Deep Ice (31 page)

Except, of course, that
his
life wasn’t about to go on.

He smiled at Rudolfo as the muzzle of the weapon pointed at his face. “Quite a dance we did together. Isn’t that so?”

Suarez lowered the gun. “Perhaps you are a bit too eager to be dead, my friend.”

He rose from the chair and ambled to the window, folded his arms and stared at the far-off peaks of the Andes.

A new surge of pain shot through Henry’s leg as he shifted on the chair. He groaned involuntarily.

“Get him off my furniture,” said Suarez abstractedly.

“I don’t want blood on it.”

The giant goon, Remo, responded instantly, lifting Henry off the seat.

Shep watched his master being manhandled, and growled.

Fearing Remo would shoot the dog, Henry called, “That’s okay, Shep. Come on. Be good.”

Miraculously, Shep did as he was told. He followed Remo, who was hardly staggering under Henry’s weight, sniffing the drops of blood that landed on the carpet. He kept up a long, low, rumbling growl, but he was obediently holding himself in check.

Remo dumped Henry into a corner of the far wall and stood next to him, waiting for more orders. But Suarez stood mute, statue-like, as if meditating.

Henry watched the man who’d shot him on the ice. It galled him to think that Suarez was still holding his life in his hands. But even if Henry and Shep went down – even the whole SEAL team – at least the terrorist had been beaten. Suarez was surrounded, and the world was safe.

Suarez turned to gaze at Henry. The terrorist stood silhouetted against the golden light of the afternoon sun so that Henry couldn’t see his eyes.

“You are thinking I am ruined,” said Suarez. “That all my plans have come to nothing. Yes?”

“That’s a smile,” said Henry.

“What?”

“A happy thought.” Henry ran his fingers through Shep’s ruff.

“Can you tell me anything about Trevor Hodges?” asked Suarez after a moment’s thought.

“Haven’t met the man,” said Henry. “Friend of yours?”

#

TransAm Optical had become ground zero. Surrounding the Hacienda was a five-hundred-man army, ready to annihilate the place within a few seconds of a go-ahead. But they waited while the techies determined who had survived the incursion that had failed so horribly.

General Hayes talked to President Kerry, and to the Joint Chiefs and the UN Secretary General. Everyone agreed: the world had no choice but to wait for Suarez to make the next move. The general had thought they would capture Suarez easily, and possibly learn from him where to find and how to disarm the nuclear weapons buried in the ice. But Hayes was afraid the only practical resolution was to order an air strike – to cut off the bomb’s trigger signal at source. Henry, the surviving SEALs, any innocent bystanders in the Hacienda – their lives would all be forfeit, but that would be a small price to pay if millions of other lives could be saved.

The President had left the call squarely on Hayes’s shoulders.

A tech specialist had marked the probable locations of the dead and wounded on a computer map of the Hacienda. It showed Grimes lying near the bodies of three of his men. The heart monitor for Grimes was ambiguous: it was possible he was still alive – barely so, and unconscious, but alive. On the other hand, Gibbs was most assuredly alive; he was in the room they assumed was Suarez’s inner sanctum.

Hayes found himself working out the issues with Lieutenant O’Boyle. It seemed strange after all the recent hectic events to be confiding in a virtual stranger on the mission, not Grimes. But O’Boyle had many anti- terrorist credits to his name. He had worked with Israeli, British and French special anti-terrorist forces all over the world. He was the Marine Corps’s unquestioned expert on the subject.

“The bombs are Suarez’s trump cards,” said O’Boyle. “He won’t play ’em.”

“But he knows his game’s up,” argued the general.

“So what’s to stop him? He must know he’s a dead man either way.”

“Maybe not,” said the lieutenant. “You can’t predict a man like Suarez.
And
we have his squeeze.”

“Squeeze?”

“The woman the SEALs seized. Her name’s Gwen –

Gwen Murchison Ruiz. From a wealthy family in La Paz. She says she’s Suarez’s girlfriend. High-priced tart is more like it, you ask me, but let the lady keep her pride.”

“Good intelligence work, O’Boyle,” said the general.

