He terminated their call, put down the phone, and sat exceedingly still in his heated metal booth, the sounds of the subterranean mine loud around him.

The machines were grinding.

Sehr schnell.

EIGHTEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 16, 2002

EIGHTEEN

COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 16, 2002

HIS PISTOL WAS A BERETTA 92 NINE-MILLIMETER, TOP of the line, with a stainless-steel barrel, black-matte finish, low recoil, and open-slide action. The same side arm used by the U.S. armed services, it couldn’t be beat for accuracy and reliability.

A handsome weapon.

Granger had never fired it except on practice ranges, never killed anything bigger than a rabbit in his life. He guessed that he was decent enough with a handgun, a better shot than your average person, although popping holes in a cardboard target that came gliding toward you down the lane was a far cry from taking out a human being. Or most likely was. The peculiar thing was that Granger had found himself without any moral or emotional constraints about the ruse he’d worked out, a setup that would have completely unstrung him once upon a time.

Sure, he’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Granger liked the money he was making hand over fist from the Consortium. He liked being where he was, and the freedom of living on the ice—liked his freedom, period—and got a little bothered knowing he would have to lose his income stream, jeopardize his personal safety, and go on the run. But he’d banked plenty over the last few years, heaped up a nice financial cushion in numbered Swiss and Cayman Island accounts.

His concern was whether the snare would work. Conscience, guilt . . . he just didn’t harbor those feelings. In fact, he’d discovered that part of him, a strong part, actually enjoyed running all the way home with the devil.

Peculiar thing.

Seated in the cockpit of his Bell chopper, Granger carefully adjusted his parka, tugging and smoothing it until he was confident the side-arm holster underneath made no visible bulge. An hour had passed since he’d agreed to give Pete Nimec his ride in the sky, a bit less since he’d phoned Burkhart on his secure mobile phone, and Granger was about ready to charge up the bird. He had laddered through all the routine steps of a preflight systems check, looking over the gauges, video displays, and digital readouts on his control panel, inputting coordinates into his onboard GPS unit, testing his navigation and communications equipment. Outside, the cleanup crews were still making a racket with their bucket loaders, but most of the storm’s dumping of snow around the pad had been hauled off. Now Granger was only waiting for Nimec to return from Cold Corners One, where he’d gone to wrap up some unspecified last-minute affairs.