Cold War

THIRTEEN

The squawk came over their headsets just as Granger was about to release the chopper’s main rotor brake.

“Abort takeoff, Macbird,” the comm tech radioed over the base freq. “I say again, it’s all fliers down. Over.”

Nimec looked at Granger from the passenger’s seat.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked.

Granger shrugged uncertainly, pushed his helmet microphone’s “talk” button. At the edge of the landing zone, a flight director was slicing his right hand across his neck in a throat-cutting motion. Granger watched him through the Plexiglas windscreen and felt a sudden crick of tension in his back.

“Rob, we got clearance from you not three minutes ago,” he said into his mouthpiece.

“I know,” the comm tech said. “And I’m sorry. This is an all-points travel advisory out of your home nest. NOAA synoptics show the storm’s accelerated on a north-easterly track. Present movement has it heading straight toward us over the Ross Shelf, and McMurdo says there’s been more strengthening to the system. We’re looking at a possible upgrade from Condition II. Over.”

Both men were silent in the chopper’s cabin. Its engines kept running. After a few moments Granger reached toward the instrument panel to cut them, then leaned back in his seat staring outward as the twin-turbine whine died away.

Nimec was still looking at him with a sunken expression.

“I don’t believe this,” Nimec said. His hand was balled into a fist against the metal frame of his window. “There anything we can do?”

Granger took a deep breath. This was about the worst foul-up he could imagine. The fucking worst.

“Nothing besides wait,” he said at last, and started unbuckling his harness.

They raced ahead of the storm, the wind hard at their backs, streaking cross-country over miles of snow and ice.

The sky pressed down on them, a low flat deck of clouds. Whiteout had cut visibility to thirty yards, and each rider kept his eyes on the trail of the vehicle before him to avoid separation from the group, their headlights and reflectors of no use in the stirring mist.

In the lead position, Burkhart rode with his thumb heavy on the throttle, squeezing every last bit of speed out of it, his determination a red-hot knife stabbing a passage through the soft barrier emptiness.

He leaned forward as he straddled his seat, knees locked around its leather, gloved fingers tightly gripping its handlebars. The ’mobile dipped, then nosed up, pitching with the terrain’s rise and fall. Powder sprayed from its track in flying ramps, shredding across the curved surface of his windshield. He porpoised down into a steep trench, shot along its bottom, and topped its opposite bank at a full tear, skis springing over the snow.

He could feel the storm at his neck, tumid, angry, coursing overland with unexpected swiftness. Some of his men had wished to suspend travel, find a protected spot where they could hunker down until it lifted. Their tents were designed to withstand the force of the gale. But he’d insisted they bear on at a constant pace.

Let their targets be stationary captives of the elements. His team would be a moving force.

The storm was like a rushing stallion, and they could either stay in front of the charge or be trampled.

Ten minutes after exiting the chopper, Nimec was in Megan’s square, monotone-blue office, still wearing the wind parka he’d donned for his scratched departure.

“They think they can ground us, they’re wrong,” he fumed, standing in front of her desk. “McMurdo doesn’t have any right butting into our affairs. They’ve got no authority.”

She regarded him from her chair. “Pete, calm down, this is just as frustrating for me… ”

“Then get on the phone with somebody over there. Explain that we appreciate their concern for our safety, but have decided to do what’s necessary to find our people.”

“I can’t for a lot of reasons. Russ is one of their pilots—”

“Okay, then we’ll use our own. The guy who was jockeying the pols around is back, why not him? I know he isn’t as familiar with the Valleys. But it’s not like he’s green… ”

“I told you, Russ is only part of it. Cold Corners operates under special arrangement with USAP. We receive direct sponsorship from the American government. In a sense, we represent an extension of its foreign policy interests here. Though we’ve never locked horns over anything, McMurdo Station is an official United States base, and we’re arguably subject to its auspices.”

Nimec leaned forward over the desk, knuckling its edge with both hands.

“And you know, and I know, and these walls know we’ve bent the rules before,” he said.

Megan sighed. “The air-travel restrictions were called with good reason. You’ve never been through a Condition II Antarctic storm. I have. And trust me, MacTown’s alert is absolutely nothing to disregard.”

