Ice Age

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Seems to be a problem I have.’ Her impatience had been one of Michael’s several criticisms. Along with quite a few others. Difficult, now, to believe she’d stuck it so long: tolerated him so long. Hindsight, she reminded herself. The conviction that she’d been in love and that he’d learn to accept her as she was: love her for what she was. Hindsight again. She had been in love with him; stayed in love for too long, even after realizing it was a one-way exchange and that he didn’t have the slightest intention – even when she became pregnant – of divorcing Jill to marry her, his usual before-fuck promise so quickly forgotten afterwards. His fiercest, tearing-apart criticism of all had been that she’d purposely become pregnant to force him to choose between her and Jill. Which he had, although not as she’d hoped, instead stuffing the pitifully few possessions he’d kept permanently at her flat (why hadn’t that been sufficient warning?) to hurry back to his wife. Geraldine was glad to be out of it. Out of the dead end, for him sex-without-payment relationship. Out of England. And into this totally absorbing, totally time-consuming, timeoccupying situation. ‘On the subject of problems I have, I hope I didn’t offend you, either?’

  ‘How?’ frowned Stoddart.

  ‘Not knowing your Friends of the Earth credentials.’

  ‘I’m not part of – or interested in – any pressure group and I don’t wear T-shirts with slogans. I’m an environmental scientist wanting people – governments – to recognize the obvious.’

  ‘If you weren’t offended before, you are now.’ She was abruptly caught by a sideways thought. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going; her answering machine would still promise she’d call back as soon as she could. Surely Michael wouldn’t think she’d harmed herself – killed herself even – if she failed to make contact. If he did, he didn’t properly know her. But then he never had. And he was arrogant enough to imagine she might kill herself, devastated by his abandonment.

  ‘Nothing to apologize for.’

  ‘Just anxious not to create a problem.’

  ‘Our problem’s not having enough to work on; work from.’

  Physically straightening in her chair she said: ‘Pelham’s was a good idea, to go back to source.’

  ‘So was yours. You want to take your personal specimen now?’

  Attuned, as she believed herself to be, to sexual nuance, Geraldine felt not the slightest vibration from the man. Any more than she had from Walter Pelham or Guy Dupuy. How it should be; how she wanted it to be: emotionally uncluttered equality. ‘As we’ve got so little to work on, you’re entitled to tear out your own hair.’

  Stoddart jerked out some hair, saying ‘ouch!’ as he did so because he didn’t expect it to hurt like it did. He felt stupid sitting there with the few strands in his hand. ‘You need to do something to keep them sterile?’

  She got up, took the hairs from him and folded them in a sheet she tore off from his yellow, legal notepad. ‘I’ll properly label them as a specimen with all the other stuff. Sterility doesn’t matter with a hair sample.’

  ‘What causes a mutation: a change or distortion?’ demanded Stoddart.

  ‘We’re not totally sure,’ admitted Geraldine. ‘Infection – bacterial or viral – can make it happen. Sometimes we think – think but don’t actually know – that it can be an interaction between the genes themselves. Chemicals and ultraviolet light can be implicated …’ Seeing Stoddart’s obvious scepticism she said: ‘I never told you it was easy.’

  ‘I’d like at least a passing straw to clutch, instead of those few hairs.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll come from Moscow.’

  Stoddart said: ‘You think it’s a good idea to call it the Shangri-La Strain?’

  Geraldine, who had been told of the presidential naming during the politicians’ visit, said: ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Stoddart. ‘Let’s not.’

  If Paul Spencer had believed in a god he would have thanked him, but as he didn’t he thanked his good luck instead. Although luck didn’t have much to do with it, either. Enjoying the analogy – wishing he could share it with someone who would understand the ironic significance – Spencer reminded himself that he had spread the net, merely leaving the CIA to pull in the trawl. He enjoyed being able to summon the supercilious sons of bitches – and Amanda O’Connell – to a meeting they hadn’t expected, which he’d planned anyway after the encounter with Jack Stoddart, even before receiving the email from the climatologist, which further added to what he was going to dump on them. It would be his test, Spencer decided, to see how well they did their job; he was, after all, the President’s eyes and ears. Did Amanda properly appreciate that? Before the day was out, she’d certainly know he wasn’t someone prepared to be an unsuspecting scapegoat. It would be interesting to see how she avoided being one.

