Hot Ice (16 page)

“Based on the fact that it at one time had a cutting edge, I’d say it was some sort of tool, an agricultural implement. Again guessing, I’d say a late Middle Age billhook.”

“A what?”

“Billhook. A knifelike tool shaped somewhat like the letter
J
lying on its side. That also is speculation, based on the fact that the iron is, as I said, not tempered and therefore not weapon-grade like, say, a sword or even a hunting knife. That leaves tools, and the suggestion of curvature suggests a billhook, a common agricultural tool used for cutting, pruning, et cetera.”

“As in pruning grapevines, perhaps?”

Sutter looked surprised. “Why, yes, I’d think it could be used for that purpose. Why?”

“Just curious. Can you date it with any sort of precision?”

The professor picked up the envelope, holding it up to the light as if studying the outline of its contents. “I can’t get any closer than what I’ve already said: late thirteenth century at the earliest. When was the hand-forging of iron replaced by machines? I have no idea. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

Standing, Jason took the envelope and slipped it into a jacket pocket. “But you have been, Professor.”

They shook hands again and Jason was on his way, this time taking the stairs, his mind groping for answers: grapevines in Iceland centuries ago? A pruning tool that could well be seven, eight hundred years old? Interesting, perhaps, but … There must be something else. A key to some secret yet to be known. Whatever that secret might be, it had already caused the death of Boris.

He stopped halfway down the stairs.

Boris.

What was it he had tried to say just before Jason and the police commissioner had traveled out to the glacier? What were, in effect, his last words?

Something about meanies or beanies? A British institute and someone named … named? Cravat, that was it. Like the precursor of the necktie. No, Cravas.

The meanies or weenies or whoever made no sense at all but were the only clue Jason had at the moment. That and whoever Nigel Cravas might be—clues that might save his life if he could interpret them.

He had seen a small, windowless room with a number of computers on his way in. At that moment, no one was there. Taking a seat in front of the one most distant from the door, it took only seconds to get onto the Internet and Google.

Nigel Cravas, British Institute at Collingwood College, Durham University. He paused. Durham… . Cathedral town in … northern England.

As Jason read on, he knew he would soon be taking a trip.

Tan Ching made Wan Chu nervous. It wasn’t just that the older man was with the Ministry of State Security, China’s intelligence service, or even his chain-smoking American Marlboro cigarettes that made Wan’s office smell as bad as the industrially polluted air that filled the city’s skies. It was the man himself, his half-lidded lizard eyes that missed nothing, his habit of nodding from time to time as though Wan had revealed some significant secret. The fact he had sent people who displeased him to Qincheng, China’s political prison, gave no reassurance either.

Wan was unsure of the exact meaning of the man coming here rather than summoning Wan to his office as would ordinarily be the case. And uncertainty did nothing to control the nerves that made it difficult for Wan to sit still.

Ching exhaled a gust of smoke, a fire-breathing dragon. “Your people have secured the problem with the American?”

Wan glanced around for something to use as an ashtray. His only choice was the cup from which he’d just finished his morning jasmine tea. He slid it across the desk.

“Not yet. But they will get him. That’s what they do.”

Ching turned eyes cold as stone toward Wan. “And if he discovers the significance of whatever he took from the glacier first?”

Wan shrugged. “Their significance is subject to debate, comrade.”

Ching’s fist came down on the desk so unexpectedly, Wan flinched. “We do not need ‘debate,’ comrade! We need results!”

“Perhaps you have a suggestion?” Wan asked meekly.

The man across the desk lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the previous one before dropping it into the teacup, where it hissed and went silent. “What motivates these men, these Russians?”

It took a second for Wan to understand the question. “They believe weakening capitalist nations to the point of collapse is a prerequisite for the return and ultimate triumph of Marxism. They see the global-warming cause as one that will move their agenda forward.”

Ching snorted, sending smoke gushing from his nose. “Fools like that are useful. But what really motivates the men who do the work, the ones who you say will ultimately kill this man Peters?”

Wan looked at him blankly.

“Money!” Ching bellowed. “Political idealist or not, cash gets faster results than slogans or agendas.” He stood. “Tend to it.”

“Of course, comrade,” Wan said, thanking whatever gods existed that the meeting was at an end.

Although the hour was not late, especially by local standards, the number of cars with tinted windows drew attention in this otherwise quiet neighborhood. The vehicles each came to a stop in front of the house. Car doors opened and men got out of the backseats. None of these men was Latino. Instead, they looked
norteamericano
or, perhaps, European. Each carried a small bag or suitcase as though they had just arrived from the airport. As each passenger climbed out of an automobile, he hurried, head down, inside the house as though fearful of being seen.

The few locals who had not tired of speculating as to the meaning of these events had varying opinions as to their significance. Señora Valequez, age eighty-six, was certain she was witnessing one of the drug deals featured almost nightly on the TV news and wanted to call the police. Juanita, her married daughter with whom she lived, cautioned that those who interfered in such business frequently met with violent ends. Señor Hermez, from next door, noted that, from what he could see, the men were not members of any local gang he recognized. He was certain there was a plan afoot to move the Guantánamo Bay detainees to Puerto Rico. After all, didn’t the Anglos send much of what they did not want to Puerto Rico since the US territory had no say in national politics?

As the last of the cars disgorged its single passenger and pulled away, equally wild guesses faded along with curiosity.

Inside Number 23, a dozen men were gathered, an assemblage somewhat larger than the downstairs room could comfortably accommodate. The men were all middle-aged and large. They looked hard. Many had scars, noses that had not been set properly after being broken, or gaps where teeth should have been. None of them had mustaches, beards, long hair, or any other tonsorial or grooming feature that might attract undue attention. A polyglot series of conversations was going on at once, the principal languages being Russian or English, although several other Slavic dialects were represented.

