White Death

by Clive Cussler

  “He's here?”

  “I just spoke to him a few minutes ago in the diorama room. Fol- low me.”

  The lights in the diorama room had been dimmed to simulate the Arctic night. Lasers projected a moving display of the northern lights on the ceiling. Standing alone in front of a life-sized diorama show- ing a seal hunt was a tall, well-built man with a shaved head. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes.

  Gleason approached the man and said, “Dr. Barker, I'd like you to meet Kurt Austin. Mr. Austin is with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. You must know of it.”

  “I would have to come from another planet not to know NUMA.”

  They shook hands. Austin felt like his fingers were clutching a frozen side of beef.

  “I hope you don't mind if I share our little joke,” Gleason said to Kurt. “Mr. Austin thought that the head of Oceanus was named Toonook.”

  “Mr. Gleason explained that Toonook was not a man, but an evil spirit,” Austin said.

  Barker stared at Austin through the dark lenses. “It's more com- plicated than that,” he said. “Toonook is considered to be evil in the Inuit culture. He is the embodiment of that clever light display on the ceiling. But like others through history, the people of the North wor- shipped the thing they feared the most.”

  “Toonook is a god, then?”

  “Sometimes. But I assure you that the head of Oceanus is very human.”

  “I stand corrected. If it's not Toonook, what is his real name?”

  “He prefers to keep his identity a secret. If you'd like to call him Toonook, feel free to do so. He has been called worse names by his competitors. He stays out of the limelight, and it falls upon his em- ployees to represent him. In my case, I work for a company named Aurora, which is a subsidiary of Oceanus.”

  “What sort of work do you do for Aurora?”

  “I'm a geneticist.” Austin glanced around the room. “This is a wide departure from genetics.”

  “I like to get out of the lab. I suggested that Oceanus sponsor this exhibition. I have a direct interest in the Kiolya. My great-great- grandfather was a New England whaling captain. He stayed with the tribe and tried to stop the walrus hunting that led to its dissolution.” “Mr. Gleason tells me that the other Eskimos ran the Kiolya off because they were thieves and murderers.”

  “They did what they had to do to survive,” Barker said. “I'd love to continue this discussion,” Gleason said, "but you'll

  have to excuse me. I see an assistant who needs my attention. Please give me a call sometime, and we can talk at length, Mr. Austin.“ When Gleason was gone, Austin said, ”Tell me, Dr. Barker, what part of business is Oceanus involved in that would require the serv- ices of a geneticist?"

  The frozen smile disappeared. “Come on, Austin. We're alone, so we don't need to play games, anymore. You know very well what Oceanus does. You broke into our Faroe Islands operation, caused a lot of damage and killed one of my men. I won't forget it.”

  “Gee,” Austin said. “Now you've got me confused. You've obvi- ously mistaken me for someone else.”

  “I don't think so. The Danish press published your picture every- where. You're quite the hero in Denmark, you know, for rescuing their sailors after that collision.”

  “A collision which your company engineered,” Austin said, drop- ping all pretense.

  “And which would have worked, except for your meddling.” The soft, cultivated voice had become a snarl. “Well, that ends now. You've interfered in my business for the last time.”

  “Your business? I thought you were a humble employee for Oceanus, Dr. Barker... or should I call you Toonook?”

  Barker removed his glasses and stared at Austin with pale-gray eyes. The moving colors played across his ashen features as if pro- jected on a screen. “Who I am is not important. What I am has a di- rect bearing on your future. I am the instrument of your death. Turn around.”

  Austin glanced over his shoulder. Two swarthy men stood behind him, blocking the way. They had closed the door to keep the other guests out. Austin wondered which would offer him the better chance, pushing Barker through the display glass or bulling his way between the men at the door. He had already decided he didn't like either option and was groping for a third, when there was a knock at the door and MacDougal stuck his head in.

  Unknown

  “Hey, Kurt,” he called out. “I'm looking for Charlie Gleason. Sorry to interrupt you.”

  “Not at all,” Austin said. MacDougal wasn't the Seventh Cavalry, but he would do.

