The Ice Limit

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  Suddenly Britton spoke up. McFarlane could see outrage glittering in her eyes. “Tell me, Mr. Glinn. Just how many others have you calculated need to die before we bring the Desolación meteorite home?”

  For the briefest of moments, Glinn’s neutral veneer seemed to slip at this salvo from an unexpected direction. “None, if I can help it,” he said more coldly. “We will do everything in our power to prevent anyone from getting hurt or killed. And your implication that I find a certain number of deaths acceptable only shows your ignorance of risk assessment. The point is this: no matter how careful we are, there may be casualties. It’s like flying: despite everyone’s best efforts, planes crash. You can calculate the probable death rate for any particular flight. But we still continue to fly. That decision to keep flying doesn’t make the deaths any more acceptable. Do I make myself understood?”

  Britton stared fixedly at Glinn but said nothing further.

  Then Glinn’s voice suddenly became gentle. “Your concerns are genuine, and understandable. I appreciate that.” He turned, and his voice hardened slightly. “But Dr. McFarlane, we can’t retrieve this meteorite by half measures.”

  McFarlane flushed. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. That’s not the way I operate.”

  “I can’t make that promise,” Glinn said. “You, of all people, know how unique this meteorite is. You can’t assign it a value in dollars, and you can’t assign it a value in human life. It all boils down to the one question, which I will direct to you as the representative of the Lloyd Museum—do you still want it?”

  McFarlane glanced around the room. All eyes had turned toward him. In the silence that followed, he realized he could not bring himself to answer the question.

  After a moment, Glinn nodded slowly. “We’ll recover the bodies and give them a heroes’ burial when we return to New York.”

  Dr. Brambell cleared his throat, and his querulous Irish voice sang out. “I’m afraid, Mr. Glinn, there won’t be anything more to bury than, ah, two boxes of wet dirt.”

  Glinn darted Brambell an icy look. “Do you have anything else of substance to add, Doctor?”

  Brambell crossed one green-smocked leg over the other and tented his fingers. “I can tell you how Dr. Masangkay died.”

  There was a sudden hush.

  “Go on,” said Glinn finally.

  “He was struck by a bolt of lightning.”

  McFarlane struggled to absorb this. His old partner, at the very moment of making the discovery of a lifetime—struck and killed by lightning? It seemed like something out of a bad novel. And yet in hindsight, it made sense. The fulgurites he’d seen at the site were a tip-off. On top of everything else, the meteorite was a gigantic lightning rod.

  “Your evidence?” Glinn asked.

  “The bones were burned in a pattern that suggested lightning—a massive charge of electricity passing through the body. I’ve seen it before. And only an electrical blast on the order of lightning could cause the kind of scaling and shattering those bones evidenced. Lightning, you see, not only burns bones and instantly boils the blood, causing an explosive release of steam, but it also triggers sudden muscle contractions that shatter bones. In some cases, it strikes the body with such force that it mimics, say, being hit by a truck. Dr. Masangkay’s body virtually exploded.”

  The doctor dawdled over the word “exploded,” lingering on each syllable with a loving drawl. McFarlane shuddered.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said Glinn dryly. “I will also be eager to hear your analysis of the biota found in the eighty bags of sample earth we removed from the vicinity of the meteorite. I’ll have them sent down to the medical lab right away.”

  Glinn opened his folder. “If the meteorite attracts lightning, that’s yet another reason to keep it covered. Let’s move on. A moment ago, I said we could proceed on schedule. There will, however, have to be some adjustments. For example, the weight of the meteorite is so great that we are now forced to take the absolute shortest path from the impact site to the ship. That means bringing the meteorite through the snowfield, rather than around it. The meteorite can only be moved in a straight line, along a slope of constant descent. It won’t be easy, and it will mean a lot of cutting and filling, but it can be done. Also, Captain Britton has advised me that a winter storm is moving in our direction. If it stays on course, we will have to factor it into our plans. To a certain extent, the cover will be welcome.” He stood up. “I’ll be preparing letters for the family of Gene Rochefort and for the widow of Frank Evans. If any of you would like to include a personal note, please get it to me before we dock in New York. And now, one final thing.”

