“And,” Remi said, “he cooks. So it’s agreed? I’ll call Selma and make sure she adds Nando’s list to what we’ll need in Mendoza.”
“Why do I get the feeling she already has it?” Sam asked.
Remi gave a not-so-innocent smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
At Sam’s insistence, Dietrich left a false travel plan with one of his employees who’d be running the bar in his absence — in case anyone came around, asking. Three days later, they set up base camp at the foot of the glacier in the Andes Mountains. That evening, Sam and Remi stole a moment alone from Nando and Dietrich, who were sitting at a table, playing cards, in the largest tent, which would serve as their headquarters and dining area. This time of year, the area below Tupungato was a colorful and bustling tent city, with dozens upon dozens of men and women prepared to make the trek up into the Andes. In the short time they’d been there, Sam had heard several languages. Spanish, German, French, and Italian.
“Quite the tourist attraction,” he said, nodding toward the twinkling lights of the tent city.
Sam put his arm around his wife as they looked up toward the summit. The half-moon cast a pale blue glow across the snow-covered valley below, the steep peaks silhouetted above them, as the stars glittered against an ink black sky. “If the plane continued on the direct route from Buenos Aires to Santiago…” He pointed up and to their left.
Remi looked that direction. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“You have anything better to do?”
“Turns out, I’m free for the next few days,” she said as Nando and Dietrich joined them.
“You’re going up tomorrow?” Nando asked.
“Not too far,” Sam said. “Take it slow, get acclimated.”
“It’s not like the jungle,” Dietrich said. “A lot less oxygen up here.”
Nando laughed. “And a lot more snow.”
The next morning, Sam, Remi, and Dietrich set out, arriving several hours later at the area where Dietrich thought the propeller had been found. “Granted, I wasn’t here when they made the discovery, but I returned here with the man who was. This was the location he pointed out to me.”
Sam looked around the valley, seeing nothing but the spires at the foot of the melting glacier. Unless the plane had completely disintegrated on impact — which was highly possible — there didn’t appear to be anywhere a fuselage could be hiding, even one partially intact. “What direction do you think the plane was traveling?”
“Over there,” Dietrich said, pointing to their right. “I figured if it came from that direction, it might have clipped a propeller on that ridge, knocking it off. But there’s nothing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been through this area, even with a metal detector.”
Sam took out his binoculars for a better view, looking at the high ridge Dietrich had pointed out. The sun glared against the snow, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Dietrich was right. The plane could have clipped the propeller there. He scanned the valley again, a different idea forming. “What if it didn’t come from that direction?”
“Then where?” Dietrich asked.
“Up there.” He pointed straight ahead to the summit. “What if the plane clipped the propeller on the summit as it was flying over it? As many years ago as it went down, that propeller would have moved with the glacier.”
“Where’s the rest of the plane, then?” Remi asked, the icy wind blowing against the fur trimming the hood of her red parka. “Even if the plane was in pieces, you’d think the debris would have traveled together.”
“You’re assuming it crashed on this side of the summit.”
Dietrich and Remi both looked at him in surprise, before Remi said, “But the propeller was found way down here. That’s a long way from the summit.”
“Gravity,” Sam said. “Think about it. Clipped at the top, propeller bounces down the summit on this side as the plane continues on its crash course on the other side. That propeller had a lot of years to make it down here. Every time the ice melted, in fact.”
“Good theory, Sam,” Remi said.
“Only if it turns out to be true.”
“It won’t,” Dietrich said. “I’ve been up there. I’ve looked. There’s nothing on the other side.”
“If we’re lucky, you’ve missed something.”
The next day, they climbed to the top of the glacial ridge, and Sam realized not only that Dietrich was right but Sam’s theory was highly flawed. For one, they were staring at sheer cliffs, which held very little snow, and definitely no place that could hide an entire airplane. Two, the plane would have to have been on an upward trajectory to make it over the cliffs of the next ridge, which was higher than the one they were currently standing on.
“Next hypothesis,” Remi said.
Sam stared for several seconds longer, then turned back, looking down along the glacier, trying to picture how that propeller could have landed on it. His gaze swung to the high cliffs on their right, and he pictured the plane flying past, clipping it instead. “Maybe we’re wrong about that downward trajectory from here, where we’re standing. What if it was up there?”
The two turned and looked as Sam pointed to the higher cliff on their right. He traced the direction in the air, and they followed along, as he said, “Starboard wing, barely clears that cliff, knocks off the propeller, which lands down here, where we’re standing. Plane continues on its downward spiral…” He eyed the cliffs, and ridges beyond the ridge where they stood, noting a few narrow passes that a plane could have hurtled through. “And lands somewhere over there, through the pass on the left.”
“You’re sure about the angle?” Dietrich said. “Because using that theory, depending on exactly which angle the plane was traveling when it hit, any of those passes could be the one. That’s a lot of miles to cover between here and there.”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “And why we have a helicopter and pilot on retainer.”
77
The Fargos were looking for a pilot.”
“You’re sure?” Rolfe asked Leopold, who was studying the information he’d just received from a lengthy text. “What on earth are we doing out here in the middle of the jungle, then?”
“This is hardly the middle of the jungle,” Leopold said without looking up.
“Close enough,” Rolfe replied, eyeing the Wolf Guard compound with distaste. They were seated in a Quonset hut, camouflaged on the outside to avoid being detected from the air. They’d spent the last couple of nights here in order to interview the survivor who’d managed to escape the assault by whoever it was who rescued the tour guide. And while they were no closer to learning anything, there was no doubt in Rolfe’s mind who it was. The very thought angered him, and he pulled at the collar of his shirt, sweat dripping down his neck. “Back to this pilot — how do you know that’s who they were looking for?”
“Because the men I sent out to make inquiries about this so-called student they found wandering in the jungle were able to confirm he was actually a guide who was hired to take a married couple to find the man.”
“So we were right.”
“More important, the man they were looking for was a descendent of Ludwig Strassmair.”
“Then why aren’t we going after him?”
“No need. He was the owner of a bar in a village to the east of here. I’ve already sent someone out there.”
“And how long until we hear back?”
“Anytime now.”
The news struck Rolfe as highly suspicious. “How far is this village?”