Barrett looked up from his reading. “I don't hear anything except the engine.”
“Something's not right,” Doyle said with a frown on his face. The plane dipped several feet. “Damn, we're losing power. Hold on. I'm gonna have to set her down.”
“Set her down?” Barrett said with alarm. He craned his neck, looking at the thick woods below. “Where?”
“I used to know the countryside pretty well, but it's been a while since I hunted up in these parts. I think there's a lake not far from here.”
The plane lost more altitude.
“I see something,” Barrett said, pointing at a flash of reflected sunlight.
Doyle gave Barrett the thumbs-up sign and steered toward the patch of blue water. The aircraft descended rapidly at an oblique angle that looked as if it would end in the tall pines. At the last second, Doyle pulled the plane up, skimming the treetops before making a pancake landing on the lake.
The plane coasted on its momentum toward shore and scraped up onto a narrow beach. Doyle was laughing. “That was a hell of a ride. You okay?”
“My ass is up around my ears, but other than that I'm fine.”
“Getting in was easy,” Doyle said, glancing at the surrounding woods. “Getting out will be the hard part.”
Barrett pointed at the radio. “Shouldn't we be calling for help?”
“In a minute. I want to check for damage.” He climbed out onto the pontoon and stepped onto the beach. He stooped a couple of times to look under the fuselage. “Hey, Spider, take a look at this.”
Barrett got out of the plane. “What's up?”
“Here, under the fuselage. It's amazing.”
Barrett started to get down on his knees. He was still carrying the portfolio.
“I don't see anything.”
“You will,” Doyle said. “You will.” He slipped a pistol out from under his windbreaker.
Barrett bent lower, and the leather folder dropped from his hand. The thick wad of papers spilled out onto the ground. Some of the sheets were caught by a lake breeze and scattered across the clearing as if they had a life on their own.
Barrett bolted after the wayward portfolio, scooping up the papers with the skill of a shortstop. He managed to gather all the papers before they blew into the trees. He tucked them back into the folder and hugged it close to his chest. He had a grin of triumph on his face as he started to walk back to the plane.
He saw the gun in Doyle's hand.
“What's going on, Mickey?”
“Good-bye, Spider.”
He could tell from the tone of Doyle's voice that his friend wasn't joking. His grin vanished. “Why?”
“I can't let you sink the project.”
“Look, Mickey. Tris and I can talk this out.”
“It's got nothing to do with Tris.”
“I don't understand.”
“I'll hoist a beer in your name the next time I get back to Cambridge,” Doyle said.
The .25-caliber pistol in his hand went pop-pop.
The first bullet buried itself in the leather folder. Barrett felt the thud against his chest, but he was still in a state of disbelief when the second bullet grazed his head. Survival reflexes took over. He dropped the folder, turned and bolted into the woods. Doyle got off a couple more shots, but the bullets dug harmlessly into a tree trunk. He swore and gave chase.
Barrett ignored the low-lying tree branches that slashed at his face and the briers that grabbed at his jeans. His surprise and dismay at being shot by a friend had given way to sheer terror. Blood was trickling down the side of his head and neck. As he crashed through the forest, he saw a silver shimmer ahead. Oh hell. He had circled back toward the lake, but there was no going back.
He burst from the woods onto a sandy beach a hundred yards or so from the plane. He could hear Doyle crashing through the brush just behind him. Without hesitating, he slogged into the water, and then took a deep breath and dove under the surface. He was a strong swimmer, and, even with his boots on, he got several yards from shore by the time Doyle arrived at the water's edge. He went as deep as he could go.
Doyle stood on the shore and carefully aimed at the ripples marking the surface where Barrett had disappeared. He peppered the water with bullets, patiently reloaded and shot off another clip.
The water was crimson where Barrett had disappeared. Doyle decided to wait five minutes until he was sure Barrett wasn't holding his breath, but he heard someone yelling from the other side of a patch of tall weeds growing in the water off to his left.
