"As best I understand it, McFarlane had a kind of psychological break. He was there, alone, for a week. He became convinced that the New York Museum would fail to provide the extra funding, and that in the end the meteorite would be spirited off by somebody, broken up, and sold on the black market, never to be seen or studied again. So he used the satellite dish to contact a rich Japanese collector who he knew could buy it whole and keep it. In short, he betrayed his partner. When Masangkay returned with the supplies—and, as it happened, the extra funding—the Japanese were already there. They wasted no time at all. They took it away. Masangkay felt betrayed, and the scientific world was furious at McFarlane. They've never forgiven him."
Brambell nodded sleepily. It was an interesting story. Might make for a good, if somewhat sensational, novel. Jack London could have done it justice. Or better yet, Conrad...
"I worry about McFarlane," Glinn said, intruding on his thoughts. "We can't have anything like that happening here. It would ruin everything. If he was willing to betray his own brother-in-law, he would betray Lloyd and EES without a second thought."
"Why should he?" Brambell yawned. "Lloyd has deep pockets, and he seems perfectly happy to write checks." "McFarlane is mercenary, of course, but this goes beyond money. The meteorite we're after has some very peculiar properties. If McFarlane grows obsessed with it as he did with the Tornarssuk... " Glinn hesitated. "For example, if we ever have to use the dead man's switch, it would be in a time of extreme crisis. Every second would count. I don't want anybody trying to prevent it."
"And my role in this?"
"You have a background in psychiatry. I want you to review these periodic reports. If you see any cause for concern—in particular, any incipient signs of a break like his last one—please let me know."
Brambell flipped through the two files again, the old one and the new. The background file was strange. He wondered where Glinn had gotten the information—very little, if any, was standard psychiatric or medical stuff. Many of the reports had no reporting doctors' names or affiliations—indeed, some had no names at all. Whatever the source, it had a very expensive whiff about it.
He finally looked up at Glinn and slapped the folder shut. "I'll look this over, and I'll keep an eye on him. I'm not sure my take on what happened is the same as yours."
Glinn rose to leave, his gray eyes as impenetrable as slate. Brambell found it unaccountably irritating.
"And the Greenland meteorite?" Brambell asked. "Was it from interstellar space?"
"Of course not. It turned out to be an ordinary rock from the asteroid belt. McFarlane was wrong."
"And the wife?" Brambell asked after a moment.
"What wife?"
"McFarlane's wife. Malou Masangkay."
"She left him. Went back to the Philippines and remarried."
In a moment, Glinn was gone, his carefully placed footfalls fading down the corridor. For a moment, the doctor listened to the dying cadence, thinking. Then a line of Conrad's came to mind. He spoke it aloud: "No man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge."
With a sigh of returning contentment, he put aside the files and went back into his private suite. The torpid equatorial climate, as well as something about Glinn himself, made the doctor think of Maugham—the short stories, to be exact. He ran his fingers over the nubbed spines—each rekindling a universe of memory and emotion as it passed by—found what he was looking for, settled into a large wing chair, and opened the cover with a shiver of delight.
16: Rolvaag
July 11, 7:55 A.M.
MCFARLANE ADVANCED onto the parquet deck and looked around curiously. It was his first time on the bridge, and this was without question the most dramatic space on the Rolvaag. The bridge was as wide as the ship itself. Three sides of the room were dominated by large square windows, slanting outward from bottom to top, each equipped with its own electric wiper. On either end, doors led out to the bridge wings. Other doors to the rear were labeled CHART ROOM and RADIO ROOM in brass letters. Beneath the forward windows, a bank of equipment stretched the entire length of the bridge: consoles, rows of telephones, links to control stations throughout the ship. Beyond the windows, a predawn squall lay across stormy deserts of ocean. The only light came from the instrument panels and screens. A smaller row of windows gave a view aft, between the stacks and past the stern of the ship to the white double lines of the wake, vanishing toward the horizon.
