�There's a quite marvelous tapestry, a Gobelins, in the main hall, and the billiards room is the best in Pall Mall.�
Seeing her uncertainty, he said, leaning close with a mischievous smile, �Oh, yes, I see your natural reluctance, and it
is
quite forbidden. But that's why it will be such fun.�
Would it? All day long Eleanor had felt like she'd passed through the looking glass and was moving in a realm she didn't fully understand, and this was just one more instance of it.
�Come on,� he said, taking her hand like a child inviting another to play. �I know a way.�
Before she knew it, they had reentered the club, passed back down the corridor from the stranger's coffee-room, then crept up a back stairs that she suspected only the servants were to use. Sinclair inched a door open, then put a finger to his lips as two men in white tie, holding brandy snifters, ambled by.
�Not even if the Admiralty ordered you to?� one asked, and the other said, �Particularly if the Admiralty ordered it,� and they both chuckled.
Once they'd gone, Sinclair opened the door wider and escorted Eleanor through. She was standing at one end of a narrow mezzanine, overlooking a vast entry hall with alternating white and black marble tiles. A dual staircase swept up on either side, and at its apex hung a huge antique tapestry, depicting a stag hunt. It was faded, but must have once been done in brilliant purples and blues; a ragged gold fringe lined its edges.
�It's Belgian,� Sinclair whispered, �and quite old.�
Still clutching her hand�no one had ever held it so long, or so possessively, and she still did not know how she should have responded to such conduct�he drew her on, offering her a glimpse of a cardroom, where several men were so focused on their game that none so much as looked up at the opening of the door; a sumptuous library with satinwood bookcases standing twelve feet high, all lined with leather-bound books; a trophy room with various silver plates and cups and a veritable menagerie of stuffed animal heads staring off, glassy-eyed, into eternity. Three or four times they had
to duck into alcoves or behind closed doors to avoid being seen by a passing servant or member of the club, and on one such occasion Sinclair whispered to her, �That buffoon with the belly is called Fitzroy I've thrashed him once, but I fear I shall have to do it again.�
When Fitzroy had passed, stifling a belch with the back of his hand, Sinclair drew her out of hiding again. �This way,� he said. �Just one more.�
They were on the third story, and she could hear a hard but unfamiliar clacking sound, as Sinclair led her up a narrow, carpeted stair, and into a velvet-curtained recess. He held his finger to his lips again, then, finally releasing her hand, parted the curtains a few inches.
They were standing on a tiny balcony, with an elaborately scrolled black iron rail; below them there were half a dozen billiards tables, spread like a deep green lawn across the wainscoted gallery. Just two of the tables were in play, and the men at one were only in their shirtsleeves, their suspenders hanging down; Eleanor blushed at the sight. One of the players stroked a white ball and it rolled smoothly across the table, striking a red ball, before gently nestling against the bumper.
�Well played,� his opponent said.
�If only life were a billiards table,� the first one replied, pausing to rub something on the end of the stick.
�Ah, but it is. Weren't you told?�
�Must have been on furlough that day.�
�Like most,� the first one said with a laugh.
Was this how men talked, Eleanor thought? Was this how they conducted themselves in private? She was both fascinated and embarrassed; she wasn't supposed to be there, she wasn't meant to see, or hear, any of this. Though she didn't dare speak, for fear of being overheard, she looked at Sinclair. He turned toward her, and in the confines of the balcony, concealed behind the barely parted curtains, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. She lowered her own eyes�why had she allowed herself to drink that second glass of champagne; her head still felt light from it�but then she felt his finger touching her chin, raising it, and she allowed her face to rise. He was bending toward her; she was aware chiefly of his pale moustache. And then, though she was sure she had given him no
improper encouragement, his lips were touching hers � and she did not resist. Her own eyes closed, she could not have said why, and for several seconds time seemed to stop altogether�everything seemed to stop�and it was only when a victorious whoop went up from one of the billiards players below��That's the game, Reynolds!��that she took a half step back, her lips tingling, her face on fire, to look again at the young lieutenant.
���
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
December 8. 10:00 a.m.
�NOT POSSIBLE,
not possible, not possible,� Murphy was saying as he strode down the corridor and into his cluttered office in the administration module. Michael was close behind, with Darryl lending support.
�It's not only possible,� Michael insisted yet again, �I saw it, with my own eyes. Right in front of me!�
Murphy turned around and said, in a tone meant to convey sympathetic concern, �Look, this was your first time diving in polar waters, right?�
�What's that got to do with it?�
�It can be an overwhelming experience, and that goes for a lot of people, not just you. The water temperature, the ice cap above, the unfamiliar critters�you said yourself you had a close encounter with a Weddell seal.�
�Are you suggesting I mistook a seal for a woman frozen in the ice?�
Murphy paused, to let things cool down.
