling as she read to the end of the paper. There was little use expending unnecessary energy, when she would require every last bit to process the scenario Gage presented, and her potential role within it.

“I say little insurrection, because it really is a David and Goliath situation. Only, your David is unlikely to triumph, as the Goliath he has chosen to tangle with is the United States of America, with all the resources that entails. You must understand, Inniki, Greenland is far too important – in a global strategic and defensive context – to let David throw a spanner in the works.”

Gage closed the folder and stood up, plucking the paper from Inniki’s hands as he did so.

“Let me explain this before Daquan comes in to prepare you for your journey.”

“Where am I going?”

“I’ll come to that. But first, let’s be clear, while we don’t know exactly what Petra is doing every Tuesday night, we know it’s not yoga. You have some tradecraft, I’ll give you that, but she doesn’t. And neither do her friends – all twelve of them. We have sufficient information to intervene. We both know what that means, and we know it will be ugly, unpleasant, and likely traumatic for young Abella and her even younger sister, Jatsi.”

Inniki clenched her fists in her lap, and said, “Can we just skip to the part where you tell me what you want me to do?”

“Sure,” Gage said. He called out for Daquan to join them, and then said, “We’re taking you home, Inniki. You’re going to help us stop Constable Maratse, and end his hopeless insurrection, before any more people get hurt. Including,” he said, tapping the folder, “Petra and her gorgeous girls. What do you say to that, Inniki?”

Inniki pressed her lips tightly together and dipped her head in a brief nod.

There was nothing else to say.

Greenland

Part 5

Special Assistant Spenser Walcott of the Office of Intermediary Greenlandic Affairs paced on the rear deck of the United States Coast Guard cutter Logan, as the coast guard crew received the IGA team and secured the black rigid inflatable boat. He scratched at the scar on his cheek, a new impulse he had picked up since the helicopter crash above the settlement of Kussannaq. He picked at the scar whenever he was agitated. Not nervous, Walcott didn’t do nervous, but the sight of Kamiila Sorsuttartoq, the pretty and aggressive Greenlander the IGA team dragged out of the RIB, brought back memories of that fateful day in the tiny Greenlandic settlement. Kamiila had been the one to shoot Agent Brantley Downs, killing him outright, with, depending upon who one talked to, some justification. Walcott reminded himself that it was Kamiila’s boyfriend, one Nukappi Aalisartoq, the first victim of the so-called insurrection, who died in the mountains, torn apart by the door gun of the coast guard’s Jayhawk helicopter. Walcott had sent his team to bring Maratse in when he went rogue, after which people started to die. Walcott pushed the number to the back of his head as the team marched Kamiila onto the deck.

Five.

Suppressing the thought didn’t work.

Six, including the Greenlander.

No matter the number, it had to stop. Washington wanted him to take steps following what they described as the Kussannaq debacle. Kamiila was step one.

“Is she hurt?” Walcott asked Tom Brent, the IGA team leader, after a cursory glance at Kamiila. Her eyes blazed with a keen fire he preferred not to poke.

“Scratches from the scuffle. A couple of bruises from when she hit the deck when we used the flashbang.” Brent’s face mask muffled his voice, but his shrug suggested there was nothing to worry about.

“And our guys?”

“We’re good. No injuries, although your friend, Maratse, had Darlington cold.”

“He shot at her?” Walcott flashed a look at Kamiila, noting the smile at the left side of her mouth.

“Yeah, but some other guy tackled him. The shot went wild. But still.” Brent shrugged for a second time. “His intent was clear.”

“Right.”

Walcott took a breath, then turned to face Kamiila. She returned his stare, not backing down an inch, for which she earned his respect. While his team was all in black, Kamiila wore straw-coloured trousers with the cuffs rolled above a pair of worn hiking boots. She had no body armour, just a thick green winter jacket. Her hair was blonde. He frowned as he tried to remember if it was black the last time they had run into each other. All Greenlanders had black hair. It was a fact. Everyone said so. And yet, here she was. Blonde.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he said.

“Because you failed. You didn’t catch David.”

“Maratse wasn’t the target,” Walcott said. “We wanted you. And now we’ve got you, we’ll get him.” He smiled as the fire in Kamiila’s eyes faded a little. “It’s just a matter of time.”

If he thought the fire was dying, Kamiila proved him wrong, erasing his smile with a bigger one of her own. “You’re playing into our hands,” she said.

“Really?”

“Aap.” Kamiila shrugged her arm free of Brent’s grip as she squared up to Walcott. “You were lucky when you killed Nukappi – no witnesses except David and me. But You forced David onto a path. You pushed him into action. You did, Walcott.”

“You know my name.”

“Of course, I do.” Kamiila rolled her eyes, as if Walcott had just said something stupid. “But that’s not important. Because now everybody knows who David is. They listen to Constable Maratse on the radio, on VHF, on Inniki Rasmussen’s podcast, which you haven’t managed to shut down.”

“Working on it,” Walcott muttered, just under his breath.

“You think if you catch David, then all this will stop?” Kamiila shook her head. “It’s just getting started. You think a handful of guerrillas are a problem? Wait ‘til there’s a small army of us.”

Brent laughed, along with the rest of the IGA team. All except the one called Darlington. She stared at Kamiila, catching the young Greenlander’s eye.

“He nearly killed you today,” Kamiila said. “Because you took me. If Tilleq hadn’t stopped him, you’d be dead.”

Walcott caught the name Tilleq, and committed it to memory, although, unless he got Kamiila to spell it, it would be phonetic, just like every other Greenlandic name they had intercepted. Either she knew that when she said it, or she didn’t realise she had just given up an important piece of information.

She was a puzzle. Passionate and naively confident.

“And,” Kamiila said, turning back to Walcott, “now you’ve pushed him further down the path. He’ll be coming for me now. You won’t be able to stop him.”

“Sir,” Brent said. “Let me take her down below. She can cool off in the brig.”

“Yeah, okay,” Walcott said.

Kamiila grinned at him as Brent prodded her along the deck. The team followed, but Walcott caught Darlington by the arm as she tried to walk around him.

“You look spooked,” he said, as she removed her helmet and mask. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. The wind teased at the loose strands of bright red hair that escaped the tight, flat bun on top of her head. “I will, sir,” she said, when Walcott gave her a second look.

Walcott held up his hand for Darlington to wait until Brent had taken Kamiila inside the cutter. “You’re about the same age,” he said.

“She’s a year younger,” Darlington said, adding, “I’m twenty-seven.”

“And you’ve got a bond now,” Walcott said. “She’s targeted you. No,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Bad choice of words. I should have said she noticed you. I want you to use that. I want you to be the one to talk to her. Get to know her. Tell her you don’t like this assignment.”

“I don’t, sir,” Darlington said. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

Walcott sighed. “Okay. Then use it. Play on it. Win her trust.”

“To find Maratse?” Darlington pointed along the deck as if Kamiila was still standing there. “You saw her. She won’t give him up. Unless we use…” She paused. “Unless we’re authorised to…”

“Use enhanced techniques?” Walcott reached out and gripped Darlington’s arm. “This is the IGA, Darlington. Not the CIA. We don’t do that.”

Walcott squeezed her arm and let go. He looked away for a second, trusting that his expression, twisted by thoughts of Gage Farran and his current mission in Denmark, was unreadable.

“We’ll know Maratse’s location soon enough. What I need to know now, urgently, is where they are hiding Isra El-Hashem. That’s what I need you to find out. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Walcott gestured at the door. “Tell Brent to come see me. Then grab some food and take some to Kamiila. Go slow. Work up a rapport but get me the location before I’m forced to take more drastic measures.”

Darlington frowned. “But you just said…”

Walcott nodded at the door. “Time’s running out,” he said, avoiding her eyes as he turned away.

He listened to the clomp of Darlington’s boots along the deck, then stood at the railing as he scratched at his scar. Somewhere out there, Walcott imagined Maratse doing the same thing, staring out at sea, planning his next move. He remembered their first meeting, Maratse’s 360. Those markers and flags that Maratse seemed to struggle with were now underlined and highlighted. If Walcott didn’t bring this to an end soon, then Maratse’s current status as High Priority Target was in danger of being elevated to Public Enemy Number One.

“And even I don’t want that,” Walcott whispered. He scratched his scar, and added, “No matter what he’s done, I kind of like the guy.”

Part 6

Myranda Darlington piled her gear onto her preferred table along the bulkhead on the Logan’s starboard side of the mess. It was furthest from the counter, and closest to the restrooms. No one wanted to sit there, and few chose to sit with Darlington if, as they said, she refused to sit anywhere else. Since the first rumours of trouble in Greenland, the IGA had become a closed community of agents, shunned by those who read Willow Edwards’ damning article in the Post and the Times that championed the Greenlanders’ right to continue to live as they once did, and derided by agents from different departments who laughed at the IGA’s apparent incompetence when dealing with – in their words – a bunch of natives, the population of which could fit inside Dodger’s Stadium.

But it wasn’t that simple.

The IGA was never supposed to be heavy-handed. Few people at any level of the US government believed the Greenlanders would be anything but optimistic and grateful for the transition out of the Kingdom of Denmark. Autonomous or not, everyone believed that an autonomous state within the United States was far better and offered much more than a small, geographically challenged autonomous country with a tiny population ever would.

Darlington believed it too.

