Polar Shift (7 page)

Adler pinched his chin in thought. “That's an intriguing suggestion. It's certainly worth looking into. I wouldn't rule
any
thing out at this point.”

“You said something about forecasting these freak waves,” Austin said.

“Shortly after the
Bremen
and
Caledonian Star
incidents, the Europeans launched a satellite that scanned the world's oceans. In three weeks' time, the satellites picked out ten waves like the ones that nearly sank the two ships.”

“Has anyone been able to figure out the cause of these killer waves?”

“Some of us have been working with a principle in quantum mechanics called the Schrödinger equation. It's a bit complicated, but it accounts for the way things can appear and disappear with no apparent reason. ‘Vampire wave' is a good name for the phenomena. They suck up energy from other waves and, voilà, we have our huge monster. We still don't know what triggers these things in the first place.”

“From what you've said, every ship whose hull is built to withstand seas based on the Linear Model could suffer the same fate as the
Southern Belle
.”

“Oh, it gets better than that, Kurt.
Much
better.”

“I don't understand.”

“The
Southern Belle
's designers incorporated the newer data on giant waves into their work. The
Belle
had a covered forecastle, a double hull and strengthening of the transverse bulkheads to prevent flooding.”

Austin stared at the scientist for a moment. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “That would mean that the ship may have encountered a wave
larger
than ninety feet.”

Adler gestured toward his computer screen. The image showed a series of wave lines and measurements.

“There were actually
two
giant waves, one hundred and one hundred twelve feet high, to be exact. We captured their pictures on satellite.”

Adler had expected his dramatic pronouncement to make an impression, but both men responded with expressions of intense interest rather than the gasps of disbelief that he had expected. Adler knew he had done well in coaxing a favor from Rudi Gunn when Austin turned to his friend and, without missing a beat, calmly announced:

“Looks like we should have brought our surfboards.”

B
IG
M
OUNTAIN
, M
ONTANA

T
HE OLD MAN PUSHED
off from the chairlift and skied with strong skating steps to the top of Black Diamond run. He paused at the brow of the hill, and his cobalt eyes took in the panoramic sweep of sky and mountain. From seven thousand feet, he had an eagle's-eye view of the Flathead Valley and Whitefish Lake. The snowy peaks of Glacier National Park glistened in the east. Stretching out to the north were the jagged teeth of the Canadian Rockies.

No fog shrouded the bald summit. Not a wisp of cloud marred the luminous blue sky. As the warm sunlight toasted his face, he reflected on the debt he owed the mountains. There was no doubt in his mind. Without the clarity offered by the brooding peaks, he would have gone insane.

When World War II ended, Europe began to pull itself back together, but his mind was a jungle full of dark murmurings. No matter that he had lent his deadly skills to the cause of the Resistance. He was still a robotic killer. Worse, he had a fatal defect—humanity. Like any fine-tuned machine with a flawed mechanism, in time he would have flown apart.

He had left the war-ravaged continent for New York, and pushed west until he was thousands of miles from the smoldering European slaughterhouse. He had built a simple log house, cutting and hewing each log with hand tools. The backbreaking labor and the pure air cleansed the shadowed recesses of his memory. The violent nightmares became less frequent. He could sleep without a gun under his pillow and a knife strapped to his thigh.

With the passage of years, he had evolved from a remorseless, polished killing machine into an aging ski bum. The close-cropped blond hair of his youth had turned to a pewter gray that now grew over his ears. A shaggy mustache matched his wild eyebrows. His pale features had become as weathered as buckskin.

As he squinted against the sun-sparkled snow, a smile came to his long-jawed face. He was not a religious man. He could not muster enthusiasm for a Maker who would create something as absurd as Man. If he chose a religion, it would be Druidism, because it made as much sense to worship an oak tree as any deity. At the same time, he regarded each trip to the top of the mountain as a spiritual experience.

This would be the last run of the season. The snow had held late into the spring as it did at higher altitudes, but the light, fluffy champagne power of the winter had given way to wet, heavy corn. Patches of exposed brown earth showed through the thin cover, and the smell of damp earth hung in the air.

He adjusted his goggles and pushed off with his poles, schussing straight down the North Bowl face to gain speed before initiating his first turn. He always started his day with the same trail, a fast bowl run that wound in between silent snow ghosts—strange, phantasmagoric creatures that formed when cold and fog coated trees with rime. He made the smooth, effortless turns he had learned as a child in Kitzbuhl, Austria.

