Guns, Death and Mr. Krakauer

By Stevenson Mukoro

In their latest adventure Susan Dax and Seymour Krakauer tangle with an old foe thought dead and a new one. Seymour Krakauer discovers when he saves a woman and her daughter on Baffin Island from hired killers that he has opened up a can of worms held by an old enemy.

Seymour Krakauers undertaking plunges him into a slew of uncanny events drawing both him and Susan Dax into the inexplicable fluxes of political intrigue and corporate espionage. Seymour Krakauer must unravel the mystery of why the rescued damsel and her daughter is a target. What secret do they hold that is worth dying over?

Finding an uncanny gift, Susan Dax faces her foes in a terrifying death chase while Seymour Krakauer launches a deathly attack against an enemy he cannot defeat. The struggle against seemingly impossible odds is fought out to a desperate finale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Mar 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493141517

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

S eymour Krakauer swore to himself. He felt that he had every right to be annoyed. Before they had left he had checked both their kit’s repeatedly and from his understanding every item was where it ought to be and in perfect condition. He had cleaned and checked the camping stove grill, the butane gas cartridges, the LED rechargeable lamp and especially his fishing gear.

Salmon fishing, his passion was a demanding pastime because it takes knowledge and preparation. He had observed all the rules with great care and now, when they were out in the wilderness, sitting beside a cold bed of snow and rock with his Wellington boots in the moving freezing creek where the locals had advertised good fishing, the salmon were not biting.

This was their sixth day of their vacation, the period he and Martha had both agreed to dedicate to his desires. They previously had toured the local sights, eaten the exquisite cuisine together but he felt much content when he was at last by the stream, where the game and fishing was advertised to be top notch. He had been really looking forward to it, if not for the serious of hindrances that had almost prevented him from being here.

First was the burst tyre for which there was no jack. Of all the time to go caput he had sworn to himself. Second was the flat spare in the trunk, third was the clueless motorist who aided them by getting lost on their way the nearest garage and lastly was the first soggy camp site.

When at last he did get the tyre fixed he found three of the five bolts missing. A genuine trick of necessity, he had to use one bolt-nut from two of the other tyres to make up the difference before they could get underway.

All the while, he cursed himself for disappointing Martha and wondered what she would be up to if she wasn’t there with him. He was betting, she would return to the hotel spa and enjoy that extended sumptuous spa treatment he knew she always wanted to experience. He realised that she would have had a glorious encounter than the one she was having now.

Doctor Martha Francini, his lover for almost four years now, had been pampered from the moment she was born. Born into an improvised and pompously pared-down home that was full of servants, Martha had from an early age rebelled against the confines of her biddable, egotistical, ostentatious family and home. So much so, that after her college graduation she left home vowing never to return. She opted to earn her keep the hard way. Volunteering in basement clinics for the homeless and keeping company with the ragged and the unwanted only to return to her little apartment and study for med-school was her way of life until her internship. From what Seymour gathered, after almost 12 years without her family’s influence she had only been recently been able to reconcile and stand up to her family. Paying them visits only when necessary, like birthdays and thanksgiving.

This was long before they ever met. Now that she was a well-respected San Franciscan doctor she deserved a good pampering from time to time. Not to remind her of family but just because it was available to her and she deserved it.

Over the past three days, on his instructions the hotel staff treated her to a special blend of pampering. Seymour had to admit that the warm colours and recycled oak floor of the body therapy room with its down-to-earth, spotless and contemporary look were very inviting. The lulling sound of cascading water down a seven foot slate wall fountain was soothing. He made sure Martha was accommodated with all the amenities and had a choice of several treatment rooms. Her best was the aromatherapy steam room set with stone tiles and multi-jet showers. Seymour convinced himself that her indulging of all the pleasures the Shiryayevo Hotel had to offer was her way of appreciating his gift to her. Despite her insistence that he join her, he had a phobia against people touching him. He found it a bit repulsive for any stranger to touch his skin. He opted to find a lounge where he could relax, read, play golf and/or play cards with the other gentlemen.

Late the day before yesterday, when she returned from another special blend of a Swedish massage and a facial, he had to admit it was worth it. Her skin radiated even more than it did before. Albeit, he had to reluctantly admit that he was glad that the next day would be his.

Now it was his time for indulging and he was having a bad time.

