East of Desolation

JACK HIGGINS

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HARPER

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Hodder and Stoughton 1968

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007223701

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007290420

Version: 2019-05-23

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Title Page Copyright Note to Readers Dedication Publishers Note Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Keep Reading About the Author Also By Jack Higgins About the Publisher

For Arnold Spector good friend

PUBLISHERS NOTE

EAST OF DESOLATION was first published in the UK by Hodder & Stoughton in 1968. It was later published in paperback by Coronet but has been out of print for several years.

In 2006, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back EAST OF DESOLATION for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

I brought the plane in low over the sea and took her up to three thousand as land appeared and beyond, through the harsh white moonlight, the Greenland ice-cap gleamed like a string of pearls.

East from Cape Desolation the Julianehaab Bight was full of smoky mist indicating no wind to speak of and certainly nothing more than five knots, which was something. At least it gave me a chance of dropping into the valley at the head of the fjord. Not much of a one, but better than staying here.

It was cold in the cabin with the night wind streaming in through the splintered windscreen and the lighted dials on the instrument panel were confusing in their multiplicity, occasionally merging together in a meaningless blur.

And then, on the far side of the mist the waters of the fjord gleamed silvery white in the intense light and the strange twisted moonscape rolled towards the ice-cap, every feature etched razor-sharp.

It was time to go. I reduced speed, put the auto pilot in control and unbuckled my safety belt. When I turned, he was there as he always was, the head disembodied in the light from the instrument panel, eyes fixed, staring into eternity as he lolled back in the co-pilots seat.

I moved into the darkness of the cabin and stumbled, falling to one knee, my outstretched hand touching the cold, ice-hard face of the other, and panic seized me as it always did and it was as if I couldnt breathe as I lurched through the darkness and clawed at the quick release handles on the exit hatch.

It fell away into the night and I stepped into space without hesitation, aware of the intense cold, feeling strangely free. I seemed to somersault in slow motion and for a single moment saw the plane above me in the night drifting steadily eastwards like some dark ghost and then I reached for the ring to open my chute and it wasnt there and I gave one single despairing cry that was swept away into the night as I plunged into darkness.

I usually only got the dream when I was overtired or depressed, but it always left me in the same state soaked in sweat and shaking like a leaf. I lay there looking up at the ceiling for a while, then flung aside the bedclothes and padded across to the window. When I rubbed the condensation away a fine morning greeted me.

I was flying out of Frederiksborg that year, Godthaab the capital having got just a little too civilised for comfort. It was a small place about two hundred miles below the Arctic Circle on the south-west coast. The population couldnt have been more than fifteen hundred, but during the short summer season it was artificially inflated by the influx of two or three hundred construction workers from Denmark who were engaged in building rather ugly three-storied blocks of concrete flats as part of the government development programme.

But Frederiksborg, like most places on the Greenland coast, still had the look of a raw pioneering town, the mushroom growth of some gold or silver strike. The roads were unsurfaced and most of the town was scattered over a peninsula of solid rock. The houses were made of wood and painted red, yellow and green, and because of the rock foundations everything went overhead and telephone and electric cables festooned the air from a forest of poles.

The harbour was half a mile away at the end of a rocky road beside the new canning factory and contained half a dozen fishing boats, a Catalina flying boat used by East Canada Airways for coastal traffic, and my own Otter Amphibian which was parked on dry land at the head of the concrete slipway.

It was almost ten oclock and I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. There was a quick knock on the outside door and I wrapped a towel around my waist and returned to the bedroom.

Gudrid Rasmussen looked in. You are ready for coffee, Mr Martin? she said in Danish.

She was a small, rather hippy girl of twenty-five or so, a Greenlander born and bred, mainly Danish by blood which showed in the fair hair plaited around her head, with just a touch of Eskimo in the high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes. Most of the year she spent housekeeping for her grandfather on his sheep farm at Sandvig about a hundred miles down the coast, but during the summer she worked as a chambermaid at the hotel.

Make it tea this morning, Gudrid, I said, Im feeling nostalgic.

She shook her head in reproof. You look awful. Too much work is not good for a man.

Before I could reply the sound of an aeroplane engine shattered the stillness of the morning and I went to the window in time to see an Aermacchi flip neatly in across the harbour and drop flaps to land on the airstrip beyond the canning factory.

Here comes your boy friend.

