Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"Exactly how much of that little dog-and-pony show was planned?" he asked Glinn in a low tone.

"All except for Comandante Vallenar. And your little outburst. Unscripted, but successful."

"Successful? Now they think we're illegally mining gold. I would call it a disaster."

Glinn smiled indulgently. "It couldn't have gone better. If they gave it some thought, they would never believe that an American company would send an ore carrier to the ends of the earth to mine iron. Comandante Vallenar's flare-up was well timed. It saved me from having to plant the idea in their heads myself."

McFarlane shook his head. "Think of the rumors it will start."

"There already are rumors. The amount of gold we gave them will shut them up for life. Now our good customs people are going to scotch those rumors and order the island out of bounds. They're much more suited for the job than we are. And they have excellent incentive to do it."

"What about that comandante?" asked Britton. "He didn't look like he was getting with the program."

"Not everyone can be bribed. Fortunately, he has no power or credibility. The only naval officers who end up down here are the ones that have been convicted of crimes or disgraced in one way or another. Those customs officials will be extremely anxious to keep him in line. That will undoubtedly mean a payoff to the commanding officer of the naval base. We gave those officials more than enough to go around." Glinn pursed his lips. "Still, we should learn a little more about this Comandante Vallenar."

They stepped over a runnel of soapy water as the grade lessened. Glinn asked directions of a passerby, and they turned off into a narrow side street. A dirty noon mist was settling on the village, and along with it came a hard freezing of the damp air. A dead mastiff lay swollen in the gutter. McFarlane breathed in the smell of fish and raw earth, noticed the flimsy wooden tienda advertising Fanta and local beers, and was irresistibly brought back five years in time. After twice trying unsuccessfully to cross into Argentina, burdened by the Atacama tektites, he and Nestor Masangkay had ended up crossing into Bolivia near the town of Ancuaque: so unlike this town in appearance, and yet so like it in spirit.

Glinn came to a halt. At the end of the alley before them was a sagging, red-shingled building. A blue bulb blinked above a sign that read EL PICOROCO. CERVEZA MAS FINA. From an open door beneath, the faint throb of ranchera music spilled into the street.

"I think I'm beginning to understand some of your methods," said McFarlane. "What was that the customs man said about somebody sending Puppup money? Was that you, by any chance?"

Glinn inclined his head but did not speak.

"I think I'll wait out here," said Britton.

McFarlane followed Glinn past the door and into a dim space. He saw a scuffed bar made out of deal, several wooden tables covered with bottle rings, and an English dartboard, its wire numbers blackened with tar and soot. The smoke-laden air tasted as if it had hung there for years. The bartender straightened up as they walked in, and the level of conversation dropped as the few patrons turned to stare at the newcomers.

Glinn sidled up the bar and ordered two beers. The bartender brought them over, warm and dripping with foam. "We are looking for Señor Puppup," said Glinn.

"Puppup?" The bartender broke into a broad, scant-toothed grin. "He is in the back."

They followed the man through a beaded curtain, into a little snug with a private table and an empty bottle of Dewar's. Stretched out on a bench along the wall was a skinny old man in indescribably dirty clothes. A pair of wispy Fu Manchu-style mustaches drooped from his upper lip. A thrumcap that looked like it had been sewn together from bits of old rags had slid from his head to the bench. "Sleeping or drunk?" asked Glinn.

The bartender roared with laughter. "Both."

"When will he be sober?"

The man leaned down, rummaged through Puppup's pockets, and pulled out a small wad of dirty bills. He counted them, then shoved them back.

"He will be sober on Tuesday next."

"But he has been hired by our vessel."

The bartender laughed again, more cynically.

Glinn thought a moment, or at least gave the appearance of doing so. "We have orders to bring him on board. May I trouble you for the hire of two of your customers to help us?"

The bartender nodded and walked back to the bar, returning with two burly men. A few words were spoken, money was exchanged, and the two lifted Puppup from the bench and slung his arms around their shoulders. His head lolled forward. In their grasp, he looked as light and fragile as a dry leaf.

McFarlane took a deep, grateful breath of air as they stepped outside. It stank, but it was better than the stale atmosphere of the bar. Britton, who had been standing in the shadows on a far corner, came forward. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Puppup.

"He's not much to look at now," Glinn said. "But he'll make an excellent harbor pilot. He's been traversing the waters of the Cape Horn islands by canoe for fifty years; he knows all the currents, winds, weather, reefs, and tides."

Britton raised her eyebrows. "This old man?"

Glinn nodded. "As I told Lloyd this morning, he's half Yaghan. They were the original inhabitants of the Cape Horn islands. He's practically the last one left who knows the language, songs, and legends. He spends most of his time roaming the islands, living off shellfish, plants, and roots. If you asked him, he'd probably tell you the Cape Horn islands are his."

"How picturesque," said McFarlane.

Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Yes. And he also happens to be the one who found your partner's body."

McFarlane stopped dead.

"That's right," Glinn continued in an undertone. "He's the one who collected the tomographic sounder and the rock samples and sold them in Punta Arenas. On top of everything else, his absence in Puerto Williams will be most helpful to us. Now that we have attracted attention to Isla Desolación, he won't be around to gossip and spread rumor."

McFarlane looked again at the drunk. "So he's the bastard who robbed my partner."

Glinn laid a hand on McFarlane's arm. "He's extremely poor. He found a dead man with some valuable things. It's understandable, and forgivable, that he'd look to make a small profit. There was no harm in it. If not for him, your old friend might still be lying undiscovered. And you would not have the opportunity to finish his work."

McFarlane pulled away, even as he was forced to admit to himself that Glinn was right.

"He will be most useful to us," Glinn said. "I can promise you that."

Silently McFarlane followed the group as they made their way down the murky hillside toward the harbor.

Rolvaag,

2:50 P.M.

BY THE time the launch exited the Beagle Channel and approached the Rolvaag , a heavy, bitter fog had enveloped the sea. The small group remained inside the wheelhouse, huddled on flotation cushions, barely speaking. Puppup, who was propped upright between Glinn and Sally Britton, showed no signs of regaining consciousness. However, several times he had to be prevented from nodding to one side and snuggling himself against the captain's pea coat.

"Is he shamming?" the captain asked, as she plucked the old man's frail-looking hand from her lapel and gently pushed him away.

Glinn smiled. McFarlane noticed that the cigarettes, the racking cough, the rheumy eyes had all vanished; the cool presence had returned.

Ahead, the ghostly outline of the tanker now appeared above the heavy swell, its sides rising, rising above them, only to disappear again into the soupy atmosphere. The launch came alongside and was hoisted into its davits. As they went aboard, Puppup began to stir. McFarlane helped him shakily to his feet in the swirling fog. Couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds, he thought.