Scarborough looked at Bradley. He could feel her fingers pressing into his hand through its double layer of gloves, and tightened his own grip.
“Ready?” he asked her.
“Ready.”
The two of them rose, slowly, their arms raised high, his right hand still clutching her left. Then they stepped out from behind the outcrop.
“Stop where you are,” the driver said, studying them. “Turn toward me.”
They complied with his orders, hands linked above their heads, sharing their strength, their courage, facing their unknown attackers together.
That was the way they were standing when the man in the passenger seat trained the long black barrel of his machine gun upon them and also did precisely as he’d been ordered.
TWO
With its arctic-blue body, coral side coves, and beige vinyl interior, the ’57 Corvette roadster was the car of Pete Nimec’s dreams. A bolt of glorious inspiration captured in streamlined fiberglass and a classy flourish of chrome, delivering decisive 283 dual-four-barrel go without showoff extravagance. Just over six thousand of them had hit showroom floors across the USA, and just under two hundred were pumped with Ramjet fuel injection, a handful out of a scarce, exquisite handful that were still around and running a half century later.
A ’57 Corvette fuelie. Reconditioned to its original Chevrolet standards, including minor production-line imperfections. Probably worth upwards of a hundred, a hundred fifty thou, assuming you could find one for sale or auction.
And it was Nimec’s.
Which is to say, he owned it outright.
Owned it from the crossed-flag badge over its toothy front grille back to the big twin exhaust pipes at its tail. Owned it from the removable hardtop down to the wide whitewall tires. Owned it, his dream car, and by surprise no less, having received it at his condominium with a decorative red bow and handwritten note of appreciation taped to its wraparound windshield, an unexpected present from the man he admired most in all the world.
On any other morning, Nimec would have been in an unsinkable state of bliss. And he had been while driving to UpLink’s Rosita Avenue headquarters with his Wonderbar dash radio tuned to an oldies station, while pulling the ’Vette into his reserved underground parking slot, while riding the elevator to his office on the twenty-fifth floor.
But now that mood was heavy and flat, punctured by a single click of the mouse next to his computer.
He checked his watch as his telephone bleeped. Nine o’clock. Gordian would have already arrived at work.
“Nimec,” he answered.
It was the boss, as anticipated.
“Pete, you’d better come on up here.”
“This about Megan’s e-mail?”
“Yes.”
“I just read it myself,” Nimec said. “Be right with you.”
He cradled the receiver and whisked out into the corridor.
Minutes later Nimec entered Gordian’s reception room, tipped a brisk salute to Norma, got her nod of admittance, stepped over to the heavy oak inner door that she guarded like a vigilant gryphon, and rapped twice as he shouldered it open.
He stood inside the doorway and waited. Roger Gordian sat at his desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with its view of the city skyline and, east of downtown, the solid heave of Mount Hamilton above the Santa Clara foothills. A look at him told two stories. One was about the lingering physical effects of the biological assassination attempt he’d survived last year. The other was about the force of will that had been as vital to his recovery as the gene-blocker codes grabbed during a scalpel raid on the germ factory in Ontario. This was in November, shortly before Thanksgiving. It would always stick in Nimec’s memory, the time of year it happened, because Gordian had revived from his coma precisely on Thanksgiving Day, his awakening a grace that, like so many, had been attained with terrible bloodshed and sacrifice.
Thanksgiving, not quite four months ago. It seemed longer.
Gordian had gained some weight since his illness, but was much thinner than before. Its ravages had left noticeable marks on his features: the pale cheeks, the slight wiriness of his graying hair, the finely veined skin at his temples, the dark hollows under his eyes. But his eyes themselves radiated an undiminished intensity and brightness. He was better, and with time would be better still.
What troubled Nimec on occasion was knowing that few great losses were ever reclaimed in total.
He tried not to let his thoughts slide in that direction right now.
“You knocked,” Gordian said.
“Don’t I always?”
Gordian shook his head. “It started after I got back.”
Nimec sat across the desk from him.
“Really?” Nimec said.
“Really.” Gordian shrugged. “Of course, my observation doesn’t imply an absolute preference.”
Nimec rubbed his chin. “Might just be a passing fad anyway.”
Gordian smiled a little and was quiet. The picture frame in his hands was sized for an 8X10 photograph. Nimec couldn’t see the display side from his chair, but realized Gord had been looking at it when he came in.
“With the bad news from Cold Corners, I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the right time to thank you,” Nimec said. “Except I can’t think of one that would be righter. The car, well…”
He paused a moment, at a loss for words.
Gordian regarded him from across the desk. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” Nimec said. “It’s… choice.”
“And it arrived okay?”
“Last night. A guy rolls it up to my building, has the doorman buzz the intercom, tell me somebody’s dropped off an oversized package. That I might want to come down to the lobby and get it.”
Gordian nodded approvingly.
“He can follow a script,” he said.
Nimec looked at him. “You didn’t have to—”
“—let you know how much I value everything you’ve done for me over the past decade? I’m the person who needs to be grateful, Pete.”
Nimec kept looking at him.
“Hard to believe it’s been ten years,” Nimec said.
“To the day,” Gordian said.
Another pause.
“Still,” Nimec said. “I’ve got a pretty fair idea what that car must have set you back… ”
“I can afford it.”
“That isn’t the point… ”
“Would you have preferred something more conventional? Say, a jeweled tie clip and cuff link set? You’ve never seemed one for dressing up.”
“I’m security chief,” Nimec said. “You hired me to manage the protection of our employees and corporate facilities. And I do it the best way I know how.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t deserve the job if I gave less.”
“Enough,” Gordian said. “There aren’t many companies engaged in the sort of high-risk ventures UpLink International tackles. I could mention a dozen offhand that would pay whatever salary you demand, without requiring that you be on standby to zip off around the world in a flash. We both know why you’re here. Why you stay. So ease up and enjoy the car. I was thinking it would complement the old Wurlitzer jukebox and soda bar in that ratty pool hall of yours.”
Nimec raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you’d heard about it.”
“Murmurs and whispers,” Gordian said. “I’d be glad to see it sometime. Test my skill at Fourteen-one Continuous.”
Nimec gave his surprise a chance to wane.
“You’re on,” he said.
Gordian nodded, his face becoming serious. He took a slow, deep breath that worked as a kind of unintentional segue.
“Now,” he said. “We need to talk about Antarctica.”