He nodded at Beadman who brought up the last image. It was indistinct and watery, but showed a young girl dressed in old-fashioned clothing, certainly not warm enough for the freezing temperatures of the Antarctic. She was holding a baby.

Aimee felt a chill up her spine and leaned towards the screen. “Who’s that?” she said.

“We don’t know. There was no woman with a baby on the original crashed flight, and it wasn’t one of the rescue team members.” He shook his head slowly. “Frankly, we just don’t know,” he repeated, “who she is or where she came from, and more importantly where she and everyone else went.”

The meeting had broken up quickly after Alfred and the Major had given brief details of the trip logistics and now Aimee just wanted to rush home and start packing. She saw Matt and Monica sipping coffee together, and Silex looking over the top of their heads while holding up a cup and pointing at it. She didn’t feel up to small talk, so as Hammerson shook Alfred’s hand and then headed for the door she went with him.

“Major, err sorry, Jack, have you been down to the Antarctic before?”

“Yes I have, Aimee. We have a number of research stations down there, and I spent a few weeks at our McMurdo base one spring. Beautiful country; cold, but beautiful, so pack your woollies.” He smiled at her and his cheek creased along an old scar.

She smiled back and realised she was still a little unsettled about Tom and nervous about the trip. She was thankful that he would be down there; he made her feel safe.

“Jack, I wasn’t clear on whether we’d all go together or you’ll meet us down there.”

“Ahh, these old bones feel the cold too easily now. I won’t be there, but you will be met on route when you arrive down in Australia. I’ll be sending my best man and a few HAWCs.” They got to the stairs and Hammerson turned to shake her hand. “Don’t worry, Aimee; they’ll look after you. Good luck and see you in a week.”

A week, no problem, Aimee thought. She glanced at the elevator, changed her mind and followed Hammerson down the stairs.

Five

“Chyort vozmi; now I get my information!” Viktor Petrov, Resources and Energy Minister for the Russian Federation, read the security squawk from one of the dozens of their American sleeper agents with frustration and growing anger; he had just left a surprise meeting with President Volkov where he had been severely ambushed. He knew there was going to be trouble when the President had refused to shake his offered hand and had come around his desk to stand mere inches from Petrov’s face—a sign this was to be more a confrontation than a meeting.