Lloyd caught sight of them and came forward immediately, both hands extended. "Eli!" he boomed good-naturedly. "You're late. One would think you were planning to move Mount Everest instead of a lump of iron." He took Glinn's elbow and steered him toward a set of stone benches on the far side of the pyramid.
McFarlane settled on a bench opposite Lloyd and Glinn. Here, in the shadow of the pyramid, it was cool.
Lloyd pointed at the slim folder under Glinn's arm. "Is that all my million dollars bought me?"
Glinn did not reply directly; he was gazing at the pyramid. "How high will it be when completed?" he asked. "Seventy-seven feet," Lloyd replied proudly. "It's the tomb of an Old Kingdom pharaoh, Khefret II. A minor ruler in every way—poor kid died at thirteen. I wanted a bigger one, of course. But it is the only pyramid outside of the Nile Valley."
"And the base, what does it measure?"
"One hundred and forty feet on a side."
Glinn was silent for a moment, his eyes veiled. "Interesting coincidence," he said.
"Coincidence?"
Glinn's eyes slid back to Lloyd. "We reanalyzed the data on your meteorite. We think it weighs closer to ten thousand tons. Same as your pyramid over there. Using standard nickel-iron meteorites as a basis, that would make your rock about forty feet in diameter."
"That's wonderful! The bigger the better."
"Moving the meteorite will be like moving this pyramid of yours. Not block by block, but all together."
"So?"
"Take the Eiffel Tower, for instance," Glinn said.
"I wouldn't want to. Ugly as hell."
"The Eiffel Tower weighs about five thousand tons."
Lloyd looked at him.
"The Saturn V rocket—the heaviest land-based object ever moved by human beings—weighs three thousand tons. Moving your meteorite, Mr. Lloyd, will be like moving two Eiffel towers. Or three Saturn V rockets."
"What's the point?" Lloyd asked.
"The point is that ten thousand tons, when you actually consider it, is a staggering weight. Twenty million pounds. And we're talking about lugging it halfway around the world."
Lloyd grinned. "The heaviest object ever moved by mankind—I like that. You couldn't ask for a better publicity hook. But I don't see the problem. Once it's on board the ship, you can bring it right up the Hudson practically to our doorstep."
"Getting it on board the ship is the problem—especially those last fifty feet from shore into the hold. The biggest crane in the world picks up less than a thousand tons."
"So build a pier and slide it out to the boat."
"Off the coast of Isla Desolación, the depth drops to two hundred feet a mere twenty feet from shore. So you can't build a fixed pier. And the meteorite would sink an ordinary floating pier."
"Find a shallower place."
"We've checked. There is no other place. In fact, the only possible loading point is on the eastern coast of the island. A snowfield lies between that point and the meteorite. The snow is two hundred feet deep in the center. Which means we have to move your rock around the snowfield to get it to the ship."
Lloyd grunted. "I'm beginning to see the problem. Why don't we just bring a big ship in there, back it up to shore, and roll the damn thing into the hold? The biggest supertankers hold half a million tons of crude. That's more than enough to spare."
"If you roll this meteorite into the hold of a ship, it would simply drop right through the bottom. This is not crude oil, which conveniently displaces its weight as it fills a hold."
"What's all this dancing around, then?" Lloyd asked sharply. "Is this leading up to a refusal?"
Glinn shook his head. "On the contrary. We're willing to take on the job."
Lloyd beamed. "That's terrific! Why all the gloomy talk?"
"I simply wanted to prepare you for the enormity of the task you want to accomplish. And for the commensurate enormity of our bill."
Lloyd's broad features narrowed. "And that is... ?"
"One hundred and fifty million dollars. Including chartering the transport vessel. FOB the Lloyd Museum."
Lloyd's face went pale. "My God. One hundred and fifty million..." His chin sank onto his hands. "For a ten-thousand-ton rock. That's..."
"Seven dollars and fifty cents a pound," said Glinn.
"Not bad," McFarlane said, "when you consider that the going rate for a decent meteorite is about a hundred bucks a pound."
