She made a face and took another grudging mouthful. ItOs not the input that IOm worried about; itOs the inevitable outflow. She screwed the cap back onto her canteen and turned to Smyslov. ThatOs the curse of having a doctor perennially in the house, Gregori. He goes around insisting you enjoy good health.

  The Russian nodded ruefully. He erodes you like water dripping on a rock. The bastard has me down to ten cigarettes a day and feeling guilty about them.

  If he starts going off on chocolate and champagne, IOm planting a cake spatula between his shoulder blades.

  Or vodka, Smyslov agreed. I will not have him attacking my national identity.

  Smith chuckled at the exchange. He didnOt need to worry about team morale at any time soon. Nor about the capabilities of his companions.

  Smyslov had obviously undergone the same kind of mountain warfare training and conditioning he had. He knew and could apply the simple, effective basics, with no unnecessary flash. Valentina Metrace was a tyro but with a very steep learning curve. She was quick, she kept her eyes open, and she was ready and willing to take instructionNthe kind of individual who could pick up an understanding of any skill rapidly. And for all her urbane drawing room sophistication there was a startling reserve of wiry strength in that slender, long-lined body.

  There were intriguing things to be learned about this woman, Smith mused. Where had she come from? Her accent was an odd combination of educated American, British, and something else. And how had she developed the odd set of talents that made her a cipher agent.

  And as one of Fred KleinOs ciphers, she, like Smith, must be a person without personal attachments or commitments. What disaster had made her alone?

  Smith forced his mind back to immediate concerns. Unsnapping his map case, he took out a laminated sectional photo map of Wednesday Island as scanned from polar orbit. This is as far as the expeditionOs ground parties gotNthe official ones anyway. From here the climbing party that found the bomber started working directly upslope to the peak. WeOll follow on around the mountain to a point above the glacier in the saddleback.

  How does the route ahead look, Colonel? Smyslov asked.

  Not bad if this mapOs any indication. Smith passed the photo chart down to the Russian. This ledge weOve been following seems to keep going for another half mile or so. At its end we can drop down into the glacier. We might need to do some rope work, but it shouldnOt be too bad. The crash siteOs almost at the foot of the east peak, about a mile, mile and a quarter across the ice. With no hang-ups we should make it well before nightfall.

  He glanced at Metrace. She was sitting back against the rock wall, her eyes closed for the moment. Holding up okay, Val?

  Marvelous, she replied, not opening her eyes. Just assure me thereOll be a steaming bubbly spa, a roaring fireplace, and a quart of hot buttered rum waiting for me at our destination and IOll be fine.

  IOm afraid I canOt promise anything but a sleeping bag and a solid belt of some very good medicinal whisky in your MRE coffee.

  A distant second, but acceptable. She opened her eyes and looked back at him, a quizzical smile brushing her face. I thought you medical types had decided that consuming ardent spirits in freezing weather was another biological no-no.

  IOm not that healthy yet, Professor.

  Her smile deepened in approval. There is hope for you yet, Colonel.

  E

  Wednesday Island Station

  ShouldnOt you have a warrant or something? Doctor Trowbridge asked suddenly.

  Distracted, Randi looked up from the row of six identical Dell laptops on the laboratory worktable. What?

  These computers contain personal documents and information. ShouldnOt you have some kind of a warrant before you go rummaging around in them?

  Randi shrugged and turned back to the computers, tapping a series of on buttons. Damned if I know, Doctor.

  Well, you are a government…agent of some nature.

  I donOt recall saying that.

  The six screens glowed, cycling through their start-up sequences. Of the six, only two demanded access code words: those belonging to Dr. Hasegawa and Stefan Kropodkin.

  Still, before I can allow you to violate the privacy of my expeditionOs staff members there must be some kind of…

  Randi sighed, fixing a baleful gaze on Trowbridge. First, Doctor, I donOt have anyplace to get a warrant from. Secondly, I donOt have anybody to give a warrant to, and finally, I donOt really give a shit! Okay?

