"Naturally?" McFarlane shook his head. "My natural instinct would be to run like hell." He paused. "How about the captain? You think she's up to this?"
"As you may have noticed, she's not your typical sea captain."
The launch cut through the chop, the carefully detuned diesels hammering violently from below. The door to the cabin thumped open and Britton approached them, wearing old jeans, a pea jacket, and a battered cap with gold captain's bars. Binoculars swung from her neck. It was the first time McFarlane had seen her out of a crisp naval uniform, and the change was both refreshing and alluring.
"May I compliment you on your outfit?" Glinn said. McFarlane glanced at him in surprise; he did not remember ever hearing Glinn praise anybody before.
The captain flashed Glinn a smile in return. "You may not. I loathe it."
As the boat rounded the northern end of Isla Navarino, a dark shape appeared in the distance. McFarlane could see it was an enormous iron ship.
"God," said McFarlane. "Look at the size of that. We'll have to give it a wide berth, or its wake will sink us." Britton raised her binoculars. After a long look, she lowered them again, more slowly. "I don't think so," she replied. "She's not going anywhere fast."
Despite the fact that the ship's bow was toward them, it seemed to take an eternity to draw nearer. The twin masts, gaunt and spidery, listed slightly to one side. Then McFarlane understood: the ship was a wreck, lodged on a reef in the very middle of the channel.
Glinn took the binoculars Britton offered. "It's the Capitán Praxos," he said. "A cargo vessel, by the looks of it. Must have been driven on a shoal."
"It's hard to believe a ship that size could be wrecked in these protected waters," said McFarlane.
"This sound is only protected during northeasterly winds, like we have today," said Britton, her voice cold. "When they shift to the west, they'd turn this place into a wind tunnel. Perhaps the ship had engine trouble at the time."
They fell silent as the hulk drew nearer. Despite the brilliant clarity of the morning sun, the ship remained oddly out of focus, as if surrounded in its own cloak of mist. The vessel was coated, stern to stern, in a fur of rust and decay. Its iron towers were broken, one hanging off the side and caught among heavy chains, the other lying in a tangle on the deck. No birds perched on its rotting superstructure. Even the waves seemed to avoid its scabrous sides. It was spectral, surreal: a cadaverous sentinel, giving mute warning to all who passed.
"Somebody ought to speak to Puerto Williams Chamber of Commerce about that," McFarlane said. The joke was greeted without laughter. A chill seemed to have fallen on the group.
The pilot throttled up, as if eager to be past the wreck, and they turned into the Beagle Channel. Here, knife-edged mountains rose from the water, dark and forbidding, snowfields and glaciers winking in their folds. The boat was buffeted by a gust of wind, and McFarlane pulled his parka tighter around him.
"To the right is Argentina," Glinn said. "To the left, Chile."
"And I'm heading inside," said Britton, turning toward the pilothouse.
* * *
An hour later, Puerto Williams rose out of the gray light off the port bow: a collection of shabby wooden buildings, yellow with red roofs, nestled in a bowl between hills. Behind it rose a range of hyperborean mountains, white and sharp as teeth. At the foot of the town stood a row of decaying piers. Wooden draggers and single-masted gaff sloops with tarred hulls were moored in the harbor. Nearby, McFarlane could see the Barrio de los Indios: a crooked assortment of planked houses and damp huts, tendrils of smoke rising from makeshift chimneys. Beyond them lay the naval station itself, a forlorn row of corrugated metal buildings. What looked like two naval tenders and an old destroyer were moored nearby.
Within the space of a few minutes, it seemed, the bright morning sky had darkened. As the launch pulled up to one of the wooden piers, a smell of rotting fish, shot through with odors of sewage and seaweed, washed over them. Several men appeared from nearby huts and came shambling down gangplanks. Shouting and gesturing, they tried to entice the launch to land at any of half a dozen places, each holding up a hawser or pointing at a cleat. The boat slid into the dock and a loud argument ensued between the two nearest men, quieted only when Glinn passed out cigarettes.