In the center of the room stood a command-and-control station. Here, McFarlane saw the captain, a dim figure in the near-darkness. She was speaking into a telephone, occasionally leaning over to murmur to the helmsman beside her, the hollows of his eyes illuminated a cold green by his radar screen.
As McFarlane joined the silent vigil, the squall began to break up and a gray dawn crept over the horizon. A single deckhand moved antlike across the distant forecastle, bound on obscure business. Above the creamy bow-wake, a few persistent seabirds wheeled and screamed. It was a shocking contrast to the torrid tropics, which they had left behind less than a week before.
After the Rolvaag had crossed the equator, in sultry heat and heavy rains, a lassitude had fallen over the ship. McFarlane had felt it, too: yawning over games of shuffleboard; lolling in his suite, staring at the butternut walls. But as they continued south, the air had grown crisper, the ocean swells longer and heavier, and the pearlescent sky of the tropics had given way to brilliant azure, flecked with clouds. As the air freshened, he sensed that the general malaise was being replaced by amounting excitement.
The door to the bridge opened once again, and two figures entered: a third officer, taking the morning eight-to-twelve, and Eli Glinn. He came silently up to McFarlane's side.
"What's this all about?" McFarlane asked under his breath.
Before Glinn could answer, there was a soft click from behind. McFarlane glanced back to see Victor Howell step out of the radio room and look on as the watch was relieved.
The third officer came over and murmured something in the captain's ear. In turn, she glanced at Glinn. "Keep an eye off the starboard bow," she said, nodding out toward the horizon, which lay like a knife edge against the sky.
As the sky lightened, the swells and hollows of the heaving sea became more clearly defined. A spear of dawn light probed through the heavy canopy of clouds off the ship's starboard bow. Stepping away from the helmsman, the captain strolled to the forward wall of windows, hands clasped behind her back. As she did so, another ray of light clipped the tops of the clouds. And then, abruptly, the entire western horizon lit up like an eruption of fire. McFarlane squinted, trying to understand what it was he was staring at. Then he made it out: a row of great snowcapped peaks, wreathed in glaciers, ablaze in the dawn.
The captain turned and faced the group. "Land ho," she said dryly. "The mountains of Tierra del Fuego. Within a few hours, we'll pass through the Strait of Le Maire and into the Pacific Ocean." She passed a pair of binoculars to McFarlane.
McFarlane stared at the range of mountains through the binoculars: distant and forbidding, like the ramparts of a lost continent, the peaks shedding long veils of snow.
Glinn straightened his shoulders, turned away from the sight, and glanced at Victor Howell. The chief mate strolled over to a technician at the far end of the bridge, who quickly stood up and disappeared out the door onto the starboard bridge wing. Howell returned to the command station. "Give yourself fifteen for coffee," he said to the third officer. "I'll take the con."
The junior officer looked from Howell to the captain, surprised by this break from procedure. "Do you want me to enter it in the log, ma'am?" he asked.
Britton shook her head. "Unnecessary. Just be back in a quarter of an hour."
Once the man had disappeared from the bridge, the captain turned to Howell. "Is Banks ready with the New York hookup?" she asked.
The chief mate nodded. "We've got Mr. Lloyd waiting."
"Very well.
Patch him through."
McFarlane stifled a sigh. Isn't once a day enough? he thought. He had almost grown to dread the noon videoconference calls he made daily to the Lloyd Museum. Lloyd was always talking a mile a minute, desperate to learn of the ship's progress down to the nautical mile, grilling everyone at length, hatching schemes and questioning every plan. McFarlane marveled at Glinn's patience.
There was a crackling noise in a loudspeaker bolted to a bulkhead, then McFarlane heard Lloyd's voice, loud even in the spacious bridge. "Sam? Sam, are you there?"
