Target: Point Zero (16 page)

“I’m in for a million and a half,” he told them, “And you’re in for point-five. That’s a little uneven, isn’t it?”

The two men never stopped smiling. One reached into his pocket and withdrew a thin piece of metal about the size of a pocket calculator. It was polished so brightly it shimmered as he threw it on the table. Meanwhile his partner let loose with a long stream of unvoweled words, spoken in some obscure European dialect.

The pit boss was immediately in Hunter’s ear, but he didn’t need any translation. The thin piece of shiny metal was a platinum draftnote, a rare but acceptable form of currency in post-war Europe. All Hunter wanted to know was how much it was worth.

“Approximately one and three quarters of a million,” the pit boss informed him, “As of our daily call to the Zurich Central Bank this morning.”

Hunter looked back up at the two men. Obviously they’d been carrying the platinum note as a backup for credit all along. Now they were willing to risk it, plus what was left of their gold chips. It was strange—he hadn’t counted on them being this greedy. What was their real motive then? To
bluff
him out of his winnings?

“Well, now the disadvantage is my way,” he told them. “I thought you wanted this to be even.”

“We do,” the second man said. “We want something else of yours as well.”

Again Hunter laughed. The two men were at least getting points for sheer
chutzpah.
Maybe that was another advantage of walking in space. Maybe the weightlessness made your balls grow bigger. But the question remained: what else could these guys possibly want of his?

“I’ve got a two-piece tank truck sitting outside, about a thousand gallons of gasoline in it,” he told them. “Will that do?”

The men laughed, a little louder now. The crowd around them laughed, too. Suddenly Hunter felt like he was the only one not in on the joke.

“Okay, what
do
you want?” he demanded of them.

As one, the crowd turned and looked to a spot just over Hunter’s left shoulder. Both travelers nodded in that direction, too.

Hunter turned and suddenly found a graceful, blond catwoman had silently crept up beside him and was now standing, chest heaving, at the center of attention.

It was Chloe.

“We want her…” one of the men said.

Hunter looked up at her for a moment, then back at the men.

“No way,” he said, starting to pull his bag of coins away. But then he felt a soft hand touch his shoulder—it froze him from head to toe.

“Do it,” Chloe whispered to him—her voice was husky with excitement. The crowd, too, began shivering with erotic delight. It was suddenly very obvious to Hunter that this type of thing went on here in St. Moritz all the time.

His mind quickly switched into overdrive, weighing the ramifications of this unexpected twist. One thing was certain: it was not likely that he would have another crack at these two characters. He would have to deal with them here and now. The sudden inclusion of the Chloe factor was not catastrophic, simply complicating. And somewhere, deep down in that part of his mind he’d been visiting recently, something was telling him this is what he’d wanted all along.

He took one last look at her—and saw her eyes were actually tearing up, so much she wanted to be part of the stake. He turned back to the travelers and then dropped the bag of gold back on the table. The crowd ooohed with excitement once again. This was how the rich and famous amused themselves these crazy days.

“Okay, one hand, draw poker,” Hunter finally said. “Deal them out.”

The croupier did so, slowly, making sure each card fell precisely on top of the next, with the precise angle and drop time.

The first traveler picked up his cards, scanned them, suppressed a smile, and placed them back on the table.

“I’ll stay,” he declared, waving away the croupier’s offer of draw cards.

The second man picked up his hand, looked at it, and smiled even more broadly than the first.

“I’m good, too…” he said.

The crowd gasped on cue. Neither man wanted nor required a draw card. All eyes turned back to Hunter. He looked at his hand and paused for a moment. Then drawing off four cards, he placed them aside and took four new ones from the relieved dealer.

“Check to you,” he told the men.

The first man cautiously laid down his hand. He had four Queens. The second man was a bit faster. He held four Kings. Hunter reached down and flipped his hand over. The crowd let out a long, mournful groan.

He’d drawn four Jacks.

The two men were so surprised, they weren’t sure what to do next. The pit boss, too, was shocked. He stepped forward and in a very graceful, workmanlike manner, moved Hunter’s bag of gold coins across the table, placing it in front of the two men.

