"Pardon?" Schroeder said.
"Ivory Island is where Karla is working. A guy from the Discovery Channel came into my office yesterday and said he was with a crew in Alaska to do a special on Mount McKinley. Guess he heard about Karla's work. He seemed extremely interested when I told him about Ivory Island. Talked about making a side trip. Asked all about the project. I guess nothing's an obstacle when you've got a fat checkbook."
"What was his name?" Schroeder said. "Perhaps I've come across him in my travels."
"Hunter," he said. "Scott Hunter. Big, muscular guy."
Schroeder smiled, but there was contempt in his eyes for the thinly veiled wordplay behind the fake name. "Can't say I know him. Of course, you informed him of the difficulties of getting to Ivory Island?"
"I sent him to the airport to talk to Joe Harper. He's a former bush pilot who operates a company called PoleStar Air. They run packaged adventure tours into Russia."
Schroeder gulped down the rest of his tea even though it burned his throat. He thanked Mumford for his hospitality, and drove his rental car to the Fairbanks airport. The airport's location near the Arctic Circle made it a convenient refueling stop for big cargo planes flying the circle route between the Far East and America. Schroeder saw a 747 taking off as he parked. The airport itself was relatively small, and it took only one inquiry to find the office for PoleStar Air.
The receptionist gave Schroeder a pleasant smile and said Mr. Harper would be free as soon as he got off the phone. Harper came out after a few minutes. He looked as if he had been picked for the role of a bush pilot by central casting. He was a lean man with alert eyes and a strong set to his mouth, and, judging from his appearance, he was still making the transition from bush pilot to tour operator.
His beard was neatly trimmed, but his hair was shaggy and over the ears. His shirt was new and pressed and tucked into a pair of faded jeans that were at about the stage when they get comfortable. He projected a professional capability, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes. He leaned close to his receptionist's ear and whispered something about a fuel bill, then ushered Schroeder into his office.
The work space was barely big enough for a desk and computer. Any excess space was taken up by stacks of files.
Harper was acutely aware of the disarray. "Pardon the mess. PoleStar is still a family operation, and I'm doing a lot of the paperwork myself. In fact, I do almost everything with the help of my wife out there."
"I understand you've been flying a long time," Schroeder said. Harper's face brightened. "I came up here in '84. Had a Cessna, flew that for years. Expanded into a fleet of puddle jumpers. I sold them all to buy the little corporate jet you see out on the tarmac. It's the blue one with the stars all over it. The high-end clients like their adventure tours fast and first-class."
"How's it going?"
"Business is coming along okay, I guess. Can't say the same for myself." Harper picked up a pile of papers and dropped it back on his desk. "I'm stuck doing this stuff until we get big enough to hire someone. But that's my problem. What's yours?"
"I talked to Dr. Mumford at the university a little while ago. He told me that you're taking a television crew to an island in Siberia."
"Oh yeah, the Discovery people. They're taking a plane that will hook up with a fishing boat at Wrangel."
Schroeder handed Harper one of his newly minted business cards. "I'd like to get to the New Siberian Islands. You don't suppose I could hitch a ride with them."
"Okay by me. There's plenty of room on the plane. All you'd need is the price of admission. Unfortunately, they've reserved all the seats on the plane and boat."
Schroeder pondered his answer. "Maybe I can talk your clients into letting me tag along."
"You're welcome to try. They're staying at the Westmark Hotel."
"What is your estimated time of departure?"
He checked his watch. "Two hours and twenty-one minutes from now."
"I'll go talk to them."
Schroeder got directions to the hotel, and inquired at the desk about the Discovery crew. The desk clerk said he had seen them go into the bar a few minutes earlier. Schroeder thanked him and went to the lounge, which was only half full, mostly singles and couples. The only group sat at a corner table, talking with their heads close together. There were four of them.
Schroeder bought a newspaper in the lobby, took a nearby table in the lounge and ordered a club soda with lime. A couple of the men glanced briefly in his direction and went back to their conversation. One advantage to getting old is invisibility, he mused. Younger people simply stop seeing you.
He decided to put his suspicions to the test. He watched one of the men leave his table to go to the restroom. Timing it just right, he rose from his table and deliberately bumped into the man on his way back. Schroeder apologized profusely, but the man only swore, and cut him dead with a fierce glance.
The encounter told him two things. That his new appearance, with his shaved beard and dyed hair, was working, and that the television man was carrying a gun in a shoulder holster. He decided to press the matter further.
After emerging from the restroom, he approached the group's table. "Hello," he said in his western accent. "I understand you folks are from the Discovery Channel. Mr. Hunter?"
A large man who seemed to be the leader examined him through narrowed eyes. "Yeah. I'm Hunter. How'd you know my name?"
"It's all over the hotel. We don't often get celebrities here," Schroeder said, provoking grins around the table. "I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed the show you did on the ancient Hittites several months ago."
A puzzled expression crossed the big man's face. "Thanks," he said, regarding Schroeder with hard eyes. "We've got some business to take care of, so if you'll excuse us."
Schroeder apologized for taking their time and went back to his table. He could hear the men laughing. He had made up the Hittite reference as a test. He watched the Discovery Channel constantly. There had never been any program on that subject in the last six months. The crew was phony.
He pondered a course of action while he finished his club soda and decided to take the most direct route. He went out to his car, and from under the seat retrieved a pistol with a sound suppressor attached to the barrel.
He was relieved to see that the men were still in the bar when he returned to the hotel. He was just in time. They had paid their bill and risen from the table. He followed them to the elevator. He rode up with them to the third floor, chatting like an old fool, enduring the smirks and hard looks. He got off on the same floor, mumbled something about a coincidence. He ambled down the hallway, acting confused, as if he had forgotten where he was, but when the group broke up and went into their rooms he noted the room numbers.
He waited a minute, then went over to one room. Holding the pistol behind his back, he glanced up and down the hallway to make sure he was alone, then knocked. The door opened a moment later. The man scowled when he saw Schroeder standing there. It was the man he had jostled. He had taken off his jacket, and, as Schroeder had suspected, he was wearing a shoulder holster with a handgun in it.
"What the hell do youwant?"
"I seem to have lost my room key. I was wondering if I could use your phone."
"I'm busy." He put his hand on the holster. "Go bother someone else."
The man started to close the door. Schroeder quickly brought the pistol around and snapped off a shot between the eyes. The man crumpled to the floor with a look of abject surprise on his otherwise unmarked face. Glancing up and down the corridor, Schroeder stepped over the body and dragged it just inside the room.