Deep Ice (20 page)

Lingering in the atrium and looking upward into the light, he took a deep breath as he remembered his family. There were several reasons he always stayed here. It was the oldest hotel in Santiago. In its belly it had a pyramid with a waterfall and orchids growing all around, and it was beautiful and full of tradition. It suited his tastes completely. He had sat many times on one or other of the benches around the atrium. Standing here now, he could remember his boyhood – good times when his father and grandfather had taken him from the vineyards and the wineries of his family estate to Santiago, where they did much of their business. More often than he could recount, little Rudy had sat in the atrium with his family and watched wealthy businessmen in their white suits and straw fedoras parade through the hotel as they prepared for war in the financial edifices surrounding the Moneda.

That’s the way his father had described big business: modern warfare. His grandfather had acquired land outside of Santiago in the late 1920s and established a vineyard that had ultimately grown large and prosperous, making the family wealthy. But, because of their humble beginnings, his family had often been branded as peasants who got lucky. The sneer was whispered behind their backs, his father had often told him, by those who would cheat them of their lands and return them to poverty.

At the hotel elevator, Remo held his arm across the opened door and waited for his boss. A buzzer was beeping; the elevator was full. The heat was steadily climbing in the packed car because the hotel’s air conditioning was being repaired. A young couple who’d already called out their floor to the lift-boy waited and wondered in silence about the delay.

Still Suarez lingered in the atrium, reminiscing, smelling the orchids, listening to the peaceful waterfall. The buzzing for the lift from the upper floors grew frantic. Unaware that the men surrounding them were a gang, the young couple began to mumble about the delay. They were obviously newly-weds. Crushed into a corner of the crowded lift, the girl began to complain that her puffy white gown would be ruined.

Finally the elevator boy felt he had to say something. “Señor, I. . .”

He instantly shut his mouth when Remo’s red eyebrow arched menacingly.

“It’ll be just a few more seconds.” Then Remo’s expression changed. He surveyed the faces of his col eagues and grinned personably at the newly-weds.

“We’re waiting for our friend. He’ll be here in a moment. Please be patient.”

The other members of the gang glared at the couple, silencing any further complaints they might be considering.

When it suited him, Remo could assume the warmth of a professional Santa Claus. But it was his size, not his personality, that had made Suarez notice him and ultimately hire him as his trusted personal assistant. Remo Poteshkin had been a professional wrestler until an opponent ripped off part of his ear at a match in a Marseilles nightclub. He had easily won the fight, but had lost the lawsuit his opponent had filed when he got out of traction a month later; the man’s back and pelvis had been so badly broken he would never walk again. Remo, who’d thought his response was only fair, could still remember the howls of rage from the 350-pound man sitting helplessly in his wheelchair in the courtroom. Remo had had to leave the wrestling game and declare bankruptcy. Fortunately Suarez had bet on him to win the fight; after Remo had gone through all his savings paying his opponent’s medical bills, Suarez took over. The gory photos of the bout had been splashed on the pages of wrestling magazines all over the world. Fortunately, the fans mainly didn’t remember Remo, just the blood, his mangled ear, and his blind fury as he’d thrown his opponent five rows deep into the seats. Remo had never reentered the ring; and El Monstroso Rojo, as he’d been known professionally, had been reported (with some respectable hype and fanfare) dead. Still, every once in a while a wrestling fan would recognize Remo by his red moustache, and, though Remo always denied his identity, Suarez insisted he keep a low profile.

At last, holding an orchid, Suarez stepped into the elevator. As the elevator started to rise, he turned to the group and apologized for the delay. When he and his men got off at the fifth floor, the lift-boy was holding a crisp new twenty-dollar bill.

After the door had closed behind the gang the newly- weds grumbled bitterly, but the boy smiled.

He had become another of Rudolfo’s disciples.

#

On the bridge of the
Enterprise
, General Hayes stood next to Captain Halsey surveying the flight deck. All of every day and every night the miniature air force practised the business of war; business as usual on all aircraft carriers, so that, if real action were needed, it would fit seamlessly into the schedule.

