Polar Shift nf-6 Page 7

  A snowboarder flew by and disappeared down the trail.

  Gambling that his escort would reflexively glance at the moving object, Schroeder made his move. He made a wide turn, but instead of traversing he spun his body around 180 degrees so that he was facing uphill.

  His escort didn't see the maneuver until it was too late. He tried to stop. Schroeder jammed his downhill ski into the snow. He grasped his right ski pole with both hands, letting the other pole hang by its strap, and drove the steel tip into the small fleshy part of the man's neck above the turtleneck.

  The man was still moving when the tip punched a ragged hole in his throat below the Adam's apple. He let out a wet gurgle, his legs went out from under him and he crashed to the snow where he writhed in terrible agony.

  Schroeder sidestepped the flailing body like a matador evading a stricken bull.

  The lead man glanced over his shoulder. Schroeder yanked back his improvised spear. He dug his poles in and swooped down the trail. He drove his right elbow into the man's cheek and knocked him off balance. With knees bent and head low in a tuck, he schussed straight down the trail until he neared the bottom of the run, where the trail made a sharp turn to the right.

  The second skier must have been carrying a machine pistol under his jacket because the burp of automatic gunfire shattered the mountain stillness.

  The shots harmlessly shredded the overhead tree branches.

  A second later, Schroeder was safely out of the line of fire.

  He turned onto a narrow, double-black expert run that twisted down the side of the mountain like a corkscrew. The ski patrol had strung yellow tape and put up a sign, saying the trail was closed.

  Schroeder ducked under the tape. The trail dropped into an almost vertical run. The snow had a brownish tinge, showing that the cover was thin. The surface was broken by large patches of bare ground. Rocks that normally lay under the snow base were exposed.

  He heard gunfire behind him, and miniature fountains of mud erupted a few feet away. The shooter was at the top of the ridge, firing down.

  Schroeder slalomed between bare ground and rocks. His skis hit slush and almost ground to a stop, but there was just enough of a skim coat to allow the skis to keep sliding.

  Schroeder wove his way through a field of short moguls and got onto a steep pitch where the snow cover was adequate. He heard gunshots off to his right. His pursuer was skiing down a trail that was parallel to Schroeder's, firing through the glade that separated them. Most of the shots hit trees. The gunman saw that he was missing his mark and went into the woods separating the two trails.

  The man's form resembled a kangaroo on steroids, but he powered his way through the woods in leaps and bounds. Schroeder saw that the man would break out of the trees below him, where he could rake the trail with killing gunfire.

  The man fell once, and quickly got back on his skis. The delay would give Schroeder time to ski past the gunman before he broke back into the open. He'd still be an easy target. Instead, as the gunman broke from the woods on the side of the trail, Schroeder charged down on him.

  The man saw Schroeder hurtling at him and fumbled for his gun under his suit.

  Schroeder slashed with his ski pole at the man's exposed face like a Cossack on a rampage. The blow went high and smashed the man's goggles. He lost his balance, skiing first on one ski, then the other. The gun flew out of his hand. Weaving drunkenly, arms flailing, he pitched over the edge of the trail, where it dropped down steeply for about twenty feet into the woods.

  He ended up upside down in the snow depression around the trunk of a large fir tree. His skis were tangled in the lower branches. He struggled to get out of his bindings, but they were out of reach. He hung there helplessly. His breathing was labored.

  Schroeder sidestepped his way down the slope. He picked the Uzi out of the snow, where the man had dropped the weapon, and held it loosely in one hand.

  "Who are you working for?" Schroeder said.

  The man managed to push his smashed goggles onto his head. "Acme Security," the man said, speaking with effort.

  "Acme?" Schroeder said with a smile.

  "They're a big outfit down in Virginia."

  "You knew who I was, you must have known why they wanted me."

  The man shook his head.

  "What were you going to do with me?"

  "We were going to deliver you to people at the bottom of the mountain. There was supposed to be a car waiting."

