Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

The three climbed out on the slippery dock and looked up at the dismal town. Stray flakes of snow dusted the shoulders of McFarlane's parka.

"Where is the office of customs?" Glinn asked one of the men in Spanish.

"I will take you there," said three simultaneously. Now women were arriving, crowding around with plastic buckets full of sea urchins, mussels, and congrio colorado , jostling one another aside and shoving the ripe shellfish into their faces.

"Sea urchin," said one woman in broken English. She had the wizened face of a septuagenarian and sported a single, remarkably white tooth. "Very good for man. Make hard. Muy fuerte." She gestured with a stiff upraised arm to indicate its results, while the men roared with laughter.

"No gracias señora," Glinn said, shoving his way through the crowd to follow his self-appointed guides.

The men led the way up the pier and along the waterfront in the direction of the naval station. Here, beside another pier only slightly less shabby, they stopped at a low planked building. Light streamed from its sole window into the darkening air, and the fragrant smoke of a wood fire billowed from a tin pipe in the far wall. A faded Chilean flag hung beside the door.

Glinn tipped their guides and pushed open the door, Britton following behind him. McFarlane came last. He took a deep breath of the ripe, chill air, reminding himself it was very unlikely anyone here would recognize him from the Atacama business.

The inside was what he expected: the scarred table, the potbellied stove, the dark-eyed official. Walking voluntarily into a Chilean government office — even one as remote and provincial as this — made him nervous. His eyes strayed involuntarily to the tattered-looking sheaf of wanted posters hanging from a wall by a rusted metal clamp. Cool it , he told himself.

The customs official had carefully slicked-back hair and an immaculate uniform. He smiled at them, revealing an expanse of gold teeth. "Please," he said in Spanish. "Sit down." He had a soft, effeminate voice. The man radiated a kind well-being that seemed extravagantly out of place in such a forlorn outpost.

From a back room of the customs office, voices that had been raised in argument were suddenly hushed. McFarlane waited for Glinn and Britton to sit down, then followed their lead, lowering himself gingerly into a scuffed wooden chair. The potbellied stove crackled, giving off a wonderful glow of heat.

"Por favor," the official said, pushing a cedar box full of cigarettes at them. Everyone declined except Glinn, who took two. He stuck one between his lips and popped the other into his pocket. "Mas tarde," he said with a grin.

The man leaned across the table and lit Glinn's cigarette with a gold lighter. Glinn took a deep drag on the unfiltered cigarette, then leaned over to spit a small piece of tobacco off his tongue. McFarlane glanced from him to Britton.

"Welcome to Chile," the official said in English, turning the lighter over in his delicate hands before slipping it back in his jacket pocket. Then he switched back to Spanish. "You are from the American mining ship Rolvaag , of course?"

"Yes," said Britton, also in Spanish. With seeming carelessness, she slipped some papers and a wad of passports out of a battered leather portfolio.

"Looking for iron?" the man asked with a smile.

Glinn nodded.

"And you expect to find this iron on Isla Desolación?" His smile held a touch of cynicism, McFarlane thought. Or was it suspicion?

"Of course," Glinn answered quickly, after stifling a wet cough. "We are equipped with all the latest mining equipment and a fine ore carrier. This is a highly professional operation."

The slightly amused expression on the official's face indicated that he had already received information about the big rust bucket anchored beyond the channel. He drew the papers toward him and flipped through them casually. "It will take some time to process these," he said. "We will probably want to visit your ship. Where is the captain?"

"I am the master of the Rolvaag ," said Britton.

At this the official's eyebrows shot up. There was a shuffling of feet from the back room of the customs house, and two more officials of indistinct rank came through the door. Heading to the stove, they sat down on a bench beside it.

" You are the captain," the official said.

"Sí."

The official grunted, looked down at the papers, casually leafed through them, and looked up at her again. "And you, señor?" he asked, swiveling his gaze to McFarlane.

Glinn spoke. "This is Dr. Widmanstätten, senior scientist. He speaks no Spanish. I am the chief engineer, Eli Ishmael."

McFarlane felt the official's gaze linger on him. "Widmanstätten," the man repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. The two other officials turned to look at him.

McFarlane's mouth went dry. His face hadn't been in the Chilean newspapers for at least five years. And he'd had a beard at the time. Nothing to worry about , he told himself. Sweat began to form at his temples.

The Chileans stared at him curiously, as if detecting his agitation with some kind of professional sixth sense.

"No speak Spanish?" the official said to him. His eyes narrowed as he stared.

There was a brief silence. Then, involuntarily, McFarlane blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Quiero una puta."

There was sudden laughter from the Chilean officials. "He speaks well enough," said the man behind the table. McFarlane sat back and licked his lips, exhaling slowly.

Glinn coughed again, a hideous racking cough. "Pardon me," he said, pulling out a grimy handkerchief, wiping his chin, scattering yellow phlegm with a savage shake, and returning it to his pocket.

The official glanced at the handkerchief, then rubbed his delicate hands together. "I hope you are not coming down with something in this damp climate of ours."

"It is nothing," said Glinn. McFarlane looked at him with growing alarm. The man's eyes were raw and bloodshot: he looked ill.

Britton coughed delicately into her hand. "A cold," she said. "It's been going around ship."

"A mere cold?" asked the official, his eyebrows assuming an uneasy arch.

"Well..." Britton paused. "Our sick bay is overflowing—"

"It's nothing serious," Glinn interrupted, his voice thready with mucus. "Perhaps a touch of influenza. You know what it is like on board ship, everyone confined to small spaces." He let out a laugh that devolved into another cough. "Speaking of that, we would be delighted to receive you aboard our vessel today or tomorrow, at your convenience."

"Perhaps that won't be necessary," said the official. "Provided these papers are in order." He leafed through them. "Where is your mining bond?"

With a mighty clearing of the throat, Glinn leaned over the desk and pulled an embossed, sealed set of papers from his jacket. Receiving them with the edges of his fingers, the official scanned the top sheet, then flipped to the next with a jerk of his wrist. He laid the sheets on the worn tabletop.

"I am desolated," he said with a sad shake of his head. "But this is the wrong form."

McFarlane saw the other two officials glance covertly at each other.

"It is?" asked Glinn.

There was a sudden change in the room; an air of tense expectation.

"You will need to bring the correct form from Punta Arenas," the official said. "At that time, I can stamp it approved. Until then, I will hold your passports for safekeeping."

"It is the correct form," said Britton, her voice taking a hard edge.

"Let me take care of this." Glinn spoke to her in English. "I think they want some money."

Britton flared. "What, they want a bribe?"

Glinn made a suppressing motion with one hand. "Easy."