by Tom Clancy
Annie chuckled a little.
“Meg,” she said. “it’s been really super talking to you.”
“Same at this end.” Meg was smiling again. “How about we do some more once we’re through with today’s business? We have a bar here . . . the Meat Locker, hardy-har. I guarantee you’ll be impressed at how well it’s stocked.”
“Promise to drag me out before the last call and you’re on.”
Megan looked at her and winked.
“Dear girl,” she said, “one of the beauties of living in Antarctica is that last call’s whenever you want it to be.”
Pete Nimec pushed open the high-mounted 4x4’s passenger door, then frowned as gusting wind slammed it back hard against his shoulder. He gave it more oomph and jumped out into shin-deep snow.
Waylon came around from the driver’s side of the truck. He’d left the engine running.
“Storm’s really on the move now,” he said.
Nimec couldn’t make out his comment. It was difficult enough to hear through his hood and face mask without the wind batting the words off into space.
“What was that you said?” he almost shouted, moving closer.
Waylon pointed overhead to the south, his arm at ten o’clock. “Check out the space invaders.”
Nimec gazed up at a huge floating armada of vaporish flying saucers and took an involuntary breath of raw air. It ranked as one of the eeriest sights that he’d ever seen.
“They snow clouds?”
“More of an advance escort,” Waylon said. Steam puffed from his mouth and froze into little pearlets of ice on his mustache, causing it to droop further down the sides of his chin. “Those are lenticular hogbacks. If this storm fits the regular pattern, we’ll see some shreddy cirrus clouds made up of ice crystals stream in behind them and then get low and thick and cover the sky. That’s whiteout time, and it’s no fun. The cumulus clouds come last, bring the main front. You know them right away because they’ve got these ugly anvil tops. The higher their tops, the harder they slam down on you.”
Nimec looked at him. “Sounds like you know your stuff.”
Waylon shrugged. “A bug in the jungle better know when an elephant stampede’s on the way.”
“Your antennas tell you how long before it reaches us?”
“I’m guessing an hour till snow starts falling, four or five before we feel the real brunt. But don’t hold me to that,” he said. “The on-line sat voodoo says it’ll be closer to six, which just seems way outside the mark.”
Nimec stood looking at him in the face of the wind.
“I’ll go ahead and bet my money on you,” he said.
Waylon didn’t comment. After a moment he nodded his head toward the long, ribbed metal structure to their right, where a group of men had formed a human conveyor belt from the entrance to a Caterpillar parked outside, stacking its flatbed high with crates.
“Anyway, sir, I’ve got a couple of reasons for showing you this arch first,” he said. “One, it’s our outermost building, a warehouse where we store contingency provisions. I figured we’d start here and work our way back to the main compound.”
He paused, watching the big tracked vehicle get loaded up.
“And two?” Nimec said.
“What you see is a perfect example of a Sword operation, Antarctic style,” he said. “It’s obviously not very exciting. The crates are filled with canned food and bottled water. We’re shifting them to the utilidors in case of a pinch, which is SOP before any Class II storm.”
Nimec was perusing the arch from where he stood. Although a wide path had been dozed in front of the entrance, its roof and sides were inundated with a thick caking of snow.
He searched his recollection.
“Just curious,” he said. “Maybe there aren’t any marauding hill tribes about to come after your soup and jerky sticks, but you ever get any security systems functional out here?”
Waylon shook his head. “We considered all kinds of monitoring and access-control equipment to stay in line with normal UpLink requirements. Experimented with swipe-card scanners, biometrics, even robot hedgehogs . . . didn’t have much luck in these conditions.”
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I remember the requisitions totaling up to a fortune,” Nimec said. “The techies kept trying to modify the stuff. Weather-harden it.”
“And every one of those req slips probably had my name on them,” Waylon said. “No matter what we did to enhance their shieldings, the electronics would go down as fast as we got them fixed.” He pointed a gloved hand at a spot above the arch’s open entry door. “There’re some surveillance cams hidden up top. IR thermography, one-eighty-degree rotation, recessed so they’re protected from some of the elements. On a good day they work all right. But it takes constant maintenance to keep frozen precip off the gimbals and lenses.”
Nimec grunted. The wind boomed around him, a gust almost lifting him off his feet. He was starting to desperately miss the 4x4’s heated interior.
“Okay,” he said in a loud voice. “What’s next?”
Waylon shrugged.
“Your call, sir,” he said. “I can walk you inside the arch for a look around, or drive us on over to the water-desalinization and treatment dome.”
Nimec looked at their waiting vehicle, decided in about a second.
“Let’s roll,” he said.
Near Cold Corners Base, Victoria Land
Burkhart crouched under the tent fly as he entered from outside and quickly zippered shut the double door flaps. Here in the upper elevations, the pregnant clouds had begun to spill their frozen moisture, flinging drops of sleet and snow hard into the wind.
Squatted over their open crates of weapons, his men turned to look at him, the cloth sides of the tent thumping and rattling around them.
He flipped off his balaclava, pressed a warm hand against the searing birthmark on his cheek.