  Spencer was intentionally late crossing Pennsylvania Avenue to Blair House, wanting them to be waiting for him, which they were. As soon as he entered the conference-converted dining room Amanda said: ‘So much for such importance that you couldn’t keep to your own schedule!’

  ‘The difficulty is knowing exactly where to begin,’ said Spencer, who had the presentation perfectly ordered in his mind, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t even had time to make copies, although I will, of course … I suppose I should start with all the other things that don’t make sense …’ Spencer made a pretence of shuffling through his already arranged papers to extract the CIA print-out, which he recounted with long pauses between each separate marine discovery, followed by what David Hoolihan had supplied. There was no interruption or ready reaction when he finished, and before there could be he announced the Russian participation, pleased it was Reynell who moved to speak. Before he could, Spencer very obviously talked over the other man with the details – and decisions – of the Fort Detrick scientific group.

  ‘Where’s the connection – your reason – for introducing this?’ Reynell finally managed.

  ‘Inexplicable illnesses,’ answered Spencer, at once. ‘It’s for Fort Detrick to decide if there’s any connection. Our job, surely, is to provide them with anything and everything that might be linked.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. There might not be any link but I agree the scientific group should judge,’ said Amanda. It would be a mistake to become irritated by Spencer’s too obvious need for recognition, or by his equally obvious ambition. They were attitudes to be used, not derided. Since Robin Turner’s debacle, she’d allowed herself similar reflections of higher office. There was, after all, a precedent for a woman to be Secretary of State.

  Gerard Buchemin said: ‘I know the Russian minister, Lyalin. A forward-thinking man. I don’t know the woman.’

  ‘Well respected, scientifically,’ supplied Spencer, who’d run a biographical check before leaving the White House. ‘An unsuccessful Nobel nominee, for virus research.’

  ‘So Moscow’s sending its best person,’ mused Reynell. ‘Fort Detrick should be told that, too. Shows the direction of the Russian investigating and proves they haven’t yet got a cure either …’

  ‘What’s the feeling here about gene experiments and what the Fort Detrick group want to do at the sites in Alaska and Antarctica?’ pressed Spencer. They were talking about and deciding the easy, obvious things. It was time for the politically contentious judgments, which was what they’d been brought together to make.

  ‘Sounds to me exactly what they’ve got to do. They don’t need our approval for that,’ said Reynell, poised for the discussion. It was a relief to know that Geraldine Rothman was doing exactly what he’d told her during his Fort Detrick visit, channelling things to achieve a British success. That morning in Maryland he’d got the impression she was one of those openly exchanging pure scientists who hadn’t properly understood – or accepted – what he’d told her was expected of her.

  Amanda said: ‘It was a good idea, getting the CIA and Hoolihan to monitor all those other strange marine outbreaks. I think Stoddart’s group should see them r
ight away. Get it all down to him, will you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Spencer. ‘I’ll arrange—’

  ‘I mean now,’ cut off Amanda. She looked to Reynell. ‘With the security involved I think Paul should do it personally, don’t you?’

  There was an attitude, decided Reynell. Responding as he knew he was intended to, he said: ‘I think that would be best.’

  ‘But before you do, can you get back to your guy at the Agency – and Hoolihan – to tell them to keep the tightest handle on what they’ve already picked up. And at the same time extend and intensify the monitor.’

  ‘There’s something for the two of us to talk about before I go,’ he told her and fifteen minutes later enjoyed the obvious uncertainty when she finished reading James Olsen’s diatribe.