“Who’s doing that? I checked the weather outlook. The storm’s still miles to our southwest. Even further from Bull Pass. And Granger told me we’d need an hour at most to fly from here to there. I’m not thinking to go ahead with the kind of thorough search I wanted, but if I can accomplish anything at all it’s worth a try. Give me three, four hours and I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

Megan shook her head. “You’re still missing the point,” she said. “Maybe a little intentionally. You know how forecasting works. Anyone who’s ever gotten drenched in the rain because the local weatherman predicted a sunny beach day knows. It’s a matter of estimates. Especially in this place. The situation could deteriorate faster than anyone thinks. Look at how the storm’s motion has already shifted from the original forecast.”

Nimec stared at her. He could see where this was leading. “Antarctica. It controls the show. Like mighty Olympus. Have I got that right in my head yet? Or do I have to hear it from one more person?”

Megan looked at him.

“Listen,” she said. “My decision has to be about the good of the whole base. If you wind up in a bad situation, getting you out of it becomes a priority. Which would mean putting more of our people at risk. I can’t allow it.”

“And how about Alan Scarborough and those scientists? Since when have they stopped being a priority?”

Megan sat in silence for perhaps thirty seconds, her gaze suddenly sharp.

“Alan wouldn’t want anyone doing something as unwise as what you’ve suggested,” she said in a tight voice.

There was another long interval of silence. Nimec straightened, lifted his hands off her desk, and stepped back from it.

“So we’re done, that it?” he said at last. “This place makes the call.”

Megan shook her head slowly.

“No, Pete,” she said. “I do.”

Their eyes momentarily clashed.

“Appreciate you telling me,” Nimec said, and abruptly turned away from her, leaving the office without another word.

Burkhart stood in an ice-sheathed elbow of rock and gazed through his binoculars as the rising, snarling gusts blew around him.

There, he thought. There it is.

He could see UpLink’s ice station in the basin below, perhaps a half mile to the north, its modular core elevated above the snowdrifts on mechanical stilts. Much closer to his position was the geodesic dome housing the critical life-support facility that had been marked for destruction.

Unseen beneath the neoprene face mask he’d donned in the worsening cold, a touch of a smile. He had emerged from the senses-numbing vacancy of the whiteout, reached his destination with the gale well at his rear.

He turned to the man who’d accompanied him onto the bluff.

“Go back to the others,” he said. “You’re to make camp in the lee slope, wherever its best shelter can be found. Shovel plenty of snow over the ground flaps of our tents. Be sure the flies are also secure.”

The man’s eyes widened behind his goggles, but he remained quiet.

“What’s on your mind?” Burkhart said.

The man hesitated.

“Tell me,” Burkhart said. “I’ll reserve my bite.”

The man shook his head.

“I don’t understand why we’d wait,” he said. “We’ve driven ourselves without halt to outpace the storm.”

Burkhart looked at him, wind clapping the sides of his hood.

“Langern, you’re mistaken,” he said. “We’re meeting the storm. Joining its attack. There’s actually much it can help us take care of, can you see?”

Langern stood a moment.

“Yes, I think,” he said. “But there’s danger in it—”

“No worse than in immobility.” Burkhart made a dismissive gesture. “Is anything else bothering you?”

Langern just shook his head.

“Then get moving,” Burhkart said. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Langern started across the snow, walking downhill to where the rest of the men had waited with the snowmobiles and equipment.

Alone on the escarpment, Burkhart lifted the binoculars back to his eyes and resumed studying the base.

There was much yet that he wished to observe.

“I really feel responsible for you being stranded,” Megan said. “Sorry, Russ.”

Granger was careful not to show his uneasiness.

“You didn’t call in the storm,” he said.

“No, but I did call you, even knowing it was on the way.” She shook her head, her shoulders moving up and down. “Guess I’d been anxious for Pete to make it to the pass and take a look-see.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Granger coerced an accepting smile out of himself. “There isn’t much difference whether I’m wheels-down at Cold Corners or MacTown. And from what they told me over the radio, our field camps are in fair enough shape for the duration. So it’s not as if my detour caused any harm.”

Megan looked at him a moment, then nodded.

“Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that the weather blows over fast,” she said. “Meanwhile, you should be okay using this bunk. There weren’t any others available with our delegation from the States needing accommodations.” She paused, glanced down at the neatly made bed to her right, and settled herself. “It’s Alan Scarborough’s, you know. Sam Cruz here is his roommate.”

Granger turned to the man beside them in the little dorm and shook his hand. In fact, he wouldn’t feel remotely okay sleeping in that bed. Knowing what happened to the rover’s S&R team, the idea of it gave him the horrors.

“This must be a tough spell for you,” he said to Cruz. “Hope I’m not being too much of an imposition.”

