"What of him?" Glinn asked.
"You must forgive Comandante Vallenar," the official said, reaching into another drawer and pulling out some papers and an official stamp. He inked the stamp, then quickly impressed the papers, seemingly anxious to have the visitors gone. "He is an idealist in a land of pragmatists. But he is nothing. There will be no rumors, no interruption of your work. You have my word." He handed the papers and the passports back across the desk.
Glinn took them and turned to go, then hesitated. "One other thing. We have hired a man named John Puppup. Do you have any idea where we might find him?"
"Puppup?" The official was clearly startled. "That old man? Whatever for?"
"It was represented to us that he has an intimate knowledge of the Cape Horn islands."
"I cannot imagine who told you such a thing. Unfortunately for you, he received money from somewhere a few days ago. And that means only one thing. I would try El Picoroco first. On Callejon Barranca." The official rose, flashing his gilded smile. "I wish you luck finding iron on Isla Desolación."
18: Puerto Williams
11:45 A.M.
LEAVING THE customs office, they turned inland and began climbing the hill toward the Barrio de los Indios. The graded dirt road quickly gave way to a mixture of snow and icy mud. Wooden corduroys had been placed stairwise along the makeshift track to hold back erosion. The small houses lining the path were a ragtag assortment made with unmatched lumber, surrounded by crude wooden fences. A group of children followed the strangers, giggling and pointing. A donkey carrying an enormous faggot of wood passed them on the way downhill, almost jostling McFarlane into a puddle. He regained his balance with a backward curse.
"Exactly how much of that little dog-and-pony show was planned?" he asked Glinn in a low tone.
"All except for Comandante Vallenar. And your little outburst. Unscripted, but successful."
"Successful? Now they think we're illegally mining gold. I would call it a disaster."
Glinn smiled indulgently. "It couldn't have gone better. If they gave it some thought, they would never believe that an American company would send an ore carrier to the ends of the earth to mine iron. Comandante Vallenar's flare-up was well timed. It saved me from having to plant the idea in their heads myself."
McFarlane shook his head. "Think of the rumors it will start."
"There already are rumors. The amount of gold we gave them will shut them up for life. Now our good customs people are going to scotch those rumors and order the island out of bounds. They're much more suited for the job than we are. And they have excellent incentive to do it."
"What about that comandante?" asked Britton. "He didn't look like he was getting with the program."
"Not everyone can be bribed. Fortunately, he has no power or credibility. The only naval officers who end up down here are the ones that have been convicted of crimes or disgraced in one way or another. Those customs officials will be extremely anxious to keep him in line. That will undoubtedly mean a payoff to the commanding officer of the naval base. We gave those officials more than enough to go around." Glinn pursed his lips. "Still, we should learn a little more about this Comandante Vallenar."
They stepped over a runnel of soapy water as the grade lessened. Glinn asked directions of a passerby, and they turned off into a narrow side street. A dirty noon mist was settling on the village, and along with it came a hard freezing of the damp air. A dead mastiff lay swollen in the gutter. McFarlane breathed in the smell of fish and raw earth, noticed the flimsy wooden tienda advertising Fanta and local beers, and was irresistibly brought back five years in time. After twice trying unsuccessfully to cross into Argentina, burdened by the Atacama tektites, he and Nestor Masangkay had ended up crossing into Bolivia near the town of Ancuaque: so unlike this town in appearance, and yet so like it in spirit.
Glinn came to a halt. At the end of the alley before them was a sagging, red-shingled building. A blue bulb blinked above a sign that read EL PICOROCO. CERVEZA MAS FINA. From an open door beneath, the faint throb of ranchera music spilled into the street.
"I think I'm beginning to understand some of your methods," said McFarlane. "What was that the customs man said about somebody sending Puppup money? Was that you, by any chance?"
Glinn inclined his head but did not speak.
"I think I'll wait out here," said Britton.
