Fast Ice

by Clive Cussler

  After they stepped through a metal detector, a hostess offered flutes of champagne. “Please enjoy the run of the lodge,” she said. “The main bar is one floor down while the items on silent auction are on the lowest level. Dinner will be served on the veranda in one hour.”

  With champagne glass in hand, Kurt took the lead. “Let’s explore.”

  They stepped into the lodge, discovering a spacious, terraced interior. They were on the top floor, standing on a balcony that overlooked the rest of the lobby. The luxurious lower floors spread out before them, all three levels linked by a pair of curving staircases and framed by a transparent wall at the back of the lodge. The wall was made from sixty-foot panels of translucent acrylic, as clear as any glass and stretching the entire length of the lodge. It framed a view that was nothing short of spectacular.

  Out in the distance, the mountains were turning red and brown as the setting sun painted them in glorious bands of color. The valley before them was a mixture of green and yellow, the dry grasses waving in the breeze acting like a shag carpet beneath the bushes and small trees. Wildlife flocked around a large pond in the center of the valley. Kurt saw elephants drinking along one shore, while giraffes stood on the far side, stretching their necks to soak in the last rays of the setting sun.

  “Now, that’s what I call a million-dollar view,” Joe said.

  “A million wouldn’t cover the interest,” Leandra said. “Ryland spent fifty million on the land alone.”

  Taking a sip of champagne, Kurt turned to the steps. He could have gone either direction, since the marvelous staircase divided and swept off toward both sides of the room before curving back and meeting again on the second level, where a luxurious bar was manned by a trio of bartenders.

  Descending the stairway, Kurt had to admire the setup. The bar top itself was made of thin granite and lit from beneath, creating a warm yellowish light. Behind it, a huge fish tank, one that would have been at home in any major aquarium around the world, added a hue of aqua to the scene.

  Reaching the bar, Kurt placed his champagne glass down and requested a tumbler of whiskey. As the bartender poured the drink, exotic fish swam in endless circles behind them.

  “Interesting collection,” Kurt said, recognizing several rare species, including a European eel and a small group of pinkish fish near the bottom of the tank that Kurt knew to be a type of rockfish.

  “They’re pretty,” Leandra said.

  “They’re also critically endangered,” Kurt pointed out. “Interesting.”

  The bartender poured Kurt’s whiskey over a single globe-shaped ball of ice and then handed him the glass. Kurt thanked the man and turned away, taking in the scene.

  Guests were still streaming in, with each level of the lodge slowly filling up. “It’s going to be a full house before too long.”

  “That should help us keep a low profile,” Leandra said.

  “Helps the other guests do the same,” Kurt said.

  After scanning a few dozen faces he didn’t recognize, his attention was drawn to a video screen playing an informational piece about the game park. The sound was off, but, from what Kurt gathered, the animals were allowed to roam free, kept away from the main buildings and the roads by electrified fences carrying a pain-inducing one hundred and forty volts.

  A second set of graphics told him the park had forty-nine elephants, three hundred critically endangered black rhino, five hundred zebra and unknown numbers of water buffalo, crocodiles and hyenas. A recent addition were fifteen lions, purchased from zoos and parks around the world. Ryland’s stated plan was to turn this mixture of males and females into a free-roaming pride.

  “Quite a collection,” Kurt said, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Animals and people,” Leandra said. “I have some intel, if you want it.”

  “Absolutely,” Kurt said.

  She nodded toward the stairs. “The Russian we passed was Sergei Novikov. He’s a big name in the construction world. His company builds ports and shipping terminals.”

  “I knew I’d seen him somewhere,” Joe said.

  “He’s on record insisting that climate change will be good for world trade and that it will be great for Russia in particular,” Leandra said. “Once all the Arctic sea ice melts, he has plans on drilling for oil above the Arctic Circle.”

  “Which makes him a natural ally of Ryland,” Kurt noted.

  “I noticed him talking with a group speaking Mandarin,” Joe said. “I could be wrong, but the leader of the group looked a lot like Zhao Liang.”

  “Of Liang Shipping?” Leandra asked.

  Joe nodded. “Tanker group. Have over a hundred oceangoing vessels in all sizes.”

  “Ports and shipping,” Leandra said. “Could be Ryland is getting into a new business.”

  “Doubt he has enough money left,” Joe said.

  Kurt joined the conversation. “I’ve been looking at the animals while you two have been studying the real wildlife. I need to up my game.”

  “I’ve been telling him that for years,” Joe said.

  “I’m a slow learner,” Kurt said. “Let’s mingle and see who else we can find.”

  They left the bar and moved out among the other guests. Despite many striking faces, they recognized no one else and soon found themselves on the bottom floor studying the items up for bid at the silent auction. Among the usual items—rare collectables, dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, antique jewelry—they found something more.

  “Look at this,” Joe said. “Guided safari and big game hunt. Winning bidder provided with the use of the lodge and the option to shoot and take a trophy from a bull elephant, a horned white rhino or a male or female lion. Guess the safari theme is not just for show.”

  Suddenly, the rescuing of lions from around the world seemed far less noble.