The three climbed out on the slippery dock and looked up at the dismal town. Stray flakes of snow dusted the shoulders of McFarlane's parka.
"Where is the office of customs?" Glinn asked one of the men in Spanish.
"I will take you there," said three simultaneously. Now women were arriving, crowding around with plastic buckets full of sea urchins, mussels, and congrio colorado, jostling one another aside and shoving the ripe shellfish into their faces.
"Sea urchin," said one woman in broken English. She had the wizened face of a septuagenarian and sported a single, remarkably white tooth. "Very good for man. Make hard. Muy fuerte." She gestured with a stiff upraised arm to indicate its results, while the men roared with laughter.
"No gracias señora," Glinn said, shoving his way through the crowd to follow his self-appointed guides.
The men led the way up the pier and along the waterfront in the direction of the naval station. Here, beside another pier only slightly less shabby, they stopped at a low planked building. Light streamed from its sole window into the darkening air, and the fragrant smoke of a wood fire billowed from a tin pipe in the far wall. A faded Chilean flag hung beside the door.
Glinn tipped their guides and pushed open the door, Britton following behind him. McFarlane came last. He took a deep breath of the ripe, chill air, reminding himself it was very unlikely anyone here would recognize him from the Atacama business.
The inside was what he expected: the scarred table, the potbellied stove, the dark-eyed official. Walking voluntarily into a Chilean government office—even one as remote and provincial as this—made him nervous. His eyes strayed involuntarily to the tattered-looking sheaf of wanted posters hanging from a wall by a rusted metal clamp. Cool it, he told himself.
The customs official had carefully slicked-back hair and an immaculate uniform. He smiled at them, revealing an expanse of gold teeth. "Please," he said in Spanish. "Sit down." He had a soft, effeminate voice. The man radiated a kind well-being that seemed extravagantly out of place in such a forlorn outpost.
From a back room of the customs office, voices that had been raised in argument were suddenly hushed. McFarlane waited for Glinn and Britton to sit down, then followed their lead, lowering himself gingerly into a scuffed wooden chair. The potbellied stove crackled, giving off a wonderful glow of heat.
"Por favor," the official said, pushing a cedar box full of cigarettes at them. Everyone declined except Glinn, who took two. He stuck one between his lips and popped the other into his pocket. "Mas tarde," he said with a grin.
The man leaned across the table and lit Glinn's cigarette with a gold lighter. Glinn took a deep drag on the unfiltered cigarette, then leaned over to spit a small piece of tobacco off his tongue. McFarlane glanced from him to Britton.
"Welcome to Chile," the official said in English, turning the lighter over in his delicate hands before slipping it back in his jacket pocket. Then he switched back to Spanish. "You are from the American mining ship Rolvaag, of course?"
"Yes," said Britton, also in Spanish. With seeming carelessness, she slipped some papers and a wad of passports out of a battered leather portfolio.
"Looking for iron?" the man asked with a smile.
Glinn nodded.
"And you expect to find this iron on Isla Desolación?" His smile held a touch of cynicism, McFarlane thought. Or was it suspicion?
"Of course," Glinn answered quickly, after stifling a wet cough. "We are equipped with all the latest mining equipment and a fine ore carrier. This is a highly professional operation."
The slightly amused expression on the official's face indicated that he had already received information about the big rust bucket anchored beyond t
he channel. He drew the papers toward him and flipped through them casually. "It will take some time to process these," he said. "We will probably want to visit your ship. Where is the captain?"
"I am the master of the Rolvaag," said Britton.
At this the official's eyebrows shot up. There was a shuffling of feet from the back room of the customs house, and two more officials of indistinct rank came through the door. Heading to the stove, they sat down on a bench beside it.
"You are the captain," the official said.
"Sí."
The official grunted, looked down at the papers, casually leafed through them, and looked up at her again. "And you, señor?" he asked, swiveling his gaze to McFarlane.
Glinn spoke. "This is Dr. Widmanstätten, senior scientist. He speaks no Spanish. I am the chief engineer, Eli Ishmael."
