Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

“Ports and shipping,” Leandra said. “Could be Ryland is getting into a new business.”

“Doubt he has enough money left,” Joe said.

Kurt joined the conversation. “I’ve been looking at the animals while you two have been studying the real wildlife. I need to up my game.”

“I’ve been telling him that for years,” Joe said.

“I’m a slow learner,” Kurt said. “Let’s mingle and see who else we can find.”

They left the bar and moved out among the other guests. Despite many striking faces, they recognized no one else and soon found themselves on the bottom floor studying the items up for bid at the silent auction. Among the usual items—rare collectables, dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, antique jewelry—they found something more.

“Look at this,” Joe said. “Guided safari and big game hunt. Winning bidder provided with the use of the lodge and the option to shoot and take a trophy from a bull elephant, a horned white rhino or a male or female lion. Guess the safari theme is not just for show.”

Suddenly, the rescuing of lions from around the world seemed far less noble.

Before Kurt could comment, a tall, elegantly dressed man appeared at the top of the stairs. He tapped the side of his champagne flute with a sterling silver knife, ringing it like a bell, until all eyes turned his way.

“The man of the hour,” Leandra said. “Ryland Lloyd.”

Ryland had a long, thin face and finely brushed hair that hung straight, lacking in any sort of style. He reminded Kurt of the king on a playing card, with downturned eyes and a trimmed beard that jutted out from his chin.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I trust you’re having a wonderful evening at my lodge. Enjoy it to the fullest. And remember, the election will be upon us before we know it. Which means we don’t have time for checks and would prefer donations to be made in cash.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“I expect you’re salivating over the braised shanks of wild boar currently being prepared for you,” he said. “I know I am. But before I lose you to that epicurean delight, I’d like to say a few words about the new wave of industrialization and the dawning of a new day in South Africa.”

He went on to sound more like a politician than a businessman, skillfully building a picture of South Africa as the economic engine of the continent. Insisting it was South Africa’s destiny to bring good fortune to those who would be part of the transformation.

Cheers erupted as Ryland finished and he bowed with exaggerated humility before leaving the balcony.

As Kurt watched, the man walked down the stairs, shook a few hands and then stepped briskly toward a hallway that led to a distant wing of the building.

Kurt put his glass down. “This is my chance to talk to him.”

“What if he’s just run off to the bathroom?” Joe asked.

“In that case, I’ll have a captive audience,” Kurt said. “And total privacy.”

18

Kurt cut across the room heading for the stairs and then went up. After circumnavigating a tightly packed group of guests, he spotted Ryland down the hall. He was standing in front of a door, focused on the lock.

Ryland produced a key, unlocked the latch and pushed the door open. Stepping inside, he released the door behind him.

Kurt raced the last thirty feet down the corridor and stuck his foot in the gap just in time to stop the door from latching again.

Allowing a few seconds to pass, he put his hand on the door and pushed it open, expecting to come face-to-face with a security guard, pushy executive assistant or Ryland himself. When he did move forward, he was surprised to find himself in Ryland’s office . . . alone.

Looking around for the owner, Kurt studied the décor. It kept to the hunting lodge theme, with dark paneling on the walls, the pelt of a lion on the floor and two overstuffed chairs sitting before a curved desk of polished mahogany.

The heads of several animals adorned the room, including a zebra with perfect stripes and the largest warthog Kurt had ever seen. Another section of the wall displayed the head and shoulders of a deer-like animal, its long, curved horns twisting artistically as they ran up over the head and back toward the animal’s body.

It wasn’t all nature and hunting trophies. Framed on the wall was a blueprint of a refinery. Below it sat a model of a seagoing oil rig, presented as if it were drilling through a platform of ice and into seafloor down below. A placard on the side of the case read Habakkuk 51:5.

Name and model number of the platform, Kurt assumed. He finished his study of the room by focusing on a quotation carved in a wooden sign hanging on the wall behind Ryland’s desk.

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.

—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

As Kurt finished reading, Ryland appeared, returning to the room through a side door. He had a bottle of cognac in one hand and a knife in the other.

He paused at the sight of Kurt, thrown off by the presence of someone in his private office, though he did not seem alarmed. “You appear to be lost,” he said. “The party is down the hall.”

“I just came from it,” Kurt said. “My compliments to your staff.”

“I’ll be sure to pass them along,” Ryland said. “And whom should I say lavished them with such tepid praise?”

Kurt didn’t offer his hand, as Ryland was holding the bottle and the knife, and, beyond that, there was nothing to suggest the meeting had become a friendly one. “Kurt Austin,” he announced. “I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Out of Washington, D.C.”

“Ah,” Ryland said, recognition appearing on his face. “Late additions to the party. You and your two associates, Mr. Zavala and Miss Ndimi.”

Diverting his attention from Kurt, Ryland took the knife to the neck of the bottle, cutting away the wax seal and then working the stopper free. He pulled it clear, allowing the aroma of the liquor to waft toward him. Inhaling slowly, Ryland appeared deeply satisfied.

“Cognac,” he said. “This is a twenty-year-old bottle. XO. Or Napoléon Reserve, as some call it.”

“The good stuff,” Kurt said.

“Undoubtedly,” Ryland said. From a tray beside the model of the oil rig, he plucked a pair of tulip-shaped glasses, placing them on his desk side by side. “Since you’re here, Mr. Austin, we might as well share a drink.”

Ryland poured a sample of the golden liquid into each one. He put the bottle aside and sat down. “As you probably know,” he said, “cognac has to breathe before you drink it. The proper way is to allow a full minute for every two years of its age. It will be ready to drink in no less than ten minutes. You have that long to tell me why you’re here, assuming you can keep my interest.”

This was not the reception Kurt had expected. He’d encountered plenty of powerful men and women in his life, few of them liked intrusions, especially not from mystery guests who were members of an American government agency. Ryland seemed to welcome it as a challenge.

Kurt gestured to a chair.

“By all means,” Ryland said.

Taking a seat, Kurt assumed a relaxed posture as if he owned the place. “Quite a collection,” he said, glancing around. “Your decorator should be commended for assembling such an impressive array of specimens.”

“I’m the decorator,” Ryland replied.

Of course, Kurt thought. And by pointing it out, Ryland proved he was the type who had to boast of his accomplishments. That could work in Kurt’s favor.