The camping company proffered availability but they couldn’t produce. In his mind camping was about getting in touch with nature without having to ask for permission to do it. He had obtained permission in a place where the concept of camping to his fellow campers was not to relax and enjoy nature but complain. If it wasn’t about a neighbours tent or place, it was to nit-pick to the authorities an RV owner storage space or a generator going off all night long. Camping was not like when he was a kid, now it seemed to be all about competition and rivalry, a financial effort to attract the limited discretionary dollars from a staycations public, willing to spend.

Two days ago he had driven into the heartland and chosen the perfect spot, far away from noisy and irritating neighbours and marked it. It had all the hook-ups and camping amenities required for hard-sided outdoorsmen. The lease of the spot was expensive but the restrictions were light and worth it. With the tyre fixed and Martha’s aid, he had set up base camp and settled in.

Now he had been sitting by the fast moving stream for well over four and a half hours and he had not had a single nibble at his bait. It had been like that for the past two days. Martha had affectionately teased him on the first day saying he should have taken up hunting instead. Seymour could not understand it and wondered that probably the bait he was using was not quite right but from what he knew about fishing he was sure the red maggots and worms he had in the cup beside him were the right sort of bait for what he was after. He had the right lure and line that was pretty much clear and strong. A lure and line that should flow into the water unnoticeable without causing a splash. He was about 4 pegs down the stream, his pole like his line was light and he had started about 8 metres from the hard bottom with a 5 lb. hook length on a size 16 hook, the perfect tackle to fish for salmon.

He loved fishing for salmon not simply because it reminded him of his youth or because he loved its taste but because they were canny and demanded a certain type of disposition to go after them. Salmon fishing is all about being smart to outwit the fish. Knowing how the fish is going to behave long before it does. Salmon’s are very smart fishes, they know that they are prey, so they will avoid anything they think is going to harm them. As the fisherman, he knew he needed to be smarter and catch the salmon unawares. But it’s not just enough to know about how your prey will react, you need to have the necessary equipment.

So far his quarries were acting niftier than he was.

Every 15 minutes or so he cupped some maggots and tossed a dozen or so around his float against the flow of the stream. Even with such lure the bites were non-existent. Could it be the salmon were not feeding at the top he thought to himself. He leisurely lowered the float into the water before the hook touched the bottom. He was guessing as a real smart angler does but after a while with no bites he was gradually losing patience.

Something bit him on his foot and he whelped silently. He kicked back his foot from the Wellington slipper he was wearing and found a leech attached to his skin just below his ankle. He carefully detached the ugly little worm from the flesh of his skin and placed it on a stone all the while wondering how it got into his boot. The pain subsided almost immediately after the leech left his skin. He moved the stone some distance away from him and watched the leech wriggle sluggishly towards the edge of the brook.

For the next five minutes he sat there watching his line and the leech. At the end of the five minutes he felt the leech was getting more action than him and decided to change his slotting. He reeled in the line on the graphite reel and set down the fishing rod beside him before getting up. Bending he picked up the rod together with the Seat Box he was sitting on.

‘I’m going further downstream’ he said to Martha who was lying cosily on an inflatable camping sofa reading a magazine and regardless of the cold was sipping on a tall drink.

Martha her honey blonde hair all loose across her cardigan moved ever so slightly as she raised her head. Her blue eyes hiding behind thick big shades acknowledged his words. Her mouth curved in a moist grin simply said ‘Oh darling please give it up and relax. Are you sure that would make a difference?’

He didn’t reply. Instead he took out a pack of cigarettes and his gold lighter. After lighting up he stuffed both items into his tarp, next to his catapult.

‘Be that way’ Martha nagged ‘Take the umbrella, you never know… you might need it’ she added

Grudgingly he retrieved an umbrella from the Land Rover and made his way quarter of a kilometre downstream.

This was not the vacation he had envisioned.

His luck changed however when he added a bit more tackle tarting to his tactics. All of a sudden his seat box began to fill with squirming salmon.

It was almost nightfall when he started making his way back to camp. He was so pleased with himself that at first he didn’t hear the scream. The sharp stifled second one he did hear. It echoed sharply through the evening twilight.

Puzzled, he followed the sound.

