Ice Angel

by Matthew Hart

  We fell back and crowded together on a patch of dry ground in the lee of a boulder. The sound faded in a gust of wind and then returned. The steady beat of a generator and the squeal of a drill boring into rock.

  “What’s on the other side?” I said. “Have they explored there before?”

  “I’ve only flown over it,” Pete said. “It’s just a cleft between hills. I think there’s an esker that runs down the middle of the gorge. I don’t know why she’d be there.”

  “Pete, it is way too late for bullshit. You know why she’s there. Replot the coordinates. Take the coordinates from the map Jimmy showed the twins—the old-version map—and put them into the new version. I’m betting it would put the target just over this hill.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Yeah, maybe.” He thought about it. “OK, replotting to NAD 83 would move the target east.” He looked at me. “It would put the target where she’s drilling now.”

  The temperature was rising. Rain fell now with the sleet, making the ground even slipperier. We flattened onto the streaming ice and crawled the last twelve feet to the top of the rise.

  They were gathered at the base of the glistening slope. It was a narrow space, about a dozen feet wide, between the esker and the slope. The little Cat had followed a switchback to the head of the valley and come down that way. They would spot us right away if we tried that route. We huddled for a short discussion. Our best bet was a surprise attack straight down the slope.

  Mitzi operated the drill. Fan stood beside her in a black parka. The same long black scarf he’d worn before was looped around his neck. The waif stood beside him, wrapped in a long fur coat and holding an umbrella to protect Fan from the sleet. Tinkerbell loomed beside them. One of the two Uzi guys stood directly behind Mitzi. I put the scope on her. Her lips were pressed tight. She stared grimly at the drill. There was a red mark on the side of her face.

  The generator puffed black smoke. The drill shaft turned. It looked like some strange nativity scene, where the drill was the god they had come to venerate. Even the two hoods with the machine guns seemed entranced by what was happening. Wu, the lawyer, was the only one not looking at the drill. He stood beside the tracked vehicle, his briefcase on the roof, only partly open, to protect the papers inside from the precipitation. He was scribbling furiously. The coffin lay on the ground beside him.

  A plywood box, the lid held on with metal clips. Covered in a film of ice. Inside, Lily’s body wedged tight in the freezing cold. A movement at the drill caught my eye.

  Mitzi pushed a lever and idled the machine. Then she moved it again, this time in the opposite direction.

  “She’s pulling core,” Pete said in a low voice.

  “You mean a sample?”

  Pete nodded. “The target must be under the esker. That kind of drill has a circular bit. It takes a core of solid rock into the circular opening and up into a tube. She’s pulling that core out now.”

  “And then they’ll examine it.”

  “That tray on the back of the little Cat,” he said. “It has slots to hold the core. She’ll carry it over and put it in there.”

  “That’s when we shoot the guards.”

  The black core crept slowly out of the esker and up the angled frame of the drill. The drill revolved, and the metal squealed, and the generator poured black smoke. When the core of rock was fully extracted, Mitzi idled the drill. She opened the safety cage that surrounded the shaft, very carefully lifted the length of core from the drill, and carried it to the back of the Cat. Wu leaned over and snapped pictures with his phone. Fan and the waif watched closely as she laid the core into a slot in the box. Tinkerbell towered behind Fan. The Uzi guy on Mitzi was close behind her, the other one to the side.

  “Are you worried about deflection in this weather?” I said.

  “It’s just shooting in the rain,” Pete said. He levered a bullet into the chamber and lay flat out on the slick ice.

  I realized I was soaked, and that the breeze was pushing warmer air against my face. The ground felt softer under the wet ice. The tinkling sound had changed to the hiss of rain. I handed the MPX to the priest.

  “When we shoot, fire off a mag. Maximum confusion,” I added, but he didn’t need an explanation. He’d been there.

  “I’ll take the one on the right,” I said, taking out the Walther. “As soon as we shoot, we all head down the hill.”

  Not the best plan in the world, but better than what happened.

