Terminal Freeze

“What are you saying, exactly?” Sully asked.

“Just a moment.” Wolff turned to the sergeant. “Is the head count finished?”

Gonzalez nodded.

“Anyone unaccounted for?”

“Just one. That new arrival, Dr. Logan. My men are looking for him now.”

“Everybody else? Network and expedition crew?”

“They’re all here.”

Only then did Wolff glance back at Sully. “I’m saying we have reason to believe that someone at this base was paid to appropriate the specimen for a third party. Either arrangements were made before our arrival, or contact was established at some later point. We will be reviewing all communications in and out of Fear Base over the last seventy-two hours to learn more.”

“I thought you had all this under tight control,” Marshall said. “The thawing process, the security, everything. Just how was this pulled off?”

“We don’t know that yet,” Wolff replied. “It would appear the thawing was hastened-obviously by whoever appropriated the carcass. It was a fully automated process, there was a backup generator-nothing could have gone wrong without external manipulation. We’ve checked outside the perimeter fence. There is no sign of a plane either arriving or leaving in the night. That means the asset is still here.”

“What about footprints?” somebody piped up. “Can’t you track those?”

“Around the vault, where the ice thawed, the ground has been churned up by so many prints it’s impossible,” said Wolff. “Beyond that, the permafrost is too hard for prints to leave an impression.”

“If somebody stole it, why didn’t they take off in the Sno-Cat?” Marshall asked. “You keep the keys up in the weather chamber; anybody could grab it.”

“Too conspicuous. And too slow. The thief would use a plane.” Conti looked around. “We’ll be checking everyone’s belongings. Everyone’s quarters. Everything.”

Wolff rested his oddly expressionless eyes on Gonzalez. “You have the schematics for Fear Base, Sergeant?”

“For the central and southern wings, yes.”

“What about the third wing, the northern wing?”

“That is off-limits and tightly locked.”

“There’s no way somebody could get in?”

“Absolutely not.”

Wolff remained silent a moment, staring at the sergeant as if a new thought had just occurred to him. “Bring me what you can, please.” He looked around the room. “Once this meeting is over, I want everyone to return to their quarters. We’ll try to conduct the search as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, be watchful. If you see anything suspicious-any activity, conversation, transmission, anything-come to me.”

Marshall looked from Wolff, to Conti, and back again. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more: the inherent assumption of treachery, or the speed with which Wolff was moving to address it.

Ashleigh Davis had been sitting disconsolately in a front-row seat, one leg crossed over the other at a sharp angle. She wore a rich silk nightgown beneath the fur coat, and her long blond hair was tousled. “Have fun playing policeman,” she said. “Meanwhile, Emilio, will you please arrange for me to fly back to New York right away? If this tiger thing has fallen through, I still have a chance to cover that special about coral bleaching on the Great Barnacle Reef.”

“Barrier,” Marshall said.

Davis looked at him.

“ Great Barrier Reef.”

“I’ve got someone working on transportation,” Wolff said, with a warning glance at Marshall. “By the way, Ms. Davis, you and Mister…ah, Carradine were the two closest to the vault last night. Did you hear anything, or see anything, unusual?”

“Nothing,” Davis replied, seemingly annoyed at being mentioned in the same breath with the trucker.

“And you?” Wolff glanced at Carradine. The trucker, his seat tilted backward at a dangerous angle, merely shrugged.

“I’d like to speak with the two of you once this meeting ends.” Wolff looked at Marshall. “You too.”

“Why me?” Marshall asked.

“You’re the one who reported the theft,” Wolff replied, as if this act alone established him as a prime suspect.

“Just a minute,” Sully broke in. “What about this new arrival, this Dr. Logan? Why isn’t he here?”

“We’ll be looking into that.”

“It’s one thing to toss orders around, confine everyone to their bunks. But it’s another to start questioning my staff without my authorization.”

“Your staff”-Wolff shot back-“will be the first to be questioned. Your people are the only ones here not cleared in advance for this network operation.”

“ Logan isn’t cleared, is he? Besides, what does clearance have to do with anything?” Apparently the abrupt loss of any chance for television immortality-along with this bureaucrat encroaching on his bit of turf-had reawakened Sully’s professional territoriality.

“It is plenty to do with it,” Wolff replied. “The magnitude of this prize-not only in terms of science but in terms of scientific careers.”

Sully opened his mouth, then closed it again. His face turned beet red.

“I think that covers everything.” Wolff glanced at Conti. “Care to add anything?”

“Just this,” the producer said. “Twenty minutes ago, I got off the phone with the president of Blackpool Entertainment Group. It was one of the more unpleasant conversations of my life.” He scoured the room with his glance. “I’m speaking now to the person or persons who did this. You know who you are. Blackpool considers the value of this find to be incalculable, and is therefore considering its disappearance a gross criminal act.”

He paused once again. “This theft is not, I repeat, not, going down as a black mark on my oeuvre. The asset is here, and you won’t have a chance to get away with it. We will find it, we will re-task our documentary, and we will emerge with an even greater work of art.”

17

Marshall mounted the set of stamped-metal steps very slowly. The stairwell was narrow and dark, lit only by a single fluorescent fixture. Lightbulbs were a scarce commodity: even with the film crew on hand, much of the base remained completely dark.

He felt more tired than he had ever felt in his life. And yet it was not a physical weariness-it was total emotional exhaustion. He had seen it in the strained faces of the others, as well. After so much effort, so much buildup, the sudden inexplicable disappearance left everyone stupefied. And over the entire base hung the question: Who did it?

Reaching the top of the stairwell, he stopped at a closed, windowless door. He glanced at his watch: five minutes past eight. Fifteen hours had passed since he’d discovered the missing cat. Fifteen endless, awful hours, full of mistrust and suspicion and uncertainty. And now, just after dinner, an e-mail summons from Faraday: “RASP room, right away.”

Marshall reached for the handle, pushed it open. Beyond lay a long, low room that resembled the control tower of an airport. Windows ran around all four sides, looking out over the limitless icescape of the Zone. The room was as dark as the stairwell, and the dim light reflected off the scopes of a dozen obsolete radar stations, arrayed in regular rows. Ancient screens, each six feet tall, were pushed diagonally into the corners of the room. Before each sat a projection device, dusty and unused for nearly half a century.

This was the Radar Mapping and Air Surveillance Command Post, known as the RASP room, the nerve center of Fear Base and the highest structure within the perimeter fence. As he looked around, he could make out three