The ghostly light of early morning suffused the room. Outside, the wind had died. He slipped out of bed and went to the front windows. What he could see of the ocean was black and tranquil, with gentle waves rolling toward the stony beach. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. They had slept another ten hours. He could feel his strength slowly returning as he thought about the next steps in their journey. Once it was discovered that only Sir Dorian had died in the helicopter crash, they would be coming after him, whoever they were. They might already be on their way. The snowstorm would have obliterated his tracks across the ice cap, but the pursuers would certainly have sophisticated tracking tools aboard their helicopters, and they would know he couldn’t have traveled far on foot. It was time to go. Macaulay wasn’t sure exactly where they were along the coast, but from the compass headings he had followed in the blizzard, he knew they were south of Kulusuk, the closest destination that had satellite radio communications.