  Tommy’s bad knee was giving him a hard time in the cold, and it was worse now in the rain. He wanted to be ready for the charge. He raised himself slightly to shift the weight onto his good leg, and his crampon detached a piece of melting ice. He lurched off balance and sprawled headlong. The Ithaca discharged with a boom, flew from his hand, and clattered down the hill, with Tommy slithering behind it. I got off two quick rounds at my target, who had started to swing toward Tommy. I caught him in the arm. The Uzi bounced on the ground, and the guard fell down screaming. Mitzi spun around at the sound, blocking Pete’s line of fire on the second guard. Tinkerbell spotted us immediately. He grabbed Mitzi by the hair and used her as a shield. He stepped out, snatched up Tommy’s Ithaca, and kicked him in the face. Fan screamed at the remaining guard.

  “Show yourselves!” the guard shouted, pointing his Uzi at the box. “Or we kill the Russian!”

  I shoved the Walther under my coat and gestured for the MPX. The priest passed it to me. When I had it, I stood up in full view and made a show of throwing the gun aside. Pete did the same with his rifle.

  “If I make a move on the hood,” I said to Pete, “grab the Walther in my belt and shoot the big guy.”

  49

  We started down the steep slope. The dark overcast was sliding south. A soft, misty light flowed in behind it. The rain loosened the scree. Our crampons dislodged the icy cover, and we slid and scrabbled to the bottom.

  Tinkerbell watched us spill from the slope, his face impassive. He pushed the shotgun barrel up under Mitzi’s chin. The wounded guard writhed on the ground, screaming. His partner threw a panicked look at Tinkerbell. “Gun,” roared Tinkerbell, and the guard jammed his Uzi into my ribs.

  Fan’s eyes flicked to me. Lipstick smudged his chin. The waif gave me a wan smile. Her lips parted and the umbrella wavered, and the rain poured down on Fan’s now unprotected head.

  “Dopehead bitch,” he barked, striking her in the face with the back of his hand. She stumbled away and fell into the mud. “You can do nothing,” he sneered at me. “Stupid. You show up with guns. You think this is a cowboy movie? Americans ride in to kill the bad Indians!” He chuckled, drooling a few more strands of red onto his chin. “It’s mine, now. Mine.”

  The priest pushed in and fell to his knees beside the coffin and fumbled at the icy clips. I took a step to join him but Wu caught my eye and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  “You want the Russian cunt?” Fan sneered at the priest. “Take the Russian cunt. I cooled her down for you.” He tittered to the waif, back in place with the umbrella. “Wake up, guy,” he said to me. “You think Canada gives a fuck who owns this? I give them an extra point on their shit royalty—hey, suddenly on my side!”

  “Mitz,” Pete called.

  “I’m OK,” she said in a strained voice, her head tilted back from the barrel of the shotgun.

  “You’re OK when I say you’re OK, asshole.” Fan smirked. “Or you end up bear food, like Jimmy.” His eyes darted around the site. “Nobody fucks with me.”

  The waif planted a dreamy kiss on his cheek.

  “We’ll take them for a helicopter ride,” he whispered to her in a stage aside, and she gave him a rapturous smile.

  The priest grasped a clip on the plywood crate and snapped it open. He moved to the next clip, bumping the guard. The guard smacked the side of his head with the Uzi.

  “Leave him,” Wu said angrily. He snapped a terse Chinese phrase at Fan, who stepped to the Cat and took the proffer
ed pen. He scribbled his initials on a document and threw the pen into the briefcase with a flourish.

  “Hello, diamonds!” he sang in a falsetto, striking a diva pose and fluttering his eyelids at the waif.

  “We have completed the transfer of this property to its rightful corporate owner,” Wu said in a severe tone, as if trying to restore some order to the scene. “So you understand the import of this,” he said to me, “this property is now an asset of Angel Minerals, whose owners include the investors you are allegedly here to protect.”

  Fan rattled a Chinese phrase at Wu, then seized the waif and did a clownish tango back to the drill.

  Wu said in a low voice, not looking at me, “The woman is alive, but he means to kill you both.”

  I wondered if that meant Wu planned to intervene in some way, but at that moment the priest snapped the last clip open and was wrenching at the coffin lid. I knelt in the muck and hammered my fist on the crate, smashing the coating of ice. I heaved off the heavy lid.