McFarlane followed Glinn past the door and into a dim space. He saw a scuffed bar made out of deal, several wooden tables covered with bottle rings, and an English dartboard, its wire numbers blackened with tar and soot. The smoke-laden air tasted as if it had hung there for years. The bartender straightened up as they walked in, and the level of conversation dropped as the few patrons turned to stare at the newcomers.
Glinn sidled up the bar and ordered two beers. The bartender brought them over, warm and dripping with foam. "We are looking for Señor Puppup," said Glinn.
"Puppup?" The bartender broke into a broad, scant-toothed grin. "He is in the back."
They followed the man through a beaded curtain, into a little snug with a private table and an empty bottle of Dewar's. Stretched out on a bench along the wall was a skinny old man in indescribably dirty clothes. A pair of wispy Fu Manchu-style mustaches drooped from his upper lip. A thrumcap that looked like it had been sewn together from bits of old rags had slid from his head to the bench. "Sleeping or drunk?" asked Glinn.
The bartender roared with laughter. "Both."
"When will he be sober?"
The man leaned down, rummaged through Puppup's pockets, and pulled out a small wad of dirty bills. He counted them, then shoved them back.
"He will be sober on Tuesday next."
"But he has been hired by our vessel."
The bartender laughed again, more cynically.
Glinn thought a moment, or at least gave the appearance of doing so. "We have orders to bring him on board. May I trouble you for the hire of two of your customers to help us?"
The bartender nodded and walked back to the bar, returning with two burly men. A few words were spoken, money was exchanged, and the two lifted Puppup from the bench and slung his arms around their shoulders. His head lolled forward. In their grasp, he looked as light and fragile as a dry leaf.
McFarlane took a deep, grateful breath of air as they stepped outside. It stank, but it was better than the stale atmosphere of the bar. Britton, who had been standing in the shadows on a far corner, came forward. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Puppup.
"He's not much to look at now," Glinn said. "But he'll make an excellent harbor pilot. He's been traversing the waters of the Cape Horn islands by canoe for fifty years; he knows all the currents, winds, weather, reefs, and tides."
Britton raised her eyebrows. "This old man?"
Glinn nodded. "As I told Lloyd this morning, he's half Yaghan. They were the original inhabitants of the Cape Horn islands. He's practically the last one left who knows the language, songs, and legends. He spends most of his time roaming the islands, living off shellfish, plants, and roots. If you asked him, he'd probably tell you the Cape Horn islands are his."
"How picturesque," said McFarlane.
Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Yes. And he also happens to be the one who found your partner's body."
McFarlane stopped dead.
"That's right," Glinn continued in an undertone. "He's the one who collected the tomographic sounder and the rock samples and sold them in Punta Arenas. On top of everything else, his absence in Puerto Williams will be most helpful to us. Now that we have attracted attention to Isla Desolación, he won't be around to gossip and spread rumor."
McFarlane looked again at the drunk. "So he's the bastard who robbed my partner."
Glinn laid a hand on McFarlane's arm. "He's extremely poor. He found a dead man with some valuable things. It's understandable, and forgivable, that he'd look to make a small profit. There was no harm in it. If not for him, your old friend might still be lying undiscovered
. And you would not have the opportunity to finish his work."
McFarlane pulled away, even as he was forced to admit to himself that Glinn was right.
"He will be most useful to us," Glinn said. "I can promise you that."
Silently McFarlane followed the group as they made their way down the murky hillside toward the harbor.
19: Rolvaag
2:50 P.M.
BY THE time the launch exited the Beagle Channel and approached the Rolvaag, a heavy, bitter fog had enveloped the sea. The small group remained inside the wheelhouse, huddled on flotation cushions, barely speaking. Puppup, who was propped upright between Glinn and Sally Britton, showed no signs of regaining consciousness. However, several times he had to be prevented from nodding to one side and snuggling himself against the captain's pea coat.
"Is he shamming?" the captain asked, as she plucked the old man's frail-looking hand from her lapel and gently pushed him away.
Glinn smiled. McFarlane noticed that the cigarettes, the racking cough, the rheumy eyes had all vanished; the cool presence had returned.
