“Right. And I’m still a wanted man in those parts as a result.”
“We will offer you suitable protections.”
“So it’s Chile, huh? Well, I know what the insides of their jails look like. Sorry.”
Lloyd didn’t respond immediately. Picking up a stick, he banked the scattered embers, then tossed the stick onto them. The fire crackled up, beating back the darkness. On anybody else, the Tilley hat would look a little silly; somehow, Lloyd managed to pull it off. “If you knew what we were planning, Dr. McFarlane, you’d do it for free. I’m offering you the scientific prize of the century.”
McFarlane chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m done with science,” he said. “I’ve had enough dusty labs and museum bureaucracies to last me a lifetime.”
Lloyd sighed and stood up. “Well, it looks like I’ve wasted my time. I guess we’ll have to go with our number two choice.”
McFarlane paused. “And who would that be?”
“Hugo Breitling would love to be in on this.”
“Breitling? He couldn’t find a meteorite if it hit him in the ass.”
“He found the Thule Meteorite,” Lloyd replied, slapping the dust from his pants. He gave McFarlane a sidelong glance. “Which is bigger than anything you’ve found.”
“But that’s all he found. And that was sheer luck.”
“Fact is, I’m going to need luck for this project.” Lloyd screwed the top back on the thermos and tossed it into the dust at McFarlane’s feet. “Here, have yourself a party. I’ve got to get going.”
He began striding toward the helicopter. As McFarlane watched, the engine revved and the heavy rotor picked up speed, beating the air, sending skeins of dust swirling erratically across the ground. It suddenly occurred to him that, if the chopper left, he might never learn how Masangkay died, or what he had been doing. Despite himself, he was intrigued. McFarlane looked around quickly: at the metal detectors, dented and scattered; at the bleak little camp; at the landscape beyond, parched and unpromising.
At the helicopter’s hatch, Lloyd paused.
“Make it an even million!” called McFarlane to the man’s broad back.
Carefully, so as not to upset the hat, Lloyd ducked his head and began stepping into the chopper.
“Seven fifty, then!”
There was another pause. And then Palmer Lloyd slowly turned, his face breaking into a broad smile.
* * *
To read more, look for The Ice Limit
by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.
* * *
Thunderhead Page 48