“Get ready,” he said. “It’s time to strike.”
Elata paced the length of the small room, trying to contain his energy. He’d been here, in this room, in this small stinking village near the Italian border, for five days now, five overlong and crushing days, waiting. He needed this to end, and soon.
Pages from three sketchbooks littered the floor. He’d tried to draw, but it had deepened his frustration. Lines of other artists intruded into his work. A sketch of the bed became an early Van Gogh; the scene from his window a study by Titian. The masters swirled around him like ghosts. He was losing his sanity as well as his sense of himself.
It was Morgan’s fault. Morgan had put him here. Morgan had sucked him into his orbit, jailed Elata as he himself was jailed in exile.
Elata dropped to the floor and did a set of pushups, trying to stifle his paranoia. Then he folded himself back up and crossed his legs, trying to meditate.
This would end in an hour, a day. He was free to walk around the village if he wished; he would be shadowed, but that was for his own protection—Interpol had issued a bulletin for his arrest.
Morgan would pay him and supply him with a different passport. He would be off to nearby Milan, then down to Florence. He could see friends there; they would let him stay for as long as he wished, even forever.
He’d give up forgery completely. There would be objections—Morgan would complain bitterly. Worse, he would tempt him. Money was to be made. But Elata had enough money.
If anyone objected, he would threaten to tell all to Interpol. He had only to make a phone call—one phone call—and hundreds of art collections would be called into question.
He could make the call now. He was tempted. He wouldn’t even have to say anything himself—there was a list in a safety-deposit box in the States that could keep the wolves at Interpol busy for decades.
If he did that, Morgan and the others would be very, very angry. They would kill him. He would have to expect that.
A heavy set of footsteps ascended the steps. It was Morgan’s minion, Peter. The thug never
bothered to knock before opening the door.
“Time to go,” he said. “We’re not coming back.”
“Fine with me,” said Elata, grabbing his knapsack but leaving the sketches on the floor. He went down the stairs quickly; a small yellow Fiat waited nearby, the same car that had brought him here. Belting himself in, he felt paranoia steal over him again. Peter pushed the seat forward harshly as he climbed past into the back; the forger pushed back with a shove.
They could kill him now and he would have no way of avenging himself.
The snow-topped Italian Alps glittered above them as they drove down toward Lake Maggiore. A man in a small boat worked a set of nets near the shore, taking in a meager catch of lavarelli or whitefish, undoubtedly doing a job taught to him by his father, who’d learned from his father and so on back through time. A small speedboat sat half-beached on the shore, an old man sitting cross-legged on its bow. As they drew parallel to the speedboat, the Fiat driver yanked the wheel hard to the left, sending Elata against the door despite his seat belt; the wheels screeched and gravel spat as they came to a halt next to the boat.
Elata unfolded himself from the car slowly, ignoring Peter’s idiotic grunts that he should hurry. He got into the speedboat deliberately, choosing the front seat next to the wheel. The others took the back. The old man stood on the shore and pushed the prow up with his left hand; his arms seemed no thicker than cornstalks, but the push was strong enough to send the boat bobbing backward into the lake. The old man took a step and sprang up, his agility belying the deep wrinkles of age on his face. He jumped over the windscreen, landing square in the seat. The motor revved to life and the boat curled backward and then sped off, foam coursing away and the wake upsetting the fisher’s nets nearby.
A stone building seemed to appear from the middle of the lake a few miles ahead, rising from the shadows of the mountains.
“Ecco,” said the driver. He pointed to the castle, apparently their destination.
“Che è?” asked Elata in Italian. “What is it?”
“Castello Dinelli,” said the old man. The Castle of the Nello Family. He began telling a tale of banditi who had built it during the fifteenth century, men richer than the Borgias and several times as cruel, robber barons who had done what they wanted to the world.
“What became of them?”
“What happens to all of us? The bottom of the lake to feed the fish,” said the old man in Italian.
It’s true, thought Elata. “É vero.”
The island fortress was built straight up from the sheer, chiseled rock; the water lapped against the walls. The only spot to land was a small ramp of mossy rocks flanked on both sides by walls, which made it easily defended. It was impossible to see what might be behind those walls, in the castle beyond, from the water.
The driver reversed the propeller as they approached, slowing to a bare crawl; he turned gingerly, stopping parallel to the rocks, but still a good three or four feet from the island. Elata bent and took off his shoes, rolling his pant legs up; he guessed the water would come to his knees. He reached for his bag, but Peter grabbed hold of it, nearly throwing him off balance.
“What’s the story?” Elata said.
“We’re not allowed on the island. Just you. They’re watching.”
“I can’t have my bag?”
“They’re very nervous, and they’re calling the shots.”
“Well, I need something from it.”
“So take it.”
Elata reached into the knapsack and took out the letter he had been given at the Musée Picasso. He palmed his alphanumeric pager as well, putting both into the inside pocket of his wool suit coat.
“We’ll be here, painter,” said Peter. “Just don’t do anything stupid. They’re not very forgiving.”