  Before Kurt could comment, a tall, elegantly dressed man appeared at the top of the stairs. He tapped the side of his champagne flute with a sterling silver knife, ringing it like a bell, until all eyes turned his way.

  “The man of the hour,” Leandra said. “Ryland Lloyd.”

  Ryland had a long, thin face and finely brushed hair that hung straight, lacking in any sort of style. He reminded Kurt of the king on a playing card, with downturned eyes and a trimmed beard that jutted out from his chin.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I trust you’re having a wonderful evening at my lodge. Enjoy it to the fullest. And remember, the election will be upon us before we know it. Which means we don’t have time for checks and would prefer donations to be made in cash.”

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  “I expect you’re salivating over the braised shanks of wild boar currently being prepared for you,” he said. “I know I am. But before I lose you to that epicurean delight, I’d like to say a few words about the new wave of industrialization and the dawning of a new day in South Africa.”

  He went on to sound more like a politician than a businessman, skillfully building a picture of South Africa as the economic engine of the continent. Insisting it was South Africa’s destiny to bring good fortune to those who would be part of the transformation.

  Cheers erupted as Ryland finished and he bowed with exaggerated humility before leaving the balcony.

  As Kurt watched, the man walked down the stairs, shook a few hands and then stepped briskly toward a hallway that led to a distant wing of the building.

  Kurt put his glass down. “This is my chance to talk to him.”

  “What if he’s just run off to the bathroom?” Joe asked.

  “In that case, I’ll have a captive audience,” Kurt said. “And total privacy.”

  18

  Kurt cut across the room heading for the stairs and then went up. After circumnavigating a tightly packed group of guests, he spotted Ryland down the hall. He was standing
in front of a door, focused on the lock.

  Ryland produced a key, unlocked the latch and pushed the door open. Stepping inside, he released the door behind him.

  Kurt raced the last thirty feet down the corridor and stuck his foot in the gap just in time to stop the door from latching again.

  Allowing a few seconds to pass, he put his hand on the door and pushed it open, expecting to come face-to-face with a security guard, pushy executive assistant or Ryland himself. When he did move forward, he was surprised to find himself in Ryland’s office . . . alone.

  Looking around for the owner, Kurt studied the décor. It kept to the hunting lodge theme, with dark paneling on the walls, the pelt of a lion on the floor and two overstuffed chairs sitting before a curved desk of polished mahogany.

  The heads of several animals adorned the room, including a zebra with perfect stripes and the largest warthog Kurt had ever seen. Another section of the wall displayed the head and shoulders of a deer-like animal, its long, curved horns twisting artistically as they ran up over the head and back toward the animal’s body.

  It wasn’t all nature and hunting trophies. Framed on the wall was a blueprint of a refinery. Below it sat a model of a seagoing oil rig, presented as if it were drilling through a platform of ice and into seafloor down below. A placard on the side of the case read Habakkuk 51:5.

  Name and model number of the platform, Kurt assumed. He finished his study of the room by focusing on a quotation carved in a wooden sign hanging on the wall behind Ryland’s desk.

  The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.

  —GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  As Kurt finished reading, Ryland appeared, returning to the room through a side door. He had a bottle of cognac in one hand and a knife in the other.

  He paused at the sight of Kurt, thrown off by the presence of someone in his private office, though he did not seem alarmed. “You appear to be lost,” he said. “The party is down the hall.”

  “I just came from it,” Kurt said. “My compliments to your staff.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass them along,” Ryland said. “And whom should I say lavished them with such tepid praise?”

  Kurt didn’t offer his hand, as Ryland was holding the bottle and the knife, and, beyond that, there was nothing to suggest the meeting had become a friendly one. “Kurt Austin,” he announced. “I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Out of Washington, D.C.”

  “Ah,” Ryland said, recognition appearing on his face. “Late additions to the party. You and your two associates, Mr. Zavala and Miss Ndimi.”

  Diverting his attention from Kurt, Ryland took the knife to the neck of the bottle, cutting away the wax seal and then working the stopper free. He pulled it clear, allowing the aroma of the liquor to waft toward him. Inhaling slowly, Ryland appeared deeply satisfied.

  “Cognac,” he said. “This is a twenty-year-old bottle. XO. Or Napoléon Reserve, as some call it.”

  “The good stuff,” Kurt said.

  “Undoubtedly,” Ryland said. From a tray beside the model of the oil rig, he plucked a pair of tulip-shaped glasses, placing them on his desk side by side. “Since you’re here, Mr. Austin, we might as well share a drink.”

  Ryland poured a sample of the golden liquid into each one. He put the bottle aside and sat down. “As you probably know,” he said, “cognac has to breathe before you drink it. The proper way is to allow a full minute for every two years of its age. It will be ready to drink in no less than ten minutes. You have that long to tell me why you’re here, assuming you can keep my interest.”

  This was not the reception Kurt had expected. He’d encountered plenty of powerful men and women in his life, few of them liked intrusions, especially not from mystery guests who were members of an American government agency. Ryland seemed to welcome it as a challenge.

  Kurt gestured to a chair.

  “By all means,” Ryland said.

