by Tom Clancy
Langkafel looked at him. “Which would be…?”
“It happened within the Antarctic Circle.” Morgan swiveled around to face the Norwegian and pushed his glasses lower down his nose with his finger, perching them on his nose’s tip. “Where else on earth would it have been so easy to chalk the whole thing up to a quirk of nature? Where else does every country that’s got a flag-pole stuck in the ice want to pretend it’s given up strategic interests for some high-flown scientific principle? They all want to tap the continent’s resources. They all want bases where they can deploy armed forces. But they keep skating around each other, none of them wanting to make the first move. If the time ever comes when one of them does, their loops, spins, and figure-eights will stop, the blades will come off, and they’ll have to use their edges to carve out real territorial borderlines. This is my wedge of the snow pie. This is yours. You say no? Well, we got ourselves a scrap here. Power replaces principles. The coldest spot on the planet becomes its biggest geopolitical hot spot. That’s the reality nobody’s set to confront. For now they’d rather leave it to the polies and penguins.”
“And us,” Constance Burns said.
“That’s right.” Morgan’s eyes swept the table. “Us.”
The group sat quietly for a while. Morgan sipped his water, feeling tiny bubbles bursting on the back of his tongue. There were no remaining traces of sunlight on the curtains. He was eager to adjourn the meeting. Get out alone, walk the dark twisting streets of the city’s old town. Take a shot at scraping some dirt from between its pristine cobblestones.
It disappointed him when Nikolin broke the silence to voice his concerns. “As far as everything you’ve mentioned, Gabriel… the information is enlightening, yes. Fascinating. And I’m sure we all understand the points it exemplifies. Its general bearing upon the UpLink problem. But the issues Olav raised — I still would like them addressed with greater specificity. UpLink is a transcontinental firm, not a national entity. Like our own alliance, it enjoys an independent status that relieves it from certain conventions… and constraints… to which governments must adhere. To what extent in the present context, we cannot be certain. But its resources, should they be marshaled against us, would be a serious threat. That I do know.” He paused. “UpLink’s support of my chief of state’s predecessor, Vladimir Starinov, kept him in office years longer than would have been the case had it not lobbied NATO to give him economic assistance.”
Morgan was careful to screen his impatience behind a polite, attentive expression. He linked his hands across his chest and leaned toward Nikolin.
“Think about it,” he said. “Think practically. It isn’t hard to get a read on UpLink’s limitations out there. The ice station is small. Isolated. Contained. What’s the lid on its sustainable personnel? Let’s estimate two, maybe three hundred. Ninety-eight percent of them would be technical engineers, researchers, and support people. No chance they could run the works when it comes to the security operations we’ve all heard tales about. It would be logistically impossible to carry anything like a full detail. And they wouldn’t feel the pressing imperative anyway. On one hand, the continent’s a fortress. On the other, remember, it’s the big rink. Nobody for us to worry about there but Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts at a skating party. So now we learn they got this ace — you use that same word in Russia, right? — they got this ace out of San Jose investigating their own zoo event. I say, don’t let it faze you. The situation’s manageable. Look at how we did it in Scotland. Now think Antarctica. Last year, midwinter, that party of ten, eleven researchers and staffers got evacuated out of McMurdo. Biggest incident of its kind ever. USAP was a little vague with its explanations, don’t ask me why. Maybe the beakers came down with cabin fever, went a little crazy, got into an old-fashioned punch-out, and were embarrassed to admit it. Or maybe the caginess was just a typical bureaucratic reflex. Next thing you know, though, you got thousands of conspiracy theorists on the Internet posting bulletins that they made first contact with flying saucer people. There’s Antarctica for you. Ace and his skeleton crew want to start grubbing around us? What we do is complicate their lives. Create distractions. Diversions. We know the playing field, and we’re in place to capitalize on its eccentricities. Things can happen. Freak accidents. Unexplained occurrences. Zoo events that will keep them too busy to get close to us. And the long night’s coming on them soon enough. Then they’ve either got to leave for where the skies are blue, or ball up in their hole for the duration.”
There was an extended silence. Morgan watched his company at the table. They were looking at one another, nodding.
“Your words are encouraging,” Langkafel said then. “I believe that I speak for the entire group in that regard.”
More nods around the table.
“But,” Langkafel said, “I do have one further question.”
Morgan looked at him. Waited. His smile gone now.
“Our pursuits in Antarctica require long-term stability,” Langkafel said. “What will we do when those at the UpLink station awake from their hibernation to probe our affairs again?”
Morgan thought a moment before he answered. He took off his reading glasses, folded their stems, and put them carefully beside the thin report binder in front of him. Then he fastened his eyes on the Norwegian’s thin, dour face.
“They won’t awake,” he said. “Trust me, Olav, things are already in motion. UpLink’s about to be touched by us. They’ll think it’s a disaster, but that’s all it’ll be — a touch, a prelude to the real action. Before we’re through, I intend to give them a zoo event to remember. This is going to be their final night. Just trust me. Their final night.”