McFarlane felt the official's gaze linger on him. "Widmanstätten," the man repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. The two other officials turned to look at him.
McFarlane's mouth went dry. His face hadn't been in the Chilean newspapers for at least five years. And he'd had a beard at the time. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. Sweat began to form at his temples.
The Chileans stared at him curiously, as if detecting his agitation with some kind of professional sixth sense.
"No speak Spanish?" the official said to him. His eyes narrowed as he stared.
There was a brief silence. Then, involuntarily, McFarlane blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Quiero una puta."
There was sudden laughter from the Chilean officials. "He speaks well enough," said the man behind the table. McFarlane sat back and licked his lips, exhaling slowly.
Glinn coughed again, a hideous racking cough. "Pardon me," he said, pulling out a grimy handkerchief, wiping his chin, scattering yellow phlegm with a savage shake, and returning it to his pocket.
The official glanced at the handkerchief, then rubbed his delicate hands together. "I hope you are not coming down with something in this damp climate of ours."
"It is nothing," said Glinn. McFarlane looked at him with growing alarm. The man's eyes were raw and bloodshot: he looked ill.
Britton coughed delicately into her hand. "A cold," she said. "It's been going around ship."
"A mere cold?" asked the official, his eyebrows assuming an uneasy arch.
"Well..." Britton paused. "Our sick bay is overflowing—"
"It's nothing serious," Glinn interrupted, his voice thready with mucus. "Perhaps a touch of influenza. You know what it is like on board ship, everyone confined to small spaces." He let out a laugh that devolved into another cough. "Speaking of that, we would be delighted to receive you aboard our vessel today or tomorrow, at your convenience."
"Perhaps that won't be necessary," said the official. "Provided these papers are in order." He leafed through them. "Where is your mining bond?"
With a mighty clearing of the throat, Glinn leaned over the desk and pulled an embossed, sealed set of papers from his jacket. Receiving them with the edges of his fingers, the official scanned the top sheet, then flipped to the next with a jerk of his wrist. He laid the sheets on the worn tabletop.
"I am desolated," he said with a sad shake of his head. "But this is the wrong form."
McFarlane saw the other two officials glance covertly at each other.
"It is?" asked Glinn.
There was a sudden change in the room; an air of tense expectation.
"You will need to bring the correct form from Punta Arenas," the official said. "At that time, I can stamp it approved. Until then, I will hold your passports for safekeeping."
"It is the correct form," said Britton, her voice taking a hard edge.
"Let me take care of this." Glinn spoke to her in English. "I think they want some money."
Britton flared. "What, they want a bribe?"
Glinn made a suppressing motion with one hand. "Easy."
McFarlane looked at the two, wondering if what he was seeing between them was real, or an act.
Glinn turned back to the customs official, whose face was wreathed in a false smile. "Perhaps," Glinn said in Spanish, "we could purchase the correct bond here?"
"It is a possibility," said the official. "They are expensive."
With a loud sniff, Glinn hefted his briefcase and laid it on the table. Despite its dirty, scuffed appearance, the officials glanced at it with ill-concealed anticipation. Glinn flicked open the latches and raised the top, pretending to hide its contents from the Chileans. Inside were more papers and a dozen bundles of American twenties, held together by rubber bands. Glinn removed half of the bundles and laid them on the table. "Will that take care of it?" he asked.
The official smiled and settled back in his chair, making a tent of his fingers. "I'm afraid not, señor. Mining bonds are expensive." His eyes were fastidiously averted from the open briefcase.
"How much, then?"
The official pretended to do a quick mental calculation. "Twice that amount should be sufficient."
There was a silence. Then, wordlessly, Glinn reached into the briefcase, removed the rest of the bundles, and placed them on the table.
