Protocol 7 (25 page)

“Presumptuous little bastard,” he said.

They found themselves in front of Via Casa. Simon pulled up short, not sure what to do.

“Max,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

Max waved the sentiment away. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m just sorry it took me so long to get here. It was hard getting free of the cops.”

Simon nodded. “Don’t I know it. If it wasn’t for Andrew’s scrambler cards, we’d still be sitting in Oxford grinding our teeth.” He had given Max a scrambler card of his own just a few minutes before. Now he was better protected.

They shook hands and agreed once more on where to meet for the next leg of the journey. Simon could scarcely wait for the moment when he could introduce his best friend to the rest of the team.

“Okay, then,” Max said. “See you soon.”

“See you then.”

It seemed to be an oddly anti-climactic ending to one of the most important meetings Simon had had yet. But his mind was already rolling forward to the next meeting; the one he hadn’t mentioned to anyone—including Max.

* * *

Simon checked the time again—two fifteen. He had to meet Nastasia at three, but he hadn’t realized that the Longo Café was on the far side of town, and that Santiago’s greatest marvel wasn’t its majestic mountains, its beautiful women, or its stunning architecture. It was its traffic.

By two forty-five he had reached the proper neighborhood—a quiet part of town in a quaint walking district between a residential neighborhood and a commercial district. The café itself looked old and popular; even in mid-afternoon it was busy.

Simon chose a remote corner and sat down, snagging another quaintly old-fashioned newspaper at the door as he entered. He studied each new face that came through the front door, and noted every person who left. In between, he took a good, long look at everyone who was already there, wondering how in the world he was supposed to recognize a woman he had never met.

The tables were made of heavy, over-varnished wood. The art on the walls looked as if they had been made with a chainsaw and a blowtorch. The drinks were huge and generous, and the prices surprisingly moderate.

A slim figure with straight, jet-black hair and a worn but beautiful leather jacket suddenly loomed up in front of him, blocking his view. She was five-seven, but with heels she was much taller. She moved in so they were face-to-face. If she had a two-inch blade, Simon thought as his stomach fell, she could gut me and walk away unnoticed. How had she gotten so close? How could he have been so stupid?

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she said in a voice as smooth and warm as velvet. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Simon stood awkwardly, smoothing the legs of his pants, suddenly and quite inexplicably nervous.

She was absolutely stunning. Her eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were a blue he had never seen outside of photographs before, a glittering light aqua. She had slightly broad shoulders, graceful fingers, a slim waist, and legs that looked long and strong even in simple blue jeans. It was literally impossible to stop staring at her.

“I am Nastasia. May I sit?”

He glanced around the room in surprise, as if he had completely forgotten where they were. “Oh! Of course. Let me…”

They found nearby chairs in an instant. “Have you eaten?” she asked politely.

“I’m fine,” he told her.

She nodded, graceful as a flower bobbing on a stalk. “All right then.” She looked up at him, squarely into his face, and he was completely swallowed by her light blue eyes. “Professor,” she said, “I understand you have plans to go below the surface of Antarctica.”

Simon reeled back. “How did you—”

“I assume, then, that you have all the gear that’s needed to sustain the extreme temperatures you’ll find down there?”

“The note,” Simon whispered.

“I thought not.”

“In my passport. How did you—”

But Nastasia just continued. “But no matter, it’s all been taken care of. The last German team that went down about three hundred feet below the surface had spent a fortune on hi-tech gear, and when the quarantine took effect, they had to find channels to sell this stuff. I’ve convinced the authorities that I’ve bought it out of sheer scientific interest. As paraphernalia, of sorts.”

Simon was speechless.

“And furthermore, I assume you have someone on your team who can navigate the terrain below the ice? Someone who can guide you to Station 35?”

Simon was speechless.

“No again?” Nastasia leaned forward and told him with a delicate voice and a small smile, “Then Professor Fitzgerald, I have a proposition for you.”

