He lowered his fingers back onto his keyboard, and was about to make the first of his changes when a loud electronic warning tone grated from the console beside him, a row of color-coded chicklet lights to one side of his console blinked on in startling sequence, and the e-mail on his display screen was displaced by the base security program's automatic pop-up window.
Pruitt's response was practiced and immediate, his mind cleared of everything except for a task list that would need to be executed in a hurry. Bolt-erect at his station, he palmed his computer mouse, clicked to zoom, clicked again to recall and isolate an image, his eyes wide with rapidly building shock and astonishment as they confirmed what they were seeing was no bogie.
Less than fifteen seconds after the alert sounded, he flipped the redline radio switch on the panel beside him and got hold of Ron Waylon.
"It's the desalinization plant," Waylon told Nimec. He was breathless from his urgent hustle to the security station. "The images are from those FLIR thermacams behind the ceiling panels . . . ones we installed to replace the outside cameras when they went inoperational."
Nimec nodded tensely. He recalled Waylon showing him their locations during their base tour just hours ago, while explaining that his people hadn't yet gotten around to removing the weather-damaged external units. Both men were standing behind Pruitt as the thermal infrared pictures on his monitor shifted through their color palette. They could see four intruders--actually the spectral radiant heat signatures of four intruders--moving about inside the dome, heading toward the door. And Nimec knew that wasn't the worst of it.
"Look." He indicated three bright red streaks on the image, matching them against assigned colors on a horizontal measurement bar at the bottom of the screen. "Something's burning in there."
"Fires," Waylon said. "They have to be fires. And they're damned hot." He breathed, pointed. "Jesus Christ, looks like one's on an inflow pump . . . and over here, this is the seawater pipeline . . . I don't know what the hell's going on. . . ."
Nimec looked at him, his heart pounding.
"We're being hit," he said. "Pull together some men, we have to get out there now."
A long, narrow room on the main building's upper level, the Meat Lockers had metallic walls, bar, tables, and chairs that were washed with a reflective tungsten-blue radiance from overhead truss lighting to create a decor and ambience that wryly suited its name.
The crowd of off-duty ice people assembled inside was subdued but not altogether cheerless. Their awareness of the missing three was weighable as they marked the passage of the storm, but these were men and women whose rigorous living conditions demanded a unique spirit and adaptability, and it was understood that brooding would do nothing to help the situation. Morale was bolstered in different ways. During work rotations their stresses were redirected toward productive effort, a conscientious attendance to shared and individual responsibilities. And while it had been some days since anyone commandeered the small corner stage where they would showcase variable degrees of musical talent on better night/rec cycles--and sing karaoke when the prospects for diversion were lean--it seemed out of the question to concede that the fate of Scarborough's team had been decided. Hence, many of them continued to gather here in their downtime, drinking together, making small talk, amusing themselves, determined to carry on as well as possible in spite of their common fears.
Annie Caulfield sensed all this as she gazed across the room and watched a group of CC's staffers shoot their own idiosyncratic version of darts. With each successive round a moveable bull's-eye, striped red and white like the Geographic South Pole's traditional marker, was peeled off the board and reaffixed slightly further below center, mirroring the annual thirty-three-foot movement of the polar marker as it shifted with the ice cap. Eventually, Megan Breen had explained, the bull's-eye would meet the scoring ring and get stuck back in the middle of the dartboard.
Annie noted the game's out-of-whack humor with an appreciative smile, then turned back toward Megan to resume their meandering conversation.
"So I've told you how much it hurt when Pete backed off from me, and you've told me how much it hurt your FBI director when you backed off from him," she said. "Does that about cover things?"
Megan looked at her across the barroom table.
"The story thus far," she said. "Sounds simple."
"Mm-hmm," Annie said. "But feels complicated."
Megan nodded.
"I'll drink to that," she said.
"Here, here," Annie said.
The women raised their tumblers of Barbayannis Aphrodite ouzo, clinked, and took long sips.
Loose, glassy-eyed, they sat quietly at the table, picking away at plates of olives, sliced hydroponic tomatoes, and cheese to moderate the ouzo's strong licorice flavor and absorb enough alcohol to keep their heads barely afloat. At somewhere around eighty or ninety proof, the liqueur was CC's recreational drink of choice, perfect for shaking off the cold and remedying cabin fever.
"Anyway, here's a question. Well, actually two questions." Annie had snatched at a drifting thread of thought. "You've been at Cold Corners . . . how long now? Three months?"
"Three months, twelve days"--Megan paused, checked her wristwatch--"fourteen hours."
"Three months plus then." Annie said. "I'm curious . . . what's the one thing you miss most about home?"
Megan shrugged.
"Easy," she said. "My kitchen."
Annie flapped a dismissive hand in the air.
"Come on, be serious," she urged. "I'm asking as somebody who had hopes of being the first woman colonist on Mars."
Megan shrugged again.
"I'm completely serious," she said. "I like to cook."
"Cook . . ."
"And bake."
"Bake . . ."
