He paused again. The claustrophobic base, shrouded in watchful silence, just exacerbated his gloom. On impulse, he turned, threaded his way back, climbed a stairway to the topmost level. He walked to the entrance plaza, walked by the sentry post, then passed through the staging area, donning his parka as he did so. It was only eight hours since he’d last been out, but in his current frame of mind nothing was going to keep him inside this shadow-haunted base another minute. Grabbing a flashlight and zipping the parka, he opened the outer doors and stepped outside.
He noticed with surprise that the display of northern lights had grown even more intense: a deep, unguent red, throbbing and pulsating. It transformed the entire apron—with its temporary shacks and Quonset huts, tents and supply caches—into a monochromatic, otherworldly landscape. He put the flashlight in a pocket. The wind had picked up sharply, worrying at loose tarps and indifferently tied ropes, but even it could not explain the eerie cracklings and moanings he could have sworn came from the lights themselves.
There was something else that seemed odd, but it took him a moment to realize what it was. The wind was almost warm on his cheek. It felt as if a false spring had abruptly come to the Zone. He unzipped his parka slowly; he should have checked the thermometer on the way out.
He moved through the low structures, half of them backlit blood red, the other half sunken into shadow. As he did so, a low creak sounded from the small forest of outbuildings ahead.
He paused in the crimson half-light. Was somebody out here with him?
Everybody—scientists, documentary crew, and the mysterious new arrival, Logan—were bunking inside the base. The only exceptions were Davis, in her mega-trailer, and Carradine, the trucker. He glanced in the direction of Davis’s trailer: it was dark, all lights out.
“Carradine?” he called softly.
The creaking noise came again.
Marshall took a step forward, emerging from between two supply tents. Now the bulk of Carradine’s semi came into view. He glanced toward the rear of the cab, where the “sleeper” was. Its windows were dark, as well.
He remained still, listening intently. He heard the mournful howl of the wind, the low rumble of the diesels in the powerhouse, the purr of the backup generator affixed to Davis’s trailer, and—now and then—the eerie murmurings and moanings that appeared to come from the northern lights themselves. But that was all.
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. Here he was, on the eve of what promised to be one of the most memorable days of his life…and he was working himself into a lather over a bad dream. He’d walk to the perimeter fence, take a turn along its length, then head back to his lab. Even if he couldn’t put in useful work, at least he’d try. He squared his shoulders, took another step forward.
The creak came again. And from where he now stood, Marshall got a bearing. It was coming from the direction of the vault.
He moved toward it slowly. The vault stood alone, one wall haloed in the unnatural light, the rest in darkness. Even without his flashlight, Marshall could make out the sheen of water beneath it: clearly, the automated thawing process was well under way. Tomorrow this steel container—and its contents—would be the star of the show. Tugging the flashlight from his pocket, Marshall aimed it at the silver structure.
Then he heard the creak yet again, louder. Armed with the flashlight, Marshall identified its source: a piece of lumber, hanging down loosely into the three-foot crawl space beneath the vault.
Marshall frowned. Shoddy workmanship, he thought. That’ll have to be taken care of before Conti and his variety show go live. Or perhaps something had simply broken loose from the structure. It was swaying in the wind, just above the dirty puddle of meltwater…
But there was something else wrong here. It wasn’t so much a puddle he was looking at but a lake. A lake full of chunks of dirty ice.
He moved closer, crouched, shone his light at the pool of meltwater. Frowning, he raised the beam to the loose piece of lumber. It creaked again as the wind played with it, the lower end badly splintered. Slowly, he let the flashlight beam travel up the lumber to the vault’s underside.
A hole—large, circular, and rough—had been cut into the wooden floor. And even in the shifting beam of his flashlight, Marshall could clearly see that the vault was empty.
16
In thirty minutes, somnolent Fear Base was completely awake. Now, Marshall—along with practically every other person on-site—sat in ancient folding chairs in the Operations Center on B Level. It was the only room large enough to hold so many people. He looked around at the assembled faces. Some, like Sully and Ekberg, seemed stunned. Others were openly red-eyed. Fortnum, the DP, sat with his head bowed, hands alternately clenching and unclenching.
They had assembled at the request of Wolff, the channel rep. Actually, Marshall reflected, it hadn’t really sounded like a request. It was more like an order.
When first confronted with the news, Emilio Conti had been dazed, almost paralyzed, by the sudden turn of fortune. But now, as Marshall watched the director move back and forth before the rough semicircle of chairs, he saw a different emotion on the small man’s face—desperate rage.