It was well past midnight when Simon’s cab pulled up to a remote warehouse near Valparaiso’s largest shipyard. It was cold. He was tired, and the persistent coastal fog was seeping into him with a relentless chill that made his bones ache.

He fingered his copy of Andrew’s scrambler card in his pocket and wondered yet again if it was still working. It had to be. Without it, he and the others would be completely exposed to UNED and whoever else was watching them from the satellites and the security cams, tracing them through phone calls and RF relays and thread interrogations. Being invisible isn’t too difficult, he told himself, trying to make light of it. Trying…and failing.

He pulled himself out of the cab and paid the driver with cash. Then he simply stood there, smiling tightly and waiting for the man to drive off. They were in the center of a lopsided square of buildings, gates, and offices. He could easily head into any of them, and he didn’t want the cabbie to have the slightest idea where he was going.

The driver eventually got the hint. Simon gave him a half-serious wave as the vehicle hummed off into the night. Only then did he turn to the southwest and head down a narrow alley strewn with sheet metal waste and trash everywhere.

The shipyard was even quieter than he had expected. Now the damnable fog was muffling and blending every sound together as it rolled in like a noxious cloud. All he was able to distinguish was the sound of a distant ship’s horn and the barking of agitated guard dogs blocks away.

The alley opened into a deserted street lined with industrial buildings. Broken streetlights flickered and flared down one side and were entirely absent on the other. He was glad it was that way. Not the kind of place where locals feel comfortable, Simon thought, and then smiled at himself. Let alone foreigners.

He had seen this street in the GPS imagery when they had planned their rendezvous coordinates with Ryan. It was a particularly accurate rendition: the garbage in the gutters, the broken windows and stuttering lamps, the grimy whitewashed building with an open gate and a sign on the door that read Deportes de Motor.

At last, he thought, as he stepped into the alcove in front of the repair warehouse. His heart began to pound when he heard voices coming from inside. Voices he recognized.

Thank god, he thought. At least some of them made it. Simon’s life had been turned around over the last few weeks; tonight it would take yet another spin.

And he was ready.

He raised a fist and rapped on the sheet metal door, sharp and quick: rap-rap-rap. The voices inside stopped abruptly, and a tiny security cam in an upper corner swerved and pointed its single eye toward him. Simon raised a hand, spread his fingers, and waved them in greeting.

He heard footsteps approaching from inside. There was the screech of a barricade being pulled back and the squeal of the door pulling open on un-oiled hinges.

Andrew’s smiling face appeared under his typical rat’s nest of blonde hair. “Well, well,” he said. “Right on time.” He pulled the door open a bit more, and Simon strode in, trying to look in every direction at once.

He waited for Andrew to re-secure the door before shaking his hand warmly. “Good to see you all again,” he said. “I didn’t really know…”

The building they had chosen was a manufacturing facility for boat engine mounts that had closed due to renewable fuel mandates. It reminded Simon oddly of the Spector construction domes under Oxford: huge, high ceilings, but nearly empty—this one wasn’t stuffed with equipment or exotic power conduits. It looked as if it would never be filled again.

Simon’s team was waiting in the center of the huge, unheated room, where a dimly lit lamp hovered over a large table, and the team members sprawled on couches and huddled in a few random chairs, trying to keep warm.

Hayden was the first to spot him. “Well, well,” he said, giving his usual sarcastic grin.

“Looks like we all made it,” Simon said, smiling at each of them. His eyes lingered on Sam a bit longer than the others. She looked good—better than he could have hoped.

“All and then some,” Andrew said, scowling. He had gotten the call from Simon like the rest of them had, explaining the newest addition to their team, and looked less than pleased. Now he was glaring at the shadows over Simon’s shoulders.

Simon turned and peered into the shadows at the edge of the warehouse. A large figure was moving urgently but systematically from window to door to window again, checking locks and seals. There was an undeniable intensity about the silhouette; Simon recognized it immediately, even from a distance.

“Max!” Simon called out, “It’s clear! Andrew’s already gone through the motions.”