Then he looked up at Chloe. She was as surprised as anyone. With very tentative steps, he escorted her over to the other side of the table as well.

The two travelers knew it was essential they get out quickly now. They stood up, loaded on their winnings, including the platinum draft, and then took Chloe by the arm.

“Nice playing with you,” one leered at Hunter. “We must have a rematch—the next time we’re in town.”

The next instant they were gone, lugging the weighty treasure with them, and hastily moving Chloe along. She managed a look over her shoulder as she was led away. Once again her eyes locked on to Hunter’s.

He was not surprised in the least to see her break into a wide, devilish smile.

It took only a few minutes for the crowd to drift away from the card table. The contest they’d been anticipating all day had indeed taken a strange twist. A fortune and one of the city’s most desirable females had been won by the two unshaven men with the spring in their step and the twinkle in their eyes.

In the end it was just Hunter and croupier, the man standing station with Hunter like a priest at a burial.

“Gambling is like that, sir,” he said to Hunter, offering words of solace.

Hunter just shrugged and got to his feet. “You’re right about that, my friend.”

With that, Hunter quickly walked away, down some steps and out the side door he’d come in.

Only then did the croupier reach down and gather up the cards Hunter had thrown away before drawing the Jacks. One by one, the croupier flipped them over.

All four of them were Aces.

Not many people saw the fellow travelers leave town.

It was about 4 A.M. Two-thirds of the citizenry was still crowded into the casino; everyone else was either sleeping or passed out. The men had packed up their means of transport, a small Audi truck, and were now in the process of fueling it via a dozen containers of gasoline they’d purchased downtown.

Sitting in the cab of the truck was Chloe, suitcases packed, and wearing a stunning black traveling suit. They had so far refused to talk to her—and she had not tried to communicate with them either. It was a tough call as to what the men were most concerned about: their regained treasure or the beautiful young girl. In truth, never in their dreams did they think they would actually win all their money back, never mind getting this blond vision as well. They really weren’t too sure what they were supposed to do with her.

Their vehicle finally fueled, they quickly brought its engine to life and were off. Tires squealing, leaving a cloud of smoke and ice in their wake, they wheeled out onto the main road and immediately turned northeast.

The major highway out of town was called the Albula Span, a road which ran up one side of the local range, and then right through one of its mountains, via a tunnel known as the Albula Pass. Once they made it through the six-mile long passage, they would be more than halfway home.

They saw no one on the main street, no one on the approach to the highway. The sound of their noisy, anxious engine echoed off the ice-encased buildings and the snow piles alike. From all appearances, the two men had made a successful getaway.

But no one saw the long line of ripples disrupting the water on the northside of the great lake either, nor the small legion of waves that lapped up against the shore a few moments later. The speedy Macchi had taken off with barely the burp of the engine and the slightly eerie whooshing sound it made as its pontoons left the water.

Climbing straight up as quickly as the clown’s feet floats would allow, Hunter had stolen silently into the air.

He was quickly up and over the small mountains to the north end of St. Moritz, the unnaturally straightened road of the Albula Span stretching before him. There were a few vehicles transversing the Alpine highway in this, the last hour before dawn. Military trucks in small convoys mostly, change-outs between the private armies guarding the north and west. Many were running with the headlights on—some were not.

This made no difference to Hunter. One glance into his FLIR goggles told him the precise location of the Audi truck, along with its direction and speed. The tracer powder, which he’d first sprinkled onto his gold coins, was now all over the small truck, being transferred there just as he’d hoped by the travelers themselves, after they’d run their greedy little hands through the big bag of money.

The Audi was glowing like a spark plug, its outline on the FLIR coming across as almost bluish on the field of green. Hunter positioned himself about one mile high and two miles behind the speeding truck, staying there by kicking in the engine only every thirty seconds or so and thus maintaining a slow, seventy-five-knot power glide. This tactic also cut down on some of the noise the airplane was making—and this was very important.

The last thing he wanted now was for the two men to think they were being followed.