  "You've been watching me for days. You know more than you're saying. Tell me what they said," he said soothingly. "I give you my word I won't kill you. See?" He flung the Uzi into the woods.

  A suspicious expression came to the man's face, but he decided to take his chances. "There was something about a girl's picture we found in your house. They think you know where she is."

  "Why do they want her?"

  "I don't know."

  Schroeder nodded. "One more thing. Who killed Schatsky?"

  "Who?" The man looked at Schroeder as if he were insane.

  "My little dachshund. The noisy wiener dog."

  "My partner killed him."

  "But you didn't stop him."

  "I like dogs."

  "I believe you." Schroeder backed off and began to herringbone up the slope.

  "You can't leave me here," the man shouted with panic in his voice.

  Schroeder stopped. "I only said I wouldn't kill you. I never said I would pull you out. Don't worry. I'm sure they'll find you when the snow melts."

  The temperature would drop down to zero that night. The human body's vital organs were not meant to function upside down, and the man would probably die soon from suffocation.

  Schroeder skied to the base of the mountain to a spot that offered a view of the parking lot. He picked out the black Yukon SUV with the tinted windows. Three men stood beside it, looking up the mountain. He wondered who they were, but decided it didn't matter. For now.

  He removed his skis, left them on a rack and went to the locker room. He grabbed his fanny pack, stuck the boots in the locker, quickly changed into his walking shoes and headed to the lot where he had parked his truck.

  Schroeder checked out the lot and saw nothing suspicious. He walked quickly to the truck and got in. As he drove out of the parking lot, he reached under the seat for a pistol and placed it in his lap.

  He contemplated his next move. It would be dangerous to go back to his house. He headed out of town toward Glacier National Park. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of a small, ramshackle building. The sign outside said: glacier park wilderness TOURING COMPANY AND CAMPS. It was one of a number of businesses and real estate holdings Schroeder had invested in using straw companies. Behind the building were several camps he rented out in the warm season.

  He parked behind the building, went inside a cabin he reserved for his own use and removed a moth-eaten moose head from over the fireplace to reveal a wall safe. He opened the safe with a few twists of the combination lock. Inside was a strongbox stuffed with cash, which he jammed into his parka pockets along with fake driver's licenses, passports and credit cards.

  Schroeder went into the bathroom and shaved off his mustache. He tinted his hair brown to match the picture in his ID, and from a closet he pulled a prepacked suitcase. The change of identity took less than thirty minutes. Haste was of the essence. Anyone who could find a way through the web of fake identities that he had woven had to have considerable resources. It was only a matter of time before they tracked down the wilderness camps.

  Someone might be watching the small airport in Kalispell. He decided to drive to Missoula and rent a car. Halfway to his destination, he stopped at a pay phone. Using a phone card, he called a longdistance number. As the phone rang, he held his breath, wondering if she would even remember him. It had been a long time. A man answered. They exchanged a few words and hung up. There was disappointment in his eyes.

  Montana has no speed limit. As Schroeder pushed the tru
ck to its limits, he wondered how the genie had once again escaped from the bottle. He was much younger the first time it had been contained, and he wondered if, at his age, he was still up to it.

  He thought about the girl. Her portrait in his bedroom was taken by a commercial studio. They could trace it back. He thought his computer files were clean, but one could never tell. Then there were the phone records. He had grown careless in his old age. It was only a matter of time before they found her. He wondered what she looked like. The last time he had seen her was at her grandfather's funeral. He let his mind drift back, recalling the events that linked him to the young woman.

  It was 1948. He was living in his log cabin in Montana. Although he had access through Swiss bank accounts to vast amounts of money, he eked out a living doing odd jobs and guiding tourists through Glacier National Park. One client, a businessman from Detroit, had left a magazine in his cabin. Schroeder did all the cleanup work himself, and he had glanced idly through its pages. That's when he discovered what had happened to Lazlo Kovacs since the night the Wilhelm Gustloff went to the bottom.

