I was always a solitary child. Back then, those white deserts at the top of the globe fired my sense of adventure. I read Willard Price, Jack London, Alistair MacLean. Other boys could reel off every player who ever scored for Liverpool; I could tell you about Peary and Cook, Nansen and Amundsen. I grew up, a lot of things changed but my dreams didn't. If anything, they were more urgent. The Arctic wasn't a place to prove myself, but to lose myself. Somewhere to escape to.Decent thriller set in a slightly fictional Arctic research centre, where our protagonist arrives to find his boss mysteriously dead and everything in increasing disarray. Like a lot of these books, the plot depends a bit on crucial coincidence and lucky escape, and there is an sfnal McGuffin at the end which justifies the means and motivation of the bad guys, but it's entertaining enough. You can get it here.
Zodiac Station, by Tom Harper
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