A hard snow laden rock gave way to more rock and soil with a difference. Here in one of the isolated spots on this snow strewn treeless creek where shrubbery and hedging plants that flourished was a sight that shouldn’t be seen. Seymour focused his eyes, something in the air told him all was not well. The barren glade below wasn’t utterly deserted as it should have been, there was something moving against the background of the thick white-green foliage. There was a crack from somewhere below him, Seymour re-sharpened his focus then his muscles went rigid as he stood still suddenly locked with tension.

Despite the failing light his vision spared no detail. He watched the scene in the near distant unfold. His mind fleeting went to the statement Martha had made yesterday about him taking up hunting instead of fishing.

Nauseating, enraged and powerless he watched as murder one happened.

There were five Caucasian figures but six beings in the brush clearing below him. The sixth was in the arms of a brown haired female, a five or six year old child wearing a blue Applique hooded top and chino pants. Some thirty yards away three men were making their way towards them, from their outfits and language which was English and not Inuktitut, the indigenous dialect for the area, Seymour guessed they were not locals. Each was armed with a silenced pistol. The eyes of the woman were frozen with fear but the eyes of the man next to her held a defiant look in them with just the hint of panic.

The woman, a young face, arms clutching the child up to her chest, had her lips pursed, twisted in fear as she nervously crept backwards. The man beside her, a bald-headed man clothed in casual attire, presumably the woman’s partner had half his back towards her and the child, in an effort to shield them with his body.

Fifty yards away, the three male gunmen approached them with careless abandon.

Two of the gunmen had twisted grins on their faces and had their gun arms up. Both aiming at the man, none at the woman, while the third watched on patiently, strolling behind, his gun dangling from his clutched hand beside him but in full view of his captive audience.

The third man was well-dressed, distinguished, seemed from his laid back demeanour, deadlier of the three and seemed less concerned than the other two. He was a skinny man with beady pale eyes and a small cleft ginger stubble under his thin lips. His clothes and shoes were of good urban quality but despite his finely bleached white hair and his ghostly pale moisturised skin his eyes said it all. There was no expression within them, neither love nor hate, just the cold hard-core look of death. The skinny man walked cautiously and slowly behind his two associates, his pale eyes noting everything.

Seymour recognised the face of the third man. Not the man, but the type of man behind the face. He had seen it hundreds of times and knew that he was the person to watch out for as he scrutinised the trio. Seymour knew this sort of man well. He was the sort that would consider therapy as an annoying mosquito, a man who felt no pain or remorse, a true narcissist. His companions were burly, thick chested men who despite being dressed in off-the-rack black slacks leisurewear were partly covered in gold bracelets, chains or prison tattoos. Like him, he supposed that his compatriots belonged on the lowest part of a criminal ladder and did what they were told. With a look of a certain cold and peculiarly dead face known to be worn by expert hatchet men, how could they not.

As he watched, Seymour noticed the bald headed man did something, breaking the paralyzing spell they were all under and started to move. Seymour wasn’t sure what it was but it looked like he flipped or kicked up a piece of branch or something. All he was able to discern was that he suddenly yelled and the woman spun on her heels and started to run. The bald headed man barely had time to move when he was viciously and abruptly flung into the air by the force of a silenced bullet striking him high on his chest. A bullet fired from the gun of the well-dressed thug.

The bald-headed man was not dead. The thin well-dressed thug walked up to him, bent over him, twisting one of his arms as he sat on his back and rammed his face down into the dirt. The man’s legs kicked vigorously as the thug pressed down on his head in the moist earth.

Seymour swore softly and silently, absently little by little reaching into the tarp pocket of his tarpaulin pants for a weapon as he assessed the predicament unfolding, unfortunately only his catapult nestled in there with his bank sticks, cigarettes and floats.

To get to the clearing would take him approximately three minutes, if he ran full out. But with the foliage, slope, rocky surfaces, trees, badly broken branches and soft earth in-between him and the clearing it would certainly take him much longer.

Three blasted minutes… that could well be an eternity he thought to himself

If he had a gun in his hand he could kill the men in seconds. Unfortunately a gun was not going to fall from the heavens and into his hands, neither was there any chance anybody was going to give him one in the next couple of seconds.

Seymour had witnessed much in his life. He had participated in two wars, watched people euthanize themselves, he had had several mishaps and adventures all over the world with his ward and he had even killed. He even once witnessed a man in Indonesia disembowel his pregnant wife on a high rise tower and throw her off only to shoot himself in the head several seconds later. Seymour remembered watching as their body parts splattered off the building and heavily onto the pavement below, the pieces and blood dousing two teenage girls below. Witnessing and undergoing waterboarding with vinegar and a double suicide that seemed to be a dream was nauseating enough and he thought he had seen the worse a man was ever intended for. What was unfolding before him wasn’t unnerving but it was more than just murder. It was cold. Seymour felt mad and shaken.