  The magazine article described a company set up by Dr. Janos, an enterprising World War II Hungarian refugee. His corporation was bringing an innovative array of consumer products to the market, all based on electromagnetic properties, making him a millionaire in the process. Schroeder smiled. There was no photograph of the reclusive inventor, but the Kovacs genius came through on every item.

  It was the mud season in between skiing and trekking, so one day he packed a bag and took the train to Detroit. He found the Janos lab in an unmarked building. He had to ask several people in the neighborhood where the lab was.

  He watched the front door from a parked car. The patience he had learned when stalking human beings was eventually rewarded. A Cadillac limousine pulled up to the building. Instead of stopping in front, it went around to an alley in the back. It took off before he could see who got in the car. He followed the car to the exclusive Grosse Pointe section of Detroit, where many auto executives lived. He lost the limo when it went through the gate of a walled estate.

  The next afternoon, he was at the lab again. He parked where he had a clear view of the back alley. When the limo showed up, he got out of his car and walked over to the alley. The chauffeur, who was holding the door open, glanced at him but probably thought Schroeder was a bum to be ignored.

  A man emerged from the back door and walked to the limo. He glanced in Schroeder's direction, started to get in the car, then he looked again. A wide grin came to his face. To the puzzlement of the limo driver, his wealthy employer went over and put his arms around the bum in a great hug.

  "After all these years. What in God's name are you doing here?" Kovacs said.

  "I thought you might like to take a ride in the snow," Schroeder said with a grin.

  Kovacs responded with a look of mock horror. "Not if you are at the wheel."

  "You're looking well, old friend."

  "Yes, you too. Different, however. I wasn't sure at first. But it's the same old Karl."

  "I shouldn't have come here," Schroeder said.

  "Please, my friend, it was fated that we would meet again. I have so much to thank you for."

  "Knowing that you are well and prosperous is thanks enough. Now I must go."

  "We must talk first," Kovacs said. He told his driver to wait, and led the way back into the lab. "There is no one here," he said.

  They passed through lab rooms filled with electrical contraptions that would have been at home in Frankenstein's lab and settled in a luxurious office.

  "You've done well," Schroeder said. "I'm glad to see that."

  "I've been very fortunate. And you?"

  "I am happy, although my home isn't as rich looking as yours."

  "You've been to my house? Of course, I should have known. You touch all the bases, as they say in our adopted country."

  "You have a family?"

  A cloud passed over Kovacs's brow, but then he smiled. "Yes, I remarried. And you?"

  "There have been many women, but I continue to be a loner."

  "Most unfortunate. I'd like to introduce you to my wife and daughter."

  Schroeder shook his head. This was as far as it goes, he said. Kovacs said he understood. Schroeder's presence would raise too many questions. Both of them still had enemies in the world. They talked for another hour, until Schroeder finally asked the question that had been on his mind.

  "I assume you have buried the frequencies?"

  Kovacs tapped his forehead. "Up here, now and forever."

  "You are aware that there was an attempt to capitalize on your work. The Russians found material at the lab and tried to make it work for them."

  Kovacs smiled. "I am like the aunt who writes down her cookie recipe for the family but leaves out an important ingredient. Their experiments would have taken them only so far."

  "They tried. Our adopted country conducted similar research, once the government found out what was going on. Then the experiments stopped."

  "There is no need to worry. I haven't forgotten what my work did to my first family."

  Satisfied with the answer, Schroeder said he had to go. They shook hands and embraced. Schroeder gave Kovacs an address to get in touch with him, if needed. They vowed to talk again, but years passed without contact. Then one day, Schroeder checked his blind box and found a message from the Hungarian.

  "I need your help again," the message said.

  When he called, the scientist said, "Something terrible has happened."