He glanced back at the stain growing on the surface of the lake and tucked the gun in his belt. Walking briskly, he made his way through the woods and back to the clearing. He gathered up the papers that Barrett had dropped and slipped them into the folder, first noticing the bullet hole in the leather binding. He cursed. Served him right for using a popgun. Minutes later, he was in the plane, flying over the treetops.
As soon as he thought he had telephone service, Doyle punched out a number on his cell phone. “Well?” said a man's voice at the other end.
“It's done,” Doyle said. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he was determined to spill the beans.”
“Too bad. He was brilliant. Any problems?”
“Nope,” Doyle lied.
“Good work,” the voice said. “I want to see you tomorrow.”
Doyle said he would be there. As he clicked off, he experienced a twinge of Irish sentimentality at having to kill his old friend. But Doyle had grown up in a neighborhood where a friendship could end with a nighttime burial over a drug deal gone wrong or an imprudent comment. This was not the first time he had dispatched a friend or acquaintance. Business, unfortunately, was business. He put Barrett out of his mind and began to think of the riches and power that would soon be in his grasp.
He would have been less at ease if he knew what was going on back at the lake. A canoe had rounded the weed patch. The two fly fishermen in the canoe had heard the pop of Doyle's handgun. They wanted to warn whoever was hunting that people were in the area. One of the men was a Boston lawyer, but, more important, the other was a doctor.
As they emerged from the weeds, the lawyer pointed toward the water and said, “What the hell is that?”
The doctor said, “It looks like a melon with a spider on it.”
They paddled until they were a few feet from the object. The melon disappeared, and in its place were eyes, a nose and a gaping mouth. The lawyer raised his paddle and prepared to bring it down on the floating head. Spider Barrett looked up at the two astonished faces. His mouth opened.
“Help me,” he pleaded.
NUMA 6 - Polar Shift
13
WITH A HULL DISPLACEMENT of twenty-three thousand tons and seventy-five thousand horsepower produced by its powerful engines, the Yamal-class Russian icebreaker Kotelny was capable of continuously breaking through seven feet of ice. Its sharply angled bow sliced through the slushy spring ice pack like a warm knife through sherbet. As Karla Janos stood in the bow and surveyed the fog-shrouded island that was her destination, she felt as if someone had walked across her grave.
The involuntary shudder that passed through her willowy body had nothing to do with the rawness of the weather in the East Siberian Sea. Karla was bundled in a down parka, and she had become inured to biting cold after two winters with the University of Alaska at Fairbanks, where temperatures routinely dropped to forty degrees below zero. She was well enough acquainted with the territory around the Arctic Circle to know that there was little chance Ivory Island would live up to the image of warm whiteness evoked by its name, but she was totally unprepared for the total bleakness of the isolated place.
As a scientist, Karla knew that her reaction was emotional rather than objective, but the island had a forbidding aspect that she couldn't easily shrug off. The most prominent feature of the island was a dead volcano that still had patches of snow around its truncated summit. The overcast skies drained all t
races of color from the sunlight so that the sea and land appeared to be bathed in a depressing gray light. As the ship moved closer to the island, she saw that the low rolling hills and tundra around the volcano were broken by a network of ravines whose twisting cliffs, combined with a trick of the slanting sunlight, created an optical illusion, as if the surface of the island were writhing in pain.
“Excuse me, Miss Janos. We'll be dropping anchor in fifteen minutes.”
She turned and saw the ship's commander. Captain Ivanov was a sturdily built man in his sixties. His broad face was weathered from the arctic elements, and a white sailor's beard fringed his chin.
The captain was a kindly man who had spent much of his life sailing the frigid waters around the archipelago. Karla and the avuncular Ivanov had forged a strong friendship since she had boarded the icebreaker at its home base on Wrangel Island. She had enjoyed their wide-ranging chats over dinner. The captain had impressed her with a scope of knowledge of history, biology and meteorology that went beyond the tools necessary to command a large ship on unfriendly seas. She had made him blush when she called him a Renaissance man.
