ankle, heaved savagely sideways. The spikes grazed Beau mont's other hand as Tillotson lost his balance. He started sliding. His body skidded round the far side of the boulder, his hands flailed desperately for something to grip on. His fingers clutched the boulder, gained a hold, and he thought he had saved himself. Beaumont's right hand struck again, struck this time as a clubbed fist, smashing down with brutal force on the bridge of the American's nose. Tillotson yelped, lost his grip, went over. The scream travelled back up the icefall, a long-drawn-out scream which ended abruptly. Beaumont began hauling himself back over the edge.
He collapsed when he reached the far side of the boulder, still conscious but hardly able to move as he propped himself against the rock and massaged his left arm slowly. Clambering to his knees, he peered over the boulder into the depths. Tillotson had died in a macabre way - his body was perched at the summit of one of the numerous ice pinnacles, speared through his middle.
'You can fly us back, Sam.'
Beaumont sagged in the observer's seat as Grayson watched him. 'He did have a radio transmitter,' he went on, 'a pretty powerful one. Made by Radio Corporation of America, of course, in case anyone found it. Not that it was likely - he had it hidden in an Eskimo grave and no one goes poking about in that. We'd better get started,' he added. 'Vandenberg can send someone to collect the transmitter.'
'Had he transmitted?' Grayson asked.
'He transmitted something, I'm sure. He may not have had all that much time, the message could have been garbled - he must have encoded it before he left Thule.'
'Probably we'll never know.'
Beaumont looked at Grayson. 'Probably we will know - when the Russian security people are waiting,to meet us out on the ice.'
Saturday, 19 February
'I know why Winthrop came to Leningrad. I can see clear down to the bottom of your large empty hole, Kramer!'
At eight o'clock on Saturday night - eight hours before Michael Gorov planned to escape from North Pole 17 - Papanin was still in his office. The room was like an inferno, the green-tiled stove was roasting the office - and its occu pants. The Siberian loved extremes of temperature, had loved them since his childhood in Omsk when the terrible winter cold stimulated him while it obliterated everyone else, but then he had also luxuriated in the warmth of Siberian stoves when he came indoors. Kramer, on the other hand, was gasping for air.
'I don't see why you're suddenly interested in Michael Gorov,' he said hoarsely. 'Why should he be mixed up in this Jewish business?'
'Like the rest of them, you'll see it next year. That's why I'm sitting in this chair - because I can see things before they happen.' Papanin leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his neck. 'It was the shipping list which tipped me off.'
'You mean the deputy mate, Peter Gorov?'
'You'll see down this hole yet.' Papanin regarded the Bait with an unblinking stare. 'If you don't fall head first into it. Do you remember the case of Rachel Levitzer, that Jewish girl who made a run for it last August and fell down a staircase?'
'She broke her neck ...'
'She also broke Michael Gorov's heart. Did you know that?'
'I heard a rumour . . .'
'It was hushed up - their relationship - because of the position Michael Gorov occupies. We've been looking for a grubby little courier bringing in large sums from America -someone who might at any time be searched at the airport when he comes in. I think they've been cleverer than that . . .' Papanin paused to give his bombshell maximum impact. 'I think Michael Gorov, our eminent oceano grapher, is bringing in the money.'
Kramer was astounded, appalled. He stared back at Papanin, trying to guess what he was up to, always an im possible task. 'You can't mean it,' he said eventually. 'Where would he get the money from?'
'That's the clever part! He spent three years in the Arctic planning and laying the
He collapsed when he reached the far side of the boulder, still conscious but hardly able to move as he propped himself against the rock and massaged his left arm slowly. Clambering to his knees, he peered over the boulder into the depths. Tillotson had died in a macabre way - his body was perched at the summit of one of the numerous ice pinnacles, speared through his middle.
'You can fly us back, Sam.'
Beaumont sagged in the observer's seat as Grayson watched him. 'He did have a radio transmitter,' he went on, 'a pretty powerful one. Made by Radio Corporation of America, of course, in case anyone found it. Not that it was likely - he had it hidden in an Eskimo grave and no one goes poking about in that. We'd better get started,' he added. 'Vandenberg can send someone to collect the transmitter.'
'Had he transmitted?' Grayson asked.
'He transmitted something, I'm sure. He may not have had all that much time, the message could have been garbled - he must have encoded it before he left Thule.'
'Probably we'll never know.'
Beaumont looked at Grayson. 'Probably we will know - when the Russian security people are waiting,to meet us out on the ice.'
Saturday, 19 February
'I know why Winthrop came to Leningrad. I can see clear down to the bottom of your large empty hole, Kramer!'
At eight o'clock on Saturday night - eight hours before Michael Gorov planned to escape from North Pole 17 - Papanin was still in his office. The room was like an inferno, the green-tiled stove was roasting the office - and its occu pants. The Siberian loved extremes of temperature, had loved them since his childhood in Omsk when the terrible winter cold stimulated him while it obliterated everyone else, but then he had also luxuriated in the warmth of Siberian stoves when he came indoors. Kramer, on the other hand, was gasping for air.
'I don't see why you're suddenly interested in Michael Gorov,' he said hoarsely. 'Why should he be mixed up in this Jewish business?'
'Like the rest of them, you'll see it next year. That's why I'm sitting in this chair - because I can see things before they happen.' Papanin leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his neck. 'It was the shipping list which tipped me off.'
'You mean the deputy mate, Peter Gorov?'
'You'll see down this hole yet.' Papanin regarded the Bait with an unblinking stare. 'If you don't fall head first into it. Do you remember the case of Rachel Levitzer, that Jewish girl who made a run for it last August and fell down a staircase?'
'She broke her neck ...'
'She also broke Michael Gorov's heart. Did you know that?'
'I heard a rumour . . .'
'It was hushed up - their relationship - because of the position Michael Gorov occupies. We've been looking for a grubby little courier bringing in large sums from America -someone who might at any time be searched at the airport when he comes in. I think they've been cleverer than that . . .' Papanin paused to give his bombshell maximum impact. 'I think Michael Gorov, our eminent oceano grapher, is bringing in the money.'
Kramer was astounded, appalled. He stared back at Papanin, trying to guess what he was up to, always an im possible task. 'You can't mean it,' he said eventually. 'Where would he get the money from?'
'That's the clever part! He spent three years in the Arctic planning and laying the
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