  The guards looked for direction to Barker. He replaced his sun- glasses, gave Austin his glacial smile and said, “ 'Til we meet again,” and made for the door. The guards stepped aside to let him through, and a second later, all three men were lost in the crowd.

  Austin's reunion with MacDougal didn't last long. As they merged with the crowd, Mac spotted a senator who was a friend of the Smith- sonian, and he dashed off to collar him for funding. Austin mingled with the other guests until he heard an announcement saying that the dogsled races were about to begin. He was heading back to the ro- tunda when he caught a glimpse of chestnut hair cascading to bare shoulders. Therri must have felt his attention. She turned and glared in his direction. Then she smiled.

  “Kurt, what a nice surprise,” she said. As they shook hands, she eyed him from head to toe. “You look quite handsome in your tuxedo.”

  Austin hadn't expected the friendly greeting after the acrimony of their parting exchange on Roosevelt Island. “Thanks,” he said. “Hope it doesn't smell too strongly of mothballs.”

  She adjusted one of his lapels as if she were his prom date. “You smell quite nice, as a matter of fact.”

  “The same thing that attracted you. I'm sure it didn't escape your attention that these displays are the property of Oceanus.”

  “That's the main reason we're here.” Therri glanced off to the side of the rotunda, where Ben Nighthawk stood. He looked uneasy in his black tuxedo, unsure of what to do with his hands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She waved him over.

  “You remember Ben,” Therri said.

  'Good to see you again,“ Austin said, shaking hands. ”Nice tux.“ 'Thanks,” Nighthawk said, without enthusiasm. “It's rented.” He glanced around at the other guests. “I'm a little out of my element.” “Don't worry,” Austin said. “Most of the people who come to these receptions are here for the food and the gossip.”

  “Ben agreed to escort me,” Therri said. “Marcus thought Ben's memory might be jogged by something he saw.” “Has it been?”

  “Not yet,” Therri said. “What about you? Have you learned any- thing?”

  “Yes,” he said with a tight smile. “I've learned that you don't lis- ten to warnings of possible danger.”

  “That's ancient history,” Therri said, like someone trying to be patient with an annoying child. Austin took in the challenging gaze and decided he was wasting his breath trying to change her mind.

  “I'm on my way outside to see the dogsled races,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

  “Thank you,” she said, hooking her arm in Nighthawk's. “We were headed that way ourselves.”

  A guide directed them outside. Traffic on Madison Drive had been stopped to allow spectators to cross to the National Mall. It was a beautiful night. Lit by floodlights, the red sandstone turrets of the Smithsonian Castle were clearly visible across the eight-hundred- foot width of greensward. Toward the Potomac, the plain white spike of the Washington Monument soared into the night sky.

  A large section of open grass had been marked off with yellow po- lice tape and was brightly illuminated by portable lights. Inside the enclosure, orange pylons were arranged in a rectangle. Hundreds of reception guests in evening attire, and passersby attracted by the lights and crowd, ringed the perimeter. A few National Park Service uniforms could be seen. From the other side of the racecourse, where several trucks were lined up, came a sound like a kennel a
t feeding time. Then the excited yelps and barks were drowned out by a male voice on the public address system.

  “Welcome to the Denizens of the Frozen North exhibition, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. “You're about to see the most exciting part of the show, the dogsled competition. This is more than a race. The contestants, from two different Inuit communities in Canada, will demonstrate the skills needed to survive in the Arctic. The hunter must speed to the kill and use his harpoon with unerr- ing accuracy. As you know, we don't have much snowfall in Wash- ington this time of year.” He paused, to allow for the laughter. “So the racers will have wheels on their sleds instead ”of runners. Enjoy the show!"

  Figures milled around the trucks, then broke into two groups,

  each pushing a sled toward an opening in the taped enclosure. The sleds, one bright blue, the other fire-engine red, were brought to the starting point and placed side by side. The wolflike sled dogs were taken from the kennel trailers and hooked into their harnesses.

