Polar Shift

He decided to put his suspicions to the test. He watched one of the men leave his table to go to the restroom. Timing it just right, he rose from his table and deliberately bumped into the man on his way back. Schroeder apologized profusely, but the man only swore, and cut him dead with a fierce glance.

The encounter told him two things. That his new appearance, with his shaved beard and dyed hair, was working, and that the television man was carrying a gun in a shoulder holster. He decided to press the matter further.

After emerging from the restroom, he approached the group's table. "Hello," he said in his western accent. "I understand you folks are from the Discovery Cha

A large man who seemed to be the leader examined him through narrowed eyes. "Yeah. I'm Hunter. How'd you know my name?"

"It's all over the hotel. We don't often get celebrities here," Schroeder said, provoking grins around the table. "I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed the show you did on the ancient Hittites several months ago."

A puzzled expression crossed the big man's face. "Thanks," he said, regarding Schroeder with hard eyes. "We've got some business to take care of, so if you'll excuse us."

Schroeder apologized for taking their time and went back to his table. He could hear the men laughing. He had made up the Hittite reference as a test. He watched the Discovery Cha

He pondered a course of action while he finished his club soda and decided to take the most direct route. He went out to his car, and from under the seat retrieved a pistol with a sound suppressor attached to the barrel.

He was relieved to see that the men were still in the bar when he returned to the hotel. He was just in time. They had paid their bill and risen from the table. He followed them to the elevator. He rode up with them to the third floor, chatting like an old fool, enduring the smirks and hard looks. He got off on the same floor, mumbled something about a coincidence. He ambled down the hallway, acting confused, as if he had forgotten where he was, but when the group broke up and went into their rooms he noted the room numbers.

He waited a minute, then went over to one room. Holding the pistol behind his back, he glanced up and down the hallway to make sure he was alone, then knocked. The door opened a moment later. The man scowled when he saw Schroeder standing there. It was the man he had jostled. He had taken off his jacket, and, as Schroeder had suspected, he was wearing a shoulder holster with a handgun in it.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I seem to have lost my room key. I was wondering if I could use your phone."

"I'm busy." He put his hand on the holster. "Go bother someone else."

The man started to close the door. Schroeder quickly brought the pistol around and snapped off a shot between the eyes. The man crumpled to the floor with a look of abject surprise on his otherwise unmarked face. Glancing up and down the corridor, Schroeder stepped over the body and dragged it just inside the room.

Schroeder followed the same routine, with slight variations but similar results. In one case, he rushed his first shot and had to fire twice. In another, he heard the elevator door open just as he pulled the body into the room. But when it was over, he had killed four men in less than five minutes.

He felt no remorse, dispatching them with the cold, murderous efficiency of his old days. They were simply violent thugs, no different from many he had encountered, even worked with. Worse, they were sloppy and careless. The team must have been assembled in a hurry. They were not the first men he had killed. Nor were they likely the last.

He hung do not disturb signs on each door. A few minutes later, he was back in his rental car headed for the airport. Harper was still in his office, burrowing through his paperwork like an overgrown mole.

"I talked to the TV crew," Schroeder said. "They've changed their minds. They've decided to head down to Kodiak Island to shoot a feature on bears."

"Shit! Why didn't they tell me?"

"You can call them and ask. But they were on their way out when I called them."

Harper snatched up the phone and called the hotel. He asked to be co

"That's it," he said. "I was counting on a check from this run to make the monthly payment on the big bird. I'm ruined."

"You don't have any other charters scheduled?"

"It's not that easy. It takes days, sometimes weeks, to put together a deal."

"Then the plane and boat are free for charter?"

"Yeah, they're free. You know anyone interested in chartering them?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." Schroeder reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick packet of bills, which he tossed onto a pile of papers. "This is for the trip out and the boat. I'll pay you an equal amount for the return flight. My only condition is that you stand by for a few days until I'm ready to leave."

Harper picked the packet up and riffled the edges. They were all hundred-dollar bills. "I can practically buy a new plane for this." He frowned. "This isn't something illegal, is it?"

"Nothing illegal at all. You'll be carrying no cargo. Only me."

"You got papers?"

"Passport and visa are all up-to-date and in order." They should be, for the money he paid for them, Schroeder thought. He had stopped in Seattle and waited impatiently while his favorite ID forger had cooked up a set of papers for Professor Kurtz.

Harper extended his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."

"Good. When can we leave?"

"Any time you're ready."

"I'm ready."

The plane took off an hour later. Schroeder sat back in his seat, enjoying the solitude that came from being the only passenger on the plane, and sipped on a glass of Scotch that Harper had thoughtfully provided. Harper was at the controls. As Fairbanks faded in the distance and the plane struck off toward the west, he took a deep breath. He was aware that he was an old man trying to do a young man's job. Schroeder had asked not to be bothered for a while. He was tired and needed some sleep.

He would need deadly clarity for the task ahead. He cleared his mind of all emotion and closed his eyes.

17

The NOAA ship Benjamin Franklin limped along like a sailor who'd been in a bar brawl. The tug-of-war with the whirlpool had taken its toll on the ship's engines, which had to be babied so they wouldn't break down completely. The Throckmorton trailed several hundred yards behind in case the NOAA vessel ran into trouble.

As the two ships slowly made their way toward Norfolk, a turquoise-colored utility helicopter with the letters NUMA visible on the fuselage appeared in the western sky. It hovered over the Benjamin Franklin like a hummingbird before touching down on the deck. Four people scrambled out, carrying medical supplies and equipment.

Crewmen directed the medical team to the ship's sick bay. None of the injuries sustained when the ship nearly went vertical in the whirlpool were life-threatening. The captain had requested the team to help the ship's paramedic, who had been overwhelmed with the sheer volume of bruises and concussions.