  He glanced at McFarlane. “You told me that the coesite and impactite around the meteorite was formed thirty-two million years ago.”

  “Yes,” said McFarlane.

  “I want you to collect samples of the basalt flows and volcanic plug beyond the camp and date them as well. We clearly need to know more about the geology of this island. Did your second series of tests bring about any fresh conclusions?”

  “Only fresh puzzles.”

  “In that case, island geology will be your next project.” He looked around. “Anything else before we get back to work?”

  “Yes, guv,” came the reedy voice from the corner of the library. It was Puppup, forgotten by all. He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, hair disheveled, raising his hand and waving it like a schoolboy.

  “Yes?” Glinn asked.

  “You said that two people died.”

  Glinn did not answer. McFarlane, watching, noticed that Glinn did not meet Puppup’s eyes in the way he met everyone else’s.

  “You said that maybe some more people are going to die.”

  “I said nothing of the sort,” said Glinn crisply. “Now, if we’re finished here—”

  “What happens if everybody dies?” Puppup asked, his voice suddenly loud.

  There was an awkward moment.

  “Damn lunatic,” Garza muttered under his breath.

  Puppup merely pointed out the grimy window. All eyes turned.

  Just beyond the rocky outline of Isla Deceit, dark against the failing sky, the gaunt prow of a destroyer was easing into view, its guns trained on the tanker.

  Rolvaag,

  12:25 P.M.

  GLINN SLIPPED a hand into his pocket, withdrew a pair of miniature binoculars, and examined the ship. He had expected Vallenar to make another move; and this, apparently, was it.

  Britton leapt out of her seat and strode to the window. “He looks like he’s about to blow us out of the water,” she said.

  Glinn first examined the masts, and then the four-inch guns. He lowered the binoculars. “It’s a bluff.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Check your Slick 32.”

  Britton turned to Howell.

  “Slick shows no fire-control radar active along that line of bearing.”

  Britton glanced back at Glinn with a curious expression in her face.

  Glinn handed her the binoculars. “He’s pointing the guns at us, but he has no intention of firing them. You’ll notice the fire-control radars aren’t rotating.”

  “So I see.” Britton returned the binoculars. “Stations fore and aft, Mr. Howell.”

  “Mr. Garza, will you make sure our reception room is ready, just in case?” Glinn pocketed the binoculars and glanced at Puppup. The mestizo had slumped back in his chair and was stroking his long, drooping mustaches. “Mr. Puppup, I would like to take a turn with you on deck, if you please.”

  Puppup’s expression did not change. He stood and followed Glinn out of the library and down the wide corridor.

  Outside, a bitter wind blew across the bay, raising dancing whitecaps. Pieces of ice skittered across the deck. Glinn walked ahead, the little old man at his heels, until they reached the great rise of the bow. Here, Glinn stopped and leaned against an anchor windlass, gazing out at the distant destroyer. Now that Vallenar had made his move, the
problem would be to anticipate his future actions. Glinn glanced covertly at Puppup. The only person on board who could shed light on Vallenar was the one he understood least. He had found himself unable to predict or control Puppup’s actions. And the man dogged him like a shadow. It had proved surprisingly unsettling.

  “Got a cigarette?” Puppup asked.

  Glinn slid a new pack out of his pocket—Marlboros, worth their weight in gold—and handed it to Puppup. The man tore it open and tapped out a cigarette. “Match?”

  Glinn lit his cigarette with a lighter.

  “Thanks, guv.” Puppup took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Bit parky out today, eh?”

  “Yes it is.” There was a pause. “Where did you learn your English, Mr. Puppup?”

  “From the missionaries, didn’t I? The only bit of schooling I had was from them.”

  “Did one of them come from London, by chance?”

  “Both of them as did, sir.”

  Glinn waited a moment while Puppup smoked. Even considering the cultural differences, the man was remarkably difficult to read. In fact, Glinn had never met such an opaque individual.