“First,” Conti snapped as he paced, “the facts. Sometime between midnight and five, the vault was broken into and the asset”—he bit the word off—“was removed. Stolen. Dr. Marshall here made the discovery.” Conti glanced toward him briefly, his black eyes glittering with mistrust. “I’ve spoken with the management at Terra Prime and Blackpool. Under the circumstances, they have no choice: tonight’s live feed has been canceled. A rerun of From Fatal Seas will be aired instead.” He almost spat out the words. “They will be refunding $12 million in advertising guarantees to their sponsors. That is in addition to the $8 million they spent to make all this possible.”
He stopped for a moment, glared at the assembly, then continued his pacing. “Those are the facts. Next: conjecture. There’s a mole among us. Someone in the pay of a rival network. Or perhaps someone working for a ‘handler’—a dealer in exotic goods with connections to museums or wealthy collectors overseas.”
Beside Marshall, Penny Barbour scoffed under her breath. “Bloody daft,” she murmured.
“Daft?” Conti rounded on her. “It’s happened before. This isn’t just an artifact—it’s a commodity.”
“A commodity?” Barbour said. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re talking about a commodity.” It was Wolff who answered. The network liaison was standing in the back of the room beside Sergeant Gonzalez, arms crossed, a plastic swizzle stick in his mouth. “More than just an evening’s entertainment. An indefinitely exploitable network resource. Something that could be repurposed many times—touring on exhibition to museums, loaned to universities and research institutions, used in follow-up broadcasts. Maybe even a future icon for the network. Or—perhaps—its mascot.”
Mascot, Marshall thought to himself. Until now, he’d had no idea just how ambitious Blackpool’s plans for their frozen cat had been.
As Wolff stepped to the front, Conti stopped pacing and joined him. “As a network, Terra Prime is part of a very small community,” Wolff went on. “Despite the pains we took to keep things quiet, we knew word of this project might leak out. But we were confident that our vetting process would weed out anyone not one hundred percent reliable.” He raised a hand to his lips, plucked out the swizzle stick. “Apparently our confidence was misplaced.”
Marshall noticed most of the network staff was listening, heads bowed. Only his fellow scientists seemed surprised by this cloak-and-dagger talk.
“What are you saying, exactly?” Sully asked.
“Just a moment.” Wolff turned to the sergeant. “Is the head count finished?”
Gonzalez nodded.
“Anyone unaccounted for?”
“Just one. That new arrival, Dr. Logan. My men are looking for him now.”
“Everybody else? Network and expedition crew?”
br /> “They’re all here.”
Only then did Wolff glance back at Sully. “I’m saying we have reason to believe that someone at this base was paid to appropriate the specimen for a third party. Either arrangements were made before our arrival, or contact was established at some later point. We will be reviewing all communications in and out of Fear Base over the last seventy-two hours to learn more.”
“I thought you had all this under tight control,” Marshall said. “The thawing process, the security, everything. Just how was this pulled off?”
“We don’t know that yet,” Wolff replied. “It would appear the thawing was hastened—obviously by whoever appropriated the carcass. It was a fully automated process, there was a backup generator—nothing could have gone wrong without external manipulation. We’ve checked outside the perimeter fence. There is no sign of a plane either arriving or leaving in the night. That means the asset is still here.”
“What about footprints?” somebody piped up. “Can’t you track those?”
“Around the vault, where the ice thawed, the ground has been churned up by so many prints it’s impossible,” said Wolff. “Beyond that, the permafrost is too hard for prints to leave an impression.”
“If somebody stole it, why didn’t they take off in the Sno-Cat?” Marshall asked. “You keep the keys up in the weather chamber; anybody could grab it.”
“Too conspicuous. And too slow. The thief would use a plane.” Conti looked around. “We’ll be checking everyone’s belongings. Everyone’s quarters. Everything.”
Wolff rested his oddly expressionless eyes on Gonzalez. “You have the schematics for Fear Base, Sergeant?”
“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.”
17
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 goin
g 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?”
“Why indeed?” Marshall replied. Privately, he had been thinking the same thing.
“While cooling my heels in my quarters I went online, did a little digging into Jeremy Logan. Seems he’s a professor of medieval history at Yale. Last year he published a monograph on some genetic disorder that afflicted ancient Egyptian royalty. The year before, a monograph on spectral phenomenon in Salem, Massachusetts. ‘Spectral phenomena.’” Sully spat out the words. “Does that sound like a history professor to you?”