Gabriel Morgan’s bodyguard slid from the alcove in the hallway as his boss left the office, discreetly trailing as Morgan descended the steps of the Zurich guild house toward his black S55 AMG Mercedes. Another of his men stood at the landing; Morgan was not generally given to such ostentatious shows of protection, but today’s matters called for certain realistic precautions. Not that he expected the Italian to ambush him — it had been made quite clear by all concerned that nothing of value would be brought to the meeting by either side — but being an Italian, the man was likely to be careless, and thus might have provoked the attention of unwanted guests. Interpol already had its hounds out.
As his man opened the door to the street, Morgan felt a wave of paranoia sweep in with the cold air of the street. It did not come, however, from his present mission, but from what had to be considered diversions. Important, certainly, but not of the moment. Nonetheless, they percolated inside his chest, making him hesitate as his bodyguards scanned a street he already knew instinctively would be safe.
The latest update on Uplink International and its Antarctic operations included information that, while in no way directly challenging Morgan’s plans, nonetheless indicated an accelerating and disturbing trend. His own timetable for dealing with them was proceeding as scheduled; he had seen the threat as he saw all threats and taken the necessary steps months ago. But Mr. Gordian and his hired do-gooders would have to be watched very closely.
Some years earlier in his quest to acquire cutting-edge enterprises, Morgan had made certain overtures to the esteemed American entrepreneur; the response he had received still rankled. Their parallel presence in Antarctica now was truly coincidental, an accident of ambition on all sides — but Morgan would not deny that closure at the pole would provide a sense of satisfaction in many ways.
And then there was Constance Burns, his UK associate in the Antarctic venture. In yet another display of stunningly bad judgment, Miss Burns had taken it upon herself this morning to call with news that she was coming to Zurich a few days before their arranged conference with the other members of the Consortium. This was, she hinted during their brief conversation, a ploy to establish the visit as a vacation. She had apparently taken the precaution of calling from a pay phone, and there was in any event no reason to suspect that her calls would be moni
tored or even observed, but it was the sort of indiscretion that boded poorly, representing a severely flawed judgment that would inevitably lead to great difficulty.
Morgan sensed that the inchworm — she not only thought like one, but had she green hair she would have passed for a human relative of the species — intended to wring an accounting from him of the Scotland matters, which he had handled on her behalf. But at least she’d had the good sense not to bring it up on the telephone. He had graciously promised a driver and car to meet her at the airport and take her to all the important sights. They would also keep her from being a problem until the meeting. After that, further arrangements would have to be made.
The Scotland matter itself remained unresolved, though hopeful. His agent had been instructed to stay at her post indefinitely, but she had not been easily convinced. Like so many excellent killers, she was American, and impatient by nature. Fortunately, being American, her patience could be bought, and a price was finally arranged after considerable haggling. In the meantime, she had decided to go ahead and eliminate the girlfriend gratis — a tidy touch that made Morgan regret that when the time came to eliminate Constance Burns, he would have to give up the agent in the process.
But not a hair of any of these problems had anything to do with today’s business. They were distractions, diversions, needless anxieties. As his men on the street nodded, Morgan stepped out from the door and filled his lungs with the cool air. He embraced it, flinging open his coat, taking another long breath, gliding toward his car. He must live for the moment; everything else would sort itself out in time.
Morgan slid into the rear seat of the sedan, settling in as Hans and Jacques got in on the other side. Wilhelm put the car into gear and they moved gracefully away, heading for Luzern.
Out of habit, Morgan reached for his alpha pager to check for messages. But then he remembered his resolution. There would be time to think of Miss Burns, of Scotland, of the inestimable Mr. Gordian, he reminded himself. For now, his mind must be clear; he must prepare himself for the Italian. He settled back against the thick leather seat, listening as the tenor warmed up to Verdi’s “Brindisi” in the opening act of La Traviata.
* * *
On April 26, 1937, aircraft belonging to Nazi Germany destroyed the city of Guernica, Spain. They acted on behalf of General Francisco Franco and the right-wing Nationalists, fighting in a war that would eventually claim the lives of at least one million people, many of them civilians. The target’s status as a holy city for the Basque people was the sole reason for the attack; the length of the raid and the fact that civilians were hunted down by the attacking aircraft gives the lie to any claim that this was anything other that a deliberate massacre designed to both intimidate and desecrate. For three hours, the German Luftwaffe dropped incendiary devices and explosives, strafed women and children who had run into nearby fields, and otherwise worked hard to obliterate every trace of life in the town. In an ugly era, it was a particularly ugly deed.
And yet, strange, dark beauty blossomed from it. In January 1937, Pablo Picasso received a commission from the Spanish Republican government: a painting to occupy one wall of the Spanish pavilion at Paris’s Universal Exposition scheduled for later that year. He had struggled with what to portray. On April 30th, he saw photographs of the German attack at Guernica in the evening newspaper Ce Soir. The photographs provoked one of the twentieth century’s most important works, a monument to man’s inhumanity and at the same time a testimony to the power of art—Guernica.