  Jack Stoddart looked up in surprise when a flushed Geraldine Rothman barged into his office without knocking, and said: ‘I’ve just been told by the guards on the gate that I can’t leave the base! And I’ve got a carload of specimen and samples to get in tonight’s diplomatic bag from the embassy. What the hell’s happening?’

  ‘Mistakes,’ said Stoddart. ‘Not yours. Other people’s.’

  Fourteen

  Amanda hoped Paul Spencer would learn from the way things were working out, which appeared to be far more to her advantage than she’d originally imagined, but if he went on being an asshole after this he’d have to be even more directly put back in line. She wouldn’t need any more than the five minutes Richard Morgan insisted was all that was available in the President’s diary, herself restricted to a tight, self-imposed schedule. She was curious what dinner with Peter Reynell would be like: she hoped it would be amusing as well as predictable. And it would be useful meeting Jack Stoddart.

  She arrived at the White House early, but Morgan was already waiting at the West Wing entrance. Without any greeting he demanded: ‘We got a problem?’

  Don’t fire all the bullets too soon, Amanda warned herself, intrigued at the Chief of Staff’s eagerness; in fact don’t fire any at all. ‘No,’ she avoided easily, forcing their pace along the working corridor. ‘Just some adjustments I thought the President should be made personally aware of.’

  ‘Like what?’ demanded the man, openly.

  ‘The changed situation with the arrival of the Russians,’ avoided Amanda again.

  ‘You could have told me, on the telephone.’

  ‘Unsafe line.’

  ‘Paul then?’

  ‘He’s busy doing something else. You heard when the Russians are getting here?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Morgan impatiently. ‘I thought we’d talked everything through?’

  Almost at the Oval Office, Amanda saw, knowing her surroundings. Talked, maybe. But I don’t think we’d properly thought things through.’ Not as properly as I have, during the last two hours, she thought.

  ‘What did you say Paul was doing?’

  An interesting persistence, Amanda decided, ‘I didn’t. But by now he should have got to Fort Detrick. I’ll explain inside.’ She nodded ahead, to where she saw the appointments secretary’s brief intercom exchange with Henry Partington to advise their arrival.

  They were only halfway across the Oval Office when the president echoed the Chief of Staff’s gatehouse demand.

  ‘No problem, Mr President,’ she said, seating herself. ‘But there could far too easily have been one, so I made some on-the-spot decisions.’ Just the right pitch, she decided: confident but not overly so. Someone in charge of the situation.

  ‘Like what?’ said the diminutive man.

  Conscious of her time limit, Amanda quickly recounted Geraldine Rothman’s protest – and the reason for it – and said: ‘It was an unworkable idea to confine the people at Fort Detrick. And would have gone badly wrong if it hadn’t been corrected before the Russian arrival. Can you imagine Moscow’s reaction at finding their scientific advisor was virtually imprisoned?’ From the look between the two men Amanda was sure neither had, until that moment. But were very actively imagining it now and not liking the picture they were seeing.

  Partington said: ‘That was good thinking.’

  Quickly Morgan said: ‘The restriction was Paul’s idea, wasn’t it?’

  Instead of replying, Partington said: ‘Turner should have anticipated it as soon as he knew of the Russians’ participation, for Christ’s sake!’

  Her turn, judged Amanda. ‘I’m trying to extend my function as widely as I can: to think as I believe State might think, to avoid awkwardness.’ Should she feel shitty? She didn’t have any reason to. Perhaps not Robin Turner, who shouldn’t have been in the job in the first place, but Paul Spencer had already shown himself quite prepared – eager even – to shaft her. All she was doing was playing by the same rules: do unto others as they do unto you, but do it first if you can.

  ‘That’s exactly what I want you to do.’ Partington snapped on his own intercom. ‘Hold my next meeting.’

  The man really was concerned, Amanda recognized. From his back and forth body language Morgan clearly recognized it, too. It was the Chief of Staff who said: ‘Tell us, exactly, what you told the British woman?’