  He began slowly. “That’s a nice ring,” he said, pointing offhandedly at a little gold ring on the mestizo’s pinkie.

  Puppup held it up with a grin. “That it is. Pure gold, a pearl, two rubies, and all.”

  “A gift from Queen Adelaide, I presume?”

  Puppup started, the cigarette jiggling in his mouth. But he recovered quickly. “Right you are.”

  “And what happened to the queen’s bonnet?”

  Puppup looked at him curiously. “Buried with the missus. Looked a fair old treat in it, too.”

  “Was Fuegia Basket your great-great-great-grandmother, then?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Puppup’s eyes remained veiled.

  “You come from a distinguished family.” As Glinn spoke, he looked very closely at Puppup’s eyes. When they flicked away, he knew the comment had had its intended effect. Still, it was essential that this be handled with the greatest finesse. He would have only one chance to unlock John Puppup.

  “Your wife must have died a long time ago.”

  Puppup still didn’t answer.

  “Smallpox?”

  Puppup shook his head. “Measles.”

  “Ah,” Glinn said. “My grandfather died of measles, also.” This was, in fact, true.

  Puppup nodded.

  “We have something else in common,” said Glinn.

  Puppup looked at him sideways.

  “My great-great-great-grandfather was Captain Fitzroy.” Glinn spoke the lie very carefully, keeping his eyes unmoving.

  Puppup’s own eyes slid back out to sea, but Glinn could see the uncertainty in them. The eyes betrayed, every time. Unless, of course, you trained them.

  “Strange how history repeats itself,” he went on. “I have an engraving of your great-great-great-grandmother, when she was a little girl, meeting the queen. It hangs in my parlor.” For the Yaghan, establishing the family connection was everything, if Glinn’s reading of the ethnographic literature was correct.

  As he listened, Puppup grew tense.

  “John, may I see the ring again?”

  Without looking at him, Puppup raised his brown hand. Glinn took it gently in his own, applying a warm pressure to the palm. He had noticed the ring the first time he had seen him, drunk in the snug in Puerto Williams. It had taken his people back in New York a few days to determine what it was, and where it had come from.

  “Fate is a strange thing, John. My great-great-great-grandfather, Captain Fitzroy, of the HMS Beagle, kidnapped your great-great-great-grandmother, Fuegia Basket, and took her to England to meet the queen. And now I have kidnapped you,” he added with a smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? Except that I won’t be taking you to England. Soon, you’ll be home again.” It was popular in those days to bring “primitives” back from the farthest reaches of the earth to display at court. Fuegia Basket had gone back to Tierra del Fuego on the Beagle several years later, with the bonnet and ring given her by the queen. Another passenger on that voyage had been Mr. Charles Darwin.

  Although Puppup did not look at him, the opacity seemed to be fading from his eyes.

  “What will happen to the ring?” Glinn asked.

  “It’ll stay with me into the grave.”

  “No children?” Glinn already knew that Puppup was the last of the Yaghan, but he wanted to gauge the answer.

  Puppup shook his head.

  Glinn nodded, still holding the hand. “Are there no others left at all?”

  “A few mestizos, but I’m the last one to speak the lingo.”

  “That must make you sad.”

  “There’s an ancient Yaghan legend, and the older I get the more I think it was meant for me.”

  “What is that?”

  “When the time comes for the last Yaghan to die, Hanuxa himself will draw him down into the earth. From his bones, a new race will grow.”

  Glinn let go of Puppup’s hand. “And how would Hanuxa take the last Yaghan?”

  Puppup shook his head. “It’s a bloody superstition, isn’t it then? I don’t remember the details.”

  Glinn didn’t push. This was the old Puppup talking again. He realized there was no way to know if he had been successful in reaching him. “John, I need your help with Comandante Emiliano Vallenar. His presence here is a threat to our mission. What can you tell me about him?”

  Puppup shook another cigarette out of the pack. “Comandante Emiliano came down here twenty-five years ago. After the Pinochet coup.”

  “Why?”