"This is Captain Britton, Mr. Lloyd," Britton said, motioning the others toward a microphone at the command station. "The coast of Chile is in sight. We're a day out of Puerto Williams."
"Marvelous!" Lloyd boomed.
Glinn approached the microphone. "Mr. Lloyd, it's Eli Glinn. Tomorrow we clear Chilean customs. Dr. McFarlane, myself, and the captain will take a launch into Puerto Williams to present ship's papers."
"Is that necessary?" Lloyd asked. "Why must you all go?"
"Let me explain the situation. The first problem is that the customs people will probably want to come on board the ship."
"Jesus," came Lloyd's voice. "That could give the whole game away."
"Potentially. That is why our first effort will be to prevent a visit. The Chileans will be curious to meet the principals—the captain, the chief mining engineer. If we sent underlings, they will almost certainly insist on coming aboard."
"What about me?" McFarlane asked. "I'm persona non grata in Chile, remember? I'd just as soon keep a low profile."
"Sorry, but you're our ace in the hole," Glinn replied.
"And why is that?"
"You're the only one of us who has actually been in Chile. You've got more experience in situations like this. In the very remote chance that events play out along an unexpected path, we need your instincts."
"Great. I don't think I'm being properly compensated for taking such a risk."
"Oh yes you are." Lloyd's voice sounded testy. "Look, Eli. What if they want to board her anyway?"
"We've prepared a special reception room for the occasion."
"Reception room? The last thing we want is them hanging about."
"The room will not encourage any lingering. If they do come aboard, they will be escorted to the forward tankwashing control room. It's not a very comfortable place. We've fitted it with some metal chairs—not enough—and a Formica table. The heat's been turned off. We've painted parts of the deck with a chemical wash smelling faintly of excrement and vomit."
Lloyd's laugh, amplified and metallic, rang across the bridge. "Eli, God forbid you should ever direct a war. But what if they want to see the bridge?"
"We have a strategy for that as well. Trust me, Palmer, when we get through with the customs people in Puerto Williams, it will be highly unlikely they will want to come aboard, and even less likely they will want to see the bridge." He turned. "Dr. McFarlane, from now on you speak no Spanish. Just follow my lead. Let me and Captain Britton do all the talking."
There was a momentary silence. "You said that was our first problem," Lloyd spoke up at last. "Is there another one?"
"There's an errand we must run while we're in Puerto Williams."
"Dare I ask what that might be?"
"I'm planning to engage the services of a man named John Puppup. We'll have to find him and get him on board." Lloyd groaned. "Eli, I'm beginning to think you enjoy springing these surprises on me. Who is John Puppup, and why do we need him?"
"He's half Yaghan, half English."
"And what the hell is a Yaghan?"
"The Yaghan Indians were the original inhabitants of the Cape Horn islands. They are now extinct. Only a few mestizos are left. Puppup is old, perhaps seventy. He basically witnessed the extinction of his people. He's the last to retain some local Indian knowledge."
The overhead speaker fell silent a moment. Then it cracked back into life. "Eli, this scheme sounds half-baked. You said you planned to engage his services? Does he know about this?"
"Not yet."
"What if he says no?"
"When we get to him, he won't be in any condition to say no. Besides, haven't you heard of the time-honored naval tradition of 'impressment'?"
Lloyd groaned. "So now we're going to add kidnapping to our list of crimes."
"This is a high-stakes game," said Glinn. "You knew it when we began. Puppup will go home a rich man. We will have no trouble from that quarter. The only trouble will be locating him and getting him aboard."
"Any more surprises?"
"At customs, Dr. McFarlane and myself will present counterfeit passports. This is the path with the highest certainty of success, although it entails some minor breaking of Chilean law."
"Wait a minute," McFarlane said. "Traveling with fake passports is breaking American law."
"It will never be known. I have arranged for the passport records to be lost in transit between Puerto Williams and Punta Arenas. We will retain your real passports, of course, which have been marked with the correct visas, arrival, and departure stamps. Or so it will seem."