Karla reminded the captain of his daughter, a dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet. She was tall, slim and long of leg, and she moved with the easy grace of someone who is confident in her body. Her long blond hair was tied tight at the back of her head in dancer style. She had inherited the best features of her Magyar and Slavic ancestry: a wide forehead, high cheeks, wide, sensuous mouth, a creamy complexion and smoky gray eyes whose almond shape hinted at an Asian forebear. Although Karla had studied dance briefly, she tended more toward athletic pursuits. She had been a track standout at the University of Michigan, where she earned a degree in paleontology with a minor in vertebrate biology.
“Thank you, Captain Ivanov,” she said. “My bags are packed. I'll collect them from the cabin right away.”
“Take your time.” He gazed at her with kindly blue eyes. “You seem distracted. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I'm fine, thank you. I've been watching the island, and, well, it's rather sinister-looking. My imagination, obviously.”
He followed her gaze. “Not entirely. I've sailed these waters for years. Ivory Island has always seemed different. Do you know much about its history?”
“Only that it was found by a fur trader.”
“That's right. He established the settlement on the river. He killed some of the other traders in a fight over furs, so they couldn't name it after a murderer.”
“I've heard that story. I'm not so sure, even if I were a murderer, that I'd like my name attached to such a lonely and unattractive site. Besides, Ivory Island seems more poetic. And from what I know about the island as a source of ivory, accurate as well.” She paused. “You said the island was different. In what way?”
The captain shrugged. “Sometimes, when I've passed the island in the dark, I have seen lights moving about near the old fur trapper settlement on the river. What they call Ivorytown.”
“That's the expedition's headquarters, where I'll be staying.”
“They were probably pockets of gas luminescence.”
“Gas? You said the lights were moving.”
“You're very observant,” the captain said. “I apologize. I haven't been trying to frighten you.”
“On the contrary, you're interesting me.”
Karla was so much like his daughter. Intelligent. Headstrong. Fearless. “In any event, we'll be back in two weeks to pick you up,” he said. “Good luck with your research.”
“Thank you. I'm optimistic that I'll find something on the island to bolster my theory about the cause of the woolly mammoth's extinction.”
The captain's lips curled into a wry smile. “If your colleagues on the island are successful, we may be seeing mammoths in the Moscow zoo.”
Karla heaved a heavy sigh. “Maybe not in our lifetime. Even if the expedition manages to find mammoth DNA from an ancient specimen and it can be used to artificially impregnate an Indian elephant, it could take more than fifty years to develop a creature that is mostly mammoth.”
“I hope it never happens,” the captain said. “I don't think it's wise to tamper with nature. It's like the sailors say about whistling on board a ship. You might whistle up a wind.”
“I agree, which is why I'm glad I'm engaged in pure research.”
“Again, I offer my best wishes. Now, if you'll excuse me I must tend to my ship.”
Karla thanked him for his hospitality, and they shook hands. Karla felt a sense of loneliness as the captain walked off, but she braced herself with thoughts of the work ahead. With a defiant glance at the island, she headed off to her cabin, where she collected her bags, and came back on deck to wait for her ride to shore.
The ship made a sweep close to the shore of a natural harbor to break a channel through the ice. Karla piled her bags into the ship's launch, then got in herself. The open boat was lowered to the water, the two crewmen aboard cast off the lines and they headed toward the island, weaving their way around chunks of ice as big as cars. As the boat made its way toward land, she could see a figure on shore waving at them.
Minutes later, the launch pulled up to shore a few hundred feet from a river that emptied out into the harbor and Karla stepped out onto the gravelly beach. The middle-aged woman who had been waiting on the beach came over and gave her an unexpected hug.