That’s not a good way for a man to die he muttered angrily to himself as he began to peel off his tarp, gloves and tapped his willies together. If he was going to act he needed to be unencumbered.

The woman with fear written starkly on her face was running, one of the thugs remained behind while the third one raced after her. Then the oddest thing happened, she set the child down and shoved her ahead, yelling at her to run then whirling she turned to face her pursuer. She flung an arm at the thug which he deflected with ease. The thug caught her by the shoulder and yanked, she went down. Getting to her knees, she made an attempt to fight wildly as he held her tightly but the thug was just too strong. The thug’s companion walked up to them and sneered at her as he went after the child. He needn’t have bothered. The child came running back into the woman’s arms. The thug gripping her tightly grunted and snapped at her but she was having none of it, with the child back in her hands she struggled and in a fit of panicked resistance her elbow smashed his face. It caught him on the bridge of his nose. He let go of her and bowled over in pain as she rose hurriedly with the child and started running again.

The bald man’s legs were still as the thin thug rose and gave chase. Seymour not waiting to see the result of the chase began to move.

To reach the men it would take more than three minutes. Would the woman and the child have two minutes? He knew they did depending on whether they wanted one or both alive. Seymour would have to catch up with them another way. He had already surmised that the thugs needed the woman or the child alive otherwise they’d be dead already, plenty of time for him to catch up with them and probably lay an ambush.

Seymour Krakauer was a big man, an inch shy of six feet one. Approximately fifty-two years old, with dark well-groomed hair and pale blue eyes set in a face hardened by experience. Experience he had come by over the years was not subtle. On his left ear on the top of the ridge was a faded two-inch scar. A scar that had once contributed to his deafness and which an Iranian Alhaji named Saladin inflicted on him for not disclosing a young man’s whereabouts some twelve odd years ago.

His age counted against him. His bones and lungs wouldn’t work as well as it should be, however despite his health issues he felt strongly that it was his obligation to intercede if he was going to aid the woman and the child.

He didn’t know why his subconscious went to his ward, Susan. Maybe it was the urgency. Damn Susan they don’t stand a chance he muttered.

He spoke as if his ward, Susan was right beside him in the flesh and not half-way around the world. It was a habit he had adopted ever since she had entered his life. Sometimes just the mere thought of her being beside him made him think more clearly, perhaps devise a scheme more quickly and even possibly make a decisiveness action.

Nevertheless, now there was no need for misinterpretation. Seymour Krakauer knew exactly what to do and knew that he had to act. He set down the fishing tackle that he had hoped one day would be used for catching that elusive three pound crabby and slouched backward before rising.

He dashed into a crouching run, running deeper down-country, scrambling down a little over snow and dirt. The umbrella Martha asked him to take hung loosely from his right hand. In his left was his catapult.

Seymour was torn between the need for caution or speed. As he scurried, his mind was working unemotionally, weighing his probabilities and making assumptions.

The thugs wanted the woman and the child alive and not dead, otherwise they would have shot her like they did her companion. Her reluctance to go with them told him, her capture was something she feared. As for the woman’s captors, Seymour knew that they must have come from somewhere nearby. Possibly, given the terrain, a 4x4 wheeled truck. Their attire and footwear informed him they had not intended to go searching for their prey. That meant they knew their target was nearby, within the vicinity and where returning the same way on foot, but burdened with a child and the woman.

He advanced stealthily, pausing every few seconds to look and listen for danger. Thankfully, as if by providence his luck was in complete compliance with him.

Seymour wanted to see the vehicle, but more importantly he wanted to be there ahead of the three men, to meet them. He arrived at a thinly arboreal ridge and worked his way forward through low-cut cover, all the while keeping near to the ground.

He found the vehicle. A black Toyota four wheeled drive parked fifty yards from him. Another white Renault four wheel drive was parked some distance away.

A man in a brown leather coat with expensive party shoes stood by the trunk, waiting expectantly, smoking on a cigarette beside the SUV. There was something about him… he couldn’t quiet grope the concept… familiarity but he couldn’t put his finger on it. A stillness about him. There wasn’t time to dwell on it. His objective was clear and simple. He was going to kill the three men he had just witnessed kill a man in cold blood after he had disposed of this smoking man.

