Cold War

“Nimec,” he answered.

It was the boss, as anticipated.

“Pete, you’d better come on up here.”

“This about Megan’s e-mail?”

“Yes.”

“I just read it myself,” Nimec said. “Be right with you.”

He cradled the receiver and whisked out into the corridor.

Minutes later Nimec entered Gordian’s reception room, tipped a brisk salute to Norma, got her nod of admittance, stepped over to the heavy oak inner door that she guarded like a vigilant gryphon, and rapped twice as he shouldered it open.

He stood inside the doorway and waited. Roger Gordian sat at his desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with its view of the city skyline and, east of downtown, the solid heave of Mount Hamilton above the Santa Clara foothills. A look at him told two stories. One was about the lingering physical effects of the biological assassination attempt he’d survived last year. The other was about the force of will that had been as vital to his recovery as the gene-blocker codes grabbed during a scalpel raid on the germ factory in Ontario. This was in November, shortly before Thanksgiving. It would always stick in Nimec’s memory, the time of year it happened, because Gordian had revived from his coma precisely on Thanksgiving Day, his awakening a grace that, like so many, had been attained with terrible bloodshed and sacrifice.

Thanksgiving, not quite four months ago. It seemed longer.

Gordian had gained some weight since his illness, but was much thinner than before. Its ravages had left noticeable marks on his features: the pale cheeks, the slight wiriness of his graying hair, the finely veined skin at his temples, the dark hollows under his eyes. But his eyes themselves radiated an undiminished intensity and brightness. He was better, and with time would be better still.

What troubled Nimec on occasion was knowing that few great losses were ever reclaimed in total.

He tried not to let his thoughts slide in that direction right now.

“You knocked,” Gordian said.

“Don’t I always?”

Gordian shook his head. “It started after I got back.”

Nimec sat across the desk from him.

“Really?” Nimec said.

“Really.” Gordian shrugged. “Of course, my observation doesn’t imply an absolute preference.”

Nimec rubbed his chin. “Might just be a passing fad anyway.”

Gordian smiled a little and was quiet. The picture frame in his hands was sized for an 8X10 photograph. Nimec couldn’t see the display side from his chair, but realized Gord had been looking at it when he came in.

“With the bad news from Cold Corners, I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the right time to thank you,” Nimec said. “Except I can’t think of one that would be righter. The car, well…”

He paused a moment, at a loss for words.

Gordian regarded him from across the desk. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Nimec said. “It’s… choice.”

“And it arrived okay?”

“Last night. A guy rolls it up to my building, has the doorman buzz the intercom, tell me somebody’s dropped off an oversized package. That I might want to come down to the lobby and get it.”

Gordian nodded approvingly.

“He can follow a script,” he said.

Nimec looked at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“—let you know how much I value everything you’ve done for me over the past decade? I’m the person who needs to be grateful, Pete.”

Nimec kept looking at him.

“Hard to believe it’s been ten years,” Nimec said.

“To the day,” Gordian said.

Another pause.

“Still,” Nimec said. “I’ve got a pretty fair idea what that car must have set you back… ”

“I can afford it.”

“That isn’t the point… ”

“Would you have preferred something more conventional? Say, a jeweled tie clip and cuff link set? You’ve never seemed one for dressing up.”

“I’m security chief,” Nimec said. “You hired me to manage the protection of our employees and corporate facilities. And I do it the best way I know how.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t deserve the job if I gave less.”

“Enough,” Gordian said. “There aren’t many companies engaged in the sort of high-risk ventures UpLink International tackles. I could mention a dozen offhand that would pay whatever salary you demand, without requiring that you be on standby to zip off around the world in a flash. We both know why you’re here. Why you stay. So ease up and enjoy the car. I was thinking it would complement the old Wurlitzer jukebox and soda bar in that ratty pool hall of yours.”

Nimec raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you’d heard about it.”

“Murmurs and whispers,” Gordian said. “I’d be glad to see it sometime. Test my skill at Fourteen-one Continuous.”

Nimec gave his surprise a chance to wane.

“You’re on,” he said.

Gordian nodded, his face becoming serious. He took a slow, deep breath that worked as a kind of unintentional segue.

“Now,” he said. “We need to talk about Antarctica.”

“Yeah,” Nimec said.

Gordian hesitated. He glanced down at the picture frame again, then back at Nimec.

“The missing search team,” he said. “Do you know any of its members?”

Nimec shook his head. “I’ve read their personnel files. That’s about it.”

“I’ve met them all at one time or another,” Gordian said. “My association with Dave Payton and Shevaun Bradley has been strictly in connection with the rover project. They’re top people in their field. And they’re our people.”

They looked at each other in silence. Our people. Nimec fully grasped the connotations of that short phrase. Nothing meant more to Gordian than the safety of his employees in the far-flung regions where UpLink had established many of its outposts. His Dream, capital D, was to bring greater freedom, prosperity, and stability to the citizens of corrupt and oppressive governments by opening them up to information that otherwise might be blocked by their political leadership. Staking his legacy on the old axiom that knowledge was democracy’s best tool, he’d brainstormed and funded the world’s largest telecommunications network with a fortune earned in military aviation technology. That had involved building and staffing satellite ground station facilities on some very dangerous turf. It had also made him some very serious enemies. Bad guys in places high and low got touchy when their control was threatened. Thus Gordian had spared no cost putting together a global corporate security division superior to the armed forces of many countries. Dubbed Sword, it was conceived as an antidote to their enemies’ rabid impulses. A way of staying a step ahead of them. But the unpredictable was always a factor. Sometimes the enemy had the cunning and stealth to lurk beneath your radar until he was ready to strike. Sometimes his claws were sharper, and his reflexes quicker, than you thought. And sometimes it was just a fluke accident that got you where it hurt.

If experience had taught Nimec anything, it was that there was no guaranteed inoculation against human vulnerability.

“What can you tell me about the guide?” he said. “Scarborough… that his name?”

“Alan Scarborough,” Gordian said. “We were introduced at our send-off for the original outfitting crew at Cold Corners. He’s ex-Marine, took officer training at A&M, saw combat as a platoon commander in the Persian Gulf… 2nd Division, I think. A strapping, brawny Texan with a personality to match. The type of man that you like right away. And feel you can depend on whatever the circumstances.”