“I'm Maria Arbatov,” she said, speaking with a Russian accent. “I'm so glad to meet you, Karla. I've heard many good things about your work. I can't believe someone so young has done so much.”
Maria had silver hair tied up in a bun, high, rosy cheekbones and a broad smile that took the chill out of the arctic air.
“I'm pleased to meet you too, Maria. Thanks for the warm welcome.”
Maria excused herself and supervised the unloading of some supplies that had been carried in on the boat. The boxes were neatly piled on the beach, where they would be retrieved later. Maria said there was nobody or nothing around to disturb them. Karla thanked the boat crew. She and Maria climbed a slight hill and hiked along the bank of the river. A path had been trampled by boot prints, suggesting that it had been the major traffic artery to and from the beach for a long time.
“How was your trip?” Maria asked as their feet crunched in the permafrost.
“Great. Captain Ivanov is a sweet man. The Kotelny regularly takes tourist groups around the islands, so my cabin was quite comfortable.”
“Captain Ivanov was very gracious to us as well when he brought the expedition in. I hope you didn't get too comfortable. We have done our best, but our accommodations are far more primitive than those on the ship.”
“I'll survive. How is the project going?”
“As you Americans say, do you want the good news first or the bad?”
Karla gave her a sidelong glance. “I'll leave it up to you.”
“First, the good news. We have gone out on several expeditions and collected many promising specimens.”
“That is good news. Now the bad?”
“You have arrived in the middle of a new Russo-Japanese war.”
“I wasn't aware that I was stepping into a combat zone. What do you mean?”
“You know that this expedition is a joint venture?”
“Yes. It's a consortium of Russian and Japanese interests. The idea is to share the findings.”
“As a scientist, you know that what's important is not so much what you find but how much credit you get for it.”
“Credit equals stature, career and, ultimately, money.”
“Correct. And, in this case, there is a great deal of money at stake, so it is even more important who will get the credit for our findings.”
They were about a half a mile from the beach and had climbed a low rise when Maria announced: “We are almost there. Welcome to Ivorytown.”
They followed the path across the tundra to several buildings clustered near the river. The biggest structure, the
size of a single-car garage, was surrounded by several windowless buildings that were a third as big. The roofs were constructed from rusty corrugated steel. Two large tents had been set off to the side. Karla walked up to the nearest building and ran her hand over the rough, gray surface of the outside wall.
“This is made almost entirely of bones and tusks,” she said in wonderment.
“The people who lived here made use of the most plentiful material on the island,” Maria said. “The fossils are bound in some sort of homemade concrete. It's quite sturdy, and fulfills its main function, which is to keep the cold wind out.”
The weathered wooden door in the side of the building swung open and a heavyset man with a beetling brow emerged. He shouldered Maria aside, hugged Karla like a long-lost uncle and kissed her wetly on both cheeks.
“I'm Sergei Arbatov,” he said. He gave Karla a gold-toothed smile. “I'm the leader of this project. It's so nice to have such a lovely creature working with us.”
Karla couldn't help but notice the shadow that crossed Maria's brow. She had done her homework on the expedition members and knew that while Sergei was the project leader, his wife was his senior in the number of academic degrees she had. Karla constantly had to butt heads against the male academic establishment, and didn't like the way he patronized her and ignored his wife. Karla stepped past Arbatov and put her arm around Maria's shoulders.
“And it will be nice working with someone of such scientific achievement,” she said.
Maria's frown disappeared and she beamed with pleasure. Arbatov's glower indicated that he didn't appreciate the snub. It's not certain what would have happened next if two more people had not stepped out of the building. Without hesitating, Karla stepped over and bowed slightly before one of the men.
“Dr. Sato, my name is Karla Janos. I'm pleased to meet you,” she said to the older of the two men. “I've heard so much about the Gifu Science and Technology Center and Kinki University.” She turned to the younger man. “And you must be Dr. Ito, the veterinarian, with Kagoshima University in southern Japan.”