With its captain back on board, the
Enterprise
had moved far enough out to sea to resume full flight operations. It still remained in sight of the coast of Chile. Waiting to talk to Halsey when he had a moment of spare time, Hayes watched plane after plane catapulted off the deck while the flight crew worked feverishly just inches away from flaming exhausts and whining intakes. The catapult operators ducked as wingtips flashed by only a foot or two above their heads.

“Is it always like this?” he said.

Halsey smiled. “Except when we’re in port, yes. We have to keep our edge.”

“You’d never guess they were just kids fresh from high school.” On the flight deck a crewman signalled to a pilot with a complex series of gestures. “They act like seasoned pros.”

“Yeah,” said Halsey. “I wish the bastards in Congress could see what goes on here when they start talking about scuttling Navy ships. They get so full of their subs and their Air Force and their missiles, they forget that the carriers are prime delivery for US power around the world.”

Hayes grinned. “You sound like a recruitment officer.”

“Shit, General, it’s the truth.”

“That’s a roger, Captain. At least we have a President who understands that, too. I knew him in Nam.”

“I hope you’re right.” Halsey peered at the horizon through his binoculars, then shouted into the com. “Tell Bravo six to flag it for a second pass,” he instructed his crew chief. “Hell, even
I
can see he’s too low.”

Hayes shook his head. “I was just wondering how your visit went with Frei.”

“They’re behind us a hundred per cent. I let Grimes take him up in one of the Gadfly choppers, just to impress on him we were being straight with him.”

“Oh yeah? And what did he think of that?” Halsey laughed. “Puked his guts out, Grimes said. But then told me he’d loved it.”

Hayes nodded as Halsey detailed the flight over the Andes. When Halsey told him they were in the Gadfly for the better part of an hour, Hayes whistled. “All those thermals – that must have been some ride in the dark.”

“Those choppers are little things, and they’re light – made of composites. I guess it wasn’t what Frei was expecting. I mean, before he went up, he said he flew in choppers all the time. Piece of cake, he said.”

The two men stood there sharing the imagined spectacle. Then Hayes admitted that he didn’t think he’d have the stomach himself for a long ride in a Gadfly.

“You have to hand it to Frei,” agreed Halsey. “He did his best to convince me it was, like Grimes told me, a day at Disneyland. Hard to ignore the stains on his flight suit, though.”

The phone rang and the first officer picked it up.

“Tango squadron is lining up,” he said, holding the receiver out to Halsey.

The captain took it and looked at Hayes apologetically. “Things are getting busy up here.

Anything more I can help you with?”

“Just one thing. Are we keeping an eye on Gibbs?”

“I have five intelligence officers on watch in twenty- four-hour shifts at the hotel – the Foresta, it’s call ed.”

“Great,” said Hayes. “That’s what President Kerry wants to hear. If we lose Gibbs, we’ve lost any chance of catching the terrorists. I hope your men are keeping a low profile. The President is afraid Suarez, or whoever planted the bombs, will find out Gibbs is the man they shot. He’d be sure to try to finish the job.”

“They’ve all been briefed,” answered Halsey.

Hayes saluted and turned to leave, but the captain touched his arm and leaned towards his ear. “Uh, the word is that Gibbs and French are, well. . .”

Hayes chuckled. “Grimes sniffed it out a long time ago. So what? It happens. If it’s a problem, it’s for the Bureau to sort out. Anyway, should keep the two of them off the streets and out of trouble.”

Halsey grinned as well, then turned to give instructions to his first officer.

Hayes lingered a moment longer to watch a F-117 Stealth fighter make a perfect three-point landing and snag a cable, which brought it quickly to a stop. The flight crew shuttled it rapidly to the side to make room for the next arrival.

“Flying Stealth aircraft during the day?” he asked an officer.

“Instrumentation, General. Using them to scan the peaks. Not much of a secret any more. Right? Not since Desert Storm.”

As soon as Hayes opened the door to leave the tower a forty-knot wind grabbed his clothes and the roar of jet engines nearly deafened him. He quickly trotted down the grey metal steps to the decks below. Grimes was waiting when he arrived back at his office.

“Heard you had a flight in the Gadfly with President Frei,” said Hayes, closing the door.

“Word gets around, I guess.”