  Trowbridge subsided in outraged bafflement for a moment, turning to stare out of the lab window.

  Turning back to the computers, Randi methodically set to work, checked the four open systems first, skimming through the e-mail files and address lists. Nothing sprang out at her from the stored correspondence. Professional and personal business, letters from wives, families, and friends. The English boy, Ian, was apparently on very good terms with at least three different girlfriends, and the American girl, Kayla, was discussing a marriage with a fiancZ.

  No one seemed to be openly chatting up any known terrorist groups or exchanging missives with the Syrian Ministry of Defense. Which, of course, was meaningless. There were any number of covert contact and relay nodes for such organizations infesting the Internet, just as there were any number of simple transposition codes and tear-sheet ciphers that could be used to mask a covert communication. But these days there were better ways to go about things.

  Randi moved on, cross-checking the control panels and programming screens and the memory reserves of the laptops. What she was looking for could be hidden, but it would also absorb a fair-sized chunk of hard drive space.

  Again nothing sprang out at her. That left the locked-out laptops.

  Getting up from the stool she had been using, she stretched for a moment and crossed to her pack that she had lugged in from the helicopter. Opening it, she took out a software wallet and removed a numbered compact disk. Returning to the laboratory table, she popped open the CD drive of the first locked computer and inserted the silvery disk.

  The locked laptop made the error of checking the identification of the inserted disk, and in seconds the sophisticated NSA cracking program was raping its operating system. The desktopOs welcome screen came up, the systemOs lockout protocols erased and supplanted.

  Randi began to repeat the process with the second laptop. Dr. Trowbridge, please donOt come up behind me like that, she murmured, not taking her eyes from the screens. It makes me nervous.

  Excuse me, he replied, his footsteps withdrawing toward the stool in the corner of the laboratory. I was just thinking about going over to the bunkhouse for a cup of coffee.

  IOd rather you didnOt. ThereOs a jar of instant coffee, some mugs, and a pot for heating water in the cupboard beside the coal stove.

  The academicOs voice grew heated as well. So I gather IOm under suspicion of something as well?

  Of course you are.

  I do not understand any of this! It was a vocal explosion.

  God, and she didnOt have time for this! She spun around on the lab stool. Neither do we, Doctor! ThatOs the problem! We donOt understand how word about the anthrax got off this island. Nor do we understand who may be coming for it. Until we do we are going to be as suspicious as hell of everybody! What you apparently donOt understand is that entire national populations can be at stake here!

  She turned back to the computers. There was a long silence from the far end of the lab, followed by the clatter of coffee paraphernalia.

  Dr. Hasegawa used Japanese kanji script on her personal computer, and it wasnOt difficult to learn the great secret she was shyly locking away from the world. The female meteorologist was also a budding novelist. Randi, who was as capable in kanji as she was in several other languages, scanned a page or two of what was obviously a sweeping and rather sultry historical romance set in the days of the shogunate. Actually sheOd read worse.

  As for the computer of Stefan Kropodkin, he conveniently used English, and there was nothing out of the way on his system beyond a not excessive amount of downloaded cyber porn.

  But there was one blip on his scope. Almost nothing in the way of personal e-mail traffic had been saved.

  Dr. Trowbridge, what do you know about Stefan Kropodkin?

  Kropodkin? A brilliant young man. A physics major from McGill University.

  That was in his file, along with the fact he holds a Slovakian passport and is in Canada on a student visa. Do you know anything about his family? Was any kind of a background check done on him?

  What kind of a background check were we supposed to do? Trowbridge swore softly as he struggled with the lid of the jar of powdered coffee. This was a purely scientific research expedition. As for his family, he doesnOt have one. The boy is a refugee, a war orphan from the former Yugoslavia.

  Really? Randi sat back on her stool. Then who is financing his education?

  HeOs on a scholarship.

  What kind of a scholarship?

  Trowbridge spooned coffee crystals into his mug. It was established by a group of concerned Middle European businessmen specifically for deserving refugee youth from the Balkan conflicts.