Lloyd looked at him. "Is that so?"
McFarlane nodded.
"In any case," Glinn continued, "because of the unusual nature of the job, our acceptance comes with two conditions."
"Yes?"
"The first condition is double overage. As you'll see in the report, our cost estimates haven't been especially conservative. But we feel that, to be absolutely safe, twice that amount must be budgeted for."
"Meaning it's really going to cost three hundred million dollars."
"No. We believe it's going to cost one hundred and fifty, or we wouldn't have presented you with that figure. But given all the unknown variables, the incomplete data, and the immense weight of the meteorite, we need some maneuvering room."
"Maneuvering room." Lloyd shook his head. "And the second condition?"
Glinn took the folder from under his arm and placed it on one knee. "A dead man's switch."
"What's that?"
"A special trapdoor, built into the bottom of the transport vessel, so that in the direst emergency the meteorite can be jettisoned."
Lloyd seemed not to understand. "Jettison the meteorite?"
"If it ever shook loose from its berth, it could sink the ship. If that happened, we'd need a way to get rid of it, fast."
As Lloyd listened to this, the pallor that had come across his face gave way to a flush of anger. "You mean to say the first time we hit a rough sea, you dump the meteorite overboard? Forget it."
"According to Dr. Amira, our mathematician, there's only a one-in-five-thousand chance of it being necessary."
McFarlane spoke. "I thought he was paying the big bucks because you guaranteed success. Dumping the meteorite in a storm sounds like a failure to me."
Glinn glanced at him. "Our guarantee is that EES will never fail in our work. And that guarantee is unequivocal. But we can't guarantee against an act of God. Natural systems are inherently unpredictable. If a freak storm came out of nowhere and foundered the vessel, we wouldn't necessarily consider that a failure."
Lloyd bounded to his feet. "Well, there's no way in hell I'm going to drop the meteorite to the bottom of the ocean. So there's no point in letting you build a dead man's switch." He took several steps away from them, then stopped, facing the pyramid, arms folded.
"It's the price of the dance," Glinn said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried total conviction.
For a time, Lloyd made no reply. The big man shook his head, clearly in the grip of an inner struggle. At last he turned.
"All right," he said. "When do we start?"
"Today, if you like." Glinn stood up, carefully placing his folder on the stone bench. "This contains an overview of the preparations we'll need to make, along with a breakdown of the associated costs. All we need is your go-ahead and a fifty-million retainer. As you will see, EES will handle all the details."
Lloyd took the folder. "I'll read it before lunch."
"I think you'll find it interesting. And now, I'd better get back to New York." Glinn nodded at the two men in turn. "Gentlemen, enjoy your pyramid."
Then he turned, made his way across the sandy clearing, and disappeared into the tightly woven shade of the maple trees.
9: Millburn, New Jersey
June 9, 2:45 P.M.
ELI GLINN sat, motionless, behind the wheel of a nondescript four-door sedan. By instinct, he had parked at an angle that maximized sun glare off the windshield, making it difficult for passersby to observe him. He dispassionately took in the sights and sounds of the typical East Coast suburb: tended lawns, ancie
nt trees, the distant hum of freeway traffic.
Two buildings down, the front door of a small Georgian opened and a woman appeared. Glinn straightened up with an almost imperceptible motion. He watched attentively as she descended the front steps, hesitated, then looked back over her shoulder. But the door had already shut. She turned away and began walking toward him briskly, head held high, shoulders straight, light yellow hair burnished by the afternoon sun.
Glinn opened a manila folder lying on the passenger seat and studied a photograph clipped to the papers inside. This was her. He slipped the folder into the rear of the car and looked back through the window. Even out of uniform the woman radiated authority, competence, and self-discipline. And nothing about her betrayed how difficult the last eighteen months must have been. That was good, very good. As she approached, he lowered the passenger window: according to his character profile, surprise offered the highest hope of success.