The man’s cell phone went off and he answered it.

The man’s second words Yes sir, Mr Zielinski froze all movement within Seymour.

Kane!?

‘Sorry Mr Z… yes momentarily’

His stepson, how was that possible? Last he saw Kane, he was crippled and on the deck of a ship that sank soon after he and Susan had gotten off. How could he have survived the sinking of the "Gotterdammerung" was Seymour’s second thought. He fought the urge to go down and ask the man on the other end of the line. Instead he kept focus on his intention.

A glance to his left told Seymour that the killers had not yet reached the slope leading up to the car, but it wouldn’t be long before they did. He crouched beside a scrubby bush listening for sounds of the killers. Hearing no sounds, he set his umbrella down and picked up three stones close to his feet, tucked one of the stones into the sling of his catapult and aimed.

He was a good shot when it came to rifles and a poor one when it to handguns or revolvers. However he was expert when it came to hand weapons like staffs, bow and arrows and especially unorthodox weapons not unlike the catapult. When it came to catapults however, he knew he was a proficient amateur. He had rarely used it since his youth. However, experience had taught him that with all weapons, patience and breathing where the key.

Aiming at the knee of the man by the car who had ended his phone call, Seymour let loose the first stone. The man whelped with the sudden pain his leg received. It was quickly followed by a grunt of agony from the second stone that struck his neck, whirling him. The last stone caught him squarely in the eye. As the leather coated man fell to his knees in aching pain, Seymour rose from his flora shield and covered the distance between them in fifteen long strides. Before the waiting man could salvage his thoughts or recover from the sudden pain long enough to understand that he was under attack. Seymour’s heavy hand chopped down edgewise on his neck and he stiffened against the earth, lying still.

Ninety seconds had passed since Seymour had seen the car. Now he had to do something about the three killers who would be on him in a jiffy.

With time against him, he heaved the unconscious man across his shoulder and headed east along a natural scrubby path leading across and away from the car towards the killers. When he got close to fifty yards he chucked the body across his shoulder unceremoniously behind a shrub and searched it. He could only find a twelve-inch switchblade. He grinned to himself. Against three killers and him armed with a switchblade, the odds where certainly improving. He had to be careful though. The woman and the child were to be a priority.

He heard voices some distance away.

Time was catching up with him.

Rising he advanced forward where he knew the killers would almost now be ascending. He had limited time and range to locate his trap. Apart from the heavy undergrowth, mud-covered earth and white greenery there was no real solid concealment position for him, only a towering thick tree trunk that stood some fifteen paces from where the killers would definitely pass on their way to their vehicle. When Seymour did reach it, he knew that he had chosen a spot that counted against him. The sun was nowhere to be seen and everywhere there was a gloom, oblique outlook all over the area.

Not one to regret a blunder he capitulated on his error and made the situation benefit him. For what Seymour had in mind, the climate would provide enough concealment, but only up to a point. He quickly made himself secure next to the solitary tree trunk. Considering what he was wearing Seymour didn’t think standing in full view would be a good idea, so he stood behind the tree with his back against it with the extended blade gripped tightly in his hand.

There was no expectancy in his waiting. Seymour’s body was stationary, his mind blank with the switchblade at the ready. Apart from the perpetual focus of his unblinking eyes, he did not exist. He was part of the tree, earth and air and vice versa was the air, earth and tree, a part of him.

It has been said that great ninja and shaolin masters have taught their students the adept knowledge of walking through a crowd without being seen. Long ago one of his mentors, Wing Chun had taught him this skill but he never mastered it, because he never thought he would find himself in such a position. His ward, Susan however did learn that talent and could stand in full view without being seen, unfortunately she was not here. Now Seymour tried to recall the lesson.

He waited and remotely listened as they came up into range. One after the other. First it was the thug who got smacked in the nose, then his companion followed by the thin one. As they passed him, he saw that in spite of the cold the first thug’s face was damp with perspiration and his body was slouched from carrying the woman over one of his shoulders. He was also panting a little from the strain. His companion had the child in his arms, a small silver and abalone pendant in the design of an owl with a missing wing attached to her necklace dangled from her neck. The thug held the child rather uncouthly, his face scowled as if in pain from carrying the child.