Ahead, the ghostly outline of the tanker now appeared above the heavy swell, its sides rising, rising above them, only to disappear again into the soupy atmosphere. The launch came alongside and was hoisted into its davits. As they went aboard, Puppup began to stir. McFarlane helped him shakily to his feet in the swirling fog. Couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds, he thought.
"John Puppup?" Glinn said in his mild voice. "I am Eli Glinn."
Puppup took his hand and gave it a silent shake. He then solemnly shook hands with everyone else around him, including the launch tender, a steward, and two surprised deckhands. He shook the captain's hand last and longest of all.
"Are you all right?" Glinn asked.
The man looked around with bright black eyes, stroking his thin mustache. He seemed to be neither surprised nor perturbed by the strange surroundings.
"Mr. Puppup, you're probably wondering what you're doing here."
Puppup's hand suddenly dove into his pocket and removed the wad of soiled money; he counted it, grunted with satisfaction that he hadn't been robbed, and replaced it.
Glinn gestured toward the steward. "Mr. Davies here will see you to your cabin, where you can get washed up and put on a fresh change of clothes. Does that suit you?"
Puppup looked at Glinn curiously.
"Maybe he doesn't speak English," McFarlane murmured.
Puppup's eyes swiftly fixed on him. "Speaks the king's own, I does." His voice was high and melodious, and through it McFarlane heard a complex fugue of accents, Cockney English strongly predominating.
"I'll be happy to answer all your questions once you've had a chance to settle in," Glinn said. "We will meet in the library tomorrow morning." He nodded to Davies.
Without another word, Puppup turned away. All eyes followed him as the steward led the way into the aft superstructure.
Overhead, the ship's blower rasped into life. "Captain to the bridge," came the metallic voice of Victor Howell.
"What's up?" McFarlane asked.
Britton shook her head. "Let's find out."
* * *
The bridge looked out into an all-enveloping cloud of gray. Nothing, not even the deck of the ship, was visible. As he stepped through the door, McFarlane caught the tense atmosphere within. Instead of the normal skeleton complement, there were half a dozen ship's officers on the bridge. From the radio room, he could hear the high-speed clatter of a computer keyboard.
"What do we have, Mr. Howell?" Britton asked calmly.
Howell looked up from a nearby screen. "Radar contact."
"Who is it?" McFarlane asked.
"Unknown. They're not responding to our hails. Given its speed and radar cross-section, it's probably a gunboat." He peered back, throwing some switches. "Too far to get a good look on the FLIR."
"Where away?" Britton asked.
"They seem to be circling, as if searching for something. Wait a moment, the course has steadied. Eight miles, bearing one six zero true, and closing. The ESM's picking up radar. We're being painted."
The captain joined him quickly and peered into the radar hood. "They're CBDR. Estimated time to CPA?"
"Twelve minutes, at current speed and heading."
"What does all that alphabet soup mean?" McFarlane asked.
Britton glanced at him. "CBDR—constant bearing and decreasing range."
"Collision course," Howell murmured.
Britton turned to the third officer, who was manning the command station. "Are we under way?"
The officer nodded. "Steam's up, ma'am. We're on dynamic positioning."
"Tell the engine room to goose it."
"Aye, aye." The officer picked up a black-handled telephone.
There was a low shudder as the ship's engines revved. Anticollision alarms began to sound.
"Taking evasive action?" McFarlane asked.
Britton shook her head. "We're too big for that, even with engine steering. But we're going to give it a shot."
From far above on the radar mast, the ship's foghorn gave a deafening blast.
"Course unchanged," Howell said, head glued to the radar hood.
"Helm's answering," said the third officer.
"Rudder amidships." Britton walked toward the radio room and opened the gray metal door. "Any luck, Banks?"
"No response."
McFarlane walked to the forward bank of windows. The line of wipers was clearing the film of mist and sleet that seemed to constantly renew itself. Sunlight struggled to break through the heavy gauze beyond. "Can't they hear us?" he asked.
"Of course they can," Glinn said quietly. "They know perfectly well we're here."