Max’s shadow turned to look at him. “Just like to check for myself,” he said with false good cheer. Then he turned and finished what he was doing.

Simon let him be. He turned back and gave the rest of the team an indulgent smile as he sat down and poured himself a generous cup of coffee from a kettle sitting on the table. After a moment, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out his silver hip flask, and added a dollop of scotch. He lifted the flask and offered it to the others; more than half of them gratefully responded, and gradually the sour mood shifted.

Hayden lifted his mug, into which he’d poured a generous serving of scotch. “Thank heavens for the Scots. This is one invention they can be proud of.”

Max moved out of the shadows, his self-appointed mission at an end. “Thanks,” he said to Hayden. “You knew I was part Scottish, right?”

Hayden cocked an eyebrow at him. “‘Course I did,” he lied.

Max stood at the edge of the circle and took his time looking at each face, old and new. After a moment, he pulled out a chipped and rickety old chair from under the table, spun it around, and sat on it backwards.

Andrew was to his right, busy calibrating a holographic display unit, which was acting up. Samantha was to his left, and he offered her a smile, glad to see she was still with them. Hayden was the most distant from the table, but he was clearly engaged, watching everything carefully. Ryan, who knew him the least, was watching Max very carefully, very warily, almost as if he expected him to explode at any moment. And Simon, in the middle of the table, watched everything.

Suddenly, there was another quick rap at the door. Simon flinched in surprise at the sound, then cursed himself for flinching. The others looked at each other, panic flooding their faces. Max stood up fast, right hand automatically went to his lower back to grab his pistol, ready to address the situation. Simon stopped him quickly.

“Hold on,” he said. “She’s expected.”

“Wonderful,” Hayden said as he glared at Andrew’s work. “Another newbie.”

The others watched silently as Simon crossed the deserted work floor and opened the metal door to the outside. Nastasia entered, sweeping in as if she owned the entire installation.

As she joined the others, Simon noted just how shocked both Max and Hayden looked. The last thing you were expecting was a woman who looks more like a supermodel than a scientist, he told them silently. Nastasia herself must have seen the same expressions, but she chose to ignore them. She simply moved forward with a smooth, professional gait and offered her hand.

“Hayden. Max. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave a small but powerful smile to the others, her stark blue eyes sweeping the group. “All of you.”

“Everyone,” Simon said to the mildly hostile gathering, “this is Nastasia. She’s a research specialist from Russia working here in Chile for the Antarctic Weather and Scientific Institute (AWASI). Nastasia knows more than anyone else out there about the Antarctic infrastructure and the recent activities of UNED immediately prior to the quarantine. She’s also providing us with the gear we’ll need once we land on the ice. To all intents and purposes, she will be our guide when we make it to the ice.”

“Hrmph,” Hayden grunted, not believing a word of it.

Andrew barely glanced up. They needed this holographic display to work perfectly for the briefing; his attention was there, until he saw just how beautiful the new arrival was.

As he looked at her directly for the first time, he stopped working. Completely. And just stared and smiled at her for an unusually long moment.

Simon looked at Max, who was looking at Nastasia. His suspicion was painfully plain on his face. Simon guessed that her beauty and even her prominent Russian accent actually worked against her; beautiful women and Russian spies were archetypal enemies for men like Max.

Getting his old friend past that assumption was going to be difficult, but necessary. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it at this second. He just frowned as he watched Max fold his arms across his chest and study the mysterious, beautiful woman in the dim light. Simon knew what he was thinking: this one is not to be trusted.

The men and woman who had given up their lives to be here, who had traveled literally halfway around the world to help Simon and his father, stared at the new arrival with a slowly dawning realization. This was actually going to happen. They were actually going into Antarctica—the most desolate continent on earth. And now, in addition to every other risk they had already taken, every other sacrifice they had already made…they would have to put their fates in the hands of a total stranger, or it would all be for nothing.

“Well,” Ryan said. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say.”