Megan looked at him.
“Bill Sprague,” she said.
Nimec nodded.
“I promised we’d take care of it,” he said. “But I’m no good at words. And I don’t know that I’ll be back from the Valleys before the flights leave.”
Megan sat in quiet thought.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll preside. That’s how it should be.”
They fell into momentary silence again. Then Nimec gave her a nod.
“I’d better suit up and get hold of the whirlybird man,” he said, pushing back his chair.
Megan was watching him as he rose to leave. He noticed her steady attention and paused in front of her desk.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just thinking,” Megan said.
“Uh-huh. I kind of figured.”
They looked at each other.
“Well?” he said.
“It’s something that’s probably none of my business,” Megan said.
“Oh,” Nimec said. “So whose business is it?”
Megan took a breath, released it.
“Yours,” she said. “And Annie Caulfield’s.”
Nimec stood there without saying anything.
“Pete, I’m sure it isn’t news to you that Annie’s flying out with the Senators,” Megan said. “Good with words or not, you should talk to her before you leave. Or you’ll miss your chance.”
They were both silent, their eyes in solid contact across opposite sides of the desk.
“My chance,” Nimec said finally.
“Yes.”
“To talk.”
“Yes.”
“To Annie.”
“Yes.”
Nimec stared at her, his throat going dry all at once.
“About?” he said.
Megan waited to answer, looking at his nervous face, the barest suggestion of a smile on her lips.
“That’s up to you, Deputy,” she said.
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” Granger said. “I’m wishing like hell I still could help. But with the herbie slamming us as bad as it did, and our field camps trying to get their heads up above the snow, MacTown’s depending on me to check up on them.”
“You can do it when we’re out,” Nimec said. “Seems to me that was almost exactly our original plan. I ride peter pilot while you make your rounds. And you detour us into the valley south of the notch.”
Granger regarded him briefly, and then turned to watch a large rumbling dozer clear the chopper pad where his Bell remained half immersed in snow. Somnolent and dusky with winter’s near onset, the cloudless sky under which they stood seemed entirely incapable of spewing the fury it had heaped upon the coast for the past three days.
“Flying isn’t the problem,” Granger said. “It’s ground conditions that won’t be the same now. Depending on what the camp teams need in the way of assistance, we could be stuck for hours every time I put her down.”
“I can wait, give you a hand,” Nimec said. “Our side trip won’t take that much time.”
Granger stood thinking his thoughts, his gaze following the bulldozer as it made a slow rolling circuit of the pad.
Nimec tried to understand his sudden hedging.
“Listen,” Nimec said. “I realize you’ve got bosses with their own priorities. And that they must be edgier than usual because of the storm. But we can send them one of our own pilots if that’s what it’ll take for you to be available.” He paused. “If Megan calls them, makes an official request, I guarantee they’ll listen.”
Granger watched the dozer’s lowered scoop fill with snow and push it up high into one of several building mounds.
Nimec didn’t press, giving him a chance to think things over.
About a minute later Granger faced him again.
“It’s better she doesn’t talk to the top dogs… you know how even the easiest solutions can get picked apart,” he said. “We ought to stick to how we already worked things out.”
Nimec looked at him.
“You saying we’re on again?” he said.
“On,” Granger said. “And keeping it between ourselves.”
Nimec nodded. He didn’t care how they did it, just as long as they were going.
“Whatever works for you,” he said.
Burkhart listened to Granger over their black phone line — and when Granger stopped talking, did not waste a moment telling him what needed to be done.
Granger wasn’t surprised. In fact, he seemed quite ready.
“I set this up, take care of this thing, it’ll be dangerous for me afterward,” he said. “You’ll have to get me away from here. Off the continent… maybe to South America. And I’m going to need money. Geld. Plenty of it. We can decide on a figure later. What’s important is that everything has to move very fast. Sehr schnell. That’s how you say it in your language, right?”
Burkhart rubbed a fingertip over the mark on his cheek. The pilot was a low creature of venality and deceit. But then, where was his own claim to gallantry?
“Execute your task,” he said. “I will see to the rest of the arrangements myself.”
He terminated their call, put down the phone, and sat exceedingly still in his heated metal booth, the sounds of the subterranean mine loud around him.
The machines were grinding.
Sehr schnell.
EIGHTEEN
His pistol was a Beretta 92 nine-millimeter, top of the line, with a stainless-steel barrel, black-matte finish, low recoil, and open-slide action. The same side arm used by the U.S. armed services, it couldn’t be beat for accuracy and reliability.
A handsome weapon.
Granger had never fired it except on practice ranges, never killed anything bigger than a rabbit in his life. He guessed that he was decent enough with a handgun, a better shot than your average person, although popping holes in a cardboard target that came gliding toward you down the lane was a far cry from taking out a human being. Or most likely was. The peculiar thing was that Granger had found himself without any moral or emotional constraints about the ruse he’d worked out, a setup that would have completely unstrung him once upon a time.
Sure, he’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Granger liked the money he was making hand over fist from the Consortium. He liked being where he was, and the freedom of living on the ice — liked his freedom, period—and got a little bothered knowing he would have to lose his income stream, jeopardize his personal safety, and go on the run. But he’d banked plenty over the last few years, heaped up a nice financial cushion in numbered Swiss and Cayman Island accounts.
His concern was whether the snare would work. Conscience, guilt… he just didn’t harbor those feelings. In fact, he’d discovered that part of him, a strong part, actually enjoyed running all the way home with the devil.
Peculiar thing.
Seated in the cockpit of his Bell chopper, Granger carefully adjusted his parka, tugging and smoothing it until he was confident the side-arm holster underneath made no visible bulge. An hour had passed since he’d agreed to give Pete Nimec his ride in the sky, a bit less since he’d phoned Burkhart on his secure mobile phone, and Granger was about ready to charge up the bird. He had laddered through all the routine steps of a preflight systems check, looking over the gauges, video displays, and digital readouts on his control panel, inputting coordinates into his onboard GPS unit, testing his navigation and communications equipment. Outside, the cleanup crews were still making a racket with their bucket loaders, but most of the storm’s dumping of snow around the pad had been hauled off. Now Granger was only waiting for Nimec to return from Cold Corners One, where he’d gone to wrap up some unspecified last-minute affairs.