To McFarlane, it was as if the tense atmosphere had suddenly dissipated. The official at the table gathered up the money. Britton looked annoyed but resigned. The two officials sitting on the bench beside the stove were smiling widely. The only exception was a new arrival; a striking figure who had slipped in from the back room at some point during the negotiation and was now standing in the doorway. He was a tall man with a brown face as sharp as a knife, keen black eyes, thick eyebrows, and pointed ears that gave him an intense, almost Mephistophelean aura. He wore a clean but faded Chilean naval uniform with a bit of gold thread on the shoulders. McFarlane noted that, while the man's left arm lay at his side with military rigidity, the right was held horizontally across his stomach, its atrophied hand curled into an involuntary brown comma. The man looked at the officials, at Glinn, at the money on the table, and his lips curled into a faint smile of contempt.
The stacks of money had now been gathered into four piles. "What about a receipt?" asked Britton.
"Unfortunately, that is not our way..." The customs official spread his hands with another smile. Moving back quickly, he slipped one of the piles of money into his desk, then handed two of the other piles to the men on the bench. "For safekeeping," he said to Glinn. Finally, the official picked up the remaining pile and offered it to the uniformed man. The man, who had been peering closely at McFarlane, crossed his good hand over the bad but made no gesture for the money. The official held it there for a moment, and then spoke to him in a rapid undertone.
"Nada," answered the uniformed man in a loud voice. Then he stepped forward and turned to the group, his eyes glittering with hatred. "You Americans think you can buy everything," he said in clear, uninflected English. "You cannot. I am not like these corrupt officials. Keep your money."
The customs official spoke sharply, waggling the wad of bills at him. "You will take it, fool."
There was a distinct click as Glinn carefully closed his briefcase.
"No," said the uniformed man, switching to Spanish. "This is a farce, and all of you know it. We are being robbed." He spat toward the stove. In the dread silence that followed, McFarlane clearly heard the smack and sizzle as the gobbet hit the hot iron.
"Robbed?" the official asked. "How do you mean?"
"You think Americans would come down here to mine iron?" the man said. "Then you are the fool. They are here for something else."
"Tell me, wise Comandante, why they are here."
"There is no iron ore on Isla Desolación. They can only be here for one thing. Gold."
After a pause, the official began to laugh—a low-throated, mirthless laugh. He turned to Glinn. "Gold?" he said, a little more sharply than before. "Is that why you are here? To steal gold from Chile?"
McFarlane glanced at Glinn. To his great dismay, he saw a look of gu
ilt and naked fear writ large across Glinn's face; enough to arouse suspicion in even the dullest official.
"We are here to mine iron ore," Glinn said, in a singularly unconvincing way.
"I must inform you that a gold mining bond will be much more expensive," said the official.
"But we are here to mine iron ore."
"Come, come," said the official. "Let us speak frankly to each other and not create unnecessary trouble. This story of iron..." He smiled knowingly.
There was a long, expectant silence. Then Glinn broke it with another cough. "Under the circumstances, perhaps a royalty might be in order. Provided that all paperwork is taken care of expeditiously."
The official waited. Again Glinn opened the briefcase. He removed the papers and placed them in his pocket. Then he ran his hands across the base of the now-empty briefcase, as if searching for something. There was a muffled click and a false bottom sprang loose. A yellow radiance emerged, reflecting off the official's surprised face.
"Madre de dios," the man whispered.
"This is for you—and your associates—now," said Glinn. "On our disembarkation, when we clear customs—if all has gone well—you will receive twice that amount. Of course, if false rumors of a gold strike on Isla Desolación get back to Punta Arenas, or if we receive unwelcome visitors, we won't be able to complete our mining operation. You will receive nothing more." He sneezed unexpectedly, spraying the back of the case with saliva.
The official hastily shut it. "Yes, yes. Everything will be taken care of."
The Chilean comandante responded savagely. "Look at the lot of you, like dogs sniffing around a bitch in heat."
The two officials rose from the bench and approached him, murmuring urgently and gesturing toward the briefcase. But the comandante broke free. "I am ashamed to be in the same room. You would sell your own mothers."
The customs official turned in his seat and stared behind him. "I think you had better return to your vessel, Comandante Vallenar," he said icily.
The uniformed man glared at each person in the room in turn. Then, erect and silent, he walked around the table and out the door, leaving it to bang in the wind.
The Ice Limit Page 12