Lincoln Child - Terminal Freeze

“For the central and southern wings, yes.”

“What about the third wing, the northern wing?”

“That is off-limits and tightly locked.”

“There’s no way somebody could get in?”

“Absolutely not.”

Wolff remained silent a moment, staring at the sergeant as if a new thought had just occurred to him. “Bring me what you can, please.” He looked around the room. “Once this meeting is over, I want everyone to return to their quarters. We’ll try to conduct the search as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, be watchful. If you see anything suspicious-any activity, conversation, transmission, anything -come to me.”

Marshall looked from Wolff, to Conti, and back again. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more: the inherent assumption of treachery, or the speed with which Wolff was moving to address it.

Ashleigh Davis had been sitting disconsolately in a front-row seat, one leg crossed over the other at a sharp angle. She wore a rich silk nightgown beneath the fur coat, and her long blond hair was tousled. “Have fun playing policeman,” she said. “Meanwhile, Emilio, will you please arrange for me to fly back to New York right away? If this tiger thing has fallen through, I still have a chance to cover that special about coral bleaching on the Great Barnacle Reef.”

“Barrier,” Marshall said.

Davis looked at him.

“ Great Barrier Reef.”

“I’ve got someone working on transportation,” Wolff said, with a warning glance at Marshall. “By the way, Ms. Davis, you and Mister…ah, Carradine were the two closest to the vault last night. Did you hear anything, or see anything, unusual?”

“Nothing,” Davis replied, seemingly annoyed at being mentioned in the same breath with the trucker.

“And you?” Wolff glanced at Carradine. The trucker, his seat tilted backward at a dangerous angle, merely shrugged.

“I’d like to speak with the two of you once this meeting ends.” Wolff looked at Marshall. “You too.”

“Why me?” Marshall asked.

“You’re the one who reported the theft,” Wolff replied, as if this act alone established him as a prime suspect.

“Just a minute,” Sully broke in. “What about this new arrival, this Dr. Logan? Why isn’t he here?”

“We’ll be looking into that.”

“It’s one thing to toss orders around, confine everyone to their bunks. But it’s another to start questioning my staff without my authorization.”

“Your staff ”-Wolff shot back-“will be the first to be questioned. Your people are the only ones here not cleared in advance for this network operation.”

“ Logan isn’t cleared, is he? Besides, what does clearance have to do with anything?” Apparently the abrupt loss of any chance for television immortality-along with this bureaucrat encroaching on his bit of turf-had reawakened Sully’s professional territoriality.

“It is plenty to do with it,” Wolff replied. “The magnitude of this prize-not only in terms of science but in terms of scientific careers.”

Sully opened his mouth, then closed it again. His face turned beet red.

“I think that covers everything.” Wolff glanced at Conti. “Care to add anything?”

“Just this,” the producer said. “Twenty minutes ago, I got off the phone with the president of Blackpool Entertainment Group. It was one of the more unpleasant conversations of my life.” He scoured the room with his glance. “I’m speaking now to the person or persons who did this. You know who you are. Blackpool considers the value of this find to be incalculable, and is therefore considering its disappearance a gross criminal act.”

He paused once again. “This theft is not, I repeat, not, going down as a black mark on my oeuvre. The asset is here, and you won’t have a chance to get away with it. We will find it, we will re-task our documentary, and we will emerge with an even greater work of art.”

Marshall mounted the set of stamped-metal steps very slowly. The stairwell was narrow and dark, lit only by a single fluorescent fixture. Lightbulbs were a scarce commodity: even with the film crew on hand, much of the base remained completely dark.

He felt more tired than he had ever felt in his life. And yet it was not a physical weariness-it was total emotional exhaustion. He had seen it in the strained faces of the others, as well. After so much effort, so much buildup, the sudden inexplicable disappearance left everyone stupefied. And over the entire base hung the question: Who did it?

Reaching the top of the stairwell, he stopped at a closed, windowless door. He glanced at his watch: five minutes past eight. Fifteen hours had passed since he’d discovered the missing cat. Fifteen endless, awful hours, full of mistrust and suspicion and uncertainty. And now, just after dinner, an e-mail summons from Faraday: “RASP room, right away.”

Marshall reached for the handle, pushed it open. Beyond lay a long, low room that resembled the control tower of an airport. Windows ran around all four sides, looking out over the limitless icescape of the Zone. The room was as dark as the stairwell, and the dim light reflected off the scopes of a dozen obsolete radar stations, arrayed in regular rows. Ancient screens, each six feet tall, were pushed diagonally into the corners of the room. Before each sat a projection device, dusty and unused for nearly half a century.

This was the Radar Mapping and Air Surveillance Command Post, known as the RASP room, the nerve center of Fear Base and the highest structure within the perimeter fence. As he looked around, he could make out three dim forms seated at a conference table: Sully, Barbour, and Chen. Chen gave a listless wave. Sully, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands, glanced up at the sound of the door, then let his eyes sink back to floor.

Three evenings a week, without fail, the team had assembled here for a status meeting. Who’d chosen the RASP room for the meeting was forgotten, but the bizarre location had become a fixed ritual within days of their arrival. Except this was no pro forma meeting: Faraday wanted to talk to them, urgently.

As if on schedule, the door opened again and Faraday came in, a thin folder under one arm. The usual preoccupied look was gone from the biologist’s features. He stepped quickly past the radar stations and sat down between Sully and Chen.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Barbour cleared her throat. “So. Are we going to have to pack it in?”

There was no response.

“That’s what he told me, you know. That nancy-boy Conti. Him and his storm trooper.”

“We’ve only got another two weeks on the project,” Marshall said. “Even if they do close us up, bureaucracy moves slowly. We can get our work done in time.”

Barbour didn’t seem to hear him. “Pawed through every last one of my drawers. Said it was us, he did. He said we thought we were in it together. Said we wanted the specimen for ourselves, for the university.”

“Penny, forget it,” Sully snapped. “He’s just kicking out at anybody within reach.”

“He just kept after me…and after me…oh, God! ” And Barbour buried her face in her hands, her frame suddenly shaking with violent sobs.

Marshall leaned over quickly, put an arm around her shoulders.

“Bastard,” Sully murmured.

“Maybe we could find it,” Chen said. “Or maybe the person who stole it. They couldn’t have gone far. In fact, they must still be here. We’d be off the hook then, they could salvage the special.”

Barbour sniffed, detached herself gently from Marshall ’s embrace.

“We can’t do anything Wolff isn’t doing already,” Sully said. “Besides, he’s not likely to trust us. He made that perfectly clear. I don’t know why he’s so fixated on us-that Dr. Logan seems guilty as hell. You think his arrival just yesterday was a coincidence? And why wasn’t he at the meeting?”