Rubens was determined to follow those questions through for as long as they let him.

And to hell with what anyone in Washington thinks.

Ice Station Bear Arctic Ice Cap 82° 24' N, 179° 45' E 0205 hours, GMT-12

HARRY BENFORD STEPPED OUT into the bitter wind. The clouds on the horizon, during the past day, had spread across most of the sky, blotting out the wan and heatless sun and causing the temperature to drop by a good ten degrees. Snow snapped along with the stiffening breeze, stinging the exposed skin of his face. His breath steamed in quick-paced puffs, quickly stripped away by the wind.

God, I hate this place.

God, in fact, had very little to do with this forsaken corner of the planet, at least in Benford’s heartfelt opinion. It was amusing to remember that the lowest circle of Hell, according to Dante’s Inferno, was not fire but ice, that Satan was pictured as a devouring monster trapped in eternal ice.

Hell indeed.

But Golytsin had promised Benford money, a lot of money, to play spy. Payment was due when he completed this mission-half a million dollars American deposited untraceably in a Bahamian bank. At the moment, though, he was wondering if it was worth it, if he should have held out for more.

Up ahead, just visible through the layers of horizontally blowing snow, Larson and Richardson had reached the garage and were going in. Benford heard the yapping of the dogs as the door opened.

“The garage” was what they all called the building, a large shed twenty yards from the main building. Inside, along with propane tanks, spare parts, stored food and gasoline, were the expedition’s snowmobiles-three of them, now that Yeats had the other three out on the ice-as well as the kennel holding the expedition’s dogs. While snowmobiles provided excellent mobility over the ice cap, the expedition had brought along a sled dog team as well, a bit of a belt-and-suspenders precaution against the possibility of mechanical breakdown. Arctic conditions were appallingly tough on mechanical devices. One of the chores assigned to the Greenworld visitors was the daily routine of thawing out chunks of meat, then throwing them to the dogs.

Benford reached the door, hesitating. He was carrying a canvas satchel tucked under his arm and didn’t particularly want to have to explain what was in it. Extending from one end of the bag was a heavy, four-foot-long pry bar. He took a long look around, but no one else was visible, no one following from the Quonset hut, no one else out on the ice. Back in the main building, several of the team members were preparing to go out on the ice. There’d still been no word from Yeats or the other two expedition people, and Larson had finally decided that a run by snowmobile out to Remote One was necessary. Yeats and his people should have been back, now, long before this, and the storm would make their survival problematical.

Benford eased the door open and stepped inside the garage. It was chilly inside-he could still see his breath with each cold exhalation-but warmer than the bitter cold of the wind. The dogs yapped and bawled. Richardson was near the door, opening up the locker that contained slabs of thawed meat; Larson was a few feet away, pulling a five-gallon container of gasoline off of a rack. As was usual, they were arguing.

“I’m not disputing global warming, damn it!” Larson snapped. “But there’s no proof yet, one way or another, that we have anything to do with it!”

“Proof? What proof do you need?” Richardson snapped back. He was a young man, in his twenties, and passionately opposed to the injustices of the world. “The industrial revolution comes along and bang! Temperatures go up. Carbon dioxide goes up. Summers start getting hotter-”

“An oversimplification, Richardson. Back in the seventies there was a scare that the climate was getting colder, remember that?”

“That was before my time.”

“Kids.” The word was a snort. “Yeah, well, there was a downturn in global temperatures from the fifties through the seventies that suggested we were on the verge of a new ice age. The point is, we don’t know. All we can do is gather data at this point, which is why we’re up here in the first place.” He looked past Richardson as Benford stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. “Oh, Benford. What do you want?”

“I just came out to help. Thought I could give a hand fueling the snowmobiles.”

Larson looked surprised, then shrugged beneath his heavy parka. “Suit yourself. Here.” He passed Benford the container of gasoline, then turned to reach for another one.

“How many are we fueling up?” Benford asked, shouldering the bag so he could take the can. “All three?”

“Just two. I want to leave one on reserve in case something happens to the rescuers. We’ll leave one plus the dog team in reserve. Just in case…”

He didn’t elaborate, but Benford heard the worry in his voice. Fifteen people at this outpost… three of them now missing. Communications with the mainland were dodgy at best, and it was two weeks until the next supply flight was due in. Commander Larson was having to do some nasty juggling with his assets, trying to find the three missing personnel without leaving the remaining twelve at risk.

Larson handed Benford the second container of gasoline, then nodded down the concrete aisle toward the other end of the building. “Go ahead; get started with the fueling. I’ll be with you in a minute and we’ll do the mechanical checkout.”

“Right.”

As he lugged the gasoline past the cacophony of the dogs, he could still hear fragments of the argument at his back.

He paid no attention. The philosophical divide between the scientists and the Greenworlders had reached a fever’s pitch during the past few days. Benford had added a little fuel to the fire here and there, helping to enflame the debate, but it had scarcely been necessary. The scientists resented, deeply and angrily, the Greenworld presence here. For their part, the other four Greenworlders felt the scientists were all but betraying the human species by downplaying the world-threatening dangers of major climatic change. Richardson and that little rich bitch Cabot, in particular, were convinced that the climatologists all were deep in the hip pockets of Big Oil, that they were being paid to downplay the immediacy of the global threat.

Benford didn’t buy any of that himself. He’d joined Greenworld because the people represented by Feodor had sought him out during his trip to St. Petersburg two years ago and offered him a proposition, quite literally an offer he couldn’t refuse.

He wished now he had refused it. Things were getting entirely too nasty, too risky personally. The trouble was, he’d gotten into this mess step by tiny step, had never seen ahead of time where the bastards were leading him.

Two years before, he’d been a very junior sales rep for Wildcat Technologies, a Houston-based firm that manufactured high-tech drilling equipment for the petroleum industry… especially for certain highly specialized deep-ocean drilling rigs.

In 2006, Benford had been sent to Russia with a WT sales team to negotiate a $500 million deal. A Russian petroleum company was interested in the new robotic drilling rigs that could actually work on the seabed itself, and the order for a single test rig alone would have guaranteed Wildcat’s success.

Unfortunately, doing any business in Russia at all these days was an ongoing exercise in frustration, unforeseen expense, and delay. The Russian mafia had its hand in everything-including in the Russian petroleum industry, it turned out-which meant they had to be paid off before any negotiations could even begin. That half-billion-dollar deal would cost 10 percent, an extra 50 million, just to get to the talking stage, and there’d be another 10 percent in fees, bribes, and special considerations for each consignment shipped into the country.