Cold War - Jerome Preisler [106]
“I can’t see how they can help us right now,” he said. “And I’m not sure I like involving outsiders until we have a better idea what our status is.”
Megan sighed. “I don’t know. We can’t stand around doping this out. But there’s an argument for contacting them. In case anything happens to us—”
“Do either of you want my take?”
This was from Ron Waylon, who had stepped up behind Nimec, his balaclava pulled over his head, the hood of his coat already raised.
Nimec glanced over his shoulder.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
“There’s no 911 help in Antarctica,” Waylon said. “If we can’t stand on our own, then by the time somebody responds, it’ll be to bury us. Seems to me there’s nothing wrong with holding off unless things start to look bad. No matter what, we’ll have our chances to reevaluate.”
They looked at him. Looked at each other. Both were nodding.
“Issue decided,” Nimec said. His eyes steadied on Megan’s. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yes,” she said. And suddenly grasped his wrist. “Try not to let anyone get hurt.”
He squeezed the back of her hand, pulled up his hood.
“That’s the plan,” he said.
Burkhart halted in the snow as he led his team toward their snowmobiles.
“Wait,” he ordered, using his headset to communicate with them. Even raised to a shout, his unaided voice would have been overpowered by the wind. Yet he thought he’d heard a sound beneath its leviathan roar.
He wiped his goggles, peering back in the direction from which they had trod.
Someone other than Burkhart might have barely discerned the inverted bowl of the dome through blowing sheaves of whiteness. His keen eyes noticed a vague scintillation behind the dome . . . a paper-thin skim of light that seemed to be sliding toward him along the ground like a wide, flattened wavelet over the surf.
He thought briefly of the woman scientist.
There had been more backbone in her than he’d suspected.
He turned to his men.
“They know we’re here,” he said.
FIFTEEN
ASOTNA, SWITZERLAND MARCH 12, 2002
ELATA WALKED ONTO THE DOCK AS A DEAD MAN MUST walk—with great purpose and deliberation. The Italian’s boat had taken him back to Astona, still in Switzerland. But the location did not matter. Morgan undoubtedly had people to trail him; this might even be part of his plan, not the Italian’s. Elata would not get away, and did not intend to. He had already sent the e-mail to Interpol, using their public address obtained off the Web clipper service. He trusted that the note would find its way to the proper person; if it did not, a second one to the FBI in the U.S. was bound to.
The man guiding the Zodiac rubberized craft hadn’t minded him using the pager as they sped toward shore, nor had he reacted when Elata threw the device into the water.
What became of the notes and what the police did in reaction to them no longer concerned him. He had a few Swiss francs in his pocket, enough to buy a small notebook and a pen from the stationer he found two blocks away from the dock. There was enough change for a large coffee at the cafe next door. Wanting privacy and feeling somewhat considerate—surely Morgan’s men would be here at any minute, and he didn’t want to trouble the patrons—he decided to sit outside despite the brisk breeze. Elata took a long sip of the strong, black liquid, then began to write.
“Today, God has proven to me that he does exist,” he wrote on his pad. He labored over the words; he was a painter, not a writer, and even if he was merely writing the truth, he had difficulty letting it flow.
“He has shown how petty man is. Or no, how petty and evil some men are. I must include myself among them. For until today I did not fully understand the potential man has, or what he should truly aspire to. I did not understand how good and evil coexist and do battle always, nor the importance of—”
Elata looked up. A man in a hooded blue sweatsuit stood a few feet from him. A newspaper was folded over his hand; beneath the newspaper, a slim, silenced .22 pistol.
Elata nodded. The paper jerked upward and he heard the sound of a bee