O’Boyle raised his visible eyebrow. “Thanks, sir, but most of it was there in her purse with her car keys. She came to a short while ago, wondering what the hell was going on. Either the best actress in the world, or she really doesn’t have a clue that Suarez is the Deep Ice terrorist. She thought he was a legitimate businessman with generous habits – which was why she stuck around – and a highly developed case of paranoia.”

The general considered. Rudolfo Suarez was no two-bit terrorist. Hayes figured it was in the man’s nature to keep his family and friends in the dark. “Hold on to her,” he said.

“One more thing,” said O’Boyle. “We have the bastard’s half-brother.”

“Where d’you get that from?”

“Augusto Suave, his name is. Came stumbling out of the Hacienda with his hands in the air. Gave himself up to the first Marine he saw. Said he knew his beloved brother Rudy – half-brother – was planning to waste him soon, so he thought he’d better take his chances with us. He’s eager to spill his guts about anything that’ll make him look good and Rudy look like shit.”

O’Boyle spat into the grass.

“Charming family all round,” he added.

#

Inside the Hacienda, a few hundred yards away, Suarez was still facing the fact that his plan was unravelling.

“What have we got here, Remo?” he said wistful y.

“A lost cause?”

Taking that as a cue, Remo, to Suarez’s surprise, answered.

“Why so? Come on, Rudy. What have they got on you? You have the right to defend your house from intruders. No? I say we shoot this guy and his hound – dump them both in the hall. Nobody knows about the chopper in the roof. Take it, Rudy. Go.”

Suarez listened carefully, then and nodded.

“Remo, look around you. This is a US military strike force we’re dealing with. Don’t you see the implications of their being here? Right now, I’ll bet there’s at least a thousand troops surrounding us.” He gazed out the giant picture window. “And they are invisible, creeping around out there.”

Remo pointed his weapon at Henry and Shep. “It’s this guy’s word against yours.” He maintained a tone of humility, but the strength of his feelings was clear.

Henry was still slumped against the wall. His leg was throbbing and hot, but he’d managed to get the napkin tied like a bandage around his thigh and stop much of the bleeding. He was trying to col ect his thoughts, to assess the odds. As he slouched yet further, he suddenly felt the hard metal of his gun press into the small of his back. In all the frantic action and now the pain he’d managed to forget it was there.

And no one had bothered to frisk him.

Parked in the crease of his butt was the handgun he’d been given back on the
Enterprise
.

Then there was the wire the SEALs had put on him before the invasion of the Hacienda. Was it still working? Grimes had said it would take someone a while to detect the tiny transmitter clipped into a seam of his T-shirt. Did Hayes know he was alive? Henry realized that, dire as his situation was, he still had an edge.

His confidence began to grow.

With Suarez and Remo focused on their discussion, now was a good time to act.

But still he hesitated, concentrating on stroking Shep. The dog caught his eye, and for a moment they looked at one another almost man-to-man.

What he heard Suarez say next came as a complete surprise.

“We need this stupid Gibbs man, Remo.”

“The cavalry might just come crashing through that big-assed picture window, Shep,” Henry whispered. He looked around the room and noticed an open door that led to some kind of control room.
The bastard’s got his own private Radio Shack outlet,
he thought, still trying to joke away the pain.

It was obvious the room was currently in use. Hot coffee steamed next to a table lamp. All the lights were on, and the computers were lit up. Henry could see a black padded chair and a TV screen. He also noticed the door to the little room was quite thick, and seemed to be made of metal.

“But if this guy. . .” began Remo.

“Enough!” said Suarez. “Silence!”

Then the far door opened and a group of his security goons rushed into the room. Without waiting for his permission to speak, one of them breathlessly announced that the forces gathered outside wanted to speak directly to “the man in charge”. The man stressed his certainty that they weren’t saboteurs or corporate thieves, but legitimate government-backed military: US and Chilean.

“Don’t let anyone in, you fools,” snarled Suarez, putting up a hand to stem the guard’s torrent of words.

“So help me, I’ll kill anyone who lets those masqueraders into the building. I pay you to obey me. Now
do it
!”

Henry pegged the man who’d spoken out as the person in charge of house security. From the way the man was acting, he was a hired civilian who had never dreamed of the possibility of being involved in a real military shootout.

“Sir,” persisted the guard, “have you seen the television?”