  Taking a seat, Kurt assumed a relaxed posture as if he owned the place. “Quite a collection,” he said, glancing around. “Your decorator should be commended for assembling such an impressive array of specimens.”

  “I’m the decorator,” Ryland replied.

  Of course, Kurt thought. And by pointing it out, Ryland proved he was the type who had to boast of his accomplishments. That could work in Kurt’s favor.

  “I took each of these magnificent animals myself,” Ryland continued. “And not with a modern rifle, mind you, but a bolt-action Springfield manufactured in 1909.”

  Ryland sat, leaning back in his desk chair farther than Kurt possibly could in the rigid guest chair. “Each of them was a challenge,” he insisted. “That warthog, for instance. It took four shots and almost killed me before I hit it with a fifth at close range. Very dangerous, warthogs. And the ibex . . . That beauty was standing on a rock face nearly a thousand yards’ distance when I felled it with a single bullet. I had to hit the poor beast in a way that it would be thrown back and not tumble down into the canyon. Otherwise, its value would have been ruined by the fall. Quite incredible, if I do say so myself.”

  “What about the lion?” Kurt asked.

  “It had me treed and had already slashed and wounded my loader. He was bleeding to death when it ran me up into the branches. It raked my leg with its claws and came for me with its jaws wide open. I put the barrel of the rifle down its throat and pulled the trigger.”

  “If it only had a brain,” Kurt said.

  Ryland stared at him, looking as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted by the quip. “I assure you, they’re very cunning. And anything but cowardly.”

  “Certainly,” Kurt said. “Although I’d be more impressed if the animals had guns of their own.”

  Ryland’s eyes narrowed. “Not a fan of hunting?”

  Kurt held up his hands. “Nothing against it in general. I eat meat. I understand the circle of life. What I’m against is the irrational act of hunting species to extinction, especially those that are threatened with dying out. Something that’s happening at an accelerating pace here in Africa.”

  “It’s the poachers who will force the world’s species to extinction,” Ryland said. “Not game hunters. A poacher kills a hundred times what any game hunter takes. Just to provide a gift of ivory to some big shot in a smog-choked city.”

  “And yet you’ve sanctioned hunting on your preserve,” Kurt noted. “You’re auctioning off big game safaris. Wouldn’t it be better to keep those animals alive and breeding rather than kill them off?”

  Ryland cocked his head as Kurt spoke. It almost looked as if he was listening with an open mind. “The animals I’ve cleared for the hunt here are past breeding age,” he explained. “And each animal that is shot here means one less to be shot out in the wild. It means funds to expand this game park, revenue to hire guards who keep the poachers at bay.”

  Kurt didn’t argue. He’d only brought up the issue in hopes of throwing Ryland off his game. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.

  Kurt glanced at the clock behind Ryland. Only three minutes had gone by. The spiced aroma of the liquor had begun to fill the room but the rules meant tasting would have to wait. He decided to take another stab at Ryland. “I understand that your sister didn’t appreciate the hunting either. Did she?”

  “My sister?”

  “Yvonne.”

  Ryland paused, his brows converging. “What does she have to do with this?”

  “She’s always been a thorn in your side,” Kurt said. “Bitterly opposed to your vision of the future. She attacked your projects in the press and rallied the opposition against your idea to drill for oil in Antarctica.” Kurt gestured toward the model as he spoke.

  Ryland leaned back farther, a genuine smile appearing on
his face. For reasons beyond understanding, the more Kurt pressed him, the more pleased he seemed. “I suppose you consider such an endeavor irrational as well?”

  “A scheme like that is expensive and reckless. There is no need to go into pristine environments and drill when thousands of existing wells already sit dormant.”

  Ryland tilted his head as if he could come up with a few reasons but ultimately let it pass. “A great pipe dream of mine,” he said. “But with the world awash in oil, no one wants to spend the money to drill on the frozen continent. The oil is there, I assure you of that. And when the price climbs enough, the UN treaty banning exploration and drilling in Antarctica will be conveniently forgotten.”

  “And you’ll lead the way, I assume?”

  “Not only will I lead,” Ryland said, “I will make it happen.”

  “Of course you will,” Kurt said. “You’re the ‘unreasonable man.’”

  Instead of appearing insulted, Ryland beamed with pride. He even returned the compliment.

  “As are you,” he said. “Who else would invite himself to my home, barge into my private office and challenge me on the manner in which I run my business, spend my wealth or conduct my life?”

  Kurt offered a slight nod. Ryland had him with his own words. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh.”

  “Not at all,” Ryland said. “You’ve been exactly as I expected you to be. You see, I’ve read about you, Kurt Austin, Director of Special Projects for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. If the reports I’ve seen are true, the world has bent to your will more times than even you might have hoped it would. The very definition of an unreasonable man.”

  This time, it was Ryland who turned his gaze toward the glasses of cognac. But as Kurt had realized a few minutes before, it was not yet time. He went back to speaking.

  “So why are you here? What part of the world are you attempting to bend to your will today? Are you here to change the future? Or maybe the past? Both, perhaps? Before we share a drink, I think I deserve to know what made it necessary for you to demand my attention.”