  All she had on was the red leather jacket and her jeans. Her arms were folded across her, as if she’d been hugging herself for warmth. The bandage had been ripped from her cheek, and a fresh, neat cut was incised beside the ragged wound. Frozen rivulets of blood clung to her gray skin. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth. I leaned in and grabbed her icy body, lifting her out and placing her on the lid.

  The priest grasped a corner of the duct tape and peeled it away. He opened his little case and placed it on the ground. With his left hand he took out a tiny dish of oil. He dipped his right thumb into it and drew a cross on her forehead, mumbling something, and put his ear to her blue lips. They didn’t move.

  The guard shot a nervous glance at his partner, now blowing pink bubbles and choking on his own blood. Distracted, he let the barrel of the Uzi shift. I grabbed it and yanked it down. The mud exploded in a burst as the guard fired the whole clip. I grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the side of the coffin. Pete dove in and yanked the Walther from my belt. Fan shrieked. Tinkerbell swiveled the Ithaca away from Mitzi’s chin and was aiming at Pete when Mitzi leaned down and sank her teeth into his wrist. The shotgun fell to the ground, and he struck her in the face. She stumbled backward, crashing into the rig.

  Tommy scrambled to a crouch and planted his crampons. Tinkerbell caught the movement. He leapt around, landing nimbly on his feet with his hands held out like a martial artist ready to repel an attack.

  Tommy got to Tinkerbell pretty quick for a guy with a bum knee. Tinkerbell shot out a kick. Tommy’s face was already banged up from the first kick Tinkerbell had given him, but here’s the thing: In pro ball, pain is the business they’re in. The main outcome of the kick was that it just made Tommy madder. He cannoned into Tinkerbell and grabbed his ears in both hands, twisting hard.

  Tinkerbell roared in pain, and they went bowling into the drill rig, smashing it loose from the mount and sending pieces clanging to the ground. Fan leapt back, raising his arms. It was the classic pose of someone in alarm. As I guess he was, because a Black Hawk rose up from behind the esker. Silver in a silver sky. Silent in the swish and hiss of the falling rain. The door slid open and Carstairs appeared, standing behind a soldier who had his eye to a short, thick scope. Carstairs leaned over the soldier, pointed down at us, and a small red dot popped into place on Fan’s chest.

  “No!” I yelled, waving my free arm like a maniac. Mitzi and Tommy were only feet from Fan. “No!” I yelled again. But even if Carstairs had heard me, he wasn’t the one who was going to launch the Hellfire missile. It was the sergeant in that room in Cheyenne Mountain. He and his partner were the ones flying the Reaper. I couldn’t see it, but it was out there in the rain, and the targeter kneeling in the Black Hawk’s open door had planted the crosshairs squarely on Fan’s chest.

  Pete saw what was happening. He hit the guard with his Walther, dug his crampons into the muck, and threw himself at Mitzi, tackling her to the ground.

  “Down,” I bellowed at Tommy, and he hit the dirt.

  The missile came out of the rain with a banshee wail, the blades already spread into a horrifying claw. Fan had lost his footing in the mire and was falling, his arms flung outward. The only one standing was the waif.

  A blade clipped off Fan’s right arm, just above the elbow, and dropped it neatly in his lap, beside the waif’s head. Her face still bore the euphoric expression she’d taken with her into eternity. Fan gaped at her, then started squealing—high, piercing squeals as he lay on his back in the rain, his stump gushing blood. Tinkerbell tore off his jacket, scrambled to Fan, and wrapped the bleeding stump. I swaddled Lily in my parka and held her freezing body in my arms.

  * * *

  “You have to be super gentle with hypothermia,” the medic from the Black Hawk said. He’d just finished tying off Fan’s arm and giving him a jab to stop the screaming. Now he was trying to slide his arm slowly between me and Lily. “Sir? You’re holding her too hard. Let go, OK?”

  “Alex,” Tommy said gently. “He’s got her.” He pried my fingers off, folded his hands over mine and levered my arms away.