�No.� Then, �Maybe. You probably weren't keeping track of your time, or your oxygen levels. I'm sure you've heard of rapture of the deep�maybe you had a touch of it down there. I had a guy who swore he saw a submarine, and it turned out to be a nice big pressure ridge. You were just lucky you came to your senses and got out while you could. And as for you,� he said, speaking to Darryl, �you should have been keeping better tabs on him. You were dive buddies�that means keeping an eye on each other and staying close.�
�Point taken,� Darryl said, looking sheepish. �But the fact remains, he brought up the wine bottle. It's in my lab now, thawing. You can't deny that the bottle exists.�
�It's a big leap,� Murphy said, falling into his high-backed swivel chair, �from a frozen wine bottle to a woman�wrapped in chains yet�stuck inside a glacier.�
Michael hated to add this, but he felt that he had to. �And she might not be alone.�
�What?� Murphy exploded.
�There might be someone else frozen with her.�
Even Darryl, who hadn't heard that part, hesitated.
�Is that all of them then?� Murphy replied. �Or maybe they were all getting off a bus, and the bus is frozen inside the glacier, too.�
There was a temporary standoff while Murphy unrolled an antacid and popped it into his mouth.
�You got pictures of the seal?�
�Yes,� Michael said, knowing where he was going.
�And the sea spider? And the scale worms? And the trunk the bottle came from?�
�Yes.�
�So why no pictures of the ice princess?�
�I was too scared.� The words were like ashes in his mouth, and even as he'd been hauled up into the dive hut, he had wondered how�at the most crucial moment in his career�he could have failed to get a photo. The shock, coupled with the urgent necessity to surface, had just been too great. And though he knew it was a pretty good excuse, he still felt an unrelenting disappointment in himself�a disappointment that could only be cured by going back down again.
�Why don't we just settle this the easiest way possible?� Michael said. �Let me go back to the scene of the crime.�
�It's not that easy.�
�Why not?� Michael asked, as Darryl chimed in with, �I'll go, too.�
Murphy looked from one of them to the other. �You may think that we're off in the middle of nowhere, with nobody looking over our shoulders, but you're wrong. Every single thing we do here, I have to write up and report to the NSF, or the U.S. Navy, or the Coast Guard, or, believe it or not, NASA. See that?� he said, pointing to an unwieldy tower of papers and forms stacked in wire bins on his desk. �That's just one week's worth of crap I've got to fill out and file. And every dollar of what we do has to be accounted for. You know what it cost to send that auger out onto the ice, and prep the dive hut, and prime all the gear?�
�I'm sure it's plenty,� Michael said, �but that's why we need to do this quickly. Everything's still in place. I can go down tomorrow�and with a little help from Calloway and the right equipment, we can even get the body out of the glacier somehow. Jesus,� Michael said in exasperation, �this could be a monumental find.�
�Don't you mean a monumental story for your magazine?� Murphy retorted.
There was nothing more to say for the moment. Murphy chewed on his antacid, and Michael and Darryl exchanged a long frustrated look.
Murphy blew out a weary breath. �Where's Calloway?�
�I saw him in the rec hall,� Darryl said.
�Tell him to get over here,� Murphy said, busying himself with some papers on the desk blotter. �Now.�
Michael knew enough not to say another word. And so did Darryl.
The wine bottle rested in a small tank of tepid seawater, on the counter in Darryl's marine lab. With its icy coating gone, the label was revealed, but the ink had been so smudged that it was nothing but a blur. Darryl peered into the tank, as if watching a live specimen that might surprise him at any moment, and Michael paced up
and down, wondering what else he might need to do to persuade Murphy.
�Give it a rest,� Darryl advised him. �He's a bureaucrat, but he's not stupid. He'll come around if he hasn't already.�
�And what if he doesn't?�
�He will, trust me.� Darryl sat back on the stool and looked at Michael. �I'll tell him I need to go down again to collect more samples�he can't refuse a beaker�and at that point, what's the difference if he lets you go down, too?�
Michael considered it, but he was afraid it wasn't fast enough. �What if she's gone?�
�Gone?� Darryl said, incredulously.
�I mean, what if I can't find her again?�
�A glacier that size isn't going anywhere soon,� Darryl replied, �and I know exactly where you were. I can orient it from the dive and safety holes.�
Down deep, Michael felt the same way. Something told him he'd be able to find the girl again, no matter what.
He came back to the table and studied the bottle in the tank. �When do you think we can take it out?�
�What? You need a drink?�
Michael laughed. �I'm not that thirsty. What do you think it is?�
�I think it's wine.�
�But is it sherry or is it port? From France, or Italy, or Spain? And what century�the nineteen hundreds? The eighteen hundreds?�
Darryl had to ponder that. �Maybe if we can bring up the chest you saw, that will help date it.� He paused. �The girl might help, too.�
Despite their friendship�or maybe because of it�Michael had to ask the question. �You do believe me, don't you? That I saw her, in the ice?�
Darryl nodded. �I'm the guy who studies sponges a thousand years old, and fish that don't freeze in freezing water, and parasites that purposely drive their hosts crazy. If I'm not your guy, who is?�
