Nimec stared at the photo and thought for a while. Then he switched his attention to Gordian.
“Meg was clear about wanting me at Cold Corners,” Nimec said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re with her on it.”
“Yes,” Gordian said. “Your thoughts?”
“I have to wonder what difference I’d make. Our staff down there knows the territory. They’re getting an open assist from MacTown. We’ve got to believe they’re doing everything they can.”
Gordian looked steadily at him.
“They’re racing against the calendar,” he said. “The Antarctic winter is just three weeks off. Months of darkness and bad weather. Once they have to bunker in, that’s the end of any sort of investigation. Megan doesn’t want to waste time. And she knows what you can accomplish given very little to spare.”
Nimec suddenly felt thickheaded. Investigation, he thought. He’d misunderstood Megan Breen’s request. This wasn’t about whether his involvement would effect the conclusion of their search. Wasn’t about conclusions at all, but rather undefined suspicions. Megan’s, Gordian’s, and his own. Antarctica was a brutal place. Nobody went there without a keen awareness of that fact. But the back-to-back disappearances of Scout IV and its S&R team equaled a huge, ominous question mark. And a likely tragedy. Something strange was going on out in the dry valleys, and Nimec was being asked to help get to the bottom of it. That was where his participation could be of important benefit.
The problem was that he considered his principal responsibilities to be with Roger Gordian in San Jose.
“I’ve got some questions before I hurry to pack my bags,” Nimec said. “With Ricci deep in the field, who’s left to man home plate? He pressed hard for my go-ahead, and it would be a mistake to pull him back without good cause. In my opinion we don’t have it. Not yet.”
“Ricci can carry on with his assignment. I don’t expect you’ll be gone too long. The last flight out of base is in three weeks. And you’ll have a reserved seat, I promise,” Gordian said. “Meanwhile, Rollie Thibodeau is here to handle things in your absence.”
“The way he’s been acting, I’m not sure Rollie can—”
“I am,” Gordian interrupted. “And I would think you’d have faith in the rest of our local Sword team.”
“Not the issue,” Nimec said. “We’ve had some close calls in the past few months. And the snakes responsible are still holed away underground.”
Gordian kept his gaze on him.
“I don’t need constant babysitting, Pete,” he said. “What are your other concerns?”
Nimec paused. It had taken about five sentences to exhaust his arguments. That left him scuffling for a dignified surrender.
“My Corvette,” he said “You going to take care of her for me?”
The faintest of smiles touched Gordian’s lips.
“She’ll be okay.” He carefully put down the picture frame. “That’s promise number two.”
Nimec sat there looking at Gordian for about thirty seconds. Then he gave him an acquiescent nod, rose from his chair, and started out of the office.
“Pete, one final thing…”
He turned to face Gordian.
“An old friend of ours with NASA is due to shepherd a small delegation of reporters and Senators around Cold Corners. The timing couldn’t be worse, but it’s part of a government funding push that can’t be called off,” he said. “At any rate, give my regards to Annie.”
Nimec stood with his hand suddenly tight on the brass doorknob. “Annie?”
“Caulfield,” Gordian said. “You remember her, of course.”
Nimec swallowed.
“Sure, I’ll say hello,” he said.
And strode from the room.
THREE
As he emerged from his eighteenth-century estate outside Rosmarkie for his daily predawn walk, Ewie B. Cameron, whose fifth great granduncle was the eldest son of Sir Ewen of Lochiel of the Highland Camerons, could feel nothing of the legendary courage and fierceness of his ancestors, but only an awful nervous gnawing in his stomach that had worsened throughout the long, long night.
If the documents that plant supervisor had slipped him proved authentic…
No, no, he thought. Their authenticity was beyond question. He could not seek an out for himself by playing the willful fool…
If his interpretation of them proved accurate despite their many cryptic references, verifying the supervisor’s story…
And if the plant’s key stakeholders could not then provide an acceptable accounting of the transactions… which Ewie knew would be nearly impossible given their flagrant violation of Scottish and international regulations…
If, if, if…
Ewie reached the end of his private lane, where a holly hedge screened his lawn from the narrow country road rolling past, the brightness of its berries muted now in the crepuscular light. Stepping onto the shoulder of the road, he turned left against whatever traffic might happen by at this early hour, and strolled toward the stone embankment where it was his habit to do some leg stretches before intensifying his pace. The morning was cold but not at all blustery, with just enough bite to be invigorating. Though Ewie was prone to be an abstemious sobriety of temperament, it was the sort of weather that would usually lift his mood like the fine mist curling off the mature Archangel firs that rose a hundred feet into the air on either side of him.
Today he was only wishing the twist in his gut would slacken a bit, so he could summon the appetite for a minimal breakfast.
For if the evidence Ewie had obtained was what it seemed on its face, the apprehension he felt about this evening’s meeting was as nothing compared to his dread of its broader consequences. Indeed, his first impulse had been to keep the information to himself until he conducted a quiet personal investigation. But that would have been imprudent. Say word of the alleged goings-on at Cromarty Firth leaked in the meantime? Say his informant grew impatient and brought the hard copies elsewhere — another council member, an Energy Authority constable, some damned English bureaucrat with the Department of Trade of Industry? Lord knows, the man might even rashly trot off to the press. Were his own prior ken revealed, Ewie knew his reputation would be compromised. Or worse. He might well be patsied and have to forfeit his council post. Face civil and criminal prosecution.
It was a mad predicament he’d been tossed into. Absolutely mad.
Ewie had been walking for several minutes, bogged in thought, when he noticed that he’d almost missed the embankment. He frowned at his distraction and stepped off the dirt shoulder for his routine warmup exercises.
Standing close to the rock, he leaned against it with his forearms, rested his head on his hands, then bent his right leg forward and extended the other straight back, holding the stretch until he felt it in his left calf. Then he changed sides. After about a minute, he put one foot up on a projecting ledge and, hands on his hips, bent his knee to relax the hamstring and groin muscles…