  The medic took her from me and laid her carefully on the blankets he’d put in the back of the Cat. The rain had stopped. He tented Lily in silver foil. He cut her clothes off quickly, the jeans and the red leather jacket, without disturbing the position of her body. He wrapped her in a fleece blanket, put on his stethoscope, and listened to her heart.

  “Wow,” he murmured. “That’s some engine.”

  The medic was tending to the wounded guard when Lily opened her eyes. I helped her sit up so she could swallow some of the warm tea the medic had brought from the Black Hawk.

  “Small sips,” I said. She swallowed and closed her eyes. Her skin looked pinker, almost flickering with a rosy hue that seemed to come as much from the air as from Lily. When she opened her eyes again, she whispered something I couldn’t make out. I put my ear against her lips. I could smell the tea on her breath as she whispered again. “The hill.” And I turned.

  The rain had washed the slope clean. The garnets glowed like the embers of a banked fire. Thousands of them, tens of thousands. They filled the valley with a rosy light.

  50

  Every operation comes to the same moment. When it’s time to shuffle everything away and put it in a folder and send it downstairs to a locked room in the basement. Before that can happen, there’s a meeting to get the story straight and decide what lie to file it under.

  I walked all the way downtown from Ninety-Fourth Street. Through the park to Columbus Circle, over to Ninth Avenue, down to Hudson Yards. Then onto the High-Line, the old elevated railway made into a park. When the wind blows off the Hudson River, it’s the cleanest air you can get in New York City. I took a good gulp. There wasn’t going to be any at the meeting.

  At Gansevoort Street I got off the High-Line and cut over to Greenwich. Fifteen minutes later I was on Clarkson Street, iris-scanning myself into the office.

  I was early, so I spent a few minutes catching up on Fan. The Black Hawks were US Army. They never let him out of their custody. An army jet came up to Yellowknife and medevacked him down to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, near Tacoma. They kept him in the hospital there for five weeks. You have to ask yourself if the antibiotics and the morphine were the only drugs in the IV bag, because they got everything they wanted out of him.

  The Chinese kicked up a fuss, and finally the army packed Fan up, and the air force took him to Osan Air Base in South Korea and let his bosses come and get him.

  Then I read through the last emails and went upstairs.

  Tommy’s face still looked plowed up. Tinkerbell had kicked him hard. The plastic surgeon in Yellowknife had set his nose and popped the busted cheek back into place. “Zygomatic arch,” she’d said. “I should give you guys a volume discount.” She’d insisted Tommy come in again before he left, and when he did, offered him some tips on reconstructive surgery. She’d handed him a file. “Just give this to whoever yo
u see in New York. You’ll be good as new.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Tommy said, “but I’m not much uglier now than I was before.”

  Tabitha was swiping her way through some documents. A slingback dangled from a toe as she sat swinging her leg. She glanced up when I came in, and puffed a tangle of auburn hair from her face. It fell back down. She put her phone on the desk and shot her hair back with both hands.

  I gave them a rundown on the new mine. Development had just started. The pipe was under the esker. In the Barrens, prospectors were used to looking for diamond pipes under lakes. The soft rock that contained diamonds was gouged out by glaciers during the last ice age and then filled with water when the glaciers melted away. This time the glacier hadn’t covered the gouged-out pipe with water but with gravel.

  “That’s the part I don’t really get,” Tommy said. “I was up there. It’s all rock. I get that a melting glacier leaves water behind, but where does the gravel come from?”

  “The ice sheet came further south than where Denver is today,” I said. “The gravel could have come from anywhere.”

  “And Jimmy suspected the presence of a pipe because of all the garnets,” Tabitha said.

  “It had to be there. The hill was red with garnets. When the rain washed the ice away, we were picking them up by the handful.”

  “And Mitzi knew?”

  “She knew that Jimmy had salted Clip Bay, and that the true target was at the east end of the lake. But not exactly where.”

  “How could she not know?” Tommy said. “All she had to do was plug in the right GPS coordinates, and she would have the right location.”

  “That’s what she did do, but first she had to figure out what Jimmy had done to disguise the real location of the pipe.”