"Course unchanged," Howell murmured, peering into the radar hood. "Collision in nine minutes."
"Fire flares in the direction of the ship," Britton said, back at the command station.
Howell relayed the order, and Britton turned to the watch officer. "How's she steer?"
"Like a pig, ma'am, at this speed."
McFarlane could feel a heavy strain shuddering through the ship.
"Five minutes and closing," Howell said.
"Fire some more flares. Fire them at the ship. Put me on ICM frequency." Britton picked up a transmitter from the command station. "Unidentified vessel three thousand yards off my port quarter, this is the tanker Rolvaag. Change your course twenty degrees to starboard to avoid collision. Repeat, change your course twenty degrees to starboard." She repeated the message in Spanish, then turned up the gain on the receiver. The entire bridge listened silently to the wash of static.
Britton replaced the transmitter. She looked at the helmsman, then at Howell.
"Three minutes to collision," Howell said.
She spoke into the blower. "All hands, this is the master speaking. Prepare for collision at the starboard bow."
The foghorn ripped once again through the thinning veils of mist. A claxon was going off, and lights were blinking on the bridge.
"Coming up on the starboard bow," Howell said.
"Get damage and fire control ready," Britton replied. Then she pulled a bullhorn from the bulkhead, raced toward the door leading onto the starboard bridge wing, tore it open, and vanished outside. As if at a single thought, Glinn and McFarlane followed.
The moment he stepped outside, McFarlane was soaked by the frigid, heavy haze. Below, he could hear confused sounds of running and shouting. The foghorn, even louder here on the exposed deck, seemed to atomize the thick air that surrounded them. Britton had run to the far end of the wing and was leaning over the railing, suspended a hundred feet above the sea, bullhorn poised.
The fog was beginning to break up, streaming across the maindeck. But off the starboard bow, it seemed to McFarlane that the mist was thickening, growing darker again. Suddenly, a forest of antennas solidified out of the gloom, forward anchor light glowing pale white. The foghorn once again blasted its warning, but the vessel came u
nrelentingly toward them at full speed, a creamy, snarling wake of foam cutting across its gray bows. Its outlines became clearer. It was a destroyer, its sides pitted and scarred and streaked with rust. Chilean flags fluttered from its superstructure and fantail. Four-inch guns, stubby and evil-looking, sat in housings on the fore and aft decks.
Britton was screaming into the bullhorn. Collision alarms sounded, and McFarlane could feel the bridge wing shaking beneath him as the engines tried to pull away. But it was impossible to turn the big ship quickly enough. He planted his feet, grasping the railing, preparing for impact.
At the last moment, the destroyer sheered to port, gliding past the tanker with no more than twenty yards to spare. Britton lowered the bullhorn. All eyes followed the smaller vessel.
Every gun of the destroyer—from the big deck turrets to the 40-millimeter cannon—was trained on the bridge of the Rolvaag. McFarlane stared at the ship in mingled perplexity and horror. And then his eyes fell on the destroyer's flying bridge.
Standing alone, in full uniform, was the naval comandante they had met that morning in customs. Wind tugged at the gold bars on his officer's cap. He was passing so close beneath them that McFarlane could see the beads of moisture on his face.
Vallenar paid them no mind. He was leaning against a .50-caliber machine gun mounted to the rail, but it was a posture of false ease. The barrel of the gun, its perforated snout heavy with sea salt and rust, was aimed directly at them, an insolent promise of death. His black eyes skewered them one at a time. His withered arm was clutched against his chest at a precise angle to his body. The man's gaze never wavered, and as the destroyer slid by, both he and the machine gun rotated slowly, keeping them in view.
And then the destroyer fell astern of the Rolvaag, slipping back into the mist, and the specter was gone. In the chill silence that remained, McFarlane heard the destroyer's engines rumble up to full speed once again, and felt the faintest sensation of rocking as its wake passed beneath the tanker. It had the gentle up-and-down motion of a baby's cradle, and, if it had not been terrifying, would have been distinctly comforting.
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