The construction of the painting was documented by Dora Maar, whose photographs reveal the various permutations and stages it underwent as the master created. These helped it become not only one of the most famous large-scale paintings of the twentieth century, but also one of the most studied.
More obscure, indeed for all practical purposes unknown, were fourteen small works intended—perhaps—as companion pieces in the exhibit. Each elaborated in a different way on elements of the masterwork — the bull, the lantern, the warrior, the dead child. And each related, in ways at times obscure and at other times obvious, to the Catholic Stations of the Cross — of which there are also fourteen.
Morgan’s heart raced as he slowly slid color laser prints of the paintings through his fingers. Guernica had been rendered mostly in shades of black and white, as if it were a newspaper documenting the horror. The accompanying works were color, exquisite pieces with shades like stained glass — somewhat brighter than, say, Weeping Woman, painted in October 1937 and traditionally linked to the time and style of Guernica. Their style echoed the geometry of Guernica, and yet had the feeling, the softness of expression, the depth of such works as The Dream of 1932. Bizarre yet familiar, violent yet loving, they were works without peer in the Western world.
Morgan felt his tongue heavy in his mouth. His enthusiasm was a weapon that could easily be turned against him — how many times had he used such enthusiasm in others as his own tool in negotiations? The beauty of the paintings was nothing. Art was merely a statement of desire; a forger worked the equation backwards, intensifying the latter to provoke the former. A lover was very easily cuckolded.
He was a true lover now. Sitting at the small cafe table across from the blue-green waters of Lake Lucerne, he was as emphatically in love as any fifteen-year-old who had lost his cherry a half hour before. His hands were sweaty. He couldn’t speak. He tried to hide his enthusiasm with a frown, but knew it appeared phony.
And he didn’t care.
“I can deliver within a few days, a week at most,” said the Italian. “Once the financial arrangements are made.”
Morgan folded the photocopies as deliberately as he could manage, then slowly placed them into the pocket of his jacket. He fixed his gaze on a swan in the lake’s cold water about thirty meters away.
The terror of the bull — the sharp line and bold color — the perception of soul…
Before such genius, what was he? What was anyone?
“The possessors realize that there are difficulties involved with pieces of such magnitude,” ventured the Italian, attempting to open negotiations.
“Mmmm, yes,” Morgan said, continuing to gaze at the water. He had spent considerable resources examining the possibility that the paintings were indeed valid. The governing rumor was that they had been given by Picasso to a friend of Dora’s soon after the exhibit closed; the reason was obscure and varied according to the teller, although the favorite was that they were used to buy the freedom of fourteen Jews — a romantic tale that Morgan necessarily discounted. In any event, all agreed the works had been spirited off to Bavaria by an art-loving colonel, then sold in 1945 to a Russian general, who met with an unfortunate accident in Hungary during the 1950’s. At that point, the rumors ceased completely.
Morgan had hired a private detective from Bonn with certain heartfelt beliefs that solidified important connections to the past. After considerable effort, the detective produced two letters mentioning the paintings. A historical consultant had found hints in other documentary evidence, including two unpublished photos that seemed to show portions of them at the sides of Guernica as it was being completed. The consultant had also supplied certain hints that could be used to authenticate them, including the letter found in the Musée Picasso in Paris. But even if this sketchy evidence, taken together, convinced him that the paintings had indeed been done, nothing he had found so far meant that the works in the Italian’s possession were the paintings. Even if the Italian was not known to deal in forgeries, even he could be fooled.
Two art historians had been retained for their opinion. They would examine the works before any deal was consummated. Elata would be the pièce de résistance — the master forger’s eye looking for signs of his craft.
But first, a price had to be settled on. Morgan reached into his pocket and took out his reading glasses, fitting them deliberately around his ears as a sign that he was now negotiating.
“The price,” he told the Ita
lian gently.
“The figure fifty million has been suggested.”
Morgan folded his arms and sat back in his seat. The Swiss waiter, as discreet as any in the breed, caught his eye across the tables and ducked back into the restaurant for another bottle of mineral water.
“But of course, thirty might be more realistic,” said the Italian.
At an open auction, with documentation proving they were real, it was conceivable that bidding on each work alone would begin at ten million and quickly escalate; as a set their worth was simply incalculable. But there would be no open auction, at least not in Morgan’s lifetime.
He almost didn’t want to buy them, for if he did he would inevitably have to part with them; he was a businessman, after all.
He could indulge himself. He might indulge himself. If he sold them off individually, he could keep one or two.
The bull?
Perhaps the infant. The light blue streak underlying the eyes — pure innocence.
Did it exist anywhere in the world outside of art?
The waiter appeared. There was no one else outside on this cold day, and he walked quickly to his customers. As the man poured the water into the glass, Morgan glanced toward his bodyguard at the edge of the railing in front of the lake. He looked a little bored, which Morgan took as a good sign.
“The works will be impossible to sell,” said Morgan after the waiter had gone.