Polar Shift

22

Petrov was leaving his office in the drab Moscow government building when his secretary told him he had a telephone call. He was in a foul mood. He had been unable to extricate himself from a diplomatic party at the Norwegian embassy. Norway, for God's sake! Nothing but smoked fish to eat. He planned to get tanked up on vodka and disgrace himself. Maybe they wouldn't invite him back.

"Take a message," he had growled. As he was going out the door, he turned. "Who's on the line?"

"An American," his secretary said. "He says his name is John Doe."

Petrov looked dumbstruck. "You're sure?"

Petrov brushed by his astonished secretary and returned to his office, where he snatched the phone off the desk and stuck it to his ear. "Petrov here," he said.

"Hello, Ivan. I remember when you answered the phone yourself," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"And I remember when you were still named Kurt Austin," Petrov said. His snarl didn't match the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"Touche, old pal. Still the same old, sharp-tongued KGB apparatchik. How are you, Ivan?"

"I'm fine. How long has it been since the Razov affair?"

"A couple of years, anyway. You said to call if I ever need a favor."

Austin and Petrov had worked together to torpedo the plans of Mikhail Razov, a Russian demagogue who was behind a plot to launch a tsunami against the East Coast by using volatile methane hydrate ocean deposits.

"You're lucky to catch me. I was on my way to a thrilling party at the Norwegian embassy. What can I do for you?"

"Zavala and I need to get to the New Siberian Islands as soon as possible."

"Siberia!" Petrov chuckled. "Stalin is dead, Austin. They don't send people to the Gulag anymore." He glanced around him. "Those who offend their superiors are given a promotion, a title and a large office decorated in atrocious taste, where they are bored to death."

"You've been a bad boy again, Ivan."

"The term doesn't translate into Russian. Suffice it to say that it's never wise to offend one's superior."

"Next time I talk to Putin, I'll put in a good word for you."

"I would appreciate it if you didn't. President Putin is the superior I offended. I exposed a close friend of his who had been embezzling money from an oil company that the government had taken over after arresting its owner. The usual Kremlin follies. I was removed from my intelligence position. I have too many friends in high places, so I couldn't be punished overtly, and instead was placed in this velvet cage. Why Siberia, if I may ask?"

"I can't go into details now. I can only tell you it's a matter of great urgency."

Petrov smiled. "When is it not urgent with you? When do you want to go?"

Austin had called Petrov after trying to trace Karla Janos at the University of Alaska. The department head he spoke to said Karla was on an expedition to the New Siberian Islands. Austin knew he had to act fast when the department head mentioned that this was the third time that week people had inquired about the Ivory Island expedition.

"Immediately," he told Petrov. "Sooner, if you can pull it off."

"You are in a hurry. I'll call the embassy in Washington and have a courier deliver the paperwork to you. There is a price for my help, though. You must allow me to buy you a drink, so we can talk over old times."

"You've got a deal."

"Will you need support once you get here?"

Austin thought about it. From past experience, he knew that Petrov's idea of support would be a tough, special ops team armed to the teeth and spoiling for a fight.

"Maybe later. This situation may require a more surgical touch at the outset."

"In that case, I will have my medical team ready in case you need surgery. I may join them myself."

"You weren't kidding about being bored," Austin said.

"It's a far cry from the old days," Petrov said with nostalgia in his voice.

"We'll reminisce over our drinks," Austin said. "Sorry to cut you off, but I've got to make some calls. I'll call you with my final travel details."

Petrov said he understood, and told Austin to be in touch. He hung up, and told his secretary to cancel the car that was supposed to take him to the Norwegian embassy. He called the Russian embassy in Washington. No one there knew about his bureaucratic exile, and he was able to authorize papers that would get Austin and Zavala into Russia for a NUMA scientific expedition. After he had been assured that the paperwork would be delivered within the hour, he sat back in his chair and lit up one of the slim Havana cigars he favored, and thought about his encounters with the brash and daring American from NUMA.

Petrov was in his forties, with a broad forehead and high cheekbones. He would have been handsome, if not for the massive scar that defaced his right cheek. The scar was a gift from Austin, but he bore the American no ill will. He and Austin had clashed several times when they were working for specialized naval intelligence units in their respective countries during the Cold War. Things got hot when their paths crossed during a Soviet attempt to capture a sunken American spy submarine and its crew.

Austin had rescued the crew, and warned Petrov that he had placed a timed explosive charge on the sub. Angry at being bested, Petrov dove in his minisub and was caught in the explosion. He had not held the incident or the resulting scar against Austin, and, in fact, took it as a lesson not to let his temper guide his actions. Later, when they found themselves working together on the Razov affair, they proved a formidable team. If Austin thought he was going to cut him out of some fun in his own country, he was greatly mistaken, Petrov ruminated. He picked up the phone to start things rolling.

Austin was on the phone to Zavala. "I was on my way out the door," Zavala said. "See you at NUMA."

"There's been a change of plans," Austin said. "We're going to Siberia."

