Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

McFarlane looked at the two, wondering if what he was seeing between them was real, or an act.

Glinn turned back to the customs official, whose face was wreathed in a false smile. "Perhaps," Glinn said in Spanish, "we could purchase the correct bond here?"

"It is a possibility," said the official. "They are expensive."

With a loud sniff, Glinn hefted his briefcase and laid it on the table. Despite its dirty, scuffed appearance, the officials glanced at it with ill-concealed anticipation. Glinn flicked open the latches and raised the top, pretending to hide its contents from the Chileans. Inside were more papers and a dozen bundles of American twenties, held together by rubber bands. Glinn removed half of the bundles and laid them on the table. "Will that take care of it?" he asked.

The official smiled and settled back in his chair, making a tent of his fingers. "I'm afraid not, señor. Mining bonds are expensive." His eyes were fastidiously averted from the open briefcase.

"How much, then?"

The official pretended to do a quick mental calculation. "Twice that amount should be sufficient."

There was a silence. Then, wordlessly, Glinn reached into the briefcase, removed the rest of the bundles, and placed them on the table.

To McFarlane, it was as if the tense atmosphere had suddenly dissipated. The official at the table gathered up the money. Britton looked annoyed but resigned. The two officials sitting on the bench beside the stove were smiling widely. The only exception was a new arrival; a striking figure who had slipped in from the back room at some point during the negotiation and was now standing in the doorway. He was a tall man with a brown face as sharp as a knife, keen black eyes, thick eyebrows, and pointed ears that gave him an intense, almost Mephistophelean aura. He wore a clean but faded Chilean naval uniform with a bit of gold thread on the shoulders. McFarlane noted that, while the man's left arm lay at his side with military rigidity, the right was held horizontally across his stomach, its atrophied hand curled into an involuntary brown comma. The man looked at the officials, at Glinn, at the money on the table, and his lips curled into a faint smile of contempt.

The stacks of money had now been gathered into four piles. "What about a receipt?" asked Britton.

"Unfortunately, that is not our way..." The customs official spread his hands with another smile. Moving back quickly, he slipped one of the piles of money into his desk, then handed two of the other piles to the men on the bench. "For safekeeping," he said to Glinn. Finally, the official picked up the remaining pile and offered it to the uniformed man. The man, who had been peering closely at McFarlane, crossed his good hand over the bad but made no gesture for the money. The official held it there for a moment, and then spoke to him in a rapid undertone.

"Nada," answered the uniformed man in a loud voice. Then he stepped forward and turned to the group, his eyes glittering with hatred. "You Americans think you can buy everything," he said in clear, uninflected English. "You cannot. I am not like these corrupt officials. Keep your money."

The customs official spoke sharply, waggling the wad of bills at him. "You will take it, fool."

There was a distinct click as Glinn carefully closed his briefcase.

"No," said the uniformed man, switching to Spanish. "This is a farce, and all of you know it. We are being robbed." He spat toward the stove. In the dread silence that followed, McFarlane clearly heard the smack and sizzle as the gobbet hit the hot iron.

"Robbed?" the official asked. "How do you mean?"

"You think Americans would come down here to mine iron?" the man said. "Then you are the fool. They are here for something else."

"Tell me, wise Comandante, why they are here."

"There is no iron ore on Isla Desolación. They can only be here for one thing. Gold."

After a pause, the official began to laugh — a low-throated, mirthless laugh. He turned to Glinn. "Gold?" he said, a little more sharply than before. "Is that why you are here? To steal gold from Chile?"

McFarlane glanced at Glinn. To his great dismay, he saw a look of guilt and naked fear writ large across Glinn's face; enough to arouse suspicion in even the dullest official.

"We are here to mine iron ore," Glinn said, in a singularly unconvincing way.

"I must inform you that a gold mining bond will be much more expensive," said the official.

"But we are here to mine iron ore."

"Come, come," said the official. "Let us speak frankly to each other and not create unnecessary trouble. This story of iron..." He smiled knowingly.

There was a long, expectant silence. Then Glinn broke it with another cough. "Under the circumstances, perhaps a royalty might be in order. Provided that all paperwork is taken care of expeditiously."

The official waited. Again Glinn opened the briefcase. He removed the papers and placed them in his pocket. Then he ran his hands across the base of the now-empty briefcase, as if searching for something. There was a muffled click and a false bottom sprang loose. A yellow radiance emerged, reflecting off the official's surprised face.

"Madre de dios," the man whispered.

"This is for you — and your associates — now," said Glinn. "On our disembarkation, when we clear customs — if all has gone well — you will receive twice that amount. Of course, if false rumors of a gold strike on Isla Desolación get back to Punta Arenas, or if we receive unwelcome visitors, we won't be able to complete our mining operation. You will receive nothing more." He sneezed unexpectedly, spraying the back of the case with saliva.

The official hastily shut it. "Yes, yes. Everything will be taken care of."

The Chilean comandante responded savagely. "Look at the lot of you, like dogs sniffing around a bitch in heat."

The two officials rose from the bench and approached him, murmuring urgently and gesturing toward the briefcase. But the comandante broke free. "I am ashamed to be in the same room. You would sell your own mothers."

The customs official turned in his seat and stared behind him. "I think you had better return to your vessel, Comandante Vallenar," he said icily.

The uniformed man glared at each person in the room in turn. Then, erect and silent, he walked around the table and out the door, leaving it to bang in the wind.

"What of him?" Glinn asked.

"You must forgive Comandante Vallenar," the official said, reaching into another drawer and pulling out some papers and an official stamp. He inked the stamp, then quickly impressed the papers, seemingly anxious to have the visitors gone. "He is an idealist in a land of pragmatists. But he is nothing. There will be no rumors, no interruption of your work. You have my word." He handed the papers and the passports back across the desk.

Glinn took them and turned to go, then hesitated. "One other thing. We have hired a man named John Puppup. Do you have any idea where we might find him?"

"Puppup?" The official was clearly startled. "That old man? Whatever for?"

"It was represented to us that he has an intimate knowledge of the Cape Horn islands."

"I cannot imagine who told you such a thing. Unfortunately for you, he received money from somewhere a few days ago. And that means only one thing. I would try El Picoroco first. On Callejon Barranca." The official rose, flashing his gilded smile. "I wish you luck finding iron on Isla Desolación."

Puerto Williams,

11:45 A.M.

LEAVING THE customs office, they turned inland and began climbing the hill toward the Barrio de los Indios. The graded dirt road quickly gave way to a mixture of snow and icy mud. Wooden corduroys had been placed stairwise along the makeshift track to hold back erosion. The small houses lining the path were a ragtag assortment made with unmatched lumber, surrounded by crude wooden fences. A group of children followed the strangers, giggling and pointing. A donkey carrying an enormous faggot of wood passed them on the way downhill, almost jostling McFarlane into a puddle. He regained his balance with a backward curse.