Until, during her second relocation mission, when visiting the so-called living place – too small to be a settlement – of Kiserliortoq, a young girl spoke with her in English. The girl’s name was Nusaasaq, as intriguing as it was difficult to pronounce. Even more intriguing was the girl’s English accent. There was nothing wrong with her vocabulary, only that her pronunciation and intonation were a little off. As the relocation mission stalled through lack of a suitable translator to talk to the girl’s parents, Darlington spent most of the afternoon with Nusaasaq, and discovered she and her sister were the only children, and they were self-taught. They would stay at home in Kiserliortoq until they reached the eighth grade, at which time they would move to the nearby town of Upernavik and live in the students’ home while taking their last two years of school.

Nusaasaq and her sister had taught themselves English from DVDs and computer games. And once Nusaasaq introduced Darlington to her sister, Piniari, she never forgot them.

And everything changed from that point on.

Gone were the natives who had to be relocated for the sake of the progress and the economy. In their place, Darlington saw a proud people sometimes suffering, occasionally prospering, but above all surviving in one of the harshest and most beautiful places in the world.

Darlington’s colleagues said she had gone native.

Sometimes she agreed with them.

So when she collected her thoughts, stowed her gear, and took two trays of food into the brig, Darlington thought she was ready for Kamiila Sorsuttartoq, that they might have something in common, and that she might actually be able to do some good.

It was why she applied to join the IGA in the first place.

They were supposed to do good.

“But you can’t, and you never will,” Kamiila said between mouthfuls of burger and greasy fries.

“Why?”

Kamiila shrugged, wiped her mouth, then took a slurp of cola to wash down her last mouthful of burger. She burped loudly, then grinned, as if it was expected. Darlington stared at her, wondering how much was an act, how much was the real Kamiila the Killer, as she had been dubbed by those among the IGA who knew of her.

“Because we were fighting for independence long before you came to Greenland. Sure, we did it differently, and yes, Greenland received a big chunk of money every year from Denmark. But slowly, surely, every year, we pushed back and became a little more Greenlandic, a little more independent. We challenged policies that stopped us from living how we pleased.”

“But the way you live?”

“What? How do we live?” Kamiila shook her head, and said, “Greenland has some of the most advanced buildings and houses in the world, designed to meet huge changes in temperature, with foundations that cope with the ground freezing and thawing beneath the houses. You see houses with no running water or toilets that don’t flush. That’s just in the settlements, and some of the smaller towns. What you don’t see is the generations who have lived there, fished there, born, lived, and died there.”

“Is that what you want?”

Kamiila shrugged again. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I want to travel and see the world too.” She reached across the table and helped herself to Darlington’s fries. “What do you want, Myranda?”

“Me?”

“Aap,” Kamiila said, pinching a layer of cheese between two fries.

“I want to make a difference.”

“So? Make a difference. Just do it.”

“How?”

Kamiila glanced at the camera, observing them from one corner of the ceiling, then cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered, “Help us.” She sat back and set about finishing Darlington’s fries. Walcott knocked on the window in the cell door a second later and beckoned for Darlington to step outside. Darlington’s team leader stood right next to him.

“Well?” Walcott said, once the door was closed. “How’s it going?”

“I’m establishing rapport, sir.”

“Bullshit,” Brent said. “You’re fraternising with the enemy, Myranda. You told her your first name; let her eat from your plate. You’re weak and playing right into her hands.”

“And you’re relieved, Brent,” Walcott said, dismissing the IGA team leader with a wave of his hand and a pointed look. He turned back to Darlington as soon as Brent was gone, and said, “Don’t listen to him. You’re doing exactly what I asked you to do. Now, go grab some coffee – two coffees – and get back in there. Talk until she gets sleepy, then keep her talking. I don’t care if it takes all night. I want you to be sisters by morning.”

“Is this a good idea, sir?” Darlington swallowed, before taking a chance and asking for permission to speak plainly.

“Shoot,” Walcott said.

“You’ve seen my record, sir. You know what everyone says about me.” She pointed at Kamiila’s cell. “You saw the video feed. When she cupped her hand to her mouth…”

“She asked you to help them. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want you to do just that. You’re going to go native, Darlington, just like your teammates say you are. You’re going to win Kamiila’s trust. And then you’re going to take a message to Maratse.”

“I am?”

“You are.” Walcott smiled. “It’s going to be difficult, dangerous, and not to mention a shit-tonne of paperwork.” He sighed, as if suddenly aware of the hoops he was going to have to jump through to get everything approved. But, he surmised, it would all be worth it if a peaceful resolution could be found to the situation.

“What’s the message, sir?”

“That we can end this, quickly, quietly, and amicably.”

“Can we do that, sir?”

“We can try, Darlington. And the first step is your next step into that cell.”

Part 7

Maratse smoked in the bow of the small fishing dinghy, pointing out the larger lumps of ice as Tilleq steered from the stern. The outboard motor was old and puttered to a stop once a kilometre, drawing small curses and apologies from Tilleq each time it happened, and each time Maratse talked him through a rough diagnostic at sea.

“Have you checked the fuel line?”

“It’s in.”

“Is it kinked?”

“Naamik.”

“When did you last clean the motor?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last use it?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Maratse finished his cigarette, then climbed over the thwart seat to sit beside Tilleq. The stern dipped a little deeper into the water and the dinghy rocked. Maratse smiled as Tilleq gripped the gunwales.

“Was your ataata a fisherman?”

“Naamik,” Tilleq said with a shake of his head.

“Your mother?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.” Maratse checked the connections between the fuel line and the tank. “Here,” he said, tapping the end of the line attached to the tank. “This needs to be tighter. Air is getting in.”

“Okay.” Tilleq took a breath and then blew out his cheeks. “Would you like to drive?”

“Iiji,” Maratse said. He settled onto the stern seat as Tilleq sat opposite him in the centre of the dinghy. Once Maratse had the motor going, the stress of the previous day seemed to seep out of him. His shoulders relaxed, and he lifted his chin to study the water ahead, checking the fuel, and steering closer to the larger icebergs. “Just for a look,” he said.

“You’re looking for whales.”

“Imaqa,” Maratse said. “Maybe they are looking for us.”

Tilleq studied Maratse quietly for the next ten minutes. Kamiila had told him a little about the constable, but he knew more about Maratse from the radio. Tilleq sometimes fell asleep to Maratse’s long descriptions of life at sea, or travelling by dog sledge, or even just visiting people in their homes, quietly drinking coffee to the sound of icebergs cracking and booming in the sea.

“You never described the towns or Nuuk,” Tilleq said. “Are they not important?”

“They’re important, but the IGA isn’t trying to move people from the towns or from Nuuk.”

“But the way you talk,” Tilleq said. “It’s as if life in the villages and the settlements is better, somehow.”

“Not better. Just different.” Maratse shrugged, and said, “I don’t talk about the towns because I don’t know about life there.”

“But you’ve been a policeman in town.”

“Iiji, a few times. Less than that if I could get away with it.”

“You don’t like being around people, do you?”

“Hmm.”

Maratse slowed as he curved around another iceberg and they spotted a small ship less than a kilometre away. The red hull of the small police cutter Sisak III and the white wheelhouse reminded Maratse of the Greenland flag, and he smiled as they approached.

“You didn’t answer,” Tilleq said, pressing him.

Maratse reduced power, waved once at a figure on Sisak’s deck, then looked at Tilleq. “It doesn’t matter whether I like people or not,” he said. “What matters is that people – Greenlanders, or anyone else – have the chance to decide what they like or don’t like. You went to Maniitsoq.”

“Aap,” Tilleq said. “And I came back. I didn’t like it.”

“You came back because you could come back. Many of the people they are relocating don’t like the new houses or their new life. But they don’t have the means, or maybe even the health to go back.” Maratse lifted his head as they passed another iceberg. He filled his lungs with the cold, briny air streaming off it. “They’re the ones I fight for,” he said, slowing to pull alongside Sisak. “They’re the ones I talk to on the radio.”

“You want them to resist,” Tilleq said. “You remind them of what they will miss if they allow the IGA to move them.”

“I tell them,” Maratse said, as the dinghy’s hull bumped against the side of the cutter. “To think about what they have. If the Americans have a better offer, they should take it. But they should have the right to choose not to. That’s worth fighting for.”

Maratse turned the motor off, helped Tilleq onto the cutter, and then climbed up after him. He walked the dinghy to the rear of the deck and tied the painter to Sisak’s railings. When he was done, he turned to shake hands with Constable Aqqa Danielsen.

“How’s our guest?” he asked, nodding to the wheelhouse door.

“Still mad,” Aqqa said. He plucked at his moustache – thicker than the wispy hairs Maratse cultivated on his chin – as if it was still new, and he had yet to decide if he should keep it or not. “You want to talk to her?”

“Iiji. I want to negotiate a trade.”

“For Kamiila?”

“You heard?”

Aqqa nodded. “It’s on the radio. The IGA aren’t hiding it.”

“Hmm.” Maratse took a moment, then nodded. “How do you stand with Isra?”

“From our point of view – the Greenland police – we arrested Isra for the murder of Agent Casey Mitchell, the IGA agent she shot in the head.” He grinned, and said, “Walcott sees it differently. He threatened action, but as it has to go through channels, things have stalled. There’s still no direct chain of command. The intermediary part of the IGA’s brief, together with the fact that it is a period of transition, keeps things fluid. No one knows quite what to do about us.” Aqqa tapped his chest. “So we just keep floating around the edges of insurrection. Until someone tells us what we can or can’t do.”

“But you keep Isra aboard Sisak.”

“Aap.” Aqqa nodded. “We do now. If we didn’t, the IGA would just walk into a police station and then walk her right out. This way, we get to keep her a little while longer.”

Maratse lit a cigarette as he listened, taking it all in.

