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 tank-washing 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.
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, snow-covered 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 god
forsaken 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.”
“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, stem 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 rem
ote 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 Ice Limit Page 12