"Captain Britton?" he called out. "My name is Eli Glinn. Could I have a word with you?"
She paused. He noted that, already, the surprise on her face was giving way to curiosity. There was no alarm or fear; merely quiet confidence.
The woman stepped toward the car. "Yes?"
Automatically, Glinn made a number of mental notes. The woman wore no perfume, and she kept her small but functional handbag clasped tightly against her side. She was tall, but fine-boned. Although her face was pale, tiny crinkles around the green eyes and a splash of freckles gave evidence of years spent in the sun and wind. Her voice was low.
"Actually, what I have to say might take a while. Can I drop you somewhere?"
"Unnecessary, thank you. The train station's just a few blocks away."
Glinn nodded. "Heading home to New Rochelle? The connections are very inconvenient. I'd be happy to drive you."
This time the surprise lingered a little longer, and when it died away it left a look of speculation in the sea green eyes. "My mother always told me never to get into a stranger's car.
"Your mother taught you well. But I think what I have to say will be of interest to you."
The woman considered this a moment. Then she nodded. "Very well," she said, opening the passenger door and taking a seat. Glinn noticed that she kept her purse in her lap, and her right hand, significantly, stayed on the door handle. He was not surprised she had accepted. But he was impressed by her ability to size up a situation, examine the options, and quickly arrive at a solution. She was willing to take a risk, but not a foolish one. This is what the dossier had led him to expect.
"You'll have to give me directions," he said, pulling away from the curb. "I'm not familiar with this part of New Jersey." This was not precisely true. He knew half a dozen ways to get to Westchester County, but he wanted to see how she handled command, even one as small as this. As they drove, Britton remained collected, giving terse directions in the manner of someone accustomed to having her orders obeyed. A very impressive woman indeed, perhaps all the more impressive for her single catastrophic failure.
"Let me get something out of the way from the beginning," he said. "I know your past history, and it has no bearing on what I'm about to say."
From the corner of his eye, he saw her stiffen. But when she spoke, her voice was calm. "I believe that at this point, a lady is supposed to say, 'You have me at a disadvantage, sir.' "
"I can't go into details at the moment. But I'm here to offer you the captaincy of an oil tanker."
They rode for several minutes in silence.
At last she glanced over at him. "If you knew my history as well as you say, I doubt you'd be making such an offer." Her voice remained calm, but Glinn could read many things in her face: curiosity, pride, suspicion, perhaps hope. "You're wrong, Captain Britton. I know the whole story. I know how you were one of the few female masters in the tanker fleet. I know how you were ostracized, how you tended to catch the least popular routes. The pressures you faced were immense." He paused. "I know that you were found on the bridge of your last command in a state of intoxication. You were diagnosed an alcoholic and entered a rehabilitation center. As a result of rehab, you successfully retained your master's license. But since leaving the center over a year ago, you've had no new offers of command. Did I miss anything?" He carefully waited for the reaction.
"No," she replied, steadily. "That about covers it."
"I'll be frank, Captain. This assignment is very unusual. I have a short list of other masters I could approach, but I think they might well turn down the command."
"While I, on the other hand, am desperate." Britton continued staring out the windshield, speaking in a low voice.
"If you had been desperate, you would have taken that tramp Panama steamer offered you last November, or that Liberian freighter, with its armed guards and suspicious cargo." He watched her eyes narrow slightly. "You see, Captain Britton, in my line of work, I analyze the nature of failure."
"And just what is your line of work, Mr. Glinn?"
"Engineering. Our analysis has shown that people who failed once are ninety percent less likely to fail again." I myself am a living example of the truth of this theory.
Glinn did not actually utter this last sentence, but he had been about to. He allowed his eyes to sweep over Captain Britton for a moment. What had prompted him to almost drop a reserve as habitual as breathing? This merited later consideration.
He returned his eyes to the road. "We have evaluated your overall record thoroughly. Once you were a superb captain with a drinking problem. Now you are merely a superb captain. One on whose discretion I know I can rely."