“What’s up, Commander?”

“Suarez has been reported somewhere around La Paz, and a mountain guide is missing.” Grimes pointed to the southwest corner of Bolivia on a wall map.

Hayes thought briefly. “Doesn’t the man have a home up that way?”

“That’s right,” said Grimes. “In Arica, on the coast near the Peruvian border. Actually, the villa is in his half- brother’s name, but Suarez runs the show.”

“But we haven’t positively located him anywhere yet. Am I right?”

“Word is Suarez and his men dropped off his brother a couple of days ago,” said Grimes, “but that hasn’t been verified.”

“Can we pick up the brother? Shake him down?”

“Half-brother, sir,” said Grimes, pursing his lips. “Not yet. That could backfire on us. Suarez still doesn’t know we’re on his ass. If we make a move like that, he will. And we still need Gibbs to finger him.”

“Even so, it’d help a lot if we located Suarez, wouldn’t it?”

“That it would,” said Grimes. “We’re working on it. We’re trying to get something going with Chilean Intel, and the police, but they don’t seem to trust us.”

“Not surprising. Remember the CIA and the Allende coup.” Hayes slumped into his chair and took a cigar out of the humidor on his desk. He clipped off the tip. “So we do nothing,” he said in a tone of disgust. “I can’t wait to tell the President that.”

#

Sarah gazed out the hotel window at the blue peaks east of the city.

“There’s a great view of the mountains from here, Henry. How tall do you think they are?”

“Twenty thousand feet plus, if I remember right,”

Henry called from the bathroom. He was wiping the last streaks of shaving cream from his face. “Santiago is a popular spot for skiers, mountaineers, all kinds of winter sports. Do you ski?”

She studied the snow cover that topped the mountains. It reminded her of her parents’ place in Colorado. “When I was a kid I did. My parents had a mountain retreat that had been in the family since my grandparents died. I remember my grandparents a little, but we didn’t go there much – so far away. Do
you
ski?”

Henry, emerging into the bedroom, looked at her blankly. “Me? What do I know about snow?”

She burst out laughing.

“Well,” he continued, “I have to admit I’ve probably spent more time in snowshoes than on skis.”

“Do you miss it?” she asked, coming away from the window.

“The snow? No. At least not at the moment.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Not even a little bit.”

She looked into his eyes, then started buttoning the new shirt he’d started to put on. “This
is
nice, isn’t it? I hope it lasts.”

“Yeah, but for now I’m just enjoying the moment.”

Sarah rested her cheek against his chest and again stared out the window. “I mean, I hope this is something we can tell our grandkids about some day.”

He held her a bit tighter. “Funny. A month ago I was a different person, in a different life. If someone had told me we’d be here together like this, at a plush hotel in Santiago, saying these words. . .”

“What?” said Sarah softly. “What would you have done?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it. No way.”

“And what would you say now?” she said demurely, straightening his shirt collar.

“I still don’t believe it.”

“Is this just. . .?”

“Just what?” He looked into her blue eyes and saw tears beginning.

“You know, just an affair?”

“I’ve never had ‘just’ an affair, Sarah. I don’t think I could pul it off.”

She was surprised. “Really? Come on. . .”

He felt suddenly nervous. He realized he was saying things he might regret later. “No, Sarah. It’s true.”

He eyed Shep, asleep at the foot of the bed. He’d had years of isolation on the Ross Ice Shelf and before that at Point Barrow, Alaska, and life had been so peaceful. He recal ed sitting alone in tents and igloos with only his dogs or a few Inuit Indians for company and thinking he’d gladly play the icebound hermit for the rest of his life. His mind drifted back to a conversation he’d had with the son of an Inuit medicine man. The shaman had explained in detail the ways of power, and the strength that comes from solitude. That winter had changed him, made him question his sense of reality. He’d been haunted ever since by the words the Inuit said so many times, seemingly as a kind of universal explanation: “Your will is more powerful than your reason.”

“I still say we should take things one day at a time.” He kissed her cheek.

“I guess so. I just feel. . . vulnerable, I guess.”

“So do I. Everything has changed.”

The telephone rang.

Sarah picked it up, listened for a moment and said, “Just a second, General.”