"Siberia!" Zavala said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I'm Mexican American. We don't do well in the cold."

"Just remember to pack your fur-lined jock and you'll be fine. I'm bringing along my blunderbuss," he said, using Zavala's nickname for his large-caliber Bowen revolver. "You might want to pack some insurance as well."

He arranged to meet Zavala at the airport, and went to dig out clothes that would be fit for arctic conditions.

Thousands of miles away, Schroeder was in his cramped cabin, taking one more look at the topographical map before he set foot on the island.

Schroeder had learned long ago of the need to know the theater of operations one expected to operate in, whether it was a hundred square miles of countryside or a few blocks of city alleyways.

He had studied the map a number of times and felt that he knew Ivory Island as well as if he had been there. The island was about ten miles wide and twenty miles long, elongated in shape. The sea had eroded the permafrost, so that the coast was as jagged as a pottery shard. On the south shore, a half-moon indentation in the shoreline offered a sheltering harbor, near where a river emptied into the sea.

Ancient rivers, some dry and some still active, had created a mazelike warren of winding, natural corridors through the rolling tundra. A long-dormant volcano rose from the permafrost like a huge, black carbuncle.

He put the chart aside and thumbed through a well-worn Russian travel guide he had picked up in a secondhand bookstore while he was trying to arrange transportation to the island. He was glad to see that his command of Russian was still serviceable. Ivory Island was discovered in the late 1700s by Russian fur traders. They found the huge piles of animal bones and mammoth tusks that lent the island its name. The bones were piled everywhere, lying on the open ground or forming hills cemented together by the cold.

The fur-trading business was wiped out in an orgy of murder, and the ivory hunters started coming in. Fine ivory found a ready market in the master carvers of China and other parts of the world. Recognizing the white bonanza, the Russian government awarded franchises to entrepreneurs. One businessman hired an agent named Sannikoff, who explored all the Arctic islands.

Ivory Island held the richest trove, but because of its remoteness it was left relatively unscathed in favor of more accessible sources to the south. A few intrepid ivory hunters established a settlement at the mouth of the river, which they called Ivorytown, the book said, but the island had been largely abandoned in favor of more hospitable locations.

The knock on the cabin door interrupted his research. It was the captain, a round-faced man who was half Russian, half Eskimo.

"The boat is ready to take you ashore," the captain said.

Grabbing his duffel bag, Schroeder followed the captain to the port rail of the trawler and climbed down a ladder to a rowboat. While a crewman pulled at the oars, Schroeder used a long-handled gaff to fend off hunks of ice that floated in the still, cold water. Minutes later, the bottom of the boat scraped onto the gravelly beach.

Schroeder tossed his bag onto the beach, got out of the boat and helped push it off.

He watched the skiff disappear into the mists. Although the fishing boat was only a few hundred yards offshore, it was barely visible behind the damp, vaporous curtain of mist. The agreement was for the boat to wait twenty-four hours. Schroeder would stand on the beach and signal for a pickup. He hoped he would have Karla with him. It hadn't occurred to him before whether she would be persuaded enough by his warning of danger to leave the island. He would deal with that problem later. His immediate task was to find her. He hoped it was not too late. He was in good shape for his age, but his body couldn't deny the fact that it had nearly eight hard decades behind it and was starting to fray around the edges. His muscles and joints ached, and he had developed a limp in one leg.

Schroeder heard the grumble of the fishing boat's engine. The boat was moving off. The captain must have decided that he would rather leave with only half the money than wait for Schroeder to return, as they had agreed, before he was paid the entire fee. Schroeder shrugged. He had the captain pegged as a pirate from the beginning. There was no going back now.

He studied what he could see of the island. The beach rose gradually to a low banking, which wouldn't be difficult to climb. He shouldered his duffel bag, moved closer and saw that there were boot prints in the sand. This must be the main route to Ivorytown.

He hiked along the river for around ten minutes and laughed out loud when he set eyes on the pitiful encampment of sorry-looking buildings that had been labeled a town. The large, colorful tents erected next to the old structures told him he had found the expedition's campsite.

As he approached the camp, he was surprised to see that the structures, which he had assumed to be of stone, were actually built of thousands of large bones. He poked his head into a couple of buildings and saw some sleeping bags. A third building was locked for some inexplicable reason. He explored the tents and discovered one of them had been set up as a kitchen and mess hall. Schroeder walked around the perimeter of the encampment and called out several times, but there was no reply. He looked off toward the brooding, old volcano and scanned the island but saw no movement. He was not surprised; an army could have hidden in the maze of ravines that laced the island.

He trekked back to the river and saw boot prints along the edge leading into the interior. His practiced eye picked out five different sets of boot prints, including two smaller, less deep ones that looked as if they belonged to women. He felt less tired, energized by the prospect of a reunion with his goddaughter, and began to pick up his pace. Some time later, Schroeder's elation changed to alarm.

Heavy boot tracks obliterated the others. Karla and her party were being stalked.