The man who called himself Pedro descended from the stairs and the voices died like a CD being turned off in mid-recording. He edged his way through the already tightly packed crowd, making his way to a table on which a laptop computer had been attached to a projector. Acknowledging greetings with a simple nod of the head, he went to the back wall and pulled down a screen, then turned to face the assembly.

He raised his voice and began in English, “May I have your attention!”

The request was unnecessary. The only sound was the straining of the air-conditioning unit in a losing battle with the increase of heat generated by so many bodies in such a small space.

A man’s face flashed on the screen, its grainy quality suggesting the photo had been taken at a distance. It was replaced by another view of the same person.

“This is the man,” Pedro said. “You will want to study his face so as to remember it.”

A hand went up somewhere in the back. “What else do we know about him?”

“He has been professionally trained. He succeeded in killing the man we sent to Iceland.”

A murmur of concern circled the room. “Professionally trained by who, military? Intelligence?”

Pedro held up his hands for silence. “It does not matter. What is important is that he be taken care of quickly. He poses a serious threat.”

Pedro knew these men cared little for his cause. They were veteran Spetsnaz, Russia’s equivalent of Navy SEALs or the Army’s Delta Force. The breakup of the Soviet Union had sown chaos among the armed forces. Equipment left unrepaired, payments late or not whole, and scarcity of rations and supplies all brought disillusionment with the military. Some of the elite forces were assigned civilian duties, such as fighting an increasingly violent criminal element and protecting the country’s leaders against attempts to dismantle the government by assassination. Many of the special forces quit in disgust at working under police bureaucrats. There were jobs providing private security for Russia’s newest elite, the capitalist businessman. Some worked as mercenaries, finding lucrative employment training troops in African civil wars. Others simply hired out their weapons and abilities, never asking why their new masters were in need of both.

Money, not causes like GrünWelt, interested such men.

“We will pay five hundred thousand dollars to the team who rids us of this man,” Pedro announced.

The offer was greeted by cheers and whistles.

“I have killed presidents of countries for less!”

“This man must be very hard to kill indeed.”

“How will we claim the prize as the killer, bring you his head?”

“His balls would be easier!”

“You alone would know the difference between one man’s balls and another’s.”

Only the last question drew a response. “Each of you will be assigned to a team, just as you were in the Army. Each team will be assigned to a specific geographic site where we know this man is likely to be… .”

The plan was similar to the way Spetsnaz had operated its programs of assassination of enemy political leaders in the past.

“I want to be assigned to wherever his woman is! There he surely will be, sooner or later,” a man in front said.

The comment brought jeers and hoots.

“You do not even know if he has a woman,” someone remarked.

“Such men always have women, frequently several.”

Pedro let the increasingly ribald comments continue for a few moments before signaling for quiet again.

He held up a glass jar with a number of folded slips of paper in it. “These pieces of paper have numbers on them. Each number corresponds to a number on an envelope. Each envelope contains a location. The paper will be drawn from the jar by each team’s leader as soon as I read off the names of the members of each team. You are not to discuss your location with anyone not on your team. That way, if one group should fall into the hands of local law enforcement, they will know nothing. Do you understand me?”

There was general nodding of heads and affirmative words until one man, perhaps slightly older than the others, asked, “Only one team will get the money. The multiple number of teams makes the odds against that being any one team. If I wish to gamble, I will do so in a casino.”

There was grumbling agreement.

“I have thought of that. Each team will consist of four men, four teams. The leader of each team will receive one hundred thousand dollars in whatever currency he wishes when he leaves here tonight. That money may be divided however the team desires. That should at least pay your expenses.”

There was a wave of indistinct voices with a tone of approval.

Pedro picked up the jar, holding it in both hands as he offered it to a man whose left eyelid drooped under a scar running from his left eyebrow to the right part of his chin. “Anatoly, you pick first.”

An hour later, only the four team leaders remained in the house. The increase in the efficiency of the air-conditioning was noticeable. The four men lounged in canvas chairs, tossing back shots of vodka.

Anatoly was studying the slip of paper he had drawn. “This is strange. Why would my target be at this place?”

Pedro made an exaggerated gesture of putting a finger to his lips. “We are not to discuss the various locations.”

Anatoly wouldn’t quit. “I’m not discussing any specific location. I’m just saying this one is peculiar. Some of the men in my team may question if they are being given a fair chance at the bounty you have offered.”

Rather than quarrel, Pedro got clumsily to his feet to peer over the other man’s shoulder. “This is the location of the organization that sent the little man to Iceland in the first place. Had they not done so, the Americans would never have sent our friend Peters there. If the target knows who first was in touch with Karloff, he will go there.”

Anatoly drained his glass of the clear liquid at a gulp. “
‘If’
is a word we do not like in our business.”

Pedro collapsed into his chair. “You are not being paid to like it, but to act on it.”

Jason was being followed.

He had confirmed the tail at the St. Pancras tube station as soon as he had stepped off the last of a series of trains he had taken from Gatwick. He had chosen a randomly circuitous route with the sole purpose of identifying anyone shadowing him. It had only been at St. Pancras he had been certain. There he had recognized a man of indeterminate age he had seen on a leg of the trip away from the station on the light-blue Victoria Line. The scar across his face was as unique as a fingerprint.

He had not seen the man on the Piccadilly Line but he had reappeared right here where the London Tube shared a station with the UK East Coast Mainline, rail service north. His absence on part of the meandering route told Jason the job was being conducted by two or more people, people experienced in observation techniques. He recalled the procedure from Delta Force’s covert surveillance training: one person to keep the subject in view while using some means to communicate with one or more confederates to pick the trail when the present one dropped off. The point was to reduce the chances of the subject recognizing a single tail.