Pinnacle Event

29

“I reserved an SUV,” he said in English with a slight German accent.

“Yes, Mr. Baidermann, I have the reservation here,” the Hertz man replied. “We have a Yukon for you, in space 87, just through those doors. I’ll just need your driver’s license and credit card.”

Not even my passport, he thought. The Canadian immigration officer had also been friendly, unsuspicious. To her he was what he seemed, a German businessman arriving from Seoul on KAL, visiting for a week, staying at the Four Seasons downtown.

The Yukon SUV was very large, he thought, but he was told that it would fit in well here and it would do well in the snow. They all seemed to drive big cars here. Canada had so much gas and oil, with even more untapped in the arctic reaches. As he sat in the parking garage, he turned on the navigation system and entered his destination near Whistler. The town was apparently a ski resort that had been expanded to host an Olympics.

He would need to stop at a café for coffee to help him stay awake. It had been a tiring trip, crossing from Hong Kong into China proper at Lo Wu, walking across the covered bridge, waiting in the concrete block passport control buildings on each side, then taking the taxi to Shenzhen. The hotel he used there was best described as a businessman’s lodging. It was not as clean as he would have liked. Then, that night, he had flown to Shanghai and changed planes for Seoul.

The Incheon Airport had been sparkling and the hotel there was a place where he could relax, however briefly. Then the flight to Canada, which seemed short by comparison with the long flights he had known from Europe to Asia. He knew before he told the old man about the Israelis that the news would upset him. He should have guessed that he would summon him, but he might have done that anyway. He wanted Johann’s company. He didn’t like being alone with just the guards, waiting, waiting for the bombs to get in place.

It would happen soon enough. There would be chaos and disorder. Then there would be a new order and new opportunities. They were ready to take advantage of those new opportunities, ready to shape the world that emerged. The traffic thinned out after he left Vancouver and headed north. It was a beautiful region, with pine trees and mountains, and deep fjords like those in Norway. Now, in early November, it was cool, brisk.

The navigation system talked him toward the ski lodge, on a side road outside of Whistler. The pine trees and firs were thicker along the road. Finally, he saw the small wooden sign that he had been told about, pointing to the dirt road. THE WILSONS, it read. PRIVATE ROAD. When the road took a sharp left, he came upon the men in the truck, blocking the path.

“He’s been expecting you,” one man said, after looking at the passport. “I’ll radio ahead.” The other man backed the truck up to let him pass. Three minutes farther down the bumpy road, the trees gave way to a wide green lawn, and the large ski lodge on the hill.

His passport was checked again by men outside of the lodge. They all seemed to be Canadians, or Americans. It was hard for him to tell the difference. “Just go up the stairs. He’s in the Great Room at the top.”

The stairs were wide and opened into a lofted space that filled the entire second floor of the log cabin — motif building. At first, he didn’t see the old man in the vastness of the room. Then, he spotted him sleeping in a large wooden chair by the fireplace. As he walked toward the fire, the old man stirred and looked up. “You are finally here.” They embraced. “It is good to have you here, good to have you here. The weapons have been mated with the tritium. After all of our work, not long now.”