Maratse 365

He left the eagles to make coffee, fumbling with the controls of Petra’s coffee machine for a few minutes before giving up and boiling water in her kettle. He dumped several spoonfuls of coffee grounds into a filter and let the water seep through it as he searched the bookshelf for a suitably thick science fiction novel. The meagre selection of books he owned combined with new opportunities now that he lived in the city, gave Maratse a purpose for the day.

“Library,” he said, pushing a well-read and tattered book back onto the shelf. He took his coffee with the ravens and left the apartment half an hour later.

Maratse caught the bus into the city centre, walked through the pedestrian area to the library, pausing at the hunter’s market, searching the plastic fish trays for something interesting, before wandering over to the richer, darker seal and whale meats. He left with the familiar scent of blood in his nostrils.

Maratse buried the sudden thought of his team of dogs on the beach in Inussuk, telling himself that midsummer in Nuuk was midsummer father north, that there was no ice, that the dogs were resting, that Karl…

Karl.

Maratse pictured his older neighbour, the gravedigger, the hunter.

Friend, he thought, swapping the smell of blood for the smoke of cigarettes as he two old men smoking on the street. Prince. Karl’s brand. Maratse nodded at the men and moved on, enjoying thoughts of his friend, following the thread across the short stretch of beach, up the stairs to Karl’s deck, then into his house, where Buuti placed a steaming pot of narwhal stew on the dining table.

Maratse stopped at the steps to the public library, felt his stomach growl, and clapped his hands across the front of his dirty jacket to stop it.

“You look lost, Constable.”

Maratse turned and nodded as Sergeant Gaba Alatak strode towards him. The sun caught the sergeant’s newly shaved head, and together with his height and his firm grip as he greeted Maratse, Gaba exuded strength and vitality, as he always had.

“Gaba,” Maratse said.

“I heard you came with Petra, but I had to see it to believe it.” Gaba tucked his thumbs behind his belt buckle and studied Maratse. “How’s city life?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

Maratse shrugged as if there was nothing more to say.

“You’re still wearing your jacket.”

“Iiji.”

“Still not ready to give up on being a policeman.”

“It’s what I know.”

Gaba nodded. “Police work and hunting.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s the same thing, Maratse.” Gaba leaned to one side and nodded at a café behind Maratse. “Come on, Constable. I’ll buy you a coffee and you can tell me about your romantic trip to Antarctica.”

“Romantic?”

“That’s what Petra called it. Although,” Gaba said, as they walked towards the café. “I heard different. She won’t say much about it, despite Atii pumping her for information, but the headlines.” Gaba laughed. “Yes, Constable, the headlines reached as far as Nuuk.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“No? So, the death of a Chinese spymaster and his protégé – now gone rogue – loose on the streets…”

“Xiá is suffering,” Maratse said. He followed Gaba up the steps to the café entrance. “She’s misunderstood.”

“Aren’t we all,” Gaba said, as he opened the door.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Chapter 3

Nuuk, Present Day

Retired police constable David Maratse opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside. He leaned against the railings and stared across the fjord towards the centre of Nuuk, Greenland’s capital city, population 15,000 and counting. Maratse straightened and tucked his hands into his pockets, plucking at an empty shell .22 bullet casing in one of them, a twist of fishing line in the other. He turned as Sergeant Petra Jensen called to him from the kitchen.

“Piitalaat,” he said, smiling as she joined him on the balcony.

Petra turned into the wind blowing off the fjord, tucked a length of hair behind her ear, then reached her hand out to press it against Maratse’s cheek. She slid her fingers through his wispy beard and sighed. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I know. But what are you going to do today?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“It might make it easier for me if I knew what.”

“Piitalaat.” Maratse took Petra’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “I’m okay.”

“You say that,” she said, pulling her hand free, before leaning in close, nuzzling nose against his neck, “but I worry about you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Ever since we moved from Inussuk…”

“I said I would come with you.”

“Yes, I know, but…”

“I’m where I want to be,” he said. “Here. With you.” Petra lifted her head and Maratse smiled. “It’s the only place I want to be.”

