Tundra by Tim Stevens

an identification of sorts. Of Farmer.’
    ‘Yes?’
    Lenilko told him of the Martin Hughes link.
    The silence was so prolonged that Lenilko thought the connection via the satellite must have been cut off.
    At last Wyatt said: ‘Yes. That must be where I remember him from. The Tallinn photograph.’
    ‘If an attempt has been made on his life at the station, he can’t be working with them.’
    ‘It appears that way, yes.’
    ‘Any further information?’ But Lenilko already suspected the answer.
    ‘No.’
    ‘You need to isolate him. Interrogate him on his own.’
    Again, a pause. ‘I get the feeling he wants to do the same with me,’ said Wyatt.
    Lenilko leaned back in his desk chair, stared at the ceiling. Wheels within wheels, turning in opposing directions. The larger picture was difficult, impossible , to discern.
    Wyatt continued: ‘The others don’t trust him. Some of them, anyway. It’s interesting observing their reactions to him. And he seems to be drawing them out, somehow. Them as well as me.’
    ‘All right.’ Lenilko made his decision. ‘Forget what I said about isolating him. Watch him, and watch the others. Only move directly if the situation becomes urgent.’
    ‘Understood.’
    Wyatt’s voice disappeared, and with it the station seemed to recede into the unbroachable distance.

Nine
    O nce again Purkiss checked his room for the traps he’d laid, for signs that someone had searched it. Once again he found nothing of note.
    The relative comfort of his quarters now held nothing but menace. Wyatt would make a second attempt to kill him, of that there was no doubt. He might try a more straightforward approach next time, an ambush in the dead of night, or something as bizarre as poison in the toothpaste. He was working for Russian Intelligence, after all, an organisation which had been known to use radioactive material to assassinate its opponents abroad.
    A direct confrontation with Wyatt wouldn’t be the wisest course of action at this point. Purkiss knew he could make the man talk, but because he knew nothing about what the man was doing at Yarkovsky Station, he’d have no way of knowing if what Wyatt told him was anywhere near the truth. First, he needed to find an angle, something to base his line of investigation on.
    The others were the key. At least one of them knew about Wyatt’s agenda. Purkiss was sure of it. At least one, and probably more.
    And Purkiss thought he knew where to begin.
    They’d returned to the station from the outpost at six in the evening. It was now close to eight, the time when the evening meal traditionally took place. Purkiss headed back to the dining room, found everybody except Wyatt, Haglund and Medievsky there. The small woman, Oleksandra Budian, was moving about the kitchenette, ladling some kind of stew into bowls.
    As when He’d first arrived the night before, every head turned Purkiss’s way. This time the unease was greater than the curiosity.
    ‘You okay, man?’ asked Avner.
    ‘Fine,’ said Purkiss. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been through worse. At least there was nobody shooting at me. Had that before, as an embedded hack in Syria.’ He headed for the kitchenette. ‘It smells wonderful. Let me give you a hand.’
    Budian gave a curt smile and instead of offering protests, passed him a second long-handled saucepan. Purkiss filled the bowls. The aroma was rich and heady, the meat generous.
    ‘What is it?’ he asked.
    From the table, Avner piped up. ‘Mountain hare. A Saturday night treat. None of the dried or canned crap we usually get.’
    ‘You hunt them yourselves?’
    ‘Gunnar does. Guy could hit a playing card at a hundred yards in the dark. Bags five or six of the little bastards every week.’
    Purkiss handed the bowls to Montrose and Keys, who’d come to collect them. He said, ‘Gunnar’s quite the jack of all trades.’
    ‘Hell, yeah.’ Avner sounded genuinely admiring. ‘He’s not here right now, as you can see, because