At the bottom of the bowl, he shot down Schmidt's Chute and into a glade. Except for the most dedicated skiers and boarders, most people had hung up their skis to work on their boats and fishing gear. It seemed that he was the master of the mountain.

But as Schroeder broke out of the trees into the open, two skiers emerged from a copse of fir trees.

They skied a few hundred feet behind him, one on either side of the trail. He moved at the same steady pace, making short radius turns that would give the newcomers room. Instead of passing, they matched him turn for turn, until they were skiing three abreast. A long-dormant mental radar kicked on. Too late. The skiers closed on him like the jaws of a pair of pliers.

The old man pulled over to the edge of the trail. His escorts skidded to hockey stops in sprays of snow, one above him and the other below. Their muscular physiques pushed tightly against the fabric of their identical, one-piece silver suits. Their faces were hidden by their mirrored goggles. Only their jaws were visible.

The men stared at him without speaking. They were playing a game of silent intimidation.

He showed his teeth in an alligator smile. “Mornin',” he said cheerfully in the western accent he had cultivated through the years. “They don't make days better than this.”

The uphill skier said in a slow, Southern drawl, “You're Karl Schroeder, if I'm not mistaken.”

The name he had discarded decades before sounded shockingly alien to his ears, but he held his smile.

“I'm afraid you
are
mistaken, friend. My name is Svensen.
Arne
Svensen.”

Taking his time, the skier planted his ski poles into the snow, removed one glove, reached inside his suit and extracted a PPK Walther pistol. “Let's not play games,
Arne.
We've authenticated your identity with fingerprints.”

Impossible.

“I'm afraid you've confused me with someone else.”

The man chuckled. “Don't you remember? We were standing behind you at the bar.”

The old man combed his memory and recalled an incident at the Hell Roaring Saloon, the après-ski watering hole at the bottom of the mountain. He had been pounding down beers as only an Austrian can. He had come back to his stool from a restroom break and found his half-filled beer mug had vanished. The bar was busy, and he assumed another customer had mistakenly walked off with his drink.

“The beer mug,” he said. “That was you.”

The man nodded. “We watched you for an hour, but it was worth the wait. You left us a full set of fingerprints. We've been on your ass ever since.”

The
schuss-schuss
of skis came from up-trail.

“Don't do anything stupid,” said the man, glancing uphill. He covered the gun with his gloved hand.

A moment later, a lone skier flew by in a blur and disappeared down the trail without slowing.

Schroeder had known that his transformation from cold-blooded warrior to human being would leave him vulnerable. But he had come to believe that his new identity had successfully insulated him from his old life. The gun pointed at his heart was persuasive evidence to the contrary.

“What do you want?” Schroeder said. He spoke with the world-weariness of a fugitive who had been run to ground.

“I want you to shut up and do what I say. They tell me you're an ex-soldier, so you know how to follow orders.”

“Some soldier,” the other man said with undisguised scorn. “All I see from here is an over-the-hill guy crapping his pants.”

They both laughed.

Good.

They knew he had been in the military, but he guessed they didn't know that he had graduated from one of the world's most notorious killing schools. He had kept his martial arts and marksmanship skills honed, and, although he was pushing eighty, constant physical exercise and strenuous outdoor pursuits had maintained a body many men half his age would have envied.

He remained calm and confident. They would be on his turf, where he knew every tree and boulder.

“I was a soldier a long time ago. Now I'm just an old man.” He lowered his head, hunching his shoulders to project an attitude of submission, and injected a tremor into his deep voice.

“We know a lot more about you than you think,” said the man with a gun. “We know what you eat, where you sleep. We know where you and your mutt live.”

They had been in his house.

“Where the mutt
used
to live,” said the other man.

He stared at the man. “You killed my dog? Why?”

“Your little wiener wouldn't stop yapping. We gave him a pill to shut him up.”

The friendly little female dachshund he had named Schatsky was probably barking because she was glad to see the intruders.

A coldness seemed to flow into his body. In his mind, he heard his classroom mentor, Professor Heinz. The cherubic psychopath with the kindly blue eyes had been rewarded with a teaching sinecure at the Wevelsburg monastery for his work designing the Nazi death machine.