Haltingly the first thug said to the second thug with the child in his hand. ‘Hey Alex gimme a hand will ya?’

‘Sorry pal got me fuckin’ hans full’ he replied

The first thug glanced at the well-dressed thug and was about to say something, but decided against it and continued on his burdened journey.

Seymour needed more grace and precision as he listened uninvolved. He would be content if the killers covered twelve paces without seeing him or getting a shot off at him.

He noticed that the two thugs wore the same gun rig. Jericho 954 F, 9 mm, twelve shot handgun. The thin man behind had a Desert Eagle Glock.

As they trudged past the tree over the muddy ground Seymour noticed their gaze wandered over and past him twice without focusing. The first thug was five paces away from him when the shock of realisation hit him. He stopped dead and turned his head. His hand automatically reaching for the gun on his hip. Unfortunately for him he had to deal with the woman across his shoulder first. His companion beside him with the child also had to contend with the child before he could reach for his gun. That left the thin stylish thug behind them both who had drawn level with him.

Since Seymour had already marked him as the most dangerous of the trio, his first action was understandably against him.

He stepped into view just behind the last man grabbing him by the jaw, twisting it and slicing into his neck with the twelve inch blade in one deft movement. The man gurgled in death as his hand tried to raise and aim his Desert Eagle without seeing the face of his killer. It was a cleaner death than the bald headed man in the clearing had. Seymour didn’t wait to see the result, he side stepped the crumbling body as if it wasn’t there and proceeded to the next thug.

To the man with the child it seemed that the creature with artic eyes had emerged from the camouflage of the undergrowth like a chameleon to wreck vengeance. A long leg lashed out. A booted foot instantly driving home into his balls. Seymour caught the child with one hand as the thug whelped and let go.

Swivelling with a round house kick Seymour cleared his way forward by booting the thug just below his neck. There was a muffled squeal of pain from him as his neck jerked sideways. Seymour didn’t stop his twirling. He twirled with his free hand. The hand holding the razor blade. The exhausted third thug who had already let the woman fall away tried to bring his weapon up. He was too fatigued and perplexed to realise what had happened. Not that it would have helped if he wasn’t.

Seymour’s blade slashed up and then across his face, slashing his skin from above his left eyebrow down his nose and mouth. Seymour didn’t stop there, with the blade he slashed sideways, across his throat. Spewing blood across his and the child’s torso staining the small pendant the child had draped round her neck. The thug jerked backward grabbing his throat, trying in vain to thwart the gush of blood spewing out of him.

The feel of hot blood splattering about made the child wake up. Instantly it began wriggling.

Seymour reached forward and yanked the gun from the thug’s pants and shot him in the neck. He repeated the same action with the other two thugs, putting a bullet each in their brain pan.

He set the child down with the woman, cleaned part of the blood off the child and her clothes including the necklace round the child’s neck before straightening.

He cleaned the handle of the blade on their shirts, tucked it in one of their pants then reached over picking up both the unconscious woman and child and began to move steadily back where he came from. Bearing right towards the incline to the shrub where he left his umbrella.

He made a note to retrieve his tackle and his seat box containing his prized catch on the way.

‘Martha will be mad’ he muttered to himself over the cries of the child.

CHAPTER TWO

T he pressure of whether he would live or die in his little ambush was over, now Seymour’s mind ticked smoothly, assessing probabilities. He had no idea how long it would be before someone would be sent out to look for the hit squad, knowing his stepson, if it was Kane, it won’t be long. Nevertheless it would behove him to get Martha, the woman and the child to safety before then.

Will there be time for him to get them all clear before hell breaks loose? he wondered

Going back to the Shiryayevo Hotel would be suicide, especially if the thugs worked on Kane Zielinski’s behalf or if hired, having the connections to put out feelers. Judging on how they knew how to find the woman and child, he was betting they did. Kane would see to it.

If Kane knew that much they would have people everywhere, probably in the camps, ferry stations and the local airport.

Where could they hide? he pondered.

Then it came to him.

The Quilon. Gering’s place.

The Quilon was a lodge situated three miles beyond the border of Igloolik in Nunavut, hidden in a secluded slanting woodland, it was the perfect place to retreat to. With the nearest neighbour 10 kilometres away and the nearest town 20, it was not only a place to retreat to but an ideal spot to hole up. It was quiet, remote with little or no