The Ice Limit

discuss the discovery.' He flicked the butt away, watching it sail into the darkness. 'The Rolvaag's tender is hidden on the far side of the island. As soon as we depart, the tender will load up the men and meet us behind Horn Island. Everything else will be left behind.'

'Everything?' McFarlane let his mind run over the shacks full of equipment, the dozers, the container labs, the huge yellow haulers.

'Yes. The generators will be running, all the lights will be left on. Millions of dollars' worth of heavy equipment will be left on the island in plain view. When Vallenar sees us move, he'll assume we're coming back.'

'He won't give chase?'

Glinn did not respond for a moment. 'He might'

'What then?'

Glinn smiled. 'Every path has been analyzed, every contingency planned for.' He raised his radio again. 'Bring the vessel in toward the bluff.'

After a pause, McFarlane could feel the vibration of the big engines. Slowly, very slowly, the great ship began to turn.

Glinn looked back toward McFarlane. 'You have a critical role in this, Sam.'

McFarlane looked at him in surprise. 'Me?'

Glinn nodded. 'I want you to stay in communication with Lloyd. Keep him informed, keep him calm, and, above all, keep him where he is. It might be disastrous if he came down now. And now, farewell. I must prepare for my meeting with our Chilean friend.' He paused and looked McFarlane steadily in the face. 'I owe you an apology.'

'What for?' McFarlane asked.

'You know very well what for. I couldn't have wished for a more consistent or reliable scientist. At the conclusion of the expedition, our file on you will be destroyed.'

McFarlane didn't quite know what to make of this confession. It seemed sincere; but then, everything about the man was so calculated that he wondered if even this admission was intended to do double, or even triple duty, in Glinn's grand scheme.

Glinn held out his hand. McFarlane took it, and laid his other hand on Glinn's shoulder.

In a moment Glinn was gone.

It was only later that McFarlane realized the thick padding he'd felt under his fingers was not a heavy coat but a flak vest.

Franklin Channel,

8:40 P.M.

GLINN STOOD at the bow of the small launch, welcoming the frigid air that streamed across his face. The four men who were part of the operation sat on the deck of the dark pilothouse, suited up, silent and out of sight. Directly ahead, the lights of the destroyer wavered in the calm waters of the sound. As he predicted, it had moved up channel.

He glanced back toward the island itself. An immense cluster of lights surrounded the feverish mining activity. Heavy equipment rumbled back and forth. As he watched, the faint crump of a distant explosion rolled through the air. By comparison, the real work taking place on the bluff looked incidental. The movement of the Rolvaag had been presented, through radio traffic, as a precaution against another storm — the big ship would be moving into the lee of the island and stringing cables to shore.

He smelled the moisture-laden sea air, breathed in the deceptive calm. A big storm was certainly coming. Its precise nature was a secret shared only by Glinn, Britton, and the on-duty officers of the Rolvaag; there had seemed no need to distract the crew or the EES engineers at such a critical moment. But satellite weather analysis indicated it might develop into a panteonero, a cemetery wind, kicking up as early as dawn. Such a wind always started out of the southwest and then swung around to the northwest as it gained strength. Such winds could grow to Force 15. But if the Rolvaag could get through the Strait of Le Maire by noon, they would be in the lee of Tierra del Fuego before the worst of the wind started. And it would be at their backs: ideal for a large tanker, hellish for a small pursuer.

He knew that Vallenar must now be aware of his approach. The launch moved slowly, its full complement of running lights on. Even without radar it would be conspicuous against the black, moonless night water.

The launch drew within two hundred yards of the ship. Glinn heard a faint splash behind him but did not turn around. As expected, three other splashes quickly followed. He was aware of a preternatural calmness, a sharpening of his senses, that always came before an op. It had been a long time, and the feeling was pleasant, almost nostalgic.

A spotlight on the destroyer's fantail snapped on and swiveled toward the launch, blinding him with its brilliance. He remained motionless in the bow as the launch slowed. If he was going to be shot, this would be the moment. And yet he felt an unwavering conviction that the destroyer's gun would remain silent. He breathed in, then exhaled slowly, once, twice. The critical moment passed.

They met him at the boarding hatch and led him up through a series of foul passageways and slippery metal stairways. At the entrance to the puente, the bridge, they paused. Except for the deck officer, Vallenar was alone. He stood at the forward windows, looking out at the island, cigar in his mouth, hands clasped behind his back. It was cold; either the heating system did not work, or it had been turned off. Like the rest of the ship, the bridge smelled of engine oil, bilgewater, and fish.

Vallenar did not turn. Glinn let a very long silence ensue before he began.

'Comandante,' he said in polite, measured Spanish, 'I have come to pay you my respects.'

A faint noise issued from Vallenar, which Glinn took for amusement. The man still did not turn. The atmosphere around Glinn seemed charged with superhuman clarity; his body felt light, as if made of air.

Vallenar removed a letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and paused. Glinn could see the letterhead of a well- known Australian university. Vallenar spoke at last. 'It's a meteorite,' he said, his voice flat and dry.

So he knew. It had seemed the most unlikely path of those they had analyzed; but now it became the path they must follow.

'Yes.'

Vallenar turned. His heavy woolen coat fell back, displaying an old Luger snugged into his belt.

'You are stealing a meteorite from my country.'

'Not stealing,' said Glinn. 'We are within international law.'

Vallenar barked out a laugh, hollow on the nearly deserted bridge. 'I know. You are a mining operation, and it is metal. I was wrong after all: you did come down here for iron.'

Glinn said nothing. With every word of Vallenar's, he was getting priceless information about the man; information that would allow him to make ever more accurate predictions on future behavior.

'But you, senor, are outside my law. The law of Comandante Vallenar.'

'I do not understand,' said Glinn, although he did.

'You will not leave Chile with this meteorite.'

'If we find it,' said Glinn.

Vallenar paused ever so slightly, and in that pause Glinn saw that he did not, in fact, know they had found it.

'What is to prevent me from simply reporting this to the authorities in Santiago? They, at least, have not been bribed.'

'You are free to report it to anyone you wish,' said Glinn. 'We are doing nothing illegal.' He knew Vallenar would never report it. Vallenar was the kind of man who would settle things his own way.

Vallenar took a long drag on the cigar, blowing the smoke in Glinn's direction. 'Tell me, senor... Ishmael, was it not?'

'Actually, my name is Glinn.'

'I see. So tell me, Mr. Glinn, why have you come to my ship?'