Elata threw his shoes and socks to shore and got out of the boat. The water was deeper and the rocks more slippery than he’d thought; he slid backward, stopped only by the side of the craft. His pants were wet well up to his thighs.
If the letter got wet, the daub of paint it contained would be useless. He took off his jacket and held it high above his head, not even daring to throw it ashore for fear he might miss. He walked forward slowly, waddling more than walking. Finally, he reached the dry rocks and could put on his shoes and walk up the ramp.
Elata expected to hear the motorboat rev back up behind him. He expected bullets to glance off the rocks. He expected to die any second, the victim of an elaborate setup.
“Signor Elata?” asked a voice from behind the rock wall on the left.
“Yes.”
“Buon giorno, signore. Come sta.”
“Sto bene,” he said, trying to take a breath.
“I much admire your work. You are a genius,” said a short, thin man with close-cropped hair who stepped out from behind the rock. A small sapphire earring sat in his left lobe. He reached out eagerly and shook Elata’s hand. “I have long wanted to meet you.”
“Okay.”
“You are the third expert Signor Morgan has sent, you understand. But the others—they were clerks. Academics. Schoolteachers.” The small man practically spat as he spoke. “You will understand this. You—it is a pleasure to meet you. Truly.”
Elata started forward. The man caught him.
“I must warn you, my associates, they are very, very suspicious. There are video cameras. One right there, you see?” He pointed toward the yellow wall of the castle where there was, indeed, a video camera. “They hover nearby in a helicopter. Anything bad that you do, anything even suspicious—I’m afraid that it will not go well for you.”
Elata nodded.
“I would not like you hurt. That would be a terrible thing. You have much more to accomplish, eh? The world should not lose you.” The Italian could not have been more sincere. “You may leave when your inspection is done, but the others must stay,” added the man.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Until the transfer is complete. Simply a precaution. These exchanges are always difficult to arrange. It is a dance. My partner wanted you to stay as well, but I persuaded him that you would be insulted. We would not want you insulted.” The man smiled and nodded. “A small boat will pick you up. Signor Morgan will not object, I am sure.”
“Can I see the paintings, please?”
“This way,” said the man, springing forward.
Elata followed him up the ramp to a narrow corridor behind the wall, and then around a sharp corner that led to the castle interior. A large wooden door stood open. The Italian entered; two men in creased jeans sat glumly on a small bench just inside. Elata guessed they were the other experts Morgan had sent; he wondered what their opinion had been.
This was too elaborate to be a trick, but perhaps the sellers would simply kill anyone who thought the paintings were fraudulent.
Morgan was supposed to protect him, the bastard. How could he give his true opinion under these conditions? He had the letter—but what good was it? How could he compare the paint? He trusted his eye better than any laboratory, but still—this was a job for a team of scientists, not an artist.
The short Italian pushed open a small rectangular wall at the side, its thick iron hinges creaking harshly. Elata had to stoop to step through.
Light flooded into his eyes. He’d stepped into a small courtyard.
Fourteen paintings, each approximately eighteen by twenty-six inches, stood on easels before him. He looked at the first and his lungs ceased working; his eyes turned to the second and his heart stopped. By the third he knew he would never himself pick up a paintbrush, either to make a forgery or do something of his own.
There was no point. These fourteen paintings held all possibilities of art—not merely agony but joy, not simply sorrow but triumph. Beyond this there was nothing.
“You may use this phone,” said the Italian, pressing a cell phone into his hand. “Take your time. I will leave you.” He retreated, then paused at the door. “Of course, if
you think they are fake—”
“They’re not fake,” said Elata. There was no sense bothering to compare the paint.
“You’ll want to study them carefully before your conclusion. There are X-rays, whatever you want.”
Elata said nothing.
“I’ll leave you,” said the Italian, slipping away.
The phone rang just as Morgan pushed himself back from Lucretia on the divan. Minz, her head resting on her sister’s leg, reached for him lazily.
At other times, most other times, he would not have bothered to answer the phone, but he was waiting for this call. He reached back and took the handset; as he brought it to his ear he felt a sharp pain in his chest, a difficult feeling of remorse—what if the Picassos were fake?
The Italian and his partner would be eliminated, but that would be no consolation, none at all.
“Yes,” said Elata. His voice was hushed, the syllables of the word drawn out.
Morgan said nothing, reaching back and hanging up the phone instead. He slid one hand beneath the oversized divan, reaching for the alphanumeric pager so he could set the exchange in motion.
His other hand slipped onto Minz.
“Be with you in a moment, hon,” he said, turning his full attention to the pager’s miniature keyboard. “But we’ll have to make it quick; I have to meet a helicopter at the airport in ten minutes.”
FOURTEEN
NEAR COLD CORNERS BASE VICTORIA LAND, ANTARCTICA
MARCH 13, 2002
THE SNOWMOBILES DESCENDED TOWARD COLD CORNERS through razor bends in the slope, tacking between rock falls, ramparts of drifted and avalanche-piled snow, blue ice pinnacles that soared hundreds of feet into the dusky hanging clouds.
