"That the whiskey?" Cabrillo asked.

The man nodded. Cabrillo reached in his pocket and retrieved a

money clip. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the man,

who handed over the bottle.

"I don't have change," the Inuit said.

"Is that enough to pay for this and another to be delivered," Cabrillo

asked, "and some extra for your trouble?"

"Yes," the Inuit said, "but the owner will only allow me to deliver

Woodman one bottle per day."

"Bring the other tomorrow and keep the change," Cabrillo said.

The Inuit nodded and Cabrillo closed the door. Carrying the sack

with the whiskey inside, he walked over to Campbell and handed it to

him. Campbell took the bottle out of the sack, wadded up the paper and

tossed it toward a trash can and missed, then cracked the seal and filled

his cup.

"Appreciate it," he said.

"You shouldn't," Cabrillo told him. "You should give it up."

"I can't," Campbell said, eyeing the bottle. "I've tried."

"Bullshit. I've worked with guys with a worse problem than yoursthey're

straight today."

62 CLIVE CUSSLER

Campbell sat quietly. "Well, Mr. CIA," he said at last, "you figure a

way to dry me out and the snowcat is yours. I haven't used it in monthsI

can't leave the house."

"You served in the army," Cabrillo said.

"Who the hell are you?" Campbell said. "No one in Greenland knows

that."

"I run a specialized company that does intelligence and security

work-a private corporation. We can find out anything."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Cabrillo said. "What was your job in the service? I didn't

bother to ask my people that."

"Green Berets, then the Phoenix Project."

"So you worked for the Company, too?"

"Indirectly," Campbell admitted, "but they turned their back on me.

They trained me, brained me, and cast me away. I came home with nothing

but a heroin problem I managed to kick on my own and a host of

bad memories."

"I hear you," Cabrillo said. "Now where is the snowcat?"

"Out back," Campbell said, pointing to a door leading out the rear

of the house.

"I'm going to check it out," Cabrillo said, starting for the door. "You

sit here and figure out if you really want to quit. If you do, and the snowcat

checks out, then I have an idea we can discuss. If not, then we can discuss

me paying you enough money to keep you in Jack until your liver

fails. Fair enough?"

Campbell nodded as Cabrillo walked out.

Surprisingly enough, the snowcat was in perfect shape. A 1970

Thiokol model 1202B-4 wide-track Spryte. Powered by a Ford 200cubic-inch

six-cylinder with a four-speed transmission, it was bodied like

a pickup truck with a flatbed on the rear. A light bar was mounted on

the roof, an extra fuel tank on the rear bed, and the treads looked almost

new. Cabrillo opened the door. Inside was a metal hump between

the seats where the strangely angled gearshift resided, as well as a pair