  And let me guess: this scholarship was established shortly before Stefan Kropodkin applied for it, and so far, heOs the only deserving refugee youth to receive it.

  Trowbridge hesitated, his spoon poised over his steaming cup. Well, yes. How did you know?

  Call it a hunch.

  Randi refocused on KropodkinOs laptop. Again, that unaccounted-for block of hard drive space she was looking for wasnOt present.

  She bit her lip. All right, somebody was being smart again. If it wasnOt locked up in one of the computers, it must be somewhere else. Where might that be?

  She closed her eyes, resting her hands on her thighs. LetOs say heOs being very, very smart and very careful. Where would he hide it?

  In his personal effects? No, there would be a risk in that. The same with carrying it on his person. It would be elsewhere.

  Maybe where it would be employed.

  Randi slipped off her stool. Crossing to her cold-weather gear on the wall hooks, she took her thin leather inner gloves out of her parka pocket. Donning them, she brushed past Trowbridge, recrossing the lab and entering the radio shack.

  It was little more than a large closet containing only the radio console, a single swivel chair, a small filing cabinet for hard copy, and a second small cabinet containing tools and electronic spares.

  It wouldnOt be inside the radio chassis or in the cabinets, simply because other people might have reason to poke around in there.

  The floor, ceiling, exterior walls, and interior partition were solid slabs of insulated fiber ply; the window, a sealed double thermopane. No hiding places. But where the wall and ceiling panels joined, there was a narrow ledge above man height and maybe an inch in depth. Carefully Randi started to feel her way around it.

  When her fingertips finally came to rest on it, she said, Got you! aloud.

  What is it? Trowbridge had been watching her actions from a wary distance.

  Randi carefully held up a chewing gumDsized stick of gray plastic. A remote computer hard drive. Somebody hid it in here where it would be nice and convenient.

  Randi returned to the lab table. Popping the end cap off the mini hard drive, she plugged it into the USB port of the nearest computer and called up the removable-disk access prompt.

  Got you! she repeated with greater exaltation. Randi lanced around to find Doctor Trowbridge trying to ease a look at the screen. Be my guest, Doctor, she said, stepping aside.

  What is it? he repeated, staring at the title screen.

  ItOs an Internet security program, Randi replied, used to encrypt e-mails and Internet files that you donOt want the world at large to be able to read. This one is a very sophisticated and expensive piece of work, totally state-of-the-art. ItOs available on the open market, but usually youOd see something like this only in the hands of a very security-conscious business firm or government agency.

  RandiOs gloved fingers danced over the keyboard for a moment. ThereOs a secured document file in here as well. But even with the program, I canOt open it without the personalized encryption key. That will be somebody elseOs job.

  For the first time she looked around at Trowbridge. Why would anyone at this station need something like this?

  I donOt know, Trowbridge said, all trace of his former belligerence erased. There would be no reason. This was all open research. Nothing secretive was being done here.

  That you know of. Randi delicately removed the minidrive from the computer and dropped it into a plastic evidence envelope.

  Do you think… He hesitated. Do you think this has something to do with the disappearance of the expedition staff?

  I think this is the way the word about the bioweapons aboard the Misha 124 got out, Randi replied. But this leaves us an even more interesting question.

  WhatOs that, Ms. Russell? For the moment, in the face of this discovery, they were at a truce.

  This island has been a totally sealed environment for over six months. Somebody brought this thing here long before that bomber was ever found, for some totally different reason. Its use in this situation is a coincidence, not a cause.

  Trowbridge started to protest. But if itOs not for the bomber, why would anyone have a reason…

  As I said, Doctor, thatOs a very interesting question.

  Rosen Trowbridge had no answer. Instead he turned to the little coal stove with the little pot of water steaming atop it. Would…would you care for a cup of coffee, Ms. Russell?

  E

  Saddleback Glacier

  Smith studied the row of glowing green numbers in the LED strip of the handheld Slugger Global Positioning unit. DonOt quote me on it, but I think weOre close, he said, lifting his voice over the wind rumble.

