The Ares Decision

64

A train sounds higher pitched as it approaches and lower when it moves away. What is that phenomenon known as?”

Jon Smith snapped out of a half doze and blinked a few times. “Uh…the Doppler effect?”

The man behind the wheel grinned at him in the rearview mirror and pushed the station wagon’s accelerator to the floor, punching through a snowdrift as he piloted the station wagon up the steep mountain road.

It had been more than nineteen hours since they’d killed Dahab, but Klein had decided to err on the side of caution. He’d provided their escort with a lengthy list of questions designed to ferret out signs of disorientation and clear instructions on how to proceed if they should display any.

It was a bit like being a contestant on hell’s top-rated game show. Miss a question, get two in the head and a gasoline-fueled roadside cremation.

The vehicle lurched right and high-centered on a drift, prompting their driver — Nazim was the name he’d given — to throw up his hands in frustration. “What is it you say? End of the line?”

He shoved his door open and stepped outside, grimacing at the fat snowflakes suspended in the wind. Smith knew nothing about him beyond the fact that he was one of the many talented free agents that Klein maintained contact with all across the globe.

Howell leapt out after the Turk, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they made their way to the rear of the vehicle. It was good to see him back to normal. Bahame was dead and they were well past the time symptoms would have presented if they’d been infected. In the context of the lives they’d chosen, things were more or less back to normal.

Their skis and packs were already lying in the snow next to the car when Smith eased himself out into the cold. He felt like he’d been run over by a semi. No serious injuries, but at least two lifetimes’ worth of bruises, strains, and abrasions. Combined with the fact that he’d spent most of the flight to Turkey monitoring every angry impulse and moment of confusion while Howell snored into his scotch bottle, he wasn’t sure how much he had left.

“This is the best I could do without making it look like camouflage,” Nazim said, handing them each a stack of used backcountry clothing in tones of light gray and white. Smith stripped, letting the cold attack the swelling in his lower back and elbow for a few moments before getting dressed.

“I checked over the skis personally and they’re in perfect condition,” Nazim said. “One of the pairs of boots is less so, but I’m told that this isn’t a problem.”

When he saw them, Smith managed a smile at Klein’s — or more likely Maggie Templeton’s — otherworldly efficiency. They were his. Taken from his garage and flown to Turkey in time for their arrival.

“You’re going there,” the Turk said, pointing toward a steep canyon sandwiched between two wind-scoured mountains. Smith tried to look up it, but between the snow and the gray clouds hanging from the edges of the rock walls, it was impossible to penetrate more than a quarter mile.

“The Iranian border is about ten kilometers, and while there are no fixed defensive structures, there are patrols. Your passports and other papers are in your packs and the cover story of two adventurers getting turned around in bad weather is solid but less than original. Better to just avoid contact.”

“What about Farrokh’s people?” Smith said, settling onto the bumper and pulling his boots on. Despite the ungodly pounding he’d taken only a few hours ago, Howell was already busy attaching climbing skins to his skis in order to give them the traction necessary to carry him up canyon.

“They know you’re coming and by what route.”

“How will we identify them?”

Nazim thought about it for a moment. “They probably won’t kill you right away.”

“No code word?”

“Our communication with them isn’t that good. It’s channeled through too many intermediaries to be reliable.”

“Great.”

The Turk slammed the back hatch closed as soon as Smith stood, obviously anxious to get out of there.

“Do you know anything about the snowpack, Nazim? Is it stable?”

“I’m afraid I’m from a small village on the Mediterranean,” he said, climbing behind the wheel. “To me, snow is snow.”

The motor roared back to life and he began rocking the car out of the hole his wheels had sunk into. When he was free, he rolled down the window and motioned Smith over.

“Mr. Klein says you have many enemies. Perhaps even in your own intelligence agencies. Be careful who you trust.”

With that, he started backing down the way they’d come. After a few yards, though, he slammed on the brakes and leaned out the window again. “Peter! The Battle of Gaugamela in 382 BC. Who had the larger army?”

“Darius. And it was 331.”

Another thumbs-up from Nazim and he disappeared into the fog, guiding the car in a controlled skid down the slope.

Smith clicked into his bindings, then checked to make sure the batteries in his avalanche beacon were fully charged. “You ready?”

“Absolutely.”

Smith nodded in the direction of the canyon. “Age before beauty.”