“You’re sure?”

“Iiji, you know I am.”

Petra tucked her head back into the curve of Maratse’s neck. “I want to believe that…”

“It’s true.”

“And I know it. But we’re in the city.”

“Iiji?”

“But you don’t do cities.”

“I’ll find a way.” Maratse turned to kiss Petra’s forehead. “You have to go to work.”

“Atii is picking me up.”

“She’ll be here soon.”

“I know.” Petra pulled away, slowly. She smiled as she plucked at Maratse’s jacket. “You could always give this a wash. That would keep you busy for at least a week.”

“Go,” Maratse said.

Petra rubbed a fish scale from her fingers. “A month.”

“Atii’s here,” Maratse said, pointing at the police patrol car pulling into the car park below Petra’s apartment. “You’ll be late.”

“Never.” Petra kissed Maratse’s cheek, brushed her hand once more across his cheek, then peeled away from the railings and into the apartment. “Call me if you get bored.”

Maratse waved. He watched her leave, then leaned over the railing to wave again as Petra stepped out of the apartment building and jogged over to the patrol car. Dust pillowed away from the tyres as Constable Atii Napa accelerated out of the parking lot. Maratse turned back to the fjord, caught the shadow of a sea eagle, and stared up to watch it soar across the sun.

“Hmm,” he said, as a second eagle joined the first. Ravens croaked from the roof of the next apartment building, gathering in conspiratorial twos and threes, stalking the edges, flapping, cawing, and crowing. Maratse turned back to the eagles, content to watch them for a little while, for want of anything better to do in the city.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

“A hero?”

“Aap.”

Iisaaq turned away, leaving Gabin deep in thought as he chatted with Kaasi. The two Greenlanders poked at the fibreglass patch, pressing the tips of rough fingers into the weave at the edges before tugging them free. Gabin left them to it and walked down to the water’s edge.

A hero.

The thought had never occurred to him, nor did he feel particularly heroic about what he had done. The oft used remark that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter played through his mind as he crouched beside a lump of ice stranded on the beach. Beside it, just a little further from the water, was an oval depression like a crater the depth of his thumb. Small pebble-sized lumps of ice spotted with black sand sat in the middle of the depression. Gabin followed a series of what he thought looked like footprints for a few long strides along the beach, putting all thoughts of heroism aside.

But you can’t forget. Can you, Gabin?

He tried. He focused on the footprints, nodding to himself and exclaiming as soon as he realised the prints were what remained once the sun had melted stranded lumps of ice.

You planned the attack.

It was true, but there were more prints further along the beach. He should investigate them, prove his theory, empty his mind of all else.

But the explosion…

Several of them.

Gabin blinked at the ice prints but saw instead the flames licking at the black smoke pouring out of the stairwell leading to the lower decks of the ship. They had used limpet mines on Gabin’s suggestion, easily procured from the military. Despite the secrecy, sourcing the means to complete the mission had been easy. They could have asked for anything and they would have got it. But the team agreed that the limpet mine placed against the hull would be more than adequate to sink the ship and send a message, without blowing the ship into pieces.

There was no need for anyone to die.

But they did.

One death more than was necessary. One mine more than they needed.

“If they had just evacuated,” Gabin said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “After the first explosion.”

But you used two mines, Gabin.

“Oui, to make sure the operation was a success.”

And was it?

Gabin ignored the question in his mind and followed the prints along the beach. The grass above the beach rustled in the wind, turning his head, and he froze at the sight of Biibi crouching in the grass, her bottom tucked against her heels, her eyes fixed on Gabin.

Gabin waved, calling for Biibi to walk with him.

She shook her head, slowly, lips pressed closed to seal her mouth.

Gabin took a step and Biibi followed, crouching then walking, pacing him from above as he walked along the sand below.

She’s stalking me, he thought. Hunting – something I need to get used to.

Wherever he went, for however long he lived, Gabin knew they would be hunting him. But none had ever gotten as close as Biibi.

“Not yet, at least,” he said, stretching his legs into the curve of the beach, searching for more ice prints.

And the girl followed.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.