Britton acknowledged this with a slight nod of her head. "Discretion," she repeated, with a faint sardonic note.
"If you accept the assignment, I will be able to say much more. But what I can tell you now is this. The voyage will not be a long one, perhaps three months at most. It will have to be conducted under great secrecy. The destination is the far southern latitudes, an area you know well. The financial backing is more than adequate, and you may handpick your crew, as long as they pass our background checks. All officers and crew will draw triple the normal pay."
Britton frowned. "If you know I turned down the Liberians, then you know I don't smuggle drugs, run guns, or deal in contraband. I will not break the law, Mr. Glinn."
"The mission is legal, but it is unique enough to require a motivated crew. And there is something else. If the mission is successful—I should say, when the mission is successful, because my job is to make sure it is—there will be publicity, largely favorable. Not for me—I avoid that sort of thing—but for you. It could be useful in a number of ways. It could get you reinstated onto the list of active masters, for example. And it would carry some weight with your child custody hearings, perhaps making these long weekend visitations unnecessary."
This last observation had the effect Glinn hoped for. Britton looked at him quickly, then glanced over her shoulder, as if at the swiftly retreating Georgian house, now many miles behind them. Then she looked back at Glinn.
"I've been reading W.H. Auden," she said. "On the train coming out this morning, I came across a poem called 'Atlantis.' The last stanza started out something like this:
"All the little household gods
Have started crying, but say
Good-bye now, and put to sea."
She smiled. And, if Glinn paid attention to such things, he would have insisted that the smile was distinctly beautiful.
10: Port of Elizabeth
June 17, 10:00 A.M.
PALMER LLOYD paused before the windowless door, a grimy rectangle in the vast expanse of metal building that reared up before him. From behind, where his driver leaned against a limousine reading a tabloid, he could hear the roar of the New Jersey Turnpike echoing across the dead swamplands and old warehouses. Ahead, beyond the Marsh Street dry docks, the Port of Elizabeth glittered in the summer heat. Nearby, a crane nodded maternally above a container ship. Beyond the port, a brace of tugboats
was pushing a barge burdened with cubed cars. And even farther beyond, poking above the blackened backside of Bayonne, the Manhattan skyline beckoned, gleaming in the sun like a row of jewels.
Lloyd was momentarily swept by a feeling of nostalgia. It had been years since he was last here. He remembered growing up in ironbound Rahway, near the port. In his poverty-stricken boyhood, Lloyd had spent many days prowling the docks, yards, and factories.
He inhaled the industrial air, the familiar acrid odor of artificial roses mingling with the smell of the salt marshes, tar, and sulfur. He still loved the feel of the place, the stacks trailing steam and smoke, the gleaming refineries, the thickets of power lines. The naked industrial muscle had a Sheeler-like beauty to it. It was places like Elizabeth, he mused, with their synergy of commerce and industry, that gave the residents of the suburbs and the phony boutique artiste towns the very wherewithal that allowed them to sneer at its ugliness from their own perches of comfort. Strange how much he missed those lost boyhood days, even though all his dreams had come true.
And even stranger that his greatest achievement should be launched from here, where his own roots lay. Even as a boy he had loved collecting. Having no money, he had to build up his natural history collection by finding his own specimens. He picked up arrowheads out of eroded embankments, shells from the grimy shoreline, rocks and minerals from abandoned mines; he dug fossils from the Jurassic deposits of nearby Hackensack and caught butterflies by the dozen from these very marshes. He collected frogs, lizards, snakes, and all manner of animal life, preserving them in gin swiped from his father. He had amassed a fine collection—until his house burned down on his fifteenth birthday, taking all his treasures with it. It was the most painful loss of his life. After that, he never collected another specimen. He'd gone to college, then into business, piling success upon success. And then one day, it dawned on him that he could now afford to buy the very best the world could offer. He could, in an odd way, erase that early loss. What started as a hobby became a passion—and his vision for the Lloyd Museum was born. And now here he was, back at the Jersey docks, about to set off to claim the greatest treasure of all.
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