  Excited by the prospect of a run, the huskies grew more agitated. The barking reached a crescendo as the impatient dogs pulled against their harnesses. The nine-dog teams, with eight in pairs and one as leader, exerted an amazing amount of muscle power when harnessed together. Even with the brakes set and handlers holding on, the sleds inched forward.

  Two men, the drivers obviously, detached themselves from the others and climbed onto their sleds. A second later, the starting gun went off. The drivers shouted commands, the dogs dug their paws in, and the sleds took off like twin rockets. The dogs immediately went into an all-out run. Unsure of the conditions on the grassy course, the drivers slowed slightly as they came into the first turn. There was some skidding, but the sleds came out of the turn side by side and stayed neck and neck into the second curve, successfully navigating it.

  The sleds were moving at full tilt again as they raced toward the spot where Austin stood behind the yellow tape, next to Them and Ben. The drivers urged the dogs on with loud kissing sounds. In def- erence to the mild evening, the drivers were not dressed in hooded fur parkas, instead wearing skin pants tucked into their boots. Sweat glistened on their bare chests.

  The sleds were modified tube steel rigs like those used to train dogs when there is no snow for the runners to glide upon. Steel mesh platforms about six feet long and more than a yard wide nestled be- tween four rubber airplane tires. The sleds were steered by a small wheel at the top of a vertical tube frame. The drivers stood with feet placed on narrow side extensions that flanked the main platform, bodies hunched over the steering posts to cut wind resistance and lower the center of gravity. As the sleds flashed by with whirring wheels, the faces of the drivers were only a blur.

  The racers were still abreast as they came into the third turn. The red one was on the inside. Looking for a gain, the driver tried to cut the turn tightly. But the sled caught an edge, and the wheels on the other side lifted off the ground a few inches. The driver skillfully compensated with the weight of his body and a touch of the brake, and the wheels slammed down again. The blue-sled driver took ad- vantage of the lost gamble. He could have gone wide, but he finessed the turn with admirable skill and gained a quarter of a length in the straightaway.

  The crowd was cheering madly, and it went wild when the blue sled increased the lead to half a length. Another few feet and the blue sled would be able to pull over in front of the red one, blocking the way and controlling the race. The blue driver kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for an opportunity. He got his chance in the fourth and last curve.

  The leading sled, on the outside, came into the turn at a perfect speed and angle to put him completely ahead of the other racer. But the red sled suddenly veered to the right, and its front wheel caught the leader's rear-left tire. The blue sled fishtailed from the impact, and the driver fought to bring it under control. The dogs sensed the whiplash about to take place and tried to compensate by pulling harder, but the centrifugal forces acting on the light vehicle proved too potent.

  The blue sled went up on two wheels and flipped. The driver went airborne, like a circus performer shot out of a cannon. He hit the grass hard, rolled several times and lay still. The dogs kept run- ning and dragged the sled on its side until they could pull it no far- ther. Then they began to fight among themselves. The handlers ducked under the yellow tape and rushed in to get the dogs under control, while others tended to the fallen driver.

  The red-sled driver pushed ahead at full speed, although he had the race won, not slowing until he had passed over the finish line. The sled was still moving when he jumped off it and grabbed a harpoon from a barrel. Without pausing to aim, he sent the spear winging to- ward an archery target set up near the course. The spear hit the bull's- eye at dead center. Then he pulled a hatchet from his belt and hurled it at the target as well. Bull's-eye again.

  The victorious driver raised his fists high in the air and let out a chilling cry of victory, then strutted around the perimeter of the race course, his wide mouth set in a grin, his face like a malevolent jack- o'-lantern. His arrogant posturing put to rest any doubts that the col- lision was an accident. A lone boo issued from the stunned crowd, then was joined by others, growing into an angry chorus as the spec- tators showed their disapproval of the winning tactics. Disgusted with the race, guests began to move back to the museum.

