Arctic Gold

downs and outright arguments at times, but Dean knew she liked and respected the guy, despite the sometimes acid banter.

Somehow, it made it even worse that Rubens had left the job of actually telling Lia to him, a job Dean was not going to enjoy. On the other hand, of course, it would have been worse if she learned about the death through other channels-a radio call or a terse e-mail from headquarters. Dean understood why she hadn’t been told while she was still in the field.

But God, this was going to be hard.

Almost as hard, just possibly, as identifying the body, picking up Karr’s effects, and arranging to have him shipped back home.

“How about you then, sir?”

“Eh?”

An attractive blond flight attendant was leaning over him. “Something to drink, sir?” She had a lovely British accent.

“Um, no. Not right now. Thank you.”

“You just give me a ring if there’s anything I can get for you.”

“Right. Thanks.”

This was the same flight Tommy had been booked on a couple of days ago.

Rubens himself had rescheduled Dean’s flight. His trip to St. Petersburg was off, he’d been told. Instead, he would catch a shuttle for the quick hop up to JFK, and there catch British Airways Flight 2112, part of the regular transatlantic service between New York and London.

Dean was used to sudden changes in orders and schedules, often with no explanation… but Rubens had explained this one carefully.

Tommy Karr… dead?

Dean had wondered at first why they’d insisted on putting him on the same flight Karr had taken, but it did make sense. As Rubens had told him, “Don’t take anything for granted, Dean. This thing is big, bigger than we’ve been seeing. I’d like you to talk to the flight crew, the flight attendants, maybe see if any of them remember Karr.”

Dean wondered if this attendant had waited on Karr, if she even remembered him? He looked at her name badge.

Julie.

After she was gone, Dean brought his hand up to his jaw and pretended to rest his head, using his hand to block his mouth from view. “You guys on the air?”

“We’re here, Charlie,” Rockman said back in the Art Room. His voice was fuzzy and indistinct, with bursts of static. Sunspots, they’d told Dean. Communications were going to be patchy in spots for the next several months.

“Just wondering. Did Tommy have any conversations with the flight attendants the other day? Something you folks might have picked up?”

“Sorry, Charlie, you’re breaking up. Say again after ‘Tommy.’”

He repeated himself, trying to speak distinctly while keeping his voice low enough that none of the other passengers would overhear.

“Okay,” Rockman said. “Got it. I was running Tommy during his flight, but Sandy was handling him later on, at the hotel. I do know he was chatting one girl up on the plane, though. Took her back to his room after he got in, in fact.”

“Got a name for her?”

“It’ll be in the transcripts. I can check.”

“Do it, please.”

“Hang on; I’m calling it up. You got something?”

“Not really. Mostly just wondering if someone on the flight crew remembered Tommy, y’know?” He was also remembering that someone had followed Tommy from Heathrow Airport all the way into downtown London. He wasn’t sure why yet, since the ambush had taken place the next day at the symposium, but Karr hadn’t picked up that tail at random. They’d been waiting for him on the street outside the Heathrow hotel. That strongly suggested a chain of contacts, picking him up and handing him off.

“Yeah. Okay… I have it here. ‘Julie.’” There was a pause as Rockford read the transcript. “Wow. Looks like they were going at it pretty hot and heavy until Tommy shut down his comm system. Don’t have a last name on her here, but we could check British Airways records and see who’s scheduled for that flight.”

“Not necessary. Probably not even important. But I may see what she knows.”

Besides, it would give him something else to think about than his upcoming reunion with Lia.

Ice Station Bear Arctic Ice Cap 82° 24' N, 179° 45' E 0538 hours, GMT-12

The snowmobiles rested on their wooden racks at the far end of the aisle. The barking of the dogs was so shrill and loud, Benford could hardly hear himself think. Which, as he thought about it, wasn’t a bad thing at all. Damn it, how had he gotten himself into this?…

He set the gasoline cans down, then reached into the canvas shoulder bag. Inside were two items-the pry bar, stuck halfway out of the bag, and a heavy canvas belt with a black holster dangling from its length. Holding the bar in one hand, he set the belt and holster on the floor.

Benford stepped back, moving into a niche formed by stacks of supply crates, which placed him out of sight. Holding the pry bar in both hands, he hefted it, getting the feel of its weight.

“Commander Larson!” he shouted. “Can you come here?”

There was no answer. Peeking around the corner of the crates, Benford could see both Larson and Richardson at the far end of the building, their backs to him. The damned dogs were making so much racket, the men couldn’t hear him.

This was bad. He was sweating, now, and his heart was pounding. He hadn’t anticipated the possibility of not being heard against the racket.

“Hey!” he screamed, bellowing as loud as he could. Startled, the dogs stopped barking for just a few seconds, long enough for him to shout, “Commander Larson!”

The barking started up again, but not as loudly, for now. Benford heard Larson moving just behind the sheltering corner, heard him say, “What the hell?” as he found the gun belt on the floor. That holster was Larson’s own, holding his 9mm service Beretta. Benford had taken the weapon from Larson’s personal locker hours before, along with a loaded magazine, hiding them in the satchel. “Benford! What the hell is this?”

In the next moment, Larson came into clear view as he stooped over the holster, reaching for it, his head at about the level of Benford’s waist.

Benford had been gripping one end of the pry bar with both gloved hands, holding the bar to one side and low, next to his leg. As Larson bent over the holster, Benford swung the bar, pivoting, coming around hard and up, across his body, the pry bar first catching Larson awkwardly on his arm but then slamming up into his face.

The blow was clumsy. Benford was badly positioned, squeezed in as he was behind the stack of crates, and he’d almost squandered the swing by accidentally striking Larson’s arm first. Still, Benford managed to hit the man squarely enough and hard enough to knock him over, sending him toppling against the crates, a few of which came tumbling down on top of him as he collapsed in a sprawl on the decking. Larson’s face was gushing blood from a broken nose, his hands and legs moving feebly. The dogs went berserk. One husky, easily over a hundred pounds, slammed itself against the chain-link fencing of the kennel.

Stooping, Benford checked the NOAA officer. Larson was unconscious and bleeding heavily.

Quickly Benford dropped the bar, peeled off his gloves, and picked up the holster, fumbling with the catch until he could open it and draw Larson’s Beretta. Benford fished the magazine from the satchel, nudged the end into the grip, and slapped it home, dragging the slide back and letting it snap forward, chambering a round.

Now came the really tough part… except that Benford felt surer, more confident, now that he’d taken the first irrevocable step. Holding the weapon in his right hand, he turned so that it would be hidden behind his body. “Richardson!” he screamed. “Richardson! Come here! Something’s happened!”

No response. Cautiously Benford peeked around the corner of those crates still stacked after Larson’s fall, looking for the other Greenworlder.