  This time, Schroeder went directly to the Grosse Pointe mansion. Kovacs greeted him at the door. He looked terrible. He had aged well, the only visible change a graying of his hair, but there were dark circles under his eyes, and his voice was hoarse, as if he had been crying. They sat in the study, and Kovacs explained that his wife had died a few years before. Their son had married a wonderful woman, he said, but they were both killed in a car crash a few weeks before.

  When Schroeder offered his condolences, Kovacs thanked him, and said there was one way he could help. He spoke into an intercom, and a few minutes later a nursemaid came in. She was holding a beautiful, blond baby girl.

  "My granddaughter, Karla," Kovacs said, proudly taking the baby. "She is named after an old friend who, I hope, will soon be her godfather."

  He handed the baby to Schroeder, who held her awkwardly in his arms. Schroeder was touched by the invitation and accepted the responsibility. As the girl grew up, he made several trips to Grosse Pointe, where he was referred to as Uncle Karl, and had become entranced by her grace and intelligence. On one occasion, she and her grandfather had spent several days in Montana. They were sitting on the porch of his log cabin, watching the girl chasing butterflies, when Kovacs revealed that he had a fatal illness.

  "I am going to die soon. My granddaughter is well provided for.

  But I want you to pledge that you will watch over her as you once watched over me and protect her from all harm."

  "It will be my pleasure," Schroeder said, never dreaming that one day he would have to honor his pledge.

  The last time he had seen Karla was at her grandfather's funeral. She had started college and was busy with studies and friends. She had developed into a lovely and intelligent young woman. He checked in with her from time to time to make sure she was well, and followed her career with pride. It had been years since they had seen each other. He wondered if she would recognize him.

  He clenched his teeth in renewed determination.

  Whatever it took, he knew he must get to her before they did.

  6

  The intruder slithered through the dark water in an explosion of bubbles that scattered schooling fish like windblown leaves. As the five-foot-long torpedo flew through the sea, the transducer pulsing under its metal skin bounced high-speed bursts of energy off the bottom. An electronic ear collected the returning echoes, and the data from the sonar tow fish flew at the speed of light
along an armored fiber-optic cable hundreds of feet long. The thick cable snaked onto the deck of the turquoise-hulled ship plowing a foamy wake through the ocean about two hundred miles east of the mid-Atlantic coast of the U.S.

  The cable terminated in the survey control center on the ship's main deck. Austin sat in front of a glowing screen, analyzing the side-scan sonar images. A revolutionary undersea exploration tool invented by the late Dr. Harold Edgerton, side-scan allowed the quick survey of vast areas of ocean bottom.

  A dark vertical line running from the top to the bottom of the screen showed the path of the survey ship. Broad color bands to either side of the line represented the port and starboard areas being probed by the side-scan sonar. Navigational data and time were displayed on the right side of the screen.

  Austin stared at the screen, his face bathed in its amber light, alert to every visual nuance. It was a tiring job, and he had been at it for two hours. He had glanced away from the screen and was rubbing his eyes when Zavala and Adler stepped through the door. Zavala was carrying a thermos of coffee and three mugs that he had picked up in the mess hall.

  "Coffee break," he said. He poured the mugs full and handed them around.

  The hot coffee burned Austin's lips, but it gave him a welcome wake-up lift. "Thanks for the caffeine pick-me-up," he said. "I was getting bleary-eyed."

  "I can take the next shift," Zavala volunteered.

  "Thanks. I'll put the scan on autopilot for now, and show you and the professor what we've been doing."

  Austin set the sonar monitor to buzz if it picked up an object larger than fifty feet in size, and the three men gathered around a chart table.

  "We're running a medium-range search to cover the most ground possible without distorting the results," Austin said. "The ocean depth here is about five hundred feet. We've marked out twelve-mile squares along the assumed course of the missing ship." He drew his finger along the perimeter of a rectangle marked in grease pencil on a transparent overlay. "The survey ship follows imaginary parallel lines in each square like someone mowing a lawn. We're about halfway through this square. If we don't locate the ship in this spread, we'll continue to probe a series of overlapping squares."