“Will they trade, do you think?” Aqqa asked.

“Isra for Kamiila?” Maratse shrugged. “Imaqa. But if they won’t trade Kamiila for one of their own, maybe they’ll trade her for me.”

Denmark

Part 8

The drive to Kastrup Airport took less than ten minutes. Inniki allowed herself a small mental pat on the back as she correctly guessed the location of the basement close to the airport, despite having been hooded and disorientated when she was taken to it. But any further self-congratulatory thoughts would have to wait as she chewed over the implications of returning to Greenland on a scheduled Air Greenland flight. She had expected a small, private CIA jet. But obviously Gage wanted people to see her, to talk about her, and speculate about what she might be doing on a plane together with two American chaperones. The word would get out that she was in American custody. The plastic ties around her wrists would make sure everyone knew her status, and that status would reach the ears of Constable David Maratse.

Inniki decided to think about how she would tackle that on the four-hour flight from Copenhagen to Kangerlussuaq – the old American air base, still functioning as Greenland’s International Airport, if one ignored the other old American air base in Narsarsuaq in the south of the country. Most people did, but what Inniki couldn’t ignore was the small group of protestors waiting inside the airport, together with at least three camera crews.

“Right on schedule,” Gage said, as Daquan dropped them outside the main entrance. He waved at two Danish police officers – a young man and an older woman – as they got out of a nearby patrol car, then nodded at Daquan when he said he would find a place to park.

“Is this part of your plan?” Inniki asked.

“More or less,” Gage said. He gripped Inniki’s arm as the police officers approached. The woman glanced at Inniki’s hands, asked if she was all right, and then turned to address Gage.

“We’re to escort you to your flight.”

“That’s right,” Gage said.

“It doesn’t mean we like what you’re doing…”

“But you’ve been told not to interfere. Right?”

“Words to that effect,” the woman said. She stared at Gage for a second longer, then smiled as her partner handed her a small canvas bag. “Like I said, we can’t interfere, but we can take your weapons.” She turned as Daquan jogged across the street to join them. “If you’ll be so kind. We’ll make sure they come with you on the flight. They’ll be in the hold.”

“Fine,” Gage said. He let go of Inniki and removed the pistol he wore in a holster on the clip on his belt and dropped it into the police officer’s bag. He added two magazines and nodded for Daquan to do the same. “All set?” he asked, as the woman gave the bag to her partner.

“We can go inside,” she said.

Gage held onto Inniki’s right arm, while Daquan walked on her left. The officers walked ahead of them, clearing a path through the passengers, and effectively blocking Inniki from the view of the cameras. Inniki smiled as she recognised the chants in Greenlandic calling for the Americans to set her free. But it was the woman who didn’t chant who caught her eye, together with the two girls who flew from Petra’s side to cling to Inniki’s legs, slowing the party down.

“Smart,” Gage said, nodding at the girls as Petra walked up to them. “Very smart. You think that one up by yourself?”

“I had help,” Petra said, with a nod to the two police officers.

“That’s right, you used to be on the force, before you quit to become the politician’s wife.”

Petra locked eyes with the CIA man as Inniki fussed over Abella and Jatsi’s hair as best she could with bound wrists.

“Her wrists are bruised,” Petra said, raising her voice as two of the camera crews moved in for a closer shot. “Inniki Rasmussen is a seventy-year-old woman.” Petra had yet to look at Inniki. She kept her focus firmly on Gage. “You could call her infirm. And yet, these men from the American CIA have tied her wrists with thin plastic ties, cutting off the flow of blood. Injuring this innocent woman.”

“Very good, Petra,” Gage said. He turned to the cameras and said, “Ms Rasmussen is a person of interest, wanted by the American government for inciting rebellion and unrest in Greenland. We have every right to take her back to Greenland, and, as you will see,” he said, with a nod to the two police officers. “We do so with the full support of the Danish government.” He turned back to Petra, and said, “So, if you would kindly remove your children from my prisoner, we have a flight to catch.”

Petra called to her girls and turned her head towards Inniki. She glanced at Inniki’s hands and suppressed the smile that played on her lips as Inniki tucked the paper the girls had given her into the wrist warmers she wore above the ties, just visible underneath the long sleeves of her winter coat.

“I’ll see you soon, Piitalaat,” Inniki said, and Petra nodded.

“And just remember, Piitalaat,” Gage whispered as he brushed past her. “We’ll be watching. You and your pretty little girls.”

The cameras followed them as far as the check-in, and each time Inniki looked over her shoulder, Petra was there, holding her girls’ hands, following her all the way. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Inniki had hoped the secret recruitment in the school sports hall might have led to a small band of guerrillas who could sail to Greenland and join the fight. And yet, perhaps it had been a pipe dream at best, and the best way to motivate the people of Greenland was to simply keep on keeping on with her podcasting, and her unofficial lobbying. People were listening. People were thinking.

And now, she thought, as he looked back at the small crowd of protestors. People are acting.

Gage guided Inniki up the stairs to the security section of Kastrup Airport. The policewoman followed, leaving her partner to deal with the CIA’s guns. Inniki spotted a bathroom and said she needed to go, and Gage agreed the policewoman could accompany her. He cut the ties around her wrists, and Daquan guarded the door.

“Are you okay?” the policewoman asked once they were alone.

“I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more to help.”

“I understand.”

Inniki excused herself and entered one of the cubicles. She locked the door and tugged the small square of paper Abella had pressed into her hand, smiling as she unwrapped it. One side was decorated with sunflowers and the girls’ names scrawled in spidery capitals. And on the other, in Petra’s tidy Greenlandic, was a single word: akiuunneq.

Fight.

Greenland

Part 9

The corridor outside the Logan’s brig was empty. Darlington loitered to one side, pretending to check her social media on her phone while she waited for Walcott to create the diversion they had agreed upon. Personally, she struggled with the fact that Walcott wanted it to appear as if Darlington had gone rogue. It was too close to home, and most, if not all, of her colleagues and IGA teammates would eat it up, falling for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Which is why this will work,” Walcott had insisted when Darlington voiced her concerns.

“But what about my parents? They’ll think I’m a traitor.” Darlington worried about them the most. Her mother, a postal worker back home in Portland, Oregon, had a lot of friends with sons and daughters in the military. They followed the news avidly, keeping tabs on their children from afar. While Darlington wasn’t in the military per se, she learned that her mother had developed new friendships as a result of Darlington’s posting to the IGA. Her father, a small-time family lawyer, had a smaller circle of co-workers, and a more critical view of the IGA’s role in Greenland. He would weather the storm, perhaps even praise his daughter’s treasonous rebellion. But it was the effect any potential fallout would have on her mother that concerned Darlington the most.

“I want to tell them,” she said.

“You can’t.”

“Just send them a cryptic message, or something.”

“No,” Walcott said. “If this is going to work, you need to be convincing. Everyone needs to be convinced, and that includes your mother. Listen,” he had said, laying it out for her as he pointed at the map of Greenland pinned to the wall of his quarters on the Logan. “This so-called insurrection is doomed to failure. Just look at the territory they have to cover. It limits them as much as it does us. Now, granted, Maratse and his little band of followers have the edge because they know where all the tiny cabins are, tucked away in the mountains, but he still has to move from one to another and that takes time and fuel. We could wait for him to run out of both, or we can do everything within our power to cut this short and prevent more people from getting hurt. Washington favours the second option. They are working other angles as we speak, but this,” he said, pointing at Darlington, “is our angle. You’re going to make it work.” Walcott smiled, as if the conversation was over.

“But you just thought it up on the fly,” she said. “When you saw my reaction after the mission. You just made it up, right then and there.” Darlington paused, then remembering her place, added, “Sir,” as she realised she had spoken out of turn.

“You might think that,” Walcott said. “But I’m not blind to what goes on aboard the Logan, and I take an interest in my teams. I could be running this whole operation from headquarters in Nuuk. But I’m not. I’m here, Myranda.” He smiled as she looked up. “I know you’re struggling with our task in Greenland. That doubt is the perfect way in to a mission like this one. You won’t have to lie. You can be yourself. You will be authentic, and Kamiila will believe you.”

“But what you’re asking me to do…”

“What?” Walcott laughed, then pointed once more at the map. “You think springing Kamiila from the brig, stealing a boat, and putting a couple more guns in the hands of Maratse’s band of merry men and women is going to make a difference? Look at the map, Myranda. It’s drop in the ocean, one ice crystal on a sheet of ice covering the biggest island in the world. It’s nothing.”

“Okay,” she said. “I think.”

“Don’t think, just do it. Be natural, play to your strengths, which at this point are your own doubt,” he said, holding up his thumb, then stretching out his index finger, “and your wish to do the right thing and make life better for the people of Greenland. Sure, it might get a little rough for your parents when this gets out. And it will get out, because we need people to believe you’ve gone rogue. But then, later, when you bring Maratse in and get a medal for outstanding dedication and service to your country, your folks will bathe in the glory that their daughter is a hero.” Walcott smiled and then nodded at the door. “It will be fine. Now, take an hour, get your head sorted, and then wait for my signal.”

Walcott assured Darlington she would have a clear run to an RIB waiting for her alongside the Logan. He promised it would be loaded with everything she needed, including a small but powerful tracking device discreetly sewn into her jacket. Despite her doubts, she trusted him. Never mind that the original mission of befriending Kamiila had expanded to include treasonous acts against her country, Darlington believed Walcott was ultimately interested in doing the right thing for Greenland. But it was up to Darlington to decide for herself what that was.

“You’ll figure it out,” he had said – his parting words as she left his quarters.

