Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

It is imperative that I communicate with Scopes, Levine wrote. How can I do that?

Only one chance. You’ll have to physically get inside the building.

But that’s impossible. The security on that building must be massive.

No doubt. But the weakest element of any security system is the people. I assumed you might make this request, and I’ve already begun making preparations. Months ago, when I first began hacking the GeneDyne net for you, I downloaded their network and security blueprints. If you can get your ass into the building, you may be able to reach Scopes. But I’ll need to take care of a little business first.

I’m no hacker, Mime. You’ve got to come in with me.

I can’t.

You must be in North America. Wherever you are, you can be on a plane and in Boston in five hours. I’ll pay for your ticket.

No.

Why the hell not?

I just can’t.

Mime, this isn’t a game anymore. Thousands of lives depend on it.

Listen to me, professor. I’ll help you get into the building. I’ll show you how to contact me once inside. There are numerous security systems that will have to be compromised if you want to get close to Scopes. Forget doing it in real space. You’ll have to make the trip by cyberspace, professor-man. I’ll send you a series of attack programs I’ve written explicitly for GeneDyne. They should get you inside the net.

I need you there with me, not as some long-distance support service. Mime, I never thought you were the cowardly type. You’ve got to—

The screen went blank. Levine waited impatiently, wondering what hacker game Mime was playing now. Suddenly, a picture materialized:

Levine stared blankly at the screen. The image was so unexpected that it took him several seconds to realize he was looking at the structural formula for a chemical. It took significantly less time to realize what the compound was.

“My God,” he whispered. “Thalidomide. A thalidomide baby.”

It was suddenly clear to him why Mime could not possibly come to Boston. And it was also clear—for the first time—why Mime hacked the big pharmaceutical companies with such vengeance; why, in fact, Mime was helping him at all.

There was a rap on the hotel-room door.

Levine opened it to see a disheveled-looking valet in a red suit that was several sizes too small. The valet held up a hanger containing two pieces of dark brown clothing, wrapped in protective plastic.

“Your uniform,” he said.

“I didn’t—” Levine began, then stopped. He thanked the valet and closed the door. He had not ordered any dry cleaning.

But Mime had.

From the welter of tracks at the edge of the lava flow, Nye could see that Singer and his Hummers had stopped and milled about. For quite some time, apparently; they had managed, in their ineptitude, to obscure Carson’s and de Vaca’s own tracks. Then the vehicles had moved up onto the lava itself, scraping and scratching along. The bloody yob didn’t know the first rule of the tracker was never disturb the track one is following.

Nye stopped, waiting. Then he heard the voice again, clearer now, murmuring out of the lovely darkness. Carson hadn’t continued straight south. Once on the lava, he had either gone east or west, hoping to shake his pursuers. Then he would have doubled back north, or doglegged south again.

Nye gave Muerto the whispered order to stand. Dismounting, he climbed onto the lava, flashlight in hand. He walked a hundred yards west of the mess left by the Hummers, then turned and cut for sign, playing his beam among the lava rocks, looking for the telltale marks of shoe iron on rock.

No track. He would try the other side.

And there he saw it: the whitish crushed edge of a lava rock, the fresh mark of a shoe. To make sure, he continued searching until he found another whitish streak against the black lava, and then another, along with an overturned stone. The horses had stumbled here and there, striking the rocks with their iron shoes, leaving an unmistakable trail. Carson and the woman had made a ninety-degree turn and were heading east.

But for how long? Would they turn south again, or double back north? There was no water in either direction. The only time Nye had seen any water in the Jornada was in the temporary playas that formed after heavy thundershowers. Except for the freak rain shower on that day he’d first suspected Carson was after his secret, there hadn’t been any rain in months. There probably wouldn’t be any more until the rainy season began in late August.

South seemed the obvious route, since the northward journey would be much longer and would cross more lava fields.

No doubt that’s what Carson thought his pursuers would assume.

North , said the voice.

Nye stopped and listened. It was a familiar voice, cynical and high, laced with the salty Cockney tones that no amount of Home Counties public schooling could erase. Somehow, it seemed perfectly natural that it should be speaking to him. He wondered, in a detached way, whose voice it was.

He returned to Muerto and remounted. It was better to be absolutely sure of Carson’s intentions. The two would have to come down off the lava field at some point. And that’s where Nye knew he could pick up the track.

He decided to ride along the northern edge of the lava first. If he didn’t pick up the trail, he’d cross the lava field and ride along its southern edge.

Within half an hour he had found the pathetic marks in the sand where Carson had tried to brush away their tracks. So the voice was right: They had turned north, after all. There was a regularity to Carson’s sweepings that set them apart from the irregular patterns of windblown sand. Nye painstakingly traced the brushed marks back to where the trail began again, as clear in the deep sand as highway markers, heading straight for the North Star.

This would be easier than he thought. He’d catch Carson around sunrise. With the Holland & Holland, he could take Carson down from a quarter mile. The man would be dead before he even heard the shot. There would be no final confrontation, no desperate pleading. Just a clean shot from six hundred yards, and a second one for the bitch. Then he would finally be free to find the one thing that meant anything to him now: the Mount Dragon gold.

Once again, he did the calculations. He had done them innumerable times before, and they felt comfortable and familiar in his head. The amount of gold that could be carried on a pack mule was between 180 and 240 pounds, depending on the mule. In either case, well over one million in bullion alone. But the gold would probably be in the Pre-Revolt stamped bullion bars and coinage of New Spain. That would drive its worth up ten times or more.

He was free of Mount Dragon now; free of Scopes. Only Carson—Carson the traitor in the dark, Carson the sneak thief—stood in his way. And a bullet would take care of that.

By three in the morning, the sharpness in the air had intensified. Carson and de Vaca came over a rise and rode down into what appeared to be a broad, grassy basin. It had been almost two hours since they passed the glow of Mount Dragon on the horizon, heading north. They had seen no sign of lights behind them. The Hummers were gone for good.