  The driver gestured at the departing spectators as if daring some- one to step forward. His gaze swept the crowd-looking for anyone brave or foolish enough to take him on-when it fell on Austin. The dark eyes narrowed into slits. Austin tensed. Standing only a few feet away was the man who had slashed him and tossed a hand grenade into his boat at the Mermaid's Gate. He would have recog- nized the man from the hate burning in his feral eyes even without the vertical tattoo lines on the cheekbones and the mangled knot of flesh where Austin had bashed him in the nose.

  The thick lips in the dark, wide face formed a silent word. Austin.

  Austin was stunned that the man knew his name, but he hid his surprise.

  Using his most mocking tone, he said, “Long time no see, Nanook. You owe me for the plastic surgery I did on your pretty face.”

  The driver stepped closer until they were a foot or so apart, sepa- rated only by the yellow tape. Austin could smell the man's fetid breath.

  “The name is Umealiq/' he said. ”I want you to call my name when you beg me for mercy."

  “Don't blame you for being dissatisfied with your nose job,” Austin said evenly. “You didn't give me a lot to work with. Pay me for the boat you blew up and we'll call it even.”

  "The only payment you will get is death,ff the man snarled. His thick fingers dropped down to his belt, and he began to slide the bone knife from its scabbard. Although most of the spectators had left, there were still knots of people hanging around. Austin sensed that there was no safety in numbers and the man would not hesitate to kill him, even in front of dozens of witnesses. He clenched his right fist, ready to send it crashing into the broken nose, where it would inflict the most damage and pain.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sudden movement. Ben Nighthawk had hurled himself at the driver. The Indian was too light and his tackling form too imperfect to do any damage. The driver grunted, and his squat body shuddered slightly from the im- pact, but he kept his footing and swatted Nighthawk aside with a mighty blow.

  Again the hand groped for the knife, and he took a step forward, only to freeze at the sound of a commotion. The blue-sled driver was making his way across the Mall, accompanied by several angry han- dlers. Dirt and blood stained his face. Umealiq whirled to face the newcomers. They exchanged angry words, obviously arguing over the race tactics. With a quick burning glance back at Austin, the red- sled driver pushed his way through the others and made his way back to the trucks.

  Therri was down on her knees, tending to Nighthawk. Austin went to her side and saw that the Indian's only injury was a bruise where he'd been struck under the eye.
As they helped him to his feet, he spit the words out: “That was the man who killed my cousin.”

  “You're sure?” Therri said. Nighthawk nodded dumbly. His dazed eyes fixed on the figure walking across the Mall, and he stumbled forward. Austin saw where he was going and stepped in front of him, barring his path. “He and his pals will kill you.”

  I don t care.

  “Now is not the time,” Austin said, in a voice that said he wasn't yielding.

  Nighthawk saw that his determination wasn't enough to get him past Austin's wide shoulders. He swore in his native language and stalked across the Mall toward the museum.

  Therri said, “Thanks for stopping Ben. We should tell the po- lice.”

  “Not a bad idea. But it might be a problem.” A group of men was striding onto the Mall from the direction of

  the museum. In the lead was the tall figure of Dr. Barker. He hailed Austin like a long-lost buddy.

  “Nice to see you again, Austin. I'm on my way out and stopped to say good-bye.”

  “Thanks, but I'm not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, but you are. Umealiq is waiting for you and your friend. You're about to learn why he is named after the stone-headed lance the Inuit use on seal hunts.”

  Barker pointed to where Scarface stood in the middle of the race- course. Then, escorted by two bodyguards, he strode off to where a limo awaited, leaving the rest of his men behind.

  Others came running over from where the trucks were parked. Austin did a quick count and estimated that there were about twenty men in all. Not exactly great odds. Their prospects didn't get any bet- ter when a couple of men ran over to the portable lights that had il- luminated the racecourse and snapped them off.

  The Mall had become a big and lonely place. The nearest police presence was a traffic cop on Madison Drive stopping cars so the guests could return to the museum. The remaining guests were mak- ing their way back to the reception, and the passersby had resumed their strolls. Austin's sharp eye followed the shadows that were mov- ing across the grass in a classic encircling maneuver.