“No, no, please,” Cruz replied. He was dark-complected, wavy-haired, with a strong grip. “It’ll be good for me to have some company.”

Granger had noticed the humorous marker-inked rendering on the closet door across the room. He glanced at the words above it.

“Prisoners of Fashion,” he read aloud.

“Blame me for that one,” Cruz said. “Megan lets us juvies amuse ourselves by making a mess of our quarters. It’s sort of an in-joke I’ll explain to you later.”

Granger manufactured another smile and plucked at his synthetic thermal vest.

“Think I already get it,” he said.

A half hour after stalking out of Megan’s office, Nimec beckoned the manager of base security over to the same paneled workstation he’d seized for his ultimately wasted planning session with Granger.

“I want to conduct a site security check while there’s an opportunity,” he told him. “Tour the installation so I can get a close-up sense of things.”

And feel like I’m doing something marginally constructive with my time, he thought but did not say.

The Sword base chief nodded. He was a burly guy named Ron Waylon, with a thick walrus mustache and a head that was shaved smooth except for a gladiatorial nape lock reaching to the middle of his back. The lock of hair was bound with a leather cord down its full length. Some sort of body tattoo peeked above his shirt collar on the right side of his neck. The silver earrings he wore on both sides were shaped like long swords, an interesting but questionably appropriate variation on the organizational badge. Or maybe they were supposed to be daggers and Nimec was reading too much symbolism into them.

Whether or not that was the case, he’d found dress and appearance codes to be pretty damn lacking at Cold Corners. Hadn’t the base chief been clean-cut when he was hired? Or was his recollection about that also off the mark?

“Yes, sir,” Waylon replied now. His road-warrior appearance belied a disarming mild-manneredness. “I’m thinking I should mention CC’s probably different from other locations, where the emphasis would be to harden it against corporate spies, armed intruders… human threats to property and employees. Here we try to prepare for emergencies shaping out of natural events. Like, say, the storm that’s headed toward us. If any of our personnel become sick or injured when we’re snowbound, it could be a long spell before relief arrives. So we push real heavy on self-sufficiency, and drill a crisis-and-escalation checklist into everybody’s minds. We try not to ignore perimeter defense. But rescue transport, triage, stopgap equipment repair… I guess they’d be stressed over it.”

Nimec nodded, itching to make himself useful.

“Understood,” he said. “How soon can we do this?”

“Be ready in a jiff, sir. We just need to suit up.”

Nimec rose from his chair. He gave the big man an after-you gesture.

“Lead the way and I shall follow,” he said.

Megan Breen stared at her computer screen feeling strangely under assault from the e-mail messages in her queue. Turn on the machine, and there they were demanding attention, zipped through electronic space from scattered points of origin around the world. Amsterdam, Johore, Tokyo, New Delhi, San Jose, Washington, D.C…

There were two, no, three, waiting to be answered from Bob Lang in Washington, D.C.

She sighed. It was stupid, she knew. An armadillo’s reflex to roll up behind its head and tail shields. But when the boss had first requested that she do a stint in Antarctica, its isolation — and separateness—had appealed to her. In fact, his proposition had come at just the right stage in her life, filling a definite need to time-out from the Cuisinart grind of corporate affairs, the relationships with men that seemed like listless dances around a circle broken and faded from too many retracings of her own footsteps…

She didn’t immediately acknowledge it. In fact, she’d been too knocked for a loop at the time to know exactly what to think.

“We’ve been through a lot of wear and tear lately, Meg,” Gord had said when he’d broached the idea. “A change of scenery might be good for you. Something dramatic. Along with the chance to captain your own ship.” And then he’d given her the look that might have almost convinced her she’d been struck by a thunderbolt. “I know it could only help you prepare for the day you inherit mine.”

Boom.

Megan’s automatic reaction had been a kind of befuddled astonishment. Inherit mine. The thought had never occurred to her. Not consciously, at any rate. The boss had been her vertical constant for too long. Her Kilimanjaro towering at an unmatched height. Turn her eyes to their loftiest reach and he’d be there. Even when he was hospitalized, part of her had denied admittance to the prospect that she could lose him. Somebody take his place one day? Her? It seemed inconceivable…

Gordian had asked her to wait a bit before giving her answer, let the idea sink in, and she’d agreed out of deference alone, or told herself that was the reason, figuring she’d put the whole crazy thing out of her mind, wait a respectable week or so, and courteously decline.

