Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

“I took each of these magnificent animals myself,” Ryland continued. “And not with a modern rifle, mind you, but a bolt-action Springfield manufactured in 1909.”

Ryland sat, leaning back in his desk chair farther than Kurt possibly could in the rigid guest chair. “Each of them was a challenge,” he insisted. “That warthog, for instance. It took four shots and almost killed me before I hit it with a fifth at close range. Very dangerous, warthogs. And the ibex . . . That beauty was standing on a rock face nearly a thousand yards’ distance when I felled it with a single bullet. I had to hit the poor beast in a way that it would be thrown back and not tumble down into the canyon. Otherwise, its value would have been ruined by the fall. Quite incredible, if I do say so myself.”

“What about the lion?” Kurt asked.

“It had me treed and had already slashed and wounded my loader. He was bleeding to death when it ran me up into the branches. It raked my leg with its claws and came for me with its jaws wide open. I put the barrel of the rifle down its throat and pulled the trigger.”

“If it only had a brain,” Kurt said.

Ryland stared at him, looking as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted by the quip. “I assure you, they’re very cunning. And anything but cowardly.”

“Certainly,” Kurt said. “Although I’d be more impressed if the animals had guns of their own.”

Ryland’s eyes narrowed. “Not a fan of hunting?”

Kurt held up his hands. “Nothing against it in general. I eat meat. I understand the circle of life. What I’m against is the irrational act of hunting species to extinction, especially those that are threatened with dying out. Something that’s happening at an accelerating pace here in Africa.”

“It’s the poachers who will force the world’s species to extinction,” Ryland said. “Not game hunters. A poacher kills a hundred times what any game hunter takes. Just to provide a gift of ivory to some big shot in a smog-choked city.”

“And yet you’ve sanctioned hunting on your preserve,” Kurt noted. “You’re auctioning off big game safaris. Wouldn’t it be better to keep those animals alive and breeding rather than kill them off?”

Ryland cocked his head as Kurt spoke. It almost looked as if he was listening with an open mind. “The animals I’ve cleared for the hunt here are past breeding age,” he explained. “And each animal that is shot here means one less to be shot out in the wild. It means funds to expand this game park, revenue to hire guards who keep the poachers at bay.”

Kurt didn’t argue. He’d only brought up the issue in hopes of throwing Ryland off his game. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.

Kurt glanced at the clock behind Ryland. Only three minutes had gone by. The spiced aroma of the liquor had begun to fill the room but the rules meant tasting would have to wait. He decided to take another stab at Ryland. “I understand that your sister didn’t appreciate the hunting either. Did she?”

“My sister?”

“Yvonne.”

Ryland paused, his brows converging. “What does she have to do with this?”

“She’s always been a thorn in your side,” Kurt said. “Bitterly opposed to your vision of the future. She attacked your projects in the press and rallied the opposition against your idea to drill for oil in Antarctica.” Kurt gestured toward the model as he spoke.

Ryland leaned back farther, a genuine smile appearing on his face. For reasons beyond understanding, the more Kurt pressed him, the more pleased he seemed. “I suppose you consider such an endeavor irrational as well?”

“A scheme like that is expensive and reckless. There is no need to go into pristine environments and drill when thousands of existing wells already sit dormant.”

Ryland tilted his head as if he could come up with a few reasons but ultimately let it pass. “A great pipe dream of mine,” he said. “But with the world awash in oil, no one wants to spend the money to drill on the frozen continent. The oil is there, I assure you of that. And when the price climbs enough, the UN treaty banning exploration and drilling in Antarctica will be conveniently forgotten.”

“And you’ll lead the way, I assume?”

“Not only will I lead,” Ryland said, “I will make it happen.”

“Of course you will,” Kurt said. “You’re the ‘unreasonable man.’”

Instead of appearing insulted, Ryland beamed with pride. He even returned the compliment.

“As are you,” he said. “Who else would invite himself to my home, barge into my private office and challenge me on the manner in which I run my business, spend my wealth or conduct my life?”

Kurt offered a slight nod. Ryland had him with his own words. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh.”

“Not at all,” Ryland said. “You’ve been exactly as I expected you to be. You see, I’ve read about you, Kurt Austin, Director of Special Projects for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. If the reports I’ve seen are true, the world has bent to your will more times than even you might have hoped it would. The very definition of an unreasonable man.”

This time, it was Ryland who turned his gaze toward the glasses of cognac. But as Kurt had realized a few minutes before, it was not yet time. He went back to speaking.

“So why are you here? What part of the world are you attempting to bend to your will today? Are you here to change the future? Or maybe the past? Both, perhaps? Before we share a drink, I think I deserve to know what made it necessary for you to demand my attention.”

“I wanted to speak with you privately,” Kurt said. “About your sister.”

“Ah,” Ryland said. “Back to my sister. What has she done this time? Gone running to the American government to tell them of my secret plan to pollute the Arctic, destroy the environment and kill all the baby seals? It’s a fantastic scheme, I assure you. And we’re well along with it.”

“She’s missing,” Kurt said calmly. “And, unfortunately, she’s almost certainly dead. I figured you’d rather hear that in private.”

Ryland stared at him blankly. As if an internal logic program was running slowly as it tried to figure out the correct response. “Well,” he said finally. “That is . . . terrible news . . . I appreciate you telling me before it hit the press. How did it happen?”

“We don’t have all the details,” Kurt admitted. “But as you may know, she was on a science expedition to Antarctica. Her ship must have run into trouble on the way home.”

“Go on.”

“The strange part is, no one seemed to be looking for it. We only found it because a NUMA survey plane flew over it while dropping remote sonar buoys. We went to investigate and render assistance. The ship was frozen solid. It must have been adrift for weeks, if not months. Worse yet, everyone on board had been shot. Unfortunately, the ship was in bad condition. It sank before we could collect any evidence or retrieve any of the bodies.”

Ryland’s expression began to resolve, as if some mystery were clearing in his mind. “An expedition to Antarctica,” he said, sounding dismayed. “Of course that’s what she does with the money I give her. I suppose it makes sense. At least to her. In my sister’s mind, I’m the evil industrialist polluting the world. She’s the white knight saving it. What better way to use my support than to study snowflakes or penguins, just like all her useless friends?”

Kurt assumed he was talking about Cora. But the lack of emotion was astonishing. “I’m not sure you heard me correctly. This was no accident. The ship’s crew had been gunned down.”

“I heard you quite clearly,” Ryland insisted. “And it doesn’t surprise me at all. If you only knew how radical she truly was. My sister had many enemies. She collected them like trophies. It wasn’t just my company she attacked, there were others. She and her friends detonated explosives in a mine in Lesotho, collapsing the main gallery and the entry shafts. Several employees were killed. And the damage to the mine was so extensive, repairing it put the company out of business. They used computer hacking to damage pipelines, causing them to overload and destroying pumping stations in the process. Just last year they blew a hole in a Japanese whaling ship that had come to port to make repairs. It sank in Cape Town Harbour. Leaking oil and toxic chemicals, I might add. And six months ago, one of my seagoing rigs was sabotaged. She and her friends beat two security guards half to death in the process. I feel anger, but it’s my sister, so I let it go. Some of the others whom she’s attacked are run by more ruthless men who might have wanted a pound of flesh in return for their pain.”