  ‘I dealt with Stoddart. I’m having him drive her up, incidentally, so that he and I can have a meeting while she’s at the British embassy. I’ve told Stoddart to explain it was a misunderstanding: that the extra security was because of the Russians being allowed into Fort Detrick but that it wasn’t a restriction upon her or any other scientific advisor …’ Possible thin ice time, thought Amanda, hesitating. Then she said: ‘The guard commander wanted to know my authority for standing down what he understood to be his instructions. I said the White House.’

  Morgan went to speak but stopped, waiting for Partington. The president said: ‘Which it is – and was – one hundred per cent.’

  Morgan said: ‘They making any progress down there?’

  Amanda looked at the man quizzically. ‘I’ll get a better steer on that from Jack, later. But from what I understand at the moment it’s just generalities. Sending people back to the sites is positive …’ Another staged pause. ‘I approved that, too.’

  ‘Quite right,’ endorsed Partington again, enthusiastically.

  ‘I also told Jack that informing relatives of the dead was a decision for Washington, not for them … not even those of someone to whom he apparently made a promise.’

  ‘He accept that?’ demanded Morgan.

  ‘He said it was something we needed to talk about. Which was another reason for bringing him back.’

  ‘Tell him there’s going to be special funding: compensation,’ said Partington.

  ‘He talked a lot about integrity,’ said Amanda.

  ‘Tell him to invoke a lot of it himself in his own thinking,’ insisted the president. ‘To think of the repercussions if news of the Shangri-La Strain leaked out a moment earlier than we can possibly prevent it, before his group’s got it cracked.’

  She wasn’t restricted to five minutes any more, remembered Amanda. ‘He might already be showing integrity. Incredibly so. Olsen, one of the rescue people who died, left instructions to his family that Jack Stoddart should be sued, as well as the government.’

  The reaction wasn’t what Amanda expected. There were renewed looks between the two men but both were smiling. Partington more so than Morgan. It was the Chief of Staff who spoke. Lapsing into the double-speak in which Amanda was not initiated, Morgan said: ‘These instructions were written?’ I’ll start, Mr President. Show me the way you want to go.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amanda.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘At Blair House.’

  ‘We’ve got them, up here?’ We’ve got the smoking gun.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about copies, distributed to the others at Detrick?’

  ‘We’ve got everything that Olsen wrote.’

  ‘Stoddart’s high profile?’ said the president, in what Amanda thought to be rhetoric but which Morgan took as an answ
er. ‘A recognizable media figure? And from what you’ve told us he might even be proved right about global warming …?’

  ‘I’m surprised he’s prepared to risk that.’ Which could be a pain in the ass because the United States topped the list of industrialized countries reneging on the carbon monoxide emission limits agreed at the Kyoto conference, translated Morgan.

  ‘We were talking integrity,’ reminded Amanda, aware of an undertone but not knowing what it was.

  ‘I tell you what I want you to do, Dick. I want you to look at the contract Jack had, to work at McMurdo.’

  To make sure the son of a bitch doesn’t have any insurance cover, which it was almost inevitable that he wouldn’t, read Morgan. ‘I understand what you’re saying, Mr President.’

  ‘And I want you, Amanda, to tell Jack what we’re doing,’ urged Partington. ‘You can tell him, if you like, that the Olsens will be more than generously compensated; that the families of every American who’s suffered will be cared for. I don’t want Jack, whom I’ve admired before I knew him but respect and admire even more now for what he’s done and is doing, to risk not only his possibly vindicated professional reputation but his entire financial future without making sure he can afford to do so.’

  Not even Amanda needed a translation to understand the double meaning of that. She said: ‘I’ll certainly make that clear to him, Mr President.’

  ‘Don’t forget to tell him how much I admire him.’

  ‘I won’t, sir.’

  ‘And I think this meeting has been useful … maybe something we should do again, with the Russians arriving. That definitely puts a whole new uncertainty into the mix. All you’ve got to do is call Dick, if Paul’s busy elsewhere.’

  Paul Spencer is dispensable, interpreted Morgan.

  Amanda’s understanding was close. ‘I’ll do that.’