Cold War - Jerome Preisler [124]
Nimec tried to understand his sudden hedging.
“Listen,” Nimec said. “I realize you’ve got bosses with their own priorities. And that they must be edgier than usual because of the storm. But we can send them one of our own pilots if that’s what it’ll take for you to be available.” He paused. “If Megan calls them, makes an official request, I guarantee they’ll listen.”
Granger watched the dozer’s lowered scoop fill with snow and push it up high into one of several building mounds.
Nimec didn’t press, giving him a chance to think things over.
About a minute later Granger faced him again.
“It’s better she doesn’t talk to the top dogs . . . you know how even the easiest solutions can get picked apart,” he said. “We ought to stick to how we already worked things out.”
Nimec looked at him.
“You saying we’re on again?” he said.
“On,” Granger said. “And keeping it between ourselves.”
Nimec nodded. He didn’t care how they did it, just as long as they were going.
“Whatever works for you,” he said.
Bull Pass
Burkhart listened to Granger over their black phone line—and when Granger stopped talking, did not waste a moment telling him what needed to be done.
Granger wasn’t surprised. In fact, he seemed quite ready.
“I set this up, take care of this thing, it’ll be dangerous for me afterward,” he said. “You’ll have to get me away from here. Off the continent . . . maybe to South America. And I’m going to need money. Geld. Plenty of it. We can decide on a figure later. What’s important is that everything has to move very fast. Sehr schnell. That’s how you say it in your language, right?”
Burkhart rubbed a fingertip over the mark on his cheek. The pilot was a low creature of venality and deceit. But then, where was his own claim to gallantry?
“Execute your task,” he said. “I will see to the rest of the arrangements myself.”
He terminated their call, put down the phone, and sat exceedingly still in his heated metal booth, the sounds of the subterranean mine loud around him.
The machines were grinding.
Sehr schnell.
EIGHTEEN
COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 16, 2002
HIS PISTOL WAS A BERETTA 92 NINE-MILLIMETER, TOP of the line, with a stainless-steel barrel, black-matte finish, low recoil, and open-slide action. The same side arm used by the U.S. armed services, it couldn’t be beat for accuracy and reliability.
A handsome weapon.
Granger had never fired it except on practice ranges, never killed anything bigger than a rabbit in his life. He guessed that he was decent enough with a handgun, a better shot than your average person, although popping holes in a cardboard target that came gliding toward you down the lane was a far cry from taking out a human being. Or most likely was. The peculiar thing was that Granger had found himself without any moral or emotional constraints about the ruse he’d worked out, a setup that would have completely unstrung him once upon a time.
Sure, he’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Granger liked the money he was making hand over fist from the Consortium. He liked being where he was, and the freedom of living on the ice—liked his freedom, period—and got a little bothered knowing he would have to lose his income stream, jeopardize his personal safety, and go on the run. But he’d banked plenty over the last few years, heaped up a nice financial cushion in numbered Swiss and Cayman Island accounts.
His concern was whether the snare would work. Conscience, guilt . . . he just didn’t harbor those feelings. In fact, he’d discovered that part of him, a strong part, actually enjoyed running all the way home with the devil.
Peculiar thing.
Seated in the cockpit of his Bell chopper, Granger carefully adjusted his parka, tugging and smoothing it until he was confident the side-arm holster underneath made no visible bulge. An hour had passed since he’d agreed to give Pete Nimec his ride in the sky, a bit less since he’d phoned Burkhart on his secure mobile phone, and Granger was about ready to charge up the bird. He had laddered through all the routine steps