"European pastries, especially croissants," Megan said, gulping more ouzo. Her voice was a little dreamy. "Maybe because making the crusts is such a challenge. About two years ago I had the kitchen professionally re-modeled with all commercial appliances. My range is the best. It's one of those great big stainless-steel jobs . . . dual-fuel, you know. Six gas burners, an electric oven that keeps the temperature right where you set it."
Annie looked at her a moment. Then she suddenly ducked her head, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Megan leaned forward. The damn ouzo, she thought guiltily. There were more than a few staffers who could down it like lemonade without showing any effects, but poor Annie was a vacationer, only a few hours out of a helicopter from Amundsen-Scott. How could Megan have even considered suggesting that she order it?
"Annie, what's wrong? If this poison's getting to you--"
Annie shook her head in the negative, keeping it bent, still covering her mouth.
Megan's eyes widened at the stifled sound that escaped Annie's lips.
"My God,"she said. "You're laughing."
That was the final straw. Annie giggled helplessly, struggled to compose herself, and laughed even harder.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Really, I hope you aren't insulted--"
It was a no-go. She broke up again.
Meg looked at her.
"Okay," Megan said. "Out with it. What's so funny about my domestic interests?"
Annie waited until she'd managed to catch her breath.
"Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"Picturing you in a kitchen apron sort of caught me by surprise." Annie wiped her eyes. "I just had the impression you'd yearn for Bay Area shopping or nightlife or something . . . that you'd prefer to get your desserts from a gourmet shop instead of a cookie sheet."
Megan realized she'd split a grin of her own.
"I'm not sure why, but something tells me I should be offended by that characterization," she said.
"Probably should," Annie said. "I would be, come to think of it."
The women faced each other, both of them laughing now.
"Annie," Megan said, "I've told you before and I'll do it agai
n . . . your visit's been a major reprieve. This ladies' night out most of all."
Annie nodded, reached for her glass.
"I think we should drink to taking the big step," she said.
"From colleagues to friends?"
"In one drunken toot."
"It's going to be an unholy alliance," Megan said, and was about to lift her own drink off the table when her cell phone bleeped in her pocket--a three-note sequence she'd tagged to Pete Nimec's cellular only hours earlier.
She held up a finger to Annie, took out the phone, and flipped it open against her ear.
"Pete, hi," she said. "If you've changed your mind about joining--"
She fell silent, listening. Annie watched Meg's relaxed expression abruptly transform--the grave, alarmed look that came over it making her very worried.
"Yes . . . yes . . . how could? . . . okay, I understand . . ." Megan said. Her eyes snapped to the group at the dartboard. "Wait, I have some extra people with me. Stay where you are, we'll meet you right away."
She shut the phone with one hand, then glanced at Annie with dismay.
"We have a problem," she said, pushing herself up off her chair.
"Meg, I don't see how you expect me to use half these people. . . ."
"They can handle themselves."
"They've been drinking."
"I know. That's just how it is. They weren't on rotation."
"But I need to rely--"
"I'm vouching for every one of them."
Nimec and Megan stood facing each other in silence. They'd linked up in one of the interconnected utilidors bored into the solid ice underneath the station, its hooded lights shining down on a tubular steel liner crusted with frost like the inside of a freezer, the temperature almost forty degrees below zero. Close around them, Sword ops were hastily shrugging, zipping, and snapping into their ECW outfits as they came pouring into the tunnel.
After a moment Nimec nodded.
"All right," he said. "Any suggestions about how to divide the manpower?"
"I've got two of our best with Annie and the Senators. I think we can spare four more to secure the area around the building."
"That's seven men," Nimec said. "Not enough."
"Eight men, counting Hal Pruitt."
"Still won't do."
"Our total force is twenty-nine, Pete. There are only so many places where anyone can gain access to the base, and I can't see anyone trying a full-scale action in this storm. It's not feasible."
"Maybe you're right. But we also didn't expect what we already know is happening, and I'm not about to gamble," Nimec said. "I say we double up the perimeter defense into teams, leave four men inside to guard against a breech. That leaves me with thirteen--"
"I'll go along with two men to patrol the building," Megan said. "You'll need the rest with you. And I've got the maintenance and support crew as backup. They're a solid bunch, Pete."
Nimec started to protest, hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
"Your call again," he said. "Make sure Pruitt stays at the monitors. We need him to direct traffic."
"I understand." Megan thought a second. "How do you feel about informing MacTown of our status?"
Nimec adjusted a velcro strap at the collar of his parka, then got his gloves and outer gauntlets out of a pocket.
"I can't see how they can help us right now," he said. "And I'm not sure I like involving outsiders until we have a better idea what our status is."
Megan sighed. "I don't know. We can't stand around doping this out. But there's an argument for contacting them. In case anything happens to us--"
"Do either of you want my take?"
This was from Ron Waylon, who had stepped up behind Nimec, his balaclava pulled over his head, the hood of his coat already raised.
Nimec glanced over his shoulder.
"Let's hear it," he said.
"There's no 911 help in Antarctica," Waylon said. "If we can't stand on our own, then by the time somebody responds, it'll be to bury us. Seems to me there's nothing wrong with holding off unless things start to look bad. No matter what, we'll have our chances to reevaluate."