And then, in the corridor outside the brig, when a flustered coast guard officer ordered two seamen to follow him out of the brig to deal with some bullshit insubordination thing that couldn’t wait ‘til morning, Darlington realised the mission was a go.

Heart thumping, she pushed off the corridor bulkhead, marched into the brig, and grabbed the keys for Kamiila’s cell. Darlington opened the door, pressed her fingers to her lips, and waved for Kamiila to follow her.

“What’s going on?” Kamiila asked.

“Just wait.” Darlington checked the corridor, then grabbed one of the seamen’s jackets and told Kamiila to put it on. “And pull your hood up.”

“We’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes,” Darlington said. She led the way along the corridor, wincing at the sound of their footfalls echoing between the bulkheads, and then again as they climbed the stairs to the next deck.

“You have a boat?”

“Yes.” Darlington pointed at the stairs zigzagging down the side of the ship to the RIB moored on the pontoon below.

“Okay,” Kamiila said. “Let’s do this.”

Darlington took a breath, then followed the Greenlandic guerrilla off the ship. Thoughts of her parents dissolved with each treasonous step she took. She wasn’t worried about them anymore, her more immediate concern was herself, and the blind trust Walcott placed in her. Because, with each step, Darlington found the next was easier.

Part 10

The coast guard officer on duty in the brig sounded the alarm precisely seven minutes and forty-two seconds after he was mysteriously ordered to leave his post. Angelica ‘Angel’ Hawke, the Logan’s short, square-faced captain called Walcott into her office two minutes later, demanding a situation report and an explanation if he had one regarding the mixed messages that pulled her officer away from his station and allowed one of his agents to spring Kamiila Sorsuttartoq from the brig.

“Because I’m all ears,” she said, reminding Walcott that, “This kind of shit doesn’t happen on my boat. But since you’ve been onboard, the mission has been one catastrophic event after the other.”

Walcott understood that the loss of three aircrew and a Jayhawk helicopter weighed heavily on the captain’s mind and carried even more weight when she was dragged through a review board – ongoing – to assess her suitability for the continued mission in Greenland. He was sympathetic, but also conscious that he needed to play things as straight as he could, albeit without all the details.

He also needed a ride to Nuuk, having just learned Gage Farran had landed in Greenland’s capital together with a very interesting guest.

“Your prisoner has just escaped, and you’re leaving?”

“Yes,” Walcott said, after requesting transfer to the mainland on the Jayhawk.

“And who deals with this mess while you’re gone?”

“That would be Brent.”

“He’s in charge?”

“Until I return,” Walcott said. “Yes.”

The captain leaned against her desk, then gestured at the meagre decorations the captain’s quarters afforded. The grey walls did little to lighten her mood, but the winter light streaming in through the window cast a glow about her, and she turned her face into the sun.

“You know, I volunteered for this mission because I love the Arctic. It’s so pure.”

“Yes,” Walcott said, as he discreetly checked his watch.

“But since day one of the transition, I feel as though everything is tainted.” Hawke turned to look at Walcott. “The snow isn’t as white. I see diesel fumes in patches on the surface. There’s more grit than before, and I feel…” She took a breath, then sighed. “I feel as though you and your IGA are responsible. You’ve spoiled the Arctic for me, for my crew, and, most likely, for the people of Greenland.”

“That’s harsh,” Walcott said, curious that the captain spoke so frankly.

“You think so?” Hawke shrugged, and said, “This is the last straw. The crash was one thing – tragic – but to lose a prisoner, on my watch.” She shook her head. “I’m toast. I’ll lose my command over this, for sure.” She dismissed Walcott with a nod at the door. “The chopper’s yours, just as soon as it gets back from the mainland.” She sighed, adding, “It’ll be too late to search for the Greenlander, anyway. Now,” she said, fixing Walcott with a hard stare. “With respect, get off my fucking boat.”

Brent was waiting right outside the door, his face twisted into a grimace somewhere between pain and ugly. Walcott held up his hand, cutting the team leader off before he could begin.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “You’re in charge.”

“Of what?”

Walcott stopped at the top of the stairs to the lower deck. “Of the team and the investigation.”

“Into Darlington?”

“And why she freed Kamiila, yes. That’s right.”

Walcott started down the stairs, followed by the heavy clump of Brent’s boots as he followed him.

“And where will you be?”

“In Nuuk.”

“Doing what?”

“Ending this,” Walcott said, as he grabbed his winter jacket from the mess.

He pulled it on and headed for the open deck. He stopped at the door, gripped the handle, then turned to Brent, gauging the man’s emotional status before he spoke. Brent came highly recommended, and when Isra’s team disintegrated, he was the perfect choice to replace her as leader of the primary IGA team in the field. But he had his faults. Walcott would have been surprised if he didn’t, but gossip and speculation seemed to be something Brent just couldn’t turn off. But under the circumstances, Brent’s unchecked opinion was exactly what Walcott needed.

“Be discreet,” he said, knowing that Brent couldn’t. “And look into Darlington.”

“I already am.” Brent sneered, and said, “She was a bad fit before she joined us. She went native a couple of weeks into the mission.”

“You can prove that?”

Brent shrugged. “Sure.”

“Good.” Walcott opened the door. “Document it. Send it to me and then wait for further instructions.”

“Instructions?” The hairs on Brent’s bare arms prickled as the cold air rushed in through the open door. “What about Darlington and Kamiila?”

“They have a head start and local knowledge. Start with the maps and the intel we already have, find the likely locations they might run to, then lean on the locals in the settlements for actionable information.”

“How heavy?”

“Christ, I don’t know, Brent. Figure it out. But don’t make a scene. We don’t need another Kussannaq debacle.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir. I wasn’t there.”

Walcott caught the twitch of a smile on Brent’s lips but ignored it. He needed him to feel cocky and superior, if only to appeal to his self-righteous, arrogant hard-charging asshole personality. Walcott didn’t mind losing a little face with the IGA teams, and, most likely, the crew of the Logan too, for the cause. He needed Darlington’s rogue status to be one hundred percent believable, no matter how half-baked and spontaneous her mission was. He needed it to work.

“Just get the job done,” Walcott said as he stepped outside.

The crew on deck told Walcott he had another ten minutes before the Jayhawk landed. They suggested he wait inside, but Walcott walked to the stern of the ship and took out his mobile instead.

“Where are you now?” he asked when Gage answered his call.

“Sitting in your office. Drinking your shitty coffee and admiring the view.”

“I’ve got a windowless office, Farran.”

“And no sense of humour.”

Walcott cursed, then turned as a crewman pointed out the helicopter approaching from the east.

“Fine. No humour. I get it.” Walcott cupped both hands around the phone as the wind crackled into it. “How’s our guest?”

“Comfortable. For now.”

“And visible?”

“Very. I sent her shopping with Daquan.” Gage laughed. “Don’t worry, Walcott, Maratse will get the message.”

“I’m counting on it,” Walcott said. He ended the call as the helicopter flared for landing.

Part 11

Constable Aqqa Danielsen cast the feed from his social media to the computer screen on the police cutter’s bridge. The crew gathered around the screen, making room for Tilleq as he peered around their shoulders to watch a serious of videos captured, live-streamed, and shared on Facebook. Danielsen pulled Maratse to one side and ran the live-stream video on his phone, pressing it into Maratse’s hands and watching the outlawed constable’s expression.

“She’s shopping?” Maratse said.

“It looks like it.”

“In Nuuk.”

“Aap.”

Danielsen smiled as Maratse’s eyes glistened at the sight of Inniki shaking hands with Greenlanders on the streets of Nuuk, hugging women and old men, grasping the hands of small children, and posing for selfies with teenagers as if she was a pop star. Maratse smiled as Inniki turned to look directly into the camera and a woman asked her how it felt to be home again.

“I don’t have the words,” Inniki said, after taking a second or two to think.

“She’s cautious,” Danielsen said.

“Iiji.”

“And she knows it’s a stunt.”

Maratse gave Danielsen his phone back and then nodded to the small flight of steps leading to the crew quarters. They left the rest of the crew to enjoy Inniki’s parade through the streets of Greenland’s capital and then entered Isra’s cabin.

“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” she said, jutting out her chin, her dark eyes pinned on Maratse as she spoke. “You’re being manoeuvred. They’re putting her on show for your benefit. To send you a message.”

“They’re taking a risk,” Danielsen said.

“Not really.” Isra kept her focus on Maratse. “They want you to see what they can give you, and how easily they can take it away again. They’ll use the old woman to get to you.”

Danielsen snorted, and Isra snapped her head around, turning her attention to him.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you,” he said. “I just don’t know why you’re so willing to tell us the IGA’s plans.”

“Because she has nothing to lose,” Maratse said.

He turned his head to listen to the crew swapping comments about Inniki and smiled at Tilleq’s softer voice and his comments that betrayed a youthful naivety and hope for the future.

“He sounds happy,” Isra said.

“Iiji.”

“And that’s how they’ll do it.” Isra waited for Maratse to look at her, and said, “Whatever happens to her, they’ll blame you. The IGA is scoring points now, with your people. They’re showing how benevolent we can be. But then, later today, they’ll hold a press conference. Maybe there has been an explosion, or an incident of some kind. They’ll use that as a reason to detain the old woman.”

“Inniki,” Maratse said. “That’s her name.”

Isra shrugged. “I don’t care. But the people will. They love her, though God only knows why. But when we lock her up, saying that it’s too dangerous to let her out until everything has calmed down, then the people – your people – will demand you give yourself up. They’ll tell you how selfish you’ve been, and how you need to start thinking of Greenland.” Isra leaned back in her bunk and laughed. “Outmanoeuvred, completely. God, it’s almost embarrassing.”