Point Zero wasn’t that hard a place to find.

It was located approximately one hundred thirty-five kilometers northwest of St. Moritz, at the top of a peak known as the
Niedencastel.
It was a strange little place, a domed structure surrounded by a gaggle of antennas and satellite dishes. Everything on the outside was painted white, this in a land where just about everything was white, except the large, crystalline lake nearby, which was deep blue. The bloodless paint job was a crude, but effective attempt at camouflage. From the ground looking up, it was almost impossible to see the small tracking station.

But from the air—well, that was another story.

The Audi truck bearing the two men and Chloe arrived at the top of the mountain just after 5 A.M. Climbing to the peak alone took forty-five minutes. When they finally pulled up to the igloo, they were shocked to find the front door unlocked and wide open. Quickly hustling Chloe out of the truck, they stormed into the small passageway which held another door which led into the bubble-top building itself. This was wide open, too.

The men drew their guns. They were massive .357 Magnums; the very sight of them shook Chloe. No one carried weapons in St. Moritz, never mind hand cannons like these. And what did the men plan to do with them? They coolly pushed the hatchway open to find the interior of the station frozen over and partially covered with snow. Sitting in the middle of this, frozen to the chair in front of the station’s main display screen was a third colleague, a man they’d left behind. He looked dead.

The two men yanked Chloe inside, then quickly closed the door behind them. One leapt for the thermostat and cranked it up to high. Somewhere deep below the structure, a small squadron of thermal-heaters kicked in. At least
they
were still working. The men next dislodged some ice from the main diagnostic panel and began frantically pushing buttons. Many things came back as blinking red—not a good sign.

Furious, one of the men gave the main console chair a mighty kick, dislodging its frosted and encrusted occupant and about a million ice particles from the seat. The man was not dead—he was drunk. He rolled stiffly across the room, whacking his head on the main console. The two men cornered him and began kicking him viciously about the groin and stomach. Terrified and confused, the victim began squealing. But his cries were drowned out by the thudding of boots to his skull and body.

Only after Chloe let out a scream did the beating stop.

Exhausted and drained, the two men continued mercilessly cursing at the man. It was obvious by now that this type of thing had happened before.

They were a strange lot, these three. True, they were somewhat educated; each had more than a passing knowledge of both astrophysics and engineering. All three had also ridden aboard the Zon into space. But they were rather crude intellects, freelance space workers left over from the old,
old
Soviet Empire. They had nary a thought of loyalty or devotion to their jobs or one another. In fact, all three frequently took advantage of their isolated station, abusing alcohol and cocaine, both of which were readily available by air-drop delivery from any one of a dozen drug cartels operating in the region.

But by agreement, this practice was supposed to stop whenever the two of them struck out for St. Moritz and left the third man behind. In reality, the loneliness only increased the temptation to get blitzed. So the third man had thrown a two-day party for himself. He’d injested an overload of intoxicants, had probably wanted to get some air and then passed out with the door wide open. Had the other two not returned when they did, the man would have frozen to death in another two hours. Soon after that, the interior of the station would have iced-over beyond repair.

This was why they were so angry with him. Letting the station fall into such a state had been not only foolish—it had been extremely dangerous. If the people who were paying them to sit here and watch TV all day ever found out how badly they actually ran the place, losing the frigid gig on top of the
Niedencastel
would be the least of their problems. Quite simply, their employers would have them tracked down and killed.

They poured a bucket of freezing water over the third man’s head, reviving him somewhat, though not to the point where he had the strength to get to his feet. The dome was heating up quickly now and many of the systems automatically shut down during the freeze-out were coming back on line and blinking green. Another diagnostic check revealed no large-scale damage had been done. And apparently nothing out of the ordinary had happened with the orbiting Zon while they were away. The two travelers breathed a sigh of relief—they’d dodged a huge bullet. But an exchange of angry scowls reaffirmed an agreement they’d made long before: the third man would not get a penny of the hard-won monetary gains they’d picked up in St. Moritz. In fact, he’d just made himself very dispensable.