“How long would it take for someone to die from exposure?”

The digital clock on the dash flipped over a number. “Within a week—maybe less. I’ll be at my land line tonight if you want to talk more.”

The line went dead and the man sat back in his chair. Then he smiled.

“JUST OVER TWO million seems a steep price, considering last year’s revenue,” the lawyer said over the telephone. “Once they fill the contracts they have, their books are a little bare going ahead.”

“Just do the deal,” Hickman said quietly. “I’ll write off any losses against the gains on my Docklands property.”

“You’re the boss,” the lawyer said.

“You got that right.”

“Where do you want the funds to come from?”

Hickman scrolled through a screen on his computer. “Use the Paris account,” he said, “but I want to close the transaction tomorrow and take possession of the company within seventy-two hours at the latest.”

“You think there’ll be a shortage of British mills for sale in the next couple of days?” the lawyer said. “Or do you know something I don’t?”

“I know a lot you don’t,” Hickman said, “but if you keep talking you’ll only have seventy-one hours to put this together. You just do what you’re paid to do—I’ll take care of planning.”

“I’m on it, sir,” the lawyer said before disconnecting.

Sitting back in his chair, Hickman relaxed for a moment. Then he picked up a magnifying glass on his desk and stared at the aerial photograph in front of him. Placing the magnifying glass down, he examined a map. Lastly he opened a file folder and flipped through the photographs inside.

The photographs were of victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bombings at the end of World War II. And although the photographs were graphic and disturbing, the man smiled. Vengeance is mine, he thought.

THAT EVENING HE called Vanderwald on his land line.

“I found something better,” Vanderwald said. “It’s an airborne plague that affects the lungs. Very toxic, it should kill eighty percent of the population of the country.”

“How much?” Hickman asked.

“The amount you need will be six hundred thousand dollars.”

“Have it delivered,” Hickman said, “along with as much C-6 as you can find.”

“How big is the structure you’re intending to demolish?” Vanderwald asked.

“The size of the Pentagon.”

“That much will be a million two.”

“Cashier’s check?” Hickman asked.

“Gold,” Vanderwald said.

11

CABRILLO STARED ATthe musk ox horns on the door, then reached over and lifted a fish-shaped iron door knocker and let it slam against the heavy planked door. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps from within, then it grew quiet. Suddenly a small hatch in the door the size of a loaf of bread opened and a face peered out. The man had shallow cheeks, a tobacco-stained gray beard, a mustache and bloodshot eyes. His teeth were stained and grimy.

“Slide it through the hole.”

“Slide what through the hole?” Cabrillo asked.

“The Jack,” the man said, “the bottle of Jack.”

“I’m here to speak to you about renting your snowcat.”

“You’re not from the trading post?” the man said with more than a hint of disappointment and despair.

“No,” Cabrillo said, “but if you let me in to talk, I’ll go down and get you a bottle afterward.”

“You’re talking Jack Daniel’s,” the man asked, “not the cheap stuff, right?”

Cabrillo was cold and growing colder by the minute. “Yes, made in Lynchburg, Tennessee, black label—I know what you mean. Now open the door.”

The peephole closed and the man unlocked the door. Cabrillo walked into a living room decorated in squalor and disarray. Dust from last summer coated the tables and upper edges of the picture frames. The smell was a mixture of old fish and foot odor. A pair of lamps on two side tables cast pools of yellow light into the otherwise dark room.

“Pardon the mess,” the man said. “My cleaning lady quit a few years ago.”

Cabrillo remained near the door—he had no desire to enter farther into the room.

“Like I said, I’m interested in renting your snowcat.”

The man sat down in a battered recliner. A liter bottle of whiskey sat on the table at his side. It was almost empty, with barely an inch left in the bottom. Then, as if on cue, the man poured the last of the bottle into a chipped coffee mug and took a drink.

“Where are you planning on going?” the man asked.

Before Cabrillo could answer, the man had a coughing fit. Cabrillo waited for the end.

“Mount Forel.”

“You with those archaeologists?”

“Yes,” Cabrillo lied.

“You an American?”

“Yep.”

The man nodded. “Pardon my manners. I’m Woody Campbell. Everyone in town calls me Woodman.”

Cabrillo walked over and extended his gloved hand to Campbell. “Juan Cabrillo.”

They shook hands, then Campbell motioned to a chair nearby. Cabrillo sat down and Campbell stared at him without speaking. The silence sat in the room like a brick on a potato chip. Finally, Campbell spoke.

“You don’t look like an academic to me,” he said at last.

“What’s an archaeologist supposed to look like?”

“Not like someone who has been in battle,” Campbell said, “like someone who has had to take another man’s life.”

“You’re drunk,” Cabrillo said.

“Maintenance drinking,” Campbell said, “but I don’t hear you denying anything.”

Cabrillo said nothing.

“Army?” Campbell said, staying on the topic.

“CIA, but it was a while ago.”

“I knew you weren’t an archaeologist.”

“The CIA has archaeologists,” Cabrillo noted.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Cabrillo motioned for Campbell to remain seated and walked over to the door. An Inuit dressed in a one-piece snowsuit stood with a sack in his hand.

“That the whiskey?” Cabrillo asked.

The man nodded. Cabrillo reached in his pocket and retrieved a money clip. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the man, who handed over the bottle.

“I don’t have change,” the Inuit said.

“Is that enough to pay for this and another to be delivered,” Cabrillo asked, “and some extra for your trouble?”

“Yes,” the Inuit said, “but the owner will only allow me to deliver Woodman one bottle per day.”

“Bring the other tomorrow and keep the change,” Cabrillo said.

The Inuit nodded and Cabrillo closed the door. Carrying the sack with the whiskey inside, he walked over to Campbell and handed it to him. Campbell took the bottle out of the sack, wadded up the paper and tossed it toward a trash can and missed, then cracked the seal and filled his cup.

“Appreciate it,” he said.

“You shouldn’t,” Cabrillo told him. “You should give it up.”

“I can’t,” Campbell said, eyeing the bottle. “I’ve tried.”

“Bullshit. I’ve worked with guys with a worse problem than yours—they’re straight today.”

Campbell sat quietly. “Well, Mr. CIA,” he said at last, “you figure a way to dry me out and the snowcat is yours. I haven’t used it in months—I can’t leave the house.”

“You served in the army,” Cabrillo said.

“Who the hell are you?” Campbell said. “No one in Greenland knows that.”

“I run a specialized company that does intelligence and security work—a private corporation. We can find out anything.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Cabrillo said. “What was your job in the service? I didn’t bother to ask my people that.”

“Green Berets, then the Phoenix Project.”

“So you worked for the Company, too?”

“Indirectly,” Campbell admitted, “but they turned their back on me. They trained me, brained me, and cast me away. I came home with nothing but a heroin problem I managed to kick on my own and a host of bad memories.”