  Whatever weather Wednesday Island received, the glacier between the two peaks got the worst of it, the mountains channeling the polar katabatics between them. On this afternoon, the sea smoke and cloud cover had blended, streaming through the gap between the mountains in a writhing river of mist intercut with stinging bursts of airborne ice crystals too hard and piercing to be called snow.

  As Smith had hoped, the rappel down the mountainside to the glacierOs surface had not proved excessively difficult, but the crossing of the glacier itself had turned into a slow, painful crawl. Visibility had varied from poor to nonexistent, and the threat of crevasses had mandated a wary roped advance, probing constantly with their ice axes. Away from the shield of the mountains, the incessant winds tugged and burned, penetrating even their top-flight arctic shell clothing. Frostbite and hypothermia would soon become a factor.

  They werenOt in trouble yet, but Smith knew his people were tiring. He was feeling it himself. Night was coming on rapidly as well. Soon they would have to break off the hunt for the plane and start the hunt for shelter, if such existed up here.

  That thought decided him. If he was thinking soon, it should be now, while they still had some reserves remaining. He must conserve his teamOs strength and endurance. Time was critical, but squandering it by stumbling around in this freezing murk would accomplish nothing.

  ThatOs it, he said. LetOs pack it in. WeOll dig in for the night and hope for better visibility tomorrow.

  But, Jon, you said weOre close. ValentinaOs muffled protest leaked through her snow mask. We must almost be on top of it!

  ItOs been here for fifty years, Val. ItOll be here tomorrow. We just have to make sure weOre here to find it. Major, weOll try and make it across to East Peak. ThatOll be our best bet to find some cover out of this wind. YouOve got the point. LetOs move.

  Yes, Colonel. Obediently Smyslov turned and started his hunched trudge, probing ahead with the spike end of his climbing axe and slamming his crampons into the wind-abraded ice with each step.

  HowOs that for command, Sarge? Smith grinned to himself, telepathing the thought to his distant mountain warfare instructor.

  In the saddleback, the prevailing wind was as good as any compass. They only had to keep it on their left shoulder to eventually reach the far side of the glacier. Last on the safety line, SmithOs attention was centered on the other two members of his team, ready to brace and hold should either suddenly fall through into a hidden crevasse in the ice. Accordingly it took him a moment to comprehend why Gregori Smyslov came to such an abrupt halt.

  Look! The RussianOs excited yell was torn by a wind gust. Look there!

  Almost directly ahead of them, a towering finlike shape had materialized, ghostlike in the streaming mist: the vertical stabilizer of an aircraft, a big aircraft, the outline of a storm-scoured red star still faintly visible.

  Yes! Valentina Metrace lifted her fists in triumph.

  WasnOt that always the case? When you werenOt looking for it, you found it.

  E

  Wednesday Island Station

  Randi Russell trudged up the trail to the knoll overlooking the station. Every few feet she stopped and heaved on the heavy, weatherproof coaxial cable that led up to the radio mast, peeling a length of it up and out of the snow cover. Carefully she ran each exposed cable section through her mittened hands, looking for breaks or cuts.

  It had to be the antennas. SheOd checked everything else on both the sat phone and the sideband set. The little SINCGARS transceiver theyOd brought with them was useless. It simply lacked the power to override the solar flare that was demolishing communications. Once theyOd broken the line of sight she hadnOt even been able to raise Jon and the others on the aircraft party.

  She was on her own. As much as one could get. Impatiently she shook her head, displeased with the pang of loneliness that had flared within her. Giving the MP-5 a hitch onto her shoulder, she doggedly plowed another few feet up the compacted snow trail.

  Reaching the base of the ice-coated radio mast, Randi knelt down and traced the last few inches of cable into the booster box at the tower base. It was intact, and all the connectors were still screwed tight. Frustrated, she rocked back on her heels. The radios should be working. Given they werenOt, she was missing something. Randi suspected sabotage, but if such was the case, some very subtle methodology had been used.