“Hey,” Danielsen said, raising his finger to point at Isra.

“It’s okay, Aqqa,” Maratse said, pressing his hand on the younger constable’s arm until he lowered it. “She’s right. We’ve been outmanoeuvred.” He looked at Isra, adding, “You’ve won.”

“Maybe,” she said. “That depends on you, and how much chaos you want to inflict on your country before you give yourself up.” She leaned forward and pressed her face closer to Maratse’s. “I wouldn’t wait too long, Constable.”

“I won’t,” Maratse said. “We’re taking you to Iceland. We’ll swap you for Kamiila in Reykjavík.”

“Iceland? Are we going to sail there?” Isra laughed. “They won’t let you get to Iceland. We’re on the west coast, Constable. You think they’re just going to let you sail around Greenland, and all the way to Iceland to swap me for one of your little guerrillas? Hah. You’re crazy.”

“Imaqa.” It was Maratse’s turn to shrug. He left Isra’s cabin a second later, then waited for Aqqa in the galley.

“She’s got a point,” Aqqa said, switching to Greenlandic. “They’ll intercept us long before we get to Iceland.”

“Iiji,” Maratse said.

Danielsen waited for Maratse to say more. “And?”

Maratse poured them both a mug of coffee and gestured at the table. The crew in the wheelhouse continued to chat about Inniki’s parade, and Maratse smiled at the way they described her as a hero of the people and Greenlandic royalty.

“She’s a celebrity,” he said.

“And a hostage, David. Remember that.” Danielsen turned his mug on the table, twisting his lips as he wondered what to say next. “I’m not good at plotting or strategy,” he said. “I don’t think like that.”

“Neither do I,” Maratse said. He took a sip of coffee, then continued, “But Inniki does.”

“So? How does that help us?”

“We swap Isra for Kamiila.”

“Aap,” Danielsen said. “And?”

Maratse looked up to catch his eye. “And me for Inniki.”

“Naamik.” Danielsen shook his head. “That’s what they want. That’s all they want. And the minute you do that, it’s all over. Everything. And everything we’ve achieved will be for nothing.”

“What have we achieved, Aqqa?” Maratse put his mug down, and said, “What have we done? What difference have we made?”

“Well…”

Maratse shook his head, and said, “We’re too few and too weak. We need to catch the attention of the world, but other than an article that turned a few heads…”

“And Inniki’s podcast,” Danielsen said. “People listen to that.”

“They did.” Maratse pointed at the stairs as the last of the crew’s comments drifted down to the galley. “It’s over now. We’ve got nothing. They hold all the cards. They might have given Inniki back to the people, but they’ve taken her off the air, silenced her, and silenced us.” Maratse shook his head. “It’s over. And there’s only one thing I can do now.”

“And what? Just give yourself up?”

“Iiji,” Maratse said. “And in return, Inniki can go home, plant some seeds in her window box, and watch them grow.”

Maratse smiled and closed his eyes. It didn’t take much for him to see Inniki’s house in his mind, the tiny kitchen with the bullet hole up high in the corner of the window, and the window box on the deck where they left it, just as the IGA team arrived to forcibly remove her from the country she loved.

“It’s the wrong thing to do, David,” Danielsen said. “I won’t let you.”

“We’ll see,” Maratse said, looking at Danielsen for a second before drifting back to Inniki’s little wooden house in the small settlement of Qeqertaq.

Part 12

They left the coast guard boat on the beach close to an old hunter’s cabin. Kamiila took the lead, urging Darlington to hurry as she slapped a fresh magazine into the assault rifle Walcott had left in the RIB. Darlington slung her own rifle across her chest and then stuffed her hands in her pockets to resist the urge to pat her jacket to find the locator beacon. If Kamiila noticed, she hid it well, encouraging the rogue IGA agent to keep moving as she struck a path from the beach, twisting between icy boulders as they worked their way to the cabin. Kamiila’s breath clouded behind her as she talked, bringing Darlington up to speed on the resistance, as if she was a new recruit.

“We use cabins all over Greenland. Most of them,” she said, as they reached the door. “Are just like this one.” She pushed the door open and gestured for Darlington to look inside. Darlington’s nose twitched in the chill, damp air inside the cabin, but Kamiila assured her it warmed up quickly, “When you get the stove going.”

The furniture inside the cabin was in various states of repair. The chairs had shorter legs than usual, and the arms and back of another had been removed to make a stool.

“Some winters are harder than others,” Kamiila said, offering a reason for the furniture’s amputated limbs. “Come on. We have to keep moving.”

The snow deepened as Kamiila struck a path from the cabin, choosing a direct route up the side of the mountain. Darlington struggled behind her, catching her breath, switching the rifle from her chest where it pulled her down to her back, hoping it might have the opposite effect.

It didn’t.

Kamiila kept going, pushing onwards and upwards, with Darlington falling farther and farther behind. The young guerrilla waited for her on ridges, and in the lee of massive boulders where they sheltered from the wind.

“Where are we going?” Darlington asked.

“Up.” Kamiila pointed.

“How far?”

“All the way.”

“To the summit?”

Kamiila shrugged, and said, “Imaqa.”

Darlington stumbled during the next stretch. She fell, sliding back down the mountain until the sling of her rifle snagged on a sharp outcrop of rock. Kamiila slid down to her, snow pluming from her heels as if she was surfing. She pulled Darlington to her feet, dusted her off, and grinned.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Ready to move?”

“Just a second.”

Kamiila let her have five minutes, and they stared out at the fjord below. Darlington pointed at a white patch on the sea and Kamiila said it was a small ice floe, or lumps of brash from a calving iceberg clumped together.

“It’s beautiful,” Darlington said.

“The ice?”

Darlington shook her head and swept her arm to take in the panorama before them. “All of it. Something worth fighting for.”

The last thing startled her. Walcott had said she should be convincing, but even predisposed as she was to champion the guerrilla’s cause, Darlington would never have guessed it was so easy to go native.

“You mean that?” Kamiila said.

Darlington brushed snow from her jacket and then nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Kamiila stared at her. “Second question. Why did you bust me out of jail?”

Darlington stuttered, caught her breath, and then said, “I don’t know. Not really. It felt like the right thing to do. But it was kind of spontaneous.”

“You planned it,” Kamiila said, pointing at the black speck that was the RIB barely visible on the beach far below them. “There was gear in the boat, guns and ammo. The boat was ready at the pontoon.”

Kamiila shifted her feet and Darlington noticed the way she held the rifle, her hand around the grip, finger tapping the trigger guard. She cursed herself for wearing her rifle slung around her back, effectively out of reach. But then, Kamiila could just as easily give her a push, and Darlington would slide to her death at the bottom of the mountain or get trapped between the first set of boulders and freeze to death. Not good, either way.

“Like I said…” Darlington held her hands at her sides, completing the image of the passive, non-threatening rogue agent, prepared to join Kamiila’s rebellion. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it.”

“Sure you did,” Kamiila said, but the light in her eyes, even as the daylight faded, told another story.

“You don’t have to believe me.”

Kamiila flattened her lips into a thin smile. “Don’t worry about that. Because I don’t.”

“Then you’re just going to kill me?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

Kamiila took her time, and Darlington thought about her parents, and how they would never get the your daughter was a patriot and a hero version of the events, just the treasonous bitch story, which was how she imagined the rest of the team described her. And then something clicked, as if she was suddenly free to act however she wanted. There was no damage control. That safety net evaporated like the smoke on the freezing water below. If Darlington couldn’t complete the mission, she would die a traitor. So why not right the wrongs she had struggled with since joining the IGA? Why not go all the way. Walcott said she should be convincing. She wondered if he ever suspected that she might be convinced?

And yet, on the side of a steep mountain, a tiny shove from a fatal fall, with an armed fugitive standing beside her, Darlington struggled to see any possible future at all.

“Well,” Kamiila said, as she tugged the rifle into her shoulder. “I guess it’s confession time, before we part ways.”

“You are going to kill me?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“Because you don’t trust me?”

Kamiila laughed, and said, “You’re an American. What makes you think I could ever trust you at all?”

“Right,” Darlington whispered. She thought of something to say, something poignant, but her mind was blank. A light wind flurried the snow at her feet and brushed her cheek with a cold caress. Darlington turned away from Kamiila. She thought about closing her eyes, but with all of Greenland stretched out in front of her, she couldn’t. There was still so much to see.

Part 13

Once he had caught up with Gage and gushed the appropriate congratulations and exulting remarks glorifying the CIA agent’s successful mission accomplished, Walcott called a press conference in Katuaq, the Greenland cultural centre in Nuuk, to address the embarrassing incident of the escaped detainee, and the IGA agent Kamiila Sorsuttartoq had taken captive.

“I want to make it explicitly clear,” Walcott said, as he stared into the cameras, timing his delivery with a sufficient pause to reel in the journalists – foreign and domestic – and their viewers, before delivering the ultimatum and response everyone expected. “We are taking steps to locate our missing agent, and we will not rest until she is returned safely, and nor will we hesitate to use every asset available to ensure a successful outcome to this serious, and, frankly, alarming escalation of events.”

He took the first question from a young man, a local journalist he had seen in a report about Inniki Rasmussen’s return to Greenland.

“And what about Inniki? Does this change anything for her, and her freedom?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” Walcott said, deliberately leaving the question hanging as he pointed to another journalist. “Your question?”

“Ah, it’s a follow up to my colleague’s question.”