They looked at him. Looked at each other. Both were nodding.
"Issue decided," Nimec said. His eyes steadied on Megan's. "You gonna be okay?"
"Yes," she said. And suddenly grasped his wrist. "Try not to let anyone get hurt."
He squeezed the back of her hand, pulled up his hood.
"That's the plan," he said.
Burkhart halted in the snow as he led his team toward their snowmobiles.
"Wait," he ordered, using his headset to communicate with them. Even raised to a shout, his unaided voice would have been overpowered by the wind. Yet he thought he'd heard a sound beneath its leviathan roar.
He wiped his goggles, peering back in the direction from which they had trod.
Someone other than Burkhart might have barely discerned the inverted bowl of the dome through blowing sheaves of whiteness. His keen eyes noticed a vague scintillation behind the dome . . . a paper-thin skim of light that seemed to be sliding toward him along the ground like a wide, flattened wavelet over the surf.
He thought briefly of the woman scientist.
There had been more backbone in her than he'd suspected.
He turned to his men.
"They know we're here," he said.
FIFTEEN
ASOTNA, SWITZERLAND MARCH 12, 2002
ELATA WALKED ONTO THE DOCK AS A DEAD MAN MUST walk--with great purpose and deliberation. The Italian's boat had taken him back to Astona, still in Switzerland. But the location did not matter. Morgan undoubtedly had people to trail him; this might even be part of his plan, not the Italian's. Elata would not get away, and did not intend to. He had already sent the e-mail to Interpol, using their public address obtained off the Web clipper service. He trusted that the note would find its way to the proper person; if it did not, a second one to the FBI in the U.S. was bound to.
The man guiding the Zodiac rubberized craft hadn't minded him using the pager as they sped toward shore, nor had he reacted when Elata threw the device into the water.
What became of the notes and what the police did in reaction to them no longer concerned him. He had a few Swiss francs in his pocket, enough to buy a small notebook and a pen from the stationer he found two blocks away from the dock. There was enough change for a large coffee at the cafe next door. Wanting privacy and feeling somewhat considerate--surely Morgan's men would be here at any minute, and he didn't want to trouble the patrons--he decided to sit outside despite the brisk breeze. Elata took a long sip of the strong, black liquid, then began to write.
"Today, God has proven to me that he does exist," he wrote on his pad. He labored over the words; he was a painter, not a writer, and even if he was merely writing the truth, he had difficulty letting it flow.
"He has shown how petty man is. Or no, how petty and evil some men are. I must include myself among them. For until today I did not fully understand the potential man has, or what he should truly aspire to. I did not understand how good and evil coexist and do battle always, nor the importance of--"
Elata looked up. A man in a hooded blue sweatsuit stood a few feet from him. A newspaper was folded over his hand; beneath the newspaper, a slim, silenced .22 pistol.
Elata nodded. The paper jerked upward and he heard the sound of a bee swarming around his head. The buzz turned into the drone of a Junker Ju 86; as he slid forward against the table, his eyes were filled with tears, not because of his pain or regret at the way he had lived his life, but because he saw the images Picasso had drawn once more as he died.
The old castle sat in a gray circle of water roughly equidistant from the shores, its large stones a defense against time as well as human enemies. The brigands who had built it used it not so much as a hideout as a depository; they had bought off anyone with power enough to storm or starve the island fortress, and needed only a place that could be secured against f
ellow thieves.
Morgan's needs were more complex. Eyeing the castle from the forward seat of his Sikorski S-76C, he considered whether it wasn't time to leave Switzerland for an extended period. The latest messages from Antarctica presaged failure there, and even if the Scottish matter unfolded in a suitable manner, there might be unforeseen repercussions.
He had to congratulate himself for being an agreeable three or four steps ahead on both counts. Clearly the Scots were befuddled. The misdirected uranium would be found in a rusting hulk in Glasgow harbor. Not the misdirected uranium, of course, not even a portion of what had actually been diverted. But enough to close out any investigation successfully. His agent, meanwhile, would arrange for a last accident as directed; with luck she would be apprehended, implicating Burns, not him--a precaution arranged by the expedience of using the inchworm's identity for all contacts in this business.
As for the inchworm herself: She would meet with a regrettable air mishap en route home this afternoon, when the private aircraft Morgan had supplied her would mysteriously disappear at sea. Suitable portions would be found at a respectable interval several weeks into the future.
Thus would a host of problems be solved even before they became problems. The situation in Antarctica remained considerably more complicated, but he could afford to be hopeful there as well; nothing on the continent directly connected him with the venture, with the exception of the easily disposed of e-mail account.
As a precaution, however, he should leave Switzerland, at least for a while. His money could only purchase so much tolerance. One of the former Soviet Republics would afford safety; he had places in Iran and Peru prepared. But could he live in any of them?
He wanted to return to America, with its free air and ready indulgences. Even to go to a place like Thailand or Malaysia, where he could live like a king--what would be the point? If it meant giving up greater glories, the chances of appreciating moments like the one that lay ahead of him, what would be the sense?
"Boat's clearing," said the pilot.
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