Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

“So back to square one,” Joe said. “The last time I heard of anyone getting this aggressive over ice, it was the compressed carbon kind that gets divided up in Antwerp.”

Kurt had to agree. He put the phone away. “Let’s hope we have more luck with Mr. Lloyd.”

Joe pointed to an approaching car. “Looks like our ride is here.”

A beige minivan was flashing its lights at them. It pulled to the curb and the front passenger’s window slid down, revealing the smiling face of a young woman in the driver’s seat. She had jade green eyes, a smooth brown complexion and her hair pulled back.

“You two look like the wandering souls Rudi asked me to collect,” she said. “I must say, you’re not half as forlorn as he described you.”

Kurt laughed and shouldered his bag. He noticed Joe staring. “Rudi likes to keep expectations low,” he said.

“That way, people aren’t disappointed,” Joe added.

Leandra smiled warmly. “Not disappointed at all,” she said. “And for the record, I’ve been looking forward to meeting the men who helped unravel the mystery of the Waratah . You have no idea how much joy the discovery of that ship brought to people in this country.”

The Waratah was an ocean liner that vanished off the South African coast in 1909. Kurt and Joe had helped unravel the century-old mystery behind its disappearance. And NUMA had recovered the ship and sailed it back to Cape Town.

“We had nothing to do with it,” Kurt insisted, as he opened the passenger’s door. “And don’t let Joe tell you any different.”

Kurt climbed into the seat while Joe tossed his gear in back and took a seat of his own.

“While my friend is technically correct,” Joe said, “we did have our hands full with the madman whose ancestors hijacked the ship in the first place.”

As Joe slid the door shut, she put the van in drive and pulled out, merging with traffic. “I’d love to hear all about it. But you two have dossiers to read and a party to attend.”

“What party?” Joe asked.

“Ryland Lloyd’s annual fund-raiser,” she said. “It benefits his favorite politicians and his game park. Which is to say, it benefits him in the form of connections and favors.”

Kurt had been informed of the party, but initial information suggested it was a closed guest list. “Did Rudi get us invites? Or are we sneaking in with the catering crew?”

“Three invitations,” Leandra said.

“Three?”

“Rudi suggested I keep an eye on you.”

Kurt laughed. “Sounds about right. Do we have time to shave and shower?”

“Afraid not,” she told them. “Ryland’s place is three hours from here. Out in the bush.”

“This is my best T-shirt,” Joe said. “But it’s not going to get me into a luxury ball.”

Leandra laughed. “Tuxedos are hanging in the back.”

Kurt looked over his shoulder, spotting a trio of garment bags neatly clipped to a hook. “Let’s hope Rudi got our sizes right. Now, what about the files he sent you?”

While navigating the traffic with one hand, Leandra reached down beside her with the other and retrieved a pair of manila envelopes from a pocket file on the back of the door. She handed them to Kurt, who kept one and passed the other on to Joe.

The files contained new information on Ryland and Mata Petroleum. The long drive to Ryland’s estate gave them plenty of time to go through them and discuss the contents.

“Have you read this?” Kurt asked Leandra.

“Maybe,” she said with a smile.

“What do you think?”

“I think our friend Ryland is an odd duck. Brilliant and driven enough to build up a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate and foolish enough to be teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. It’s as if he became a bad businessman overnight.”

Kurt read through the financial reports. Ryland was in negotiations with his creditors for extensions for various lines of credit. At the same time, he’d been buying up huge tracts of land for his mining ventures. “By the look of this, the oil company borrows the money and the mining concern spends it.”

“They don’t spend it well,” Leandra said. “According to the geological reports, the land he’s bought is all but worthless.”

Kurt leafed through the file, discovering the reports Leandra referenced. The sites Ryland had bought were massive and remote. They were so far off the beaten track that no boots on the ground surveys had ever been performed. The best analysis came from a U.S. government study that used the basic landform and similar geological structures to calculate a grade. It came back as universally poor.

“Maybe he knows something the rest of us don’t,” Joe suggested.

That was always possible. The best way to get rich in mining was to find land others didn’t value and literally strike gold—or platinum or rhodium or any number of rare earths or metals. But based on the meager output of his existing mines, Ryland didn’t seem to be a natural at it.

“He’s certainly swinging for the fences,” Kurt said. “He’s bought land in Uganda, Kenya and the Congo. Not to mention New Guinea, Ecuador and a swath the size of Oklahoma in northern Brazil.”

Joe had found more. “He also bought a bunch of islands in the Indian Ocean and several others scattered throughout the Pacific. Most of them appear to be uninhabited. One is a former guano island that played out thirty years ago.”

“Guano island?” Leandra asked.

“Bird poop,” Joe said. “Perfect fertilizer. Built up into mountains on certain islands that have millions of birds and limited rain. As disgusting as it sounds, the stuff is more valuable than gold per ton of earth moved.”

“Not once it’s all gone,” Kurt said. “And thirty years isn’t enough time for it to build back up. You need centuries to make it worth it.”

Leandra shrugged. “Like I said, suddenly he’s a bad businessman.”

Kurt studied a raft of satellite photos depicting the newly acquired holdings. The land appeared untouched, aside from small developments here and there. There was no evidence of mining, just trees and green fields and mile upon mile of untouched terrain. The islands were in a similar state. Breakwaters had been built on a few of them, metal roofs of storage facilities sprouted here and there, but there was little sign of industrial activity.

The closer he looked, the less it made sense. Realizing he couldn’t tell anything from the small details, Kurt pulled back and tried to envision the bigger picture.

The newly acquired holdings weren’t concentrated in any one country or region and it didn’t seem as if there was anything political in play. As far as Kurt could tell, Ryland had bought in democracies and dictatorships, in stable countries and unstable ones. Nor was he focused on one kind of terrain or geology. He’d bought up mountainous areas and open valleys. He’d bought a hundred thousand acres of rain forest and twice as much desert.

About the only pattern Kurt could discern was geographical. All Ryland’s new holdings lay within several degrees of the equator. All had single-degree latitudes. Nothing too far north, nothing too far south.

The islands were more widely spaced and each sat in hot, humid areas like the Indian Ocean and the tropical zone of the South Pacific.

“Most rich guys are happy to own one island,” Joe said. “This guy has twenty and counting.”

The choice of islands was odd as well, mostly low-lying atolls, including one island that had recently become uninhabited after a storm hit during high tide. Realizing the island was unsafe, its five hundred inhabitants were relocated to Australia. Ryland had purchased it a year later, lock, stock and rusting barrel.