“I’ve already answered it,” Walcott said, raising his hand to point at another journalist.

“No, you didn’t.”

Walcott sighed, then gripped the podium. “Okay, fine,” he said, as the cameras zoomed in on his face. “Clearly, this incident changes things. We brought Ms Rasmussen back to Greenland as a show of good faith. The so-called rebels have shown their true colours, proving that their selfish, egotistical cause is clearly more important than the well-being of a much-loved and revered elderly Greenlandic woman. Perhaps you should ask David Maratse what he thinks about that. Because it is his lieutenant, Kamiila Sorsuttartoq, who violently forced my agent, at gunpoint, into a boat as a hostage while she made her escape from prison. We take matters of domestic terrorism very seriously and will not stop until Myranda Darlington is returned safely.” Walcott ignored the next question and stared directly into the closest camera, and said, “Myranda, if you’re listening, we will find you. We’re going to bring you home.”

“One more question, Mr Walcott.”

“No more questions,” Walcott said, shaking his head as he left the podium.

Walcott kept a straight face all the way to the nearby room the IGA had commandeered to prepare for the interview. He stepped inside, closed and locked the door, then accepted the beer Gage pressed into his hand.

“You had to eat shit when I played the Inniki card,” Gage said. “But that?” He dipped his beer bottle towards the podium on the other side of the door. “That was old school.”

“Yeah, well, let’s see what happens. It’s Maratse’s move.”

“Over by Thanksgiving,” Gage said.

“Maybe.”

Walcott slumped into a vacant chair and took a swig of beer, his first since the helicopter crash.

“What I want to know,” Gage said, “Is how you sprung Kamiila from the brig? I heard your agent turned against us and broke the bitch out in a moment of misguided sympathy to the cause.”

“Which she did,” Walcott said. “Officially.”

“And unofficially?”

Walcott took another slug of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “She’s undercover, working her way to Maratse.”

“And you believe that?”

Walcott reached for the remote on the table between them and clicked on the flatscreen television mounted on the wall. He turned the sound down, but a quick flick through the channels showed various clips of the press conference and the debate that followed.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. We got what we need.” He raised his beer and toasted Gage. “What was it you said? Done by Thanksgiving?”

“I hope so, but…” Gage plucked the remote from Walcott’s hand as a video of Constable David Maratse appeared on the television. The word LIVE blinked in the corner of the screen. Gage turned the sound up, and Maratse’s halting English stuttered into the room.

“This is for Special Assistant Spenser Walcott,” Maratse said. “We propose a trade, on neutral ground. We have Agent Isra El-Hashem in our custody. She is well,” Maratse added, after a pause. “And we wish to trade her for Kamiila Sorsuttartoq, who we know you have in your custody.”

“He sent this before the press conference,” Walcott said as he stood up.

“…in Reykjavík, Iceland,” Maratse said. “Three days from now.”

“He doesn’t know she’s escaped,” Walcott said.

“He didn’t know when he recorded it.” Gage laughed. “So, now he looks stupid.” He took a congratulatory swig of beer. “This gets better and better.”

“What channel is this?” Walcott took a pen and a sheet of paper from the table and wrote down the name of the presenter as the camera switched back to the studio and the caption with her name appeared on the screen. “Okay,” Gage said. “He’s using the media. We’ll communicate through them.”

“And agree to the trade?”

“Sure, but Isra’s with the Greenland police. It’s a side issue. We’ll use Inniki and trade her for him,” Walcott said, jabbing the pen at the screen as the studio replayed Maratse’s video message.”

“I don’t know,” Gage said. “I’m not sure you want Inniki out in the wild. She’s got a bigger following than he has. From what I understand, from your reports, she’s the inciting incident that set Maratse on this course. You let her go, then you’ve got a whole other ball game.”

“We’re not going to let anyone go.” Walcott tucked the paper into his pocket and headed for the door. “They have a camera crew outside,” he said, with a nod to the television. “I’ll set this up, deliver our message, while you sweet talk the captain of the Logan.”

“And why do I need to do that?”

“Because,” Walcott said, with a sigh, “She doesn’t like me. Doesn’t like the way I do things, but we’re going to need her when we intercept Maratse on the way to Iceland.”

“Okay,” Gage said. “I can do that. Who am I?”

“What’s that?”

“Who do I say I am? IGA or what?”

“Be yourself,” Walcott said. “Honestly, I don’t think it matters anymore. And,” he said, as he reached for the door, “screw Thanksgiving. At this rate, we’ll be done by Halloween.”

Part 14

Darlington turned when Kamiila coughed. She stared at her, studying her stance, and the way Kamiila held the assault rifle – casually now, hanging from the sling. She swallowed, caught the curious way Kamiila looked at her, then cleared her throat.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Kamiila laughed, and said, “Straight out of the movies. And now I’m supposed to say, does anyone ever say ‘no’ to that. Or did I get that wrong?”

“No,” Darlington said. “That’s how they do it.”

“Okay then. What’s your question?”

“Your hair,” Darlington said, pointing at the blonde twists of Kamiila’s hair blowing in the wind. “Is it natural?”

Kamiila frowned, then clasped one of the strands between her fingers. “You can’t tell?”

“Not right now,” Darlington said. “Not when you’re about to shoot me in the head.”

“And suppose I was going to shoot you in the head?” Kamiila looked up as a light snow began to fall. She brushed it from her shoulders and turned back to Darlington. “Suppose I was. Is that really your question? If I’m a natural blonde?”

“Maybe. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I’d like to know.”

“And then you’d die happy?”

“I guess.”

Kamiila laughed, and said, “Too bad. You’re just going to have to be unhappy.” She waved for Darlington to follow her. “Come on. There’s a radio shack at the top of the mountain.”

“You’re not going to shoot me?”

“Naamik.”

“I can’t climb this path any higher.”

“You won’t have to. This isn’t the path.” Kamiila pointed at a gulley to their right. “See the dark line? That’s the path. I brought you this way just to wear you out.”

“It worked,” Darlington said.

“Okay, then we just traverse along here.” Kamiila stopped as Darlington removed her rifle and then her jacket. “Or we just strip off.” She took a step closer and peered into the American’s face. “You’re not hypothermic, are you? No irrational feeling that you are hot and bothered?”

“No,” Darlington said, shivering as the wind curled around her body. “I’m looking for something.” She worked her fingers around her jacket, checking the seams, until her fingers found something stiff, about twice the size of a paracetamol tablet. “Found it,” she said.

Kamiila watched as Darlington pulled a knife from her belt and cut Walcott’s locator beacon out of her jacket. She handed it to Kamiila, clipped her knife on her belt, and shrugged her arms into her jacket.

“Full disclosure,” she said, zipping her jacket and pulling her hood up. “Because you didn’t kill me.”

“You had help to escape?” Kamiila asked as she studied the small metal lozenge.

“From Walcott. I’m supposed to win you over, join the guerrillas, and get you to take me to Constable Maratse.” Darlington shrugged. “The winning you over was going well until you said you were going to shoot me.”

“I said I was thinking about it,” Kamiila said.

“It’s the same thing.”

“Aap,” Kamiila said. “I suppose it is.”

“But you didn’t, and now, I’m thinking that maybe it’s you and this,” she said, waving her arm at the view, “that wins me over. And maybe I want to do something useful to help the people of Greenland.”

“Instead of forcing them to leave their homes and their jobs and move to the city, for example?”

“Yes,” Darlington said, with a sigh. “Instead of that.”

Kamiila clasped the beacon in the palm of her hand and said, “It’s like another one of those American movies, with the double bluff. I don’t know what to think. I mean,” she said, and shrugged, “Are you playing me now? Or were you playing me before? When are you you? And when are you working for Walcott?”

“I guess you can’t know that.”

“Not easily, anyway.”

“So, if I could prove it to you?”

“Beyond stripping off and going through all your clothes to find the real beacon, and not just this decoy?” Kamiila brushed snow from her nose, and said, “I don’t know. How about recording a video, denouncing the IGA’s heavy-handed tactics to relocate my people, and make a plea to your people to get involved, and turn this whole thing around? How about that?”

Darlington thought for a second, and then nodded. “I can do that.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not?” She pointed at the fjord, then tapped her chest. “This… being here, in Greenland, is the most real thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never felt so alive. I don’t mind telling people that. I want to tell people that. And I want Nusaasaq and her sister to know that.”

“Who’s Nusaasaq?”

“A little girl I met in Kiserliortoq.” Darlington smiled as she talked. “You know, we get told that there’re all kinds of problems in Greenland, schools being one of them. But in that tiny place, with just two houses, there’s these two girls, and they taught themselves English and science stuff – at their level. And it got me thinking… In fact, I haven’t stopped thinking about them. If they can do that, from nothing. Then what could they do if they had proper teaching materials? Now, I don’t know what there is already, and I don’t know what the problems are, but whatever you think of my people, my country, America has resources, and with the situation being like it is, maybe it’s time to think differently? For all of us to think differently.” Darlington took a breath, and then said, “Yesterday I was worried about what people would say to my mom when the story broke that I was a traitor. I thought about that a lot. But today, standing here, I’m thinking of Nusaasaq. And I’m thinking I can actually do some good here. I don’t care about the politics…”

Kamiila laughed.

“I don’t,” Darlington said. “But I signed up to join the transition team, because I thought that was what I needed to do. But I’m not a bully. And I’m done bullying people. And you can believe that, or not. And you can shoot me, or not. But I’m twenty-seven and I grew up thinking I could make a difference.” Darlington looked at Kamiila, reached out, and took her hand. “I want to make a difference.”