Surprise, surprise. She’d found herself thinking about his proposition, really thinking about it, at odd instances throughout that day. And the next day. And the next. The thoughts had sneaked up on her during morning workouts, business conferences, lunches, cocktail parties. They had slipped between lines of office memoranda, the paragraphs of a novel she was reading, song lyrics on her car stereo. And they’d struck her often when she was with Bob, much too often… once, finally, while they were thrashing toward the climax of an ardent scene on his living-room rug.

It was fairly crass as turning points went, but you weren’t often able to choose their times of arrival, and she supposed you just had to be grateful when you recognized them. That hers had coincided with a moment of intense physical pleasure, some emotional connection to Bob clicking off even as her body aggressively pursued its own independent gratification, was fitting and probably necessary in its way. Action plus conflict equaled change, wasn’t that how it went?

Megan didn’t fault Bob for not noticing; she was almost sure she hadn’t shown any outward signs, and there had been enough happening to distract him if she had. But the episode had been privately embarrassing. And worse, terribly depressing as she stood in his shower the morning after, wishing she could stay under its stream until the pipes ran dry. She’d always believed she wanted loose romantic ties, easygoing friendships with sizzle. Now, suddenly and unforeseeably, Megan had realized that she needed more rather than less… and wondered how she could have been so dissatisfied without knowing it.

The first thing at work that same morning, she had gone to the boss’s office and told him she was taking him up on his offer. She did it without stopping at her own desk, not wanting to give herself pause to reconsider. Not wanting to overthink. Seeing at last that her greatest fear in life wore the shape of her own heart, she had refused to back away from coming to terms with it.

Three weeks or so afterward, Megan had swapped her Cole Haan city heels for mukluks and was riding a plane toward the southern polar cap. And she hadn’t regretted it for a second. Little about being in Antarctica was easy. But her choice, its timing, couldn’t have been righter…

Megan was still thinking in front of the computer when she heard a light knock on the door, told whoever it was to come on in, and saw that it was Annie Caulfield.

“Hi,” Annie said, entering. “This an okay time?”

“Actually, you’re rescuing me from a screen full of e-mail I’d prefer to neglect.” Meg rose to show her inside, pulled a chair up to her desk. “I was sort of expecting Pete Nimec anyway.”

“Oh.” Annie sat, cleared her throat. “How’s Pete doing? I heard he came out of San Jose in a hurry.”

“That he did. As a huge favor to me,” Megan said. “To be honest, we’ve had some differences that need to be ironed out… but you got that strictly on the QT.” She shrugged. “I’m sure my minor waves with Pete can’t be more trying than playing travel guide to the Capitol Hill Gang.”

“That’s probably not understating the case. They’re so used to being coddled by aides and interns, motherhood’s starting to seem like a breeze by comparison.” Annie smiled. “Seems we both needed a break, huh?”

“No understatement there either.”

They looked at each other across the desk.

“Annie Caulfield, you’re about the best visitor I could have wished for right now,” Megan said. “I’m just sorry the storm’s messing with your schedule.”

Annie flapped a hand in the air.

“Houston can survive without me a few extra days,” she said, and then was quiet a moment. “You know, Meg, the main reason I dropped by was to thank you for the open reception my group’s gotten in light of everything else that’s going on. And I don’t mean some bad weather.” Another pause. “Having been Chief of Astronauts for a lot of years… and especially after Orion… well, I understand how it feels to be hijacked by outside circumstances. What you and the rest of the base staff must be going through with your people lost out on the ice. Yet you’ve all bent over backwards to make us welcome.”

Megan nodded a little.

“Glad things are working out,” she said. “The kids going to be okay with your extended absence?”

“Are you kidding? When they hear I’m stuck in the snow they’ll think it’s an answer to their prayers,” Annie said. “My mom’s staying with them, poor woman… she’s the one I worry about.”

Megan smiled. She clicked in on Annie’s expression, realized there was more on her mind, and waited.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” Annie said after a companionable silence. “But since you’ve mentioned it… what’s bothering Pete? He seemed so great to work with in Florida. We became friends… and then, well, kind of lost touch…”

“Between us again?”

Annie nodded.

“Pete’s a gem,” Megan said. “He means everything to me. There’s no one in the world I’d rather have at my side in a crunch. But I guess certain adjustments are hard for him.” Her eyes made contact with Annie’s. “People in general have trouble changing direction. And men… they’re the worst. Quick to move when they know it’s wrong, slow when they know it’s absolutely right. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Put a guy at a crossroads, and you’ve got a real problem. He’ll stand there with his feet planted forever unless somebody gives him a push.”

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.

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.”