  “His father fell out of a helicopter while being questioned. An Allende man. So was the son. He was posted down here to keep him at arm’s length, like.”

  Glinn nodded. That explained a great deal. Not only his disgrace in the Chilean navy, but his hatred of the Americans, possibly even his self-loathing as a Chilean. “Why is he still commanding a destroyer?”

  “He knows certain things about certain people, don’t he? He’s a good officer. And Comandante Emiliano is very stubborn. And very careful.”

  “I see,” said Glinn, noting the shrewdness of Puppup’s insights. “Is there anything else about him that I should know? Is he married?”

  Puppup licked the end of a new cigarette and placed it between his lips. “The comandante is a double murderer.”

  Glinn stifled his surprise by lighting the cigarette.

  “He brought his wife to Puerto Williams. It’s a bad place for a woman. There’s nothing to do, no dances, no fiestas. During the Falklands War, the comandante was put on a long tour of duty in the Estrecho de Magallanes, keeping the Argentinian fleet pinned down for the British. When he came back, he discovered his wife had taken a lover.” Puppup took a deep drag. “The comandante was clever. He waited until he could walk in on them, doing it, like. He cut her throat. As I heard it, he did something even worse to the man. He bled to death on the way to the hospital in Punta Arenas.”

  “Why wasn’t he put in prison?”

  “Down here, you don’t just tell your rival to sod off. Chileans have old notions of honor, don’t they?” Puppup spoke very clearly, very matter-of-factly. “If he had killed them outside the bedroom, it would have been different. But … ” He shrugged. “Everyone understood why a man who saw his wife like that would do what he did. And that’s another reason why the comandante kept his command so long.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s a man who might do anything.”

  Glinn paused a moment, looking out across the channel at the destroyer. It hung there, motionless, dark. “There’s something else I must ask you,” he said, his eyes still on the warship. “That merchant in Punta Arenas, the one you sold the prospector’s equipment to. Would he remember you? Would he be able to identify you, if asked?”

  Puppup seemed to think for a minute. “Can’t say,” he answered at last. “It was a big shop. Then again, there a
ren’t many Yaghan Indians in Punta Arenas. And we had quite a bargaining session.”

  “I see,” said Glinn. “Thank you, John. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Speak nothing of it, guv’nor,” said Puppup. He looked sidelong at Glinn, eyes sparkling with shrewdness and amusement.

  Glinn thought quickly. Sometimes it was best to confess a lie immediately. If done properly, it could breed a perverse kind of trust.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he said. “I know a lot about Captain Fitzroy. But he isn’t actually my ancestor.”

  Puppup cackled unpleasantly. “Of course not. No more than Fuegia Basket was mine.”

  A gust of bitter wind tore at Glinn’s collar. He glanced over at Puppup. “How did you get the ring then?”

  “With us Yaghans, so many died that the last one left inherited the lot. That’s how I got the bonnet and the ring, and just about everything else.” Puppup continued gazing at Glinn in a bemused way.

  “What happened to it all?”

  “Sold most of it. Drank the proceeds.”

  Glinn, startled again at the directness of the response, realized he hadn’t even begun to understand the Yaghan.

  “When this is over,” the old man added, “you’ll have to take me with you, wherever you’re going. I can’t go back home again.”

  “Why not?” But even as he asked the question, Glinn realized he already knew the answer.

  Rolvaag,

  11:20 P.M.

  MCFARLANE WALKED down the blue-carpeted corridor of the lower bridge deck. He was bone tired, yet he could not sleep. Too much had happened for one day: the long string of bizarre discoveries, the deaths of Rochefort and Evans, the reappearance of the destroyer. Having given up on sleep, he found himself roaming the decks of the Rolvaag like a restless apparition.

  Now he paused before a stateroom door. His feet, unbidden, had brought him to Amira’s cabin. He realized, with surprise, that he wanted her company. Her cynical laugh might be just the bracing tonic he needed. Time spent with her would be mercifully free of chitchat or exhaustive explanations. He wondered if she’d be interested in a cup of coffee in the wardroom, or a game of pool.