“Aap,” Kamiila said. “I believe you. But…”

“But?”

Kamiila let go of Darlington’s hand, and pointed at the top of the mountain and the snow clouds that obscured it.

“But first, we have to climb a mountain. When we get to the top, you can change the world, and I’ll help you.”

“Thanks,” Darlington said as Kamiila crushed the beacon with a rock.

“You’re welcome.” Kamiila turned, then reached down to grab Darlington’s rifle. “Don’t forget this, just don’t shoot me if I get too far ahead.”

“I won’t,” Darlington said, as she slung the rifle over her shoulder.

“Nice speech, by the way.” Kamiila grinned, then pointed to the path in the gulley. “Let’s go.”

Part 15

“There’s only one way this can work,” Danielsen shouted in Maratse’s ear at the railing in the bow of the police cutter, as Sisak III ploughed through the light chop of the black winter sea close to Maniitsoq. “They’re going to intercept us. They’ll use the helicopter as cover while they send teams in RIBs to board us.”

“Iiji,” Maratse said, as he waited for Danielsen to finish.

“So, we need to be surrounded by boats – Greenlanders in boats, trawlers, dinghies, anything that floats. This needs to be public.” Danielsen gestured at the empty sea on all sides. “This is a problem.”

“They’ll come,” Maratse said.

“You know that for a fact, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“The second thing,” Maratse said.

He smiled as Danielsen rolled his eyes and headed for the wheelhouse. Maratse lit a cigarette, rolled it into the gap between his teeth in the side of his mouth, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He leaned into the wind, bending his knees slightly to absorb the waves’ energy as the cutter’s bow rode the crest of one wave and crashed into the trough of the next. Maratse recalled the video messages he and Walcott had swapped back and forth on television, ensuring the discussion was as public as possible. While he struggled to grasp the mood of the people, when Walcott upped the ante, and suggested they could trade more than Kamiila and Isra, that there was a way to end the whole conflict and start anew, the reporters gave Danielsen the viewer numbers, and Maratse learned that the people of Greenland were watching. A lot of people were watching.

“It’s still a risk,” Danielsen said, when Maratse joined him and Sisak’s skipper in the wheelhouse. “You’re counting on a show of force from the people of Greenland. But we’re not sailing past a settlement, you know.” Danielsen pointed out of the window. “That’s Maniitsoq. The people there are happy.”

“Not all of them,” Maratse said, as he thought of Tilleq, running the battered hunter’s dinghy through the waves back to town.

“And if they come? What then?”

“We’ll see,” Maratse said.

He patted Danielsen on the shoulder, then went below deck in search of coffee. Isra lurched out of her cabin, cursing the waves, then nodded when Maratse held up the coffeepot and poured her a mug.

“We couldn’t do this on land?” she asked, gripping the side of the table as they sat down. “We’re never going to make it to Iceland, anyway. You could’ve just dropped me off on some patch of dirt somewhere.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t.”

Maratse shook his head, then spilled his coffee as Sisak crashed down the side of a larger wave.

“It’s getting worse.”

“Iiji.”

“If the sea gets any rougher, the crowd you’re hoping to gather will be lost between the waves. They won’t see anything, and they won’t be seen.” Isra cursed as she slammed her knees against the table as the next crash lifted her from her seat. “Jesus.”

Maratse reached for a cloth and mopped up the coffee they spilled.

“You know, Maratse, I never liked you.”

“I know.”

“But, maybe, and it’s a tiny…” She pressed her finger and thumb together as if squeezing an ant. “…miniscule maybe.”

Maratse gripped his mug, waiting for Isra to finish.

“Maybe I understand, a little, about why you went south on us. And,” she said, when Maratse nodded that he had heard her, “Mitchell was an ass. Did he deserve to die? I don’t know about that, but he shot up the helo, and God knows, he was going to keep shooting unless I stopped him.”

“You did what you had to do,” Maratse said.

“What I did, Constable, is shoot a colleague in the head. I’m going to burn for that. Just as soon as we make this trade, they’re going to stick me in the brig and charge me with murder.”

“You think so?”

“Sure,” Isra said. She let go of her mug and gripped the table, then watched as the mug slid off the side and smashed on the floor.

“Everything all right?” Danielsen called down from the wheelhouse.

“We’re good,” Isra said. Then she looked at Maratse. “Aren’t we?”

“Witnesses,” he said.

“What?”

“If they’re going to charge you for murder, they’ll need witnesses.”

“There’s Walcott,” Isra said.

“That’s one.”

“And then there’s you.” Isra waited as Maratse tried to take a sip of coffee. She laughed as he spilled it down the front of his jacket.

Maratse reached for the cloth, then caught Isra’s eye as he mopped up the last of his coffee. “I didn’t see anything,” he said.

“You were on the helicopter.”

“And I didn’t see anything.”

Isra nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“David?” Danielsen shouted. “You’d better get up here.”

Maratse climbed the steps to the wheelhouse, and Isra followed. Danielsen pointed to the horizon as the unmistakable red and white hull of the USCG cutter Logan powered towards them. The Jayhawk helicopter lifted off the landing pad on the stern deck, gained some height, then dipped its nose to pick up speed.

“This is it,” Danielsen said.

“Iiji.”

Maratse gripped the closest handrail as Sisak fought the next set of waves. He closed his eyes, wondering if Inniki was onboard the American ship. He guessed that she was, and then thought about Kamiila, and where in Greenland she might be. He opened his eyes at a tap on his shoulder and looked at Isra as she leaned in close.

“Look,” she said, pointing out of the window on the port side of the wheelhouse.

Maratse squinted into the late evening winter gloom, and wondered if it was the bows of small dinghies he could see, or perhaps a pod of whales.

“Boats,” Danielsen said, as he looked through a pair of binoculars. “Lots of them.”

“Well done, Tilleq,” Maratse said as he took the binoculars from Danielsen.

The boats dipped in and out of sight, just as Isra said they would. But as far as Maratse was concerned, the people of Greenland were listening.

Part 16

Agent Tom Brent was the first IGA officer to board the police cutter. Dressed in black with black body armour, he would have been lost in the shadows were it not for the flashlight clipped to the barrel of his pistol and the night vision goggles attached to his helmet. The green glow of the goggles reflected on his cheeks until he clicked them out of the way as he entered the wheelhouse.

“Isra El-Hashem?” he said as she stepped inside. Brent’s number two covered him with a small submachine gun from the door.

“Yes,” Isra said.

“We’re taking you back to the Logan.”

“I’m ready.”

Isra pulled on a jacket as Brent studied the two Greenlanders in the wheelhouse. He took out his phone, clicked the button below the screen, then cursed when nothing happened.

“It’s dead,” he said. “I had the photos on there.” Brent looked at Isra, then pointed at the two men. “Which one is Maratse?”

“I am,” said the taller of the two men

Brent peered at him. “You are?”

“Aap.”

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“That’s him,” Isra said, adding, “He was on the news.”

“I missed it.” Brent shrugged, and said, “Fuck it. He’s got black hair. Let’s go.”

“I’ll help,” Isra said. She grabbed the Greenlander’s arm, winked when Brent turned away, then followed him out of the wheelhouse to the RIB thumping against the side of Sisak’s hull.

“Where the fuck did all these people come from?” Brent stuffed his pistol into its holster and then helped Isra and the Greenlander into the RIB. “Affirmative,” he said, raising his voice above the roar of the helicopter as he pressed the mic switch on his radio. “We’re coming back to you now.”

The helicopter circled above them, holding station to the left of the RIB as Brent’s team curled the tiny boat through the waves and around the trawlers and dinghies clustered around the police cutter. Lights from mobile phones blinked as Greenlanders in the boats filmed the IGA team on their return to the Logan. Brent cursed as the Greenlanders followed them all the way, raising his voice again as he shouted into the radio, requesting permission to fire warning shots.

“You can’t do that,” Isra said.

“Fucking watch me,” Brent said, as he drew his pistol.

The searchlight from the coast guard helicopter flickered across the water until it illuminated Brent as he raised his pistol. Brent looked up and swore. He holstered his pistol and gripped the side of the RIB, brooding all the way back to the Logan.

A small dinghy, curiously dark with no telltale light from a mobile phone, shadowed the IGA team, close enough that Isra could see the young Greenlander with thick-rimmed glasses watching them from the bow, but not so close she could see the man in the stern.

Brent pressed his hand to his ear to hear the incoming message on the radio, cursing the wind, the waves, and the fucking helicopter as he shouted into the mic for the Logan to repeat the message. Isra zipped her jacket to her chin, then leaned closer to Brent when he waved at her.

“There’s a problem on board,” he said, raising his voice loud enough for everyone on the small boat to hear him. “Something about Darlington and a video.”

“Who’s Darlington?” Isra asked.

“She’s IGA,” Brent said. “Used to be. She’s gone rogue, and now…” He tapped the RIB driver on the shoulder and gestured for him to go faster. “It’s all gone to shit.”

The RIB caught a wave, and it splashed over the side, drenching the two IGA agents in the bow and soaking the Greenlander’s jacket. Brent gripped one of the handrails, cursed the waves and the weather, then nodded when the RIB driver told him to move to the other side.

“Get ready,” he said, as he slowed the boat to come alongside the Logan.

Isra looked for the dinghy that had followed them so closely, but it was gone, lost in a small flotilla of hunters and fishermen as they took up position in a ring around the coast guard cutter.

“Get them inside,” a seaman said, as soon as the RIB was secure. “Walcott’s waiting for you.”