“
Get back to defending your master!
” bellowed Remo.

The goons took one look at the giant ex-wrestler’s face and fled the room.

Within a moment a wall panel had slid away to reveal a huge flat-screen TV. Suarez’s remote soon conjured the face of the President of Chile.

He turned up the volume.

#

“That’s real y
great
!” squawked Hayes. “Why’d he. . .?”

At the most sensitive moment in Hayes’s mission, President Frei had decided to speak via the national media to the terrorists inside the HQ of the foreign company called the TransAm Optical Corporation.

“We implore you,” he was saying, “to stand down and to get on the phone to begin further negotiations. This is not a threat.”

The world had been holding its breath. Today was October 1 – the Deep Ice Dreadline, as the
Daily News
had put it. The clamour of questions from the public and the media was overwhelming every government switchboard and threatening to paralyse communications around the globe.

The general sighed in disbelief as he realized he’d have to have another little chat with President Kerry.

Perhaps years from now.

He didn’t care at the moment. He was working on hour number thirty-eight without sleep. Only a steady flow of coffee was keeping him going.

He peered at the Hacienda through his field glasses, and swore. The shadows were getting long. He hadn’t dreamed of this becoming a night mission.

Lieutenant O’Boyle was down on one knee next to him. “Sharkin’, Mr Hooper?”

Hayes looked at the Marine and laughed. “
Jaws
,” he said. “Yeah, it’s like that, isn’t it? Suarez, the beast you can’t nail. So what do we do, O’Boyle? Should we stop waiting and go in?”

O’Boyle shrugged his shoulders. “Have a beer and see who walks into the room, I’d say, sir.” He adjusted his eyepatch, then rooted in a pocket and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch.

He deftly filled the pipe, but all the time his single eye was locked upon the Hacienda.

#

In his inner sanctum, shielded behind bulletproof glass and reinforced concrete, Rudolfo Suarez paced around the room. Henry and Shep just watched him walk back and forth. He wasn’t saying anything, and neither was Remo.

Remo knew he’d said enough for one day.

Finally Suarez walked into the radio room and came out with his laptop.

“Now that you’ve had time to think about it, what are you going to do, Mr Terrorista?” asked Henry.

Suarez’s eyes burned into Henry’s. Then they glazed over and lost their fire.

“I’m not fond of being questioned, Mr Gibbs. I’ve told you that before.”

“That’s right,” said Henry sarcastically. “I forgot. You shoot people who ask for radios.”

Suarez stopped pacing.

“Mr Gibbs, you are so eager to die. Why is that?”

Henry didn’t answer. He didn’t
have
an answer. He just patted his dog and tried to think about anything but the pain in his leg.
At least on the ice,
he thought,
the cold numbs the pain.
By now, he figured, the cavalry had figured out about the heavy ammo. The wire probably had him located. Hayes probably knew he was still alive – and would know if Suarez killed him.

Remo stood like a statue, holding an automatic pistol haphazardly pointed at Henry, apparently thinking about using it.

Suarez had forgotten his own question and become engrossed in his laptop. It was obvious to Henry that the man could detonate those bombs in the ice from right here – from this innocent-looking little slimline machine. His leg gave a sudden throb and he gripped Shep’s fur in his clenched fist so tightly that the dog let out a soft whimper. But Shep didn’t pul away. Instead, he stood his ground and accepted the pain.

Henry released his hand.

“I’m sorry, Shep. Christ.”
I’ve got to do something drastic, and soon.

He smiled at Remo.

“You know, you look like a wrestler I saw on TV when I was a kid. Big red fucking moustache. Always hittin’ on the good guy.”

Remo was listening. Henry heard the creak of metal as the safety was released.

“Oops, did I touch a nerve? I guess that wasn’t the most tactful thing to say, was it?”

Remo suddenly roared with laughter. “Please let me kill him, Rudy.”

Suarez, sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees, regarded his laptop screen earnestly.

“Jesus. They’ve started to move the money.”

When Remo’s head turned to glance at his boss, Henry took it as his cue.

He reached behind him and pulled out the gun. It felt as evil as it had looked.

The thought flashed through his head that everything he’d ever known was coming to an end, and as usual it had all been his own damned fault.