Arnie? There was a touch of colour in her cheeks as she crossed to the window. Any girl is Arnies girl, Mr Martin. I hold no special rights.

It would have been pointless to try and pretend otherwise and we stood there together for a moment in silence watching the wheels come down beneath the skis with which the Aermacchi was fitted.

I thought he was going to take those off and put his floats back on, I said.

The skis? She shrugged. Hes got an extension of his service contract with the American mining company at Malamusk on the edge of the ice-cap. Up there the only place to land is the snow-field.

His landing was good not excellent, but then we all have our off-days. The Aermacchi rolled along the airstrip and disappeared from view behind the canning factory.

Gudrid smiled brightly. Ill bring your tea while you have a shower, then Ill order breakfast for you. Ill change the bed later.

The door closed behind her and I went back into the bathroom and got under the shower. It was nice and hot and very relaxing and after a while my headache started to go, which was a good thing considering that I had a two and a half hour flight ahead of me. I pulled on my old silk dressing gown and went back into the bedroom towelling my hair briskly. In my absence, Gudrid had brought in a tray and the tea, when I poured it, was scalding. I finished the first cup and was pouring another when the door burst open and Arnie Fassberg blew in.

He was about my height, which was a little under six feet, but the resemblance stopped there. My hair was dark, his so fair as to be almost white, his face open, mine closed and saturnine. As yet he had not been used by life or at least had been used kindly and his forehead was as unlined as any childs. By birth an Icelander, he had perhaps the most incredible appetite for women that I have ever encountered, and like all Don Juans he was an incurable romantic, falling in and out of love with astounding frequency.

He presented a slightly theatrical figure in his fur-lined boots and old flying jacket and he tossed a canvas holdall into the corner and moved to the table.

I thought you might have left. Ive probably broken all records from Søndre Strømfjord to get here.

Any particular reason?

He helped himself to tea using my cup. Youre flying supplies out to that American film actor arent you?

He was referring to Jack Desforge, whod arrived unexpectedly in Godthaab early in June in his motor yacht Stella. Since then hed been cruising the coast fishing and hunting and Id been flying out supplies to wherever he was at regular intervals.

Why the interest?

Ive got a passenger for you. She got off the midnight jet from Copenhagen at Søndre. Wanted me to take her straight to Desforge, but I couldnt oblige. Have to be at Malamusk by noon with some spare parts theyve had specially flown in from the States. Where is he, by the way?

Somewhere north of Disko in the region of Narquassit as I last heard; looking for polar bear.

There was genuine astonishment on his face. At this time of the year. You must be joking.

About the only thing outside of a Tibetan yak that hes never laid low. You never know, he could hit lucky. Ive seen bear up there myself in August before now.

But not often, my friend. I wish him luck.

This girl whats her name?

Eytan Ilana Eytan.

I raised my eyebrows. Israeli?

I would have said English. He grinned. Not that it matters in any language shes a lot of woman.

Good looking?

He shook his head. Ugly as sin and it doesnt matter a damn.

A rare combination. I look forward to meeting her.

Shes having breakfast downstairs.

The door opened and Gudrid entered as I knew she would, her excuse the clean sheets she carried. Arnie swung round and advanced on her.

Gudrid sweetheart.

She side-stepped him neatly and dropped the sheets on the bed. You can cut that out for a start.

He unzipped one of the pockets of his flying jacket and took out a roll of notes. I got paid, angel. A thousand dollars on account. Where would we be without our American friends?

And how much of that will go across the card table at the Fredericsmut? she said acidly.

He peeled off two hundred dollar bills and held out the rest of the money. Save me from myself, Gudrid. Be my banker like always.

What would be the point? Youll want it back again tomorrow.

He grinned. Put it in the bank then, in your name. Just so I cant get at it. I trust you.

And as usual, she was putty in his hands. If youre sure you want me to.

Would I ask if I didnt? He patted her on the bottom. Id better come and see where you do put it, just in case you get knocked down in the street or anything.

I didnt need the wink he gave me over his shoulder as they went out to tell me what that meant. Poor Gudrid. Always on hand to keep him occupied in between affairs, never facing up to the hopelessness of the situation from her point of view. And yet in his own selfish way he had a genuine affection for her, and she did act as his banker on occasion, which was probably the only reason he had any money at all.

East of Desolation - Jack Higgins