Brent pushed the Greenlander ahead of him, shouted for Isra to keep up, then ordered his team to stay tight. They climbed the zigzag ladder to the deck, then bundled inside the ship where another seaman directed them to the wardroom.

“Shit’s hit the fan,” the man said, waving for them to hurry.

Brent slowed at the door and pushed Isra and the Greenlander ahead of him. He snapped his fingers to get Walcott’s attention, and then paused as Darlington’s face filled the screen projected onto the far wall.

“What the fuck?”

“Quiet,” Walcott said, with a nod to the screen. “She’s streaming.”

Walcott did a double take as he realised who had just entered the room. He stared past Brent, nodded at Isra, and then frowned at the Greenlander next to her.

“Danielsen?”

“Aap,” Danielsen said, as he countered Walcott’s frown with a cheesy grin. He looked around the room, caught Inniki’s eye, and with a discreet flick of his finger, gestured for her to come closer.

“What’s going on?” Brent said, as Walcott started shouting at him. “What did I do?”

“You got the wrong Greenlander, you idiot!”

Walcott took a step towards Brent, then froze as Darlington’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“My name is Agent Myranda Darlington,” she said, as she pressed her face to the camera. “I work for the Office of Intermediary Greenlandic Affairs. My job is to move people from the settlements to the town. Relocation, we call it.”

“We need to shut her down,” Walcott said. “Someone shut her down.”

Darlington’s video continued as Inniki ducked her head and slipped out of the room, taking Isra’s jacket as the IGA agent pushed it into her hands. Inniki paused at the door, then followed the blast of fresh air to the deck, curious about what she should do when she got there. She stumbled past one of the seamen on deck, complaining that she felt seasick and needed some air. He looked young, and green, so green Inniki thought he might vomit alongside her. But he waved her on, thinking, she guessed, as so many did, that a little old lady was hardly a security risk. And besides, where would she go on a night like this?

It wasn’t a stretch for Inniki to imagine what the young man might be thinking. She was wondering the same thing.

And then, at the bottom of the steps lashed to the side of the ship’s hull, she saw another young man with thick-rimmed glasses press a pistol into the stomach of a coast guard officer. She kept going, down the steps, until the young man took her hand, introduced himself as Tilleq, and hurried her into the dinghy bobbing alongside the pontoon.

“David?” Inniki said, as the Greenlander in the dinghy, the one with wearing the dirty police jacket, took her hand and helped her onto the thwart seat. “Is it you?”

“Iiji,” he said. “Welcome home, Inniki.”

Denmark

Part 17

Petra turned the sound down on the television as Jatsi crawled into her lap. She kissed her daughter’s head, then teased at the soft black curls, plucking softly at the knots, stopping each time Jatsi turned her head to one side. Darlington’s video ran in the background, this time with text, as the world’s media pushed it to the main story on the majority of channels. Petra read the Danish text and cuddled Jatsi as she pressed her tiny body against Petra’s chest.

“When is Inniki coming home?” Jatsi asked.

“She is home,” Petra said.

“But when is she coming to our home?”

Petra teased at another curl, blowing on Jatsi’s nose each time she protested that it hurts or it tickles and that mummy should stop.

“Anaana,” Petra said, reminding Jatsi of the Greenlandic name for mummy.

“Abella says we should call you mummy, that it’s not safe to say it in Greenlandic.”

“Not safe?” Petra tilted her head to one side as Jatsi sat up. “What do you mean?”

“She said if we speak Greenlandic, then the bad men from the airport will come and get us, and they’ll take us away.”

“No one’s taking you away,” Petra said. She pulled Jatsi into a tight hug. “Never.”

She stroked her daughter’s hair and Jatsi settled, and then snored, just a few minutes later. Petra cursed herself for taking the girls to the airport. And then, when the news switched from Darlington’s video to a shaky image of a small hunter’s dinghy beneath a dark sky on a black sea, she reached for the remote.

“…as yet to be officially confirmed by the American government,” the news anchor said, “these are private images of what is believed to be Inniki Rasmussen’s escape from the Coast Guard ship Logan, just off the west coast of Greenland, close to the town of Maniitsoq, north of the capital of Nuuk. One eyewitness reports that at least one hundred boats, and indeed, maybe more, surrounded the coast guard ship during the transfer of personnel from the Greenland police cutter Sisak to the larger American ship. It is further believed that the fugitive Constable David Maratse, thought to be in hiding, the same man who offered to turn himself in in return for Inniki Rasmussen’s freedom, was responsible for planning the spectacular escape. Together with the fallout of the so-called Darlington Tapes, the escape is but the latest in a series of incidents to plague the American office responsible for the smooth and peaceful transition of Greenland from an autonomous country within the Kingdom of Denmark, to the 51st State of the United States of America. We’ll bring more news on this, and other developments in Greenland as…”

Petra clicked the television off as Lauritz called from the kitchen that he was home. Jatsi stirred as he came into the lounge to kiss them hello, and again as he slumped onto the couch beside Petra.

“You saw the news,” he said.

“I did.”

“So, it’s over.”

Petra turned, repositioning Jatsi in the crook of her arm as she looked at her husband. “It’s not over.”

“But Inniki’s free.”

“She’s not free. She escaped.”

“But they won’t find her.” Lauritz shrugged. “Greenland is a big place. Even if they find out where she is, she can be gone before they get there.”

“They,” Petra said, taking a breath. “They are the USA, and they’ve just been humiliated on every major news channel in the world by a seventy-year-old woman, and…”

“A crusty constable.” Lauritz pointed at television. “That’s what I said. It’s over.”

Petra stared at her husband, suddenly curious and concerned about how little he actually understood. Or was he just playing it down for her sake, making sure he didn’t talk over her head about politics and international relations? After all, she was just a simple police officer when they met. Jatsi stirred on Petra’s lap as she stiffened.

“You’re upset,” Lauritz said as he looked at her.

“I’m not upset, I’m angry.”

“About what’s happening in Greenland?”

“Yes. Of course, what’s happening in Greenland means something to me.”

“I know.”

It was the way he said it, as if he was hiding something. It was the same look he wore when trying to hide the fact he had been flirting with a colleague shortly after Jatsi was born. Petra had seen right through him then and called him out, putting an end to his extramarital interests before he took them to the next level. There were times when she congratulated herself for nipping it in the bud. And other times when she almost laughed at how easy it had been to derail him. But the look he gave her now, that same look only with a tangible edge, worried her.

“Tuesday nights,” he said, giving Petra plenty of time to respond.

“What about them?”

“It’s not yoga, is it?”

“No,” she said.

Lauritz closed his eyes and swore softly. When he opened them again, he looked at Jatsi first, checking if she was still sleeping, and then turned back to Petra.

“Well,” he said, as Petra held her breath. “What’s his name?”

“What?”

“The man you’re seeing on Tuesdays. I want to know his name.”

Petra snorted, and then, when Lauritz’ expression didn’t change, she said, “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” Lauritz nodded. “Because I guess if it’s all right for you, then it’s all right for me.”

“What are you saying now?”

“I’m just saying that…”

“It’s her again. Isn’t it?”

“Vibeke and I…”

“Vibeke.” Petra laughed. “Of course. Vibeke and you…” She lowered her voice, brushing Jatsi’s hair as she encouraged Lauritz to talk and get it all out in the open. But between the time it took him to register that she wanted him to confess, reminding her that it was Vibeke who had helped him contact the Americans when Inniki went missing, and actually confessing, Petra stopped listening.

She stared at her husband, the trim, slightly bald, professional politician she once loved, and saw mountains and towering pinnacles of ice rising from brilliant blue seas. He said something about surprised you didn’t notice her perfume on my clothes, but Petra smelled damp earth, and the musty wet fur of sledge dogs. He said they ate out last week at an Italian restaurant, but Petra tasted rich, creamy seal fat on the bone. He said vacation. She thought about relocation. He said divorce, to which Petra replied akiuunneq.

“What?”

Petra blinked and looked at him. “I said I would fight.”

“Fine,” Lauritz said. “If that’s what you want.”

“Aap,” she said, hardly caring that he had misunderstood. “Now more than ever.”

The End

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About the Author

Christoffer Petersen is the author’s pen name. He lives in Denmark. Chris started writing stories about Greenland while teaching in Qaanaaq, the largest village in the very north of Greenland – the population peaked at 600 during the two years he lived there. Chris spent a total of seven years in Greenland, teaching in remote communities and at the Police Academy in the capital of Nuuk.

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Christoffer Petersen

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featuring Captain Erroneous Smith

THE ICE CIRCUS Book 1
on Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

THE BOLIVIAN GIRL
a hard-hitting military and political thriller series

THE BOLIVIAN GIRL Book 1

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

GUERRILLA GREENLAND
featuring Constable David Maratse

ARCTIC STATE Novella 1

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

ARCTIC REBEL Novella 2

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

ARCTIC RISING Novella 3

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

ARCTIC RECOIL Novella 4

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

SHORT STORIES FROM

GUERRILLA GREENLAND
featuring Kamiila Sorsuttartoq

RADIO FREE WILL Short Story 1

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

THE EXPLORERS
featuring Ludvig Mylius-Erichsen

THE FJORD OF EVIL WINDS Novella 1

On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

HAVOC SHORT STORIES
featuring Hazel Burnett

HAVOC #1 On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

TEMPO #2 On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

SURGE #3 On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

CHAOS #4 On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

FAITH #5 On Amazon US, UK, CA, AU

Arctic Recoil

~ Constable David Maratse ~

By Christoffer Petersen

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021

All Images Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021

AARLUUK PRESS

Christoffer Petersen has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or organisations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Christoffer Petersen