“Not walking weather,” Cabrillo said, staring outside.

“Or skiing,” Hanley added, “though I know you pride yourself on your skiing ability.”

“So what is it?”

“I had the computer pull vehicle registrations from the area—it didn’t take long, as there are only four hundred or so people in Kulusuk. I discounted snowmobiles because you’d be exposed to the snow and cold, plus their tendency to break down. That leaves us with snowcats. They are slow and burn a lot of fuel, but they have heaters and plenty of room for storage of supplies. I think that’s our best bet.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Cabrillo said. “Where’s the rental place located?”

“There isn’t one,” Hanley said, “but I pulled up the names and addresses of private owners from the Greenland registry and made a few calls. None of the people that own them have home telephone numbers, but I reached the pastor of the local church. He said there is one man that might agree to a rental—the rest are in use.”

“What’s the address?” Cabrillo asked, removing a pencil and small pad of paper from his parka for notes.

“The address is the sixth house past the church, red walls with yellow trim.”

“No street addresses this far north, huh?”

“Everybody knows everyone else, I guess,” Hanley said.

“Sounds like the natives are friendly.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Hanley told him. “The pastor mentioned the owner drinks quite a bit during the winter. He also said almost everyone in town carries firearms to ward off bears.”

Cabrillo nodded. “So basically, I just need to convince an armed drunken native to rent me his snowcat and I’m on my way,” Cabrillo said, patting the packets of one-hundred-dollar bills in his parka pocket. “Sounds simple enough.”

“Well, there’s one more thing—he’s not a native. He grew up in Arvada, Colorado, and was drafted into the army during the Vietnam War. From what I’ve been able to piece together from the databases, once he returned he spent a few years in and out of VA hospitals. Then he left the country with the idea of getting as far away from the U.S. as possible.”

Cabrillo stared out the window again. “It looks like he reached his goal.”

“I’m sorry, Juan,” Hanley said. “In two more days, when the summit wraps up, we could reposition the Oregonand Adams could fly you up in the helicopter. Right now, however, this is all we’ve got.”

“No sweat,” Cabrillo said, staring at his notes. “Sixth house from the church.”

“Red walls,” Hanley said, “and yellow-painted trim.”

“Well then, let me go meet a madman.”

He disconnected and walked through the door leading outside.

CABRILLO LEFT HIS boxes of supplies at the airport and approached a snowmobile taxi with an Inuit teenager standing alongside. The boy raised his eyebrows when Cabrillo gave the address but he said nothing. He seemed more concerned with the fee, which he quoted in Danish currency.

“How much in U.S. dollars?” Cabrillo asked.

“Twenty,” the boy said without hesitation.

“Done,” Cabrillo said, handing the boy a bill.

The boy climbed onto the snowmobile and reached for the starter button. “You know Garth Brooks?” the boy asked, assuming everyone in the United States must know everyone else, just like in his village.

“No,” Cabrillo said, “but I played golf with Willie Nelson once.”

“Cool. Is he any good?”

“Wicked slice,” Cabrillo said as the boy hit the starter and the engine roared to life.

“Get on,” the boy shouted.

Once Cabrillo was seated, the boy raced away from the airport. The snowmobile’s headlight barely cut through the darkness and blowing snow. Kulusuk was little more than a cluster of homes a mile or so from the airport. The sides of the houses were partially covered by snowdrifts. Trails of smoke and steam came from inside. Teams of dogs were clustered near houses, along with many snowmobiles; skis were propped up into the snow, tips aloft; snowshoes hung on nails near the doors.

Life in Kulusuk looked hard and grim.

North of town, the expanse of ice leading across to the mainland was barely visible as a dim outline. The surface of ice was black and slick as wind blew the snow and piled it into small drifts that ceaselessly formed and reformed. The hills across the frozen ice were only visible as an outline, a different color gray against a backdrop of nothingness. The scene looked about as inviting as a tour of a crematorium. Cabrillo felt the snowmobile slow then stop.

He climbed from the back and stood on the semi-packed snow.

“Later,” the teenager said with a quick wave of his hand.

Then the boy turned the yoke hard to the left, spun around on the snow-packed street and raced away. Cabrillo was left alone in the cold and darkness. He stared at the half-buried house for a second. Then he started walking through the drifts toward the front door. He paused on the stoop before knocking.

10

HICKMAN STARED ATthe records from the Saudi Arabian Office of Procurement that his hackers had lifted from a database. The records had been translated from Arabic into English but the translation was far from perfect. Scanning the lists, he made notes alongside the columns. One entry stood out. It was for woven wool kneeling pads and the supplier was located in Maidenhead, England. Reaching for his intercom, he buzzed his secretary.

“There’s a Mr. Whalid that works for me at the Nevada hotel. I think he’s an assistant food and beverage director.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary said.

“Have him call me at once,” Hickman said. “I have a question for him.”

A few minutes later his telephone rang.

“This is Abdul Whalid,” the voice said. “I was told to call you.”

“Yes,” Hickman said. “Call this company in England for me”—he rattled off the telephone number—“pretend you’re a Saudi Arabian official or something. They have a multimillion-dollar order for woven wool kneeling pads, and I want to know what exactly that means, woven wool kneeling pads.”

“Can I ask you why, sir?”

“I own mills,” Hickman lied. “I’d like to know what these items are, because if we can make them, I’d like to know why my guys didn’t bid on the job.”

That made sense to Whalid. “Very good, sir. I’ll call them and call you right back.”

“Excellent.” Hickman returned to staring at the picture of the meteorite. Ten minutes later, Whalid phoned again.

“Sir,” Whalid said, “they are prayer rugs. The order is so large because the country is replacing the entire inventory used at Mecca. Apparently they do this every ten years or thereabouts.”

“Hmm, so we missed an opportunity that won’t be around again for a while. That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Whalid said. “I don’t know if you are aware that I ran a mill in my own country before the overthrow. I’d be very interested—”

Hickman cut him off rudely. His mind was racing. “Send me a résumé, Whalid,” he said, “and I’ll see it goes to the proper person.”

“I understand, sir,” Whalid said meekly.

Hickman hung up the telephone without as much as a good-bye.

PIETER VANDERWALD ANSWERED his cellular telephone as he was driving down the road just outside of Palm Springs, California.

“It’s me,” the voice said.

“This is not a secure line,” Vanderwald said, “so speak in generalities and let’s keep the call to less than three minutes.”

“The substance we spoke about,” the man said, “can it be applied in an aerosol form?”

“That’s one way it could be used. It would then transfer by air or get distributed along a human chain by touch or coughing.”

“Would the substance then transfer from person to person if it was on their clothing?”

Vanderwald stared at the digital clock on the radio of his rental car. Half the allotted time was gone. “Yes, it would transfer from clothing and skin, even through the air.”