He looked around, as if asking for objections. There were none. The chief officer was at the helm, steering the ship impassively. Captain Britton was looking at Glinn. Her eyes were wide, but she remained silent.
"Very well," Lloyd said. "But I have to tell you, Eli, this scheme of yours makes me very nervous. I want an immediate update when you get back from customs."
The speaker abruptly went dead. Britton nodded to Victor Howell, who disappeared into the radio room. "Everyone who goes into port is going to have to look the part," Glinn said. "Dr. McFarlane can go as he is"—Glinn gave him a rather dismissive once-over—"but Captain Britton will need to be several degrees less formal."
"You said we'll have fake passports," McFarlane said. "I assume we'll have fake names to go with them?"
"Correct. You'll be Dr. Sam Widmanstätten."
"Cute."
There was a short silence. "And yourself?" Britton asked.
For the first time McFarlane could remember, Glinn laughed—a low, small sound that seemed to be mostly breath.
"Call me Ishmael," he said.
17: Chile
July 12, 9:30 A.M.
THE FOLLOWING day, the great ship Rolvaag lay at rest in the Goree Roads, a broad channel between three islands rising out of the Pacific. A chill sunlight bathed the scene in sharp relief. McFarlane stood at the rail of the Rolvaag's launch, a small decrepit vessel almost as rust-stained as its parent, and stared at the tanker as they slowly pulled away. It looked even bigger from sea level. Far above, on the fantail, he could see Amira, swaddled in a parka three sizes too large. "Hey, boss!" she cried faintly as she waved, "don't come back with the clap!"
The boat swung around in the chop and turned toward the desolate landscape of Isla Navarino. It was the southernmost inhabited landmass on earth. Unlike the mountainous coast they had passed the prior afternoon, the eastern flanks of Navarino were low and monotonous: a frozen, snowcovered swamp descending to broad shingled beaches pounded by Pacific rollers. There was no sign of human life. Puerto Williams lay some twenty miles up the Beagle Channel, in protected waters. McFarlane shivered, drawing his own parka more tightly around him. Spending time on Isla Desolación—remote even by the standards of this godforsaken place—was one thing. But hanging around a Chilean harbor made him nervous. A thousand miles north of here there were still plenty of people who would remember his face—and would be happy to acquaint him with the business end of a cattle prod. There was always a chance, however small, that one of them would now be stationed down here.
There was a movement by his side as Glinn joined him at the rail. The man was wearing a greasy quilted jacket, several layers of soiled woolen shirts, and an orange watchcap. He clutched a battered briefcase in one hand. His face, fastidiously clean-shaven under normal conditions, had been allowed to roughen. A bent cigarette dangled from his lips,
and McFarlane could see he was actually smoking it, inhaling and exhaling with every indication of pleasure.
"I don't believe we've met," McFarlane said.
"I'm Eli Ishmael, chief mining engineer."
"Well, Mr. Mining Engineer, if I didn't know better I'd say you were actually enjoying yourself."
Glinn pulled the cigarette from his mouth, gazed at it a moment, then tossed it toward the frozen seascape. "Enjoyment is not necessarily incompatible with success."
McFarlane gestured at his shabby clothes. "Where'd you get all this, anyhow? You look like you've been stoking coal."
"A couple of costume consultants flew in from Hollywood while the ship was being fitted," Glinn answered. "We've got a few sea lockers full, enough to cover any contingency."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. So what exactly are our marching orders?"
"It's very simple. Our job is to introduce ourselves at customs, handle any questions about the mining permits, post our bond, and find John Puppup. We're a wildcatting outfit, here to mine iron ore. The company is teetering on bankruptcy, and this is our last shot. If someone speaks English and questions you, insist belligerently that we are a first-class outfit. But as much as possible, don't speak at all. And if something untoward happens at customs, react as you would naturally."
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