The Ice Limit

Glinn thought a moment, or at least gave the appearance of doing so. 'We have orders to bring him on board. May I trouble you for the hire of two of your customers to help us?'

The bartender nodded and walked back to the bar, returning with two burly men. A few words were spoken, money was exchanged, and the two lifted Puppup from the bench and slung his arms around their shoulders. His head lolled forward. In their grasp, he looked as light and fragile as a dry leaf.

McFarlane took a deep, grateful breath of air as they stepped outside. It stank, but it was better than the stale atmosphere of the bar. Britton, who had been standing in the shadows on a far corner, came forward. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Puppup.

'He's not much to look at now,' Glinn said. 'But he'll make an excellent harbor pilot. He's been traversing the waters of the Cape Horn islands by canoe for fifty years; he knows all the currents, winds, weather, reefs, and tides.'

Britton raised her eyebrows. 'This old man?'

Glinn nodded. 'As I told Lloyd this morning, he's half Yaghan. They were the original inhabitants of the Cape Horn islands. He's practically the last one left who knows the language, songs, and legends. He spends most of his time roaming the islands, living off shellfish, plants, and roots. If you asked him, he'd probably tell you the Cape Horn islands are his.'

'How picturesque,' said McFarlane.

Glinn turned to McFarlane. 'Yes. And he also happens to be the one who found your partner's body.'

McFarlane stopped dead.

'That's right,' Glinn continued in an undertone. 'He's the one who collected the tomographic sounder and the rock samples and sold them in Punta Arenas. On top of everything else, his absence in Puerto Williams will be most helpful to us. Now that we have attracted attention to Isla Desolacion, he won't be around to gossip and spread rumor.'

McFarlane looked again at the drunk. 'So he's the bastard who robbed my partner.'

Glinn laid a hand on McFarlane's arm. 'He's extremely poor. He found a dead man with some valuable things. It's understandable, and forgivable, that he'd look to make a small profit. There was no harm in it. If not for him, your old friend might still be lying undiscovered. And you would not have the opportunity to finish his work.'

McFarlane pulled away, even as he was forced to admit to himself that Glinn was right.

'He will be most useful to us,' Glinn said. 'I can promise you that.'

Silently McFarlane followed the group as they made their way down the murky hillside toward the harbor.

Rolvaag,

2:50 P.M.

BY THE time the launch exited the Beagle Channel and approached the Rolvaag, a heavy, bitter fog had enveloped the sea. The small group remained inside the wheelhouse, huddled on flotation cushions, barely speaking. Puppup, who was propped upright between Glinn and Sally Britton, showed no signs of regaining consciousness. However, several times he had to be prevented from nodding to one side and snuggling himself against the captain's pea coat.

'Is he shamming?' the captain asked, as she plucked the old man's frail-looking hand from her lapel and gently pushed him away.

Glinn smiled. McFarlane noticed that the cigarettes, the racking cough, the rheumy eyes had all vanished; the cool presence had returned.

Ahead, the ghostly outline of the tanker now appeared above the heavy swell, its sides rising, rising above them, only to disappear again into the soupy atmosphere. The launch came alongside and was hoisted into its davits. As they went aboard, Puppup began to stir. McFarlane helped him shakily to his feet in the swirling fog. Couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds, he thought.

'John Puppup?' Glinn said in his mild voice. 'I am Eli Glinn.'

Puppup took his hand and gave it a silent shake. He then solemnly shook hands with everyone else around him, including the launch tender, a steward, and two surprised deckhands. He shook the captain's hand last and longest of all.

'Are you all right?' Glinn asked.

The man looked around with bright black eyes, stroking his thin mustache. He seemed to be neither surprised nor perturbed by the strange surroundings.

'Mr. Puppup, you're probably wondering what you're doing here.'

Puppup's hand suddenly dove into his pocket and removed the wad of soiled money; he counted it, grunted with satisfaction that he hadn't been robbed, and replaced it.

Glinn gestured toward the steward. 'Mr. Davies here will see you to your cabin, where you can get washed up and put on a fresh change of clothes. Does that suit you?'

Puppup looked at Glinn curiously.

'Maybe he doesn't speak English,' McFarlane murmured.

Puppup's eyes swiftly fixed on him. 'Speaks the king's own, I does.' His voice was high and melodious, and through it McFarlane heard a complex fugue of accents, Cockney English strongly predominating.

'I'll be happy to answer all your questions once you've had a chance to settle in,' Glinn said. 'We will meet in the library tomorrow morning.' He nodded to Davies.

Without another word, Puppup turned away. All eyes followed him as the steward led the way into the aft superstructure.

Overhead, the ship's blower rasped into life. 'Captain to the bridge,' came the metallic voice of Victor Howell.

'What's up?' McFarlane asked.

Britton shook her head. 'Let's find out.'

The bridge looked out into an all-enveloping cloud of gray. Nothing, not even the deck of the ship, was visible. As he stepped through the door, McFarlane caught the tense atmosphere within. Instead of the normal skeleton complement, there were half a dozen ship's officers on the bridge. From the radio room, he could hear the high- speed clatter of a computer keyboard.

'What do we have, Mr. Howell?' Britton asked calmly.

Howell looked up from a nearby screen. 'Radar contact.'

'Who is it?' McFarlane asked.

'Unknown. They're not responding to our hails. Given its speed and radar cross-section, it's probably a gunboat.' He peered back, throwing some switches. 'Too far to get a good look on the FLIR.'

'Where away?' Britton asked.

'They seem to be circling, as if searching for something. Wait a moment, the course has steadied. Eight miles, bearing one six zero true, and closing. The ESM's picking up radar. We're being painted.'

The captain joined him quickly and peered into the radar hood. 'They're CBDR. Estimated time to CPA?'

'Twelve minutes, at current speed and heading.'

'What does all that alphabet soup mean?' McFarlane asked.

Britton glanced at him. 'CBDR — constant bearing and decreasing range.'

'Collision course,' Howell murmured.

Britton turned to the third officer, who was manning the command station. 'Are we under way?'

The officer nodded. 'Steam's up, ma'am. We're on dynamic positioning.'

'Tell the engine room to goose it.'

'Aye, aye.' The officer picked up a black-handled telephone.

There was a low shudder as the ship's engines revved. Anticollision alarms began to sound.

'Taking evasive action?' McFarlane asked.

Britton shook her head. 'We're too big for that, even with engine steering. But we're going to give it a shot.'

From far above on the radar mast, the ship's foghorn gave a deafening blast.

'Course unchanged,' Howell said, head glued to the radar hood.

'Helm's answering,' said the third officer.