In skilled hands, nearly any ordinary object can be a lethal weapon, the professor was saying in his soft-spoken voice. The hard end of this newspaper rolled into a tight coil can be used to break a man's nose and drive the bone splinters into his brain. This fountain pen can penetrate the eye and cause death. This metal wristwatch band worn across the knuckles is capable of breaking facial bones. This belt makes a wonderful garrote if you can't quickly remove your boot laces…

Schroeder's grip tightened on the pole handles.

“I'll do whatever you say,” he said. “Maybe we can work this out.”

“Sure,” the man said with the flicker of a smile. “First, I want you to ski slowly to the base of the mountain. Follow my dog-loving friend. He's got a gun too. I'll be right behind you. At the end of the run, take your skis off, stick them in the rack and walk to the east parking lot.”

“May I ask where you're taking me?”

“We're not taking you anywhere. We're
delivering
you.”

“Think of us like FedEx or UPS,” the other man said.

His companion said, “Nothing personal. Just business. Move it. Nice and easy.” He gestured with the gun, then he tucked it back into his suit so he could ski unhindered.

With the downhill man in the lead and Schroeder in the middle, they skied the trail single file at a moderate speed. Schroeder sized up the man ahead as an aggressive skier whose muscle partly made up for his lack of technical skill. He glanced back at the other man and guessed from his free-form technique that he was the less accomplished skier. Still, they were young and strong, and they were armed.

A snowboarder flew by and disappeared down the trail.

Gambling that his escort would reflexively glance at the moving object, Schroeder made his move. He made a wide turn, but instead of traversing he spun his body around 180 degrees so that he was facing uphill.

His escort didn't see the maneuver until it was too late. He tried to stop. Schroeder jammed his downhill ski into the snow. He grasped his right ski pole with both hands, letting the other pole hang by its strap, and drove the steel tip into the small fleshy part of the man's neck above the turtleneck.

The man was still moving when the tip punched a ragged hole in his throat below the Adam's apple. He let out a wet gurgle, his legs went out from under him and he crashed to the snow where he writhed in terrible agony.

Schroeder sidestepped the flailing body like a matador evading a stricken bull.

The lead man glanced over his shoulder. Schroeder yanked back his improvised spear. He dug his poles in and swooped down the trail. He drove his right elbow into the man's cheek and knocked him off balance. With knees bent and head low in a tuck, he schussed straight down the trail until he neared the bottom of the run, where the trail made a sharp turn to the right.

The second skier must have been carrying a machine pistol under his jacket because the burp of automatic gunfire shattered the mountain stillness.

The shots harmlessly shredded the overhead tree branches.

A second later, Schroeder was safely out of the line of fire.

He turned onto a narrow, double-black expert run that twisted down the side of the mountain like a corkscrew. The ski patrol had strung yellow tape and put up a sign, saying the trail was closed.

Schroeder ducked under the tape. The trail dropped into an almost vertical run. The snow had a brownish tinge, showing that the cover was thin. The surface was broken by large patches of bare ground. Rocks that normally lay under the snow base were exposed.

He heard gunfire behind him, and miniature fountains of mud erupted a few feet away. The shooter was at the top of the ridge, firing down.

Schroeder slalomed between bare ground and rocks. His skis hit slush and almost ground to a stop, but there was just enough of a skim coat to allow the skis to keep sliding.

Schroeder wove his way through a field of short moguls and got onto a steep pitch where the snow cover was adequate. He heard gunshots off to his right. His pursuer was skiing down a trail that was parallel to Schroeder's, firing through the glade that separated them. Most of the shots hit trees. The gunman saw that he was missing his mark and went into the woods separating the two trails.

The man's form resembled a kangaroo on steroids, but he powered his way through the woods in leaps and bounds. Schroeder saw that the man would break out of the trees below him, where he could rake the trail with killing gunfire.

The man fell once, and quickly got back on his skis. The delay would give Schroeder time to ski past the gunman before he broke back into the open. He'd still be an easy target. Instead, as the gunman broke from the woods on the side of the trail, Schroeder charged down on him.

The man saw Schroeder hurtling at him and fumbled for his gun under his suit.

Schroeder slashed with his ski pole at the man's exposed face like a Cossack on a rampage. The blow went high and smashed the man's goggles. He lost his balance, skiing first on one ski, then the other. The gun flew out of his hand. Weaving drunkenly, arms flailing, he pitched over the edge of the trail, where it dropped down steeply for about twenty feet into the woods.