The Antarctic Forgery Read online

  But giving him the artifacts was about more than leveraging Kotler as a resource. It was also an invitation of sorts. An opportunity. Feelers. She wanted to know if he was interested in her, in a sense.

  And he was interested. That was clear in the way he not only pursued the riddle but tried to work around her surveillance. It was almost half-hearted, she thought. He was looking for her, but he wasn't putting that much energy into it. As if he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to catch her.

  She sipped the London Fog again as Marissa sat beside her. They were both dressed casually and smartly as if they were just two more female tourists looking for fun and relaxation in the happiest place on Earth.

  "We got his phone," Marissa said, placing a glistening cold brew cup on the table before them, its rich cream settled to the bottom like sediment, with a river of dark coffee above. The condensation made it sparkle like scattered jewels. "I've handed it over to our tech team. They were able to crack it, and we got the coordinates. It's a location in Antarctica, just like you said."

  “Good,” Gail replied.

  “There’s a lot of other information in there, too. Useful.”

  "Not so much," Gail said, sipping her beverage. "Dan is sure to have planted misinformation. He does that. Get the coordinates, get a team outfitted, and make arrangements to get us to Antarctica."

  “Us?” Marissa asked. “You’re going on this one?”

  “It’s too important to miss,” Gail smiled. “Besides, Dan will be there. And I did promise he would find me.”

  Marissa shook her head. “I don’t know what you see in that guy. He’s kind of a prick.”

  "A brilliant and resourceful prick who can solve riddles our team hasn't been able to solve for the past two years," Gail replied. She was watching the balloon sway as tourists looked with wide-eyed amusement at the landscape. "And cute."

  Marissa made a noise. “If you’re into that sort of thing. Too much penis for me.”

  Gail smiled and laughed lightly. “Anything else?”

  “I kicked him in the balls,” Marissa smiled.

  Again, Gail laughed. “You’re incorrigible. Anything pertinent to our objective?”

  Marissa shook her head. “I can get everything pulled together. But … mind if I take a day, maybe go into the parks?”

  “You want a Disney vacation? Be my guest,” Gail smiled. “Stay low key and off the radar. Be nice.”

  “I’m always nice,” Marissa said, standing and leaving Gail to stare out after a boat shaped like a 1950s convertible. “Says the girl who kicked my boyfriend in the testicles,” she said quietly, laughing again and taking another sip of her tea.

  She was glad for a little levity, but she knew it couldn't last. They were in the endgame now. Kotler was on the scent, and he would find what they were both looking for, no doubt. Now it became a matter of retrieving her treasure from the one who would find it, not to mention his FBI partner. That was a challenge Gail was prepared for. She had a whole network dedicated to that purpose, diminished though it may be.

  But what about Dan himself?

  She wasn’t sure. It was too soon to tell how things might go. But she was prepared. She might like Dan, quite a lot, but she liked her position and her power just as much, if not more. She’d have to decide eventually, she knew. But not now.

  For now, it was time she left to meet with her driver, to get out of this oppressive heat and humidity. She would return to her hotel to wait for word that the arrangements were made, and they were on their way to Antarctica.

  She hoped Marissa enjoyed the teacup ride or whatever it was that she was exploring. The rest of this would be no trip to Disney.

  Chapter 8

  It took nearly 18 hours in the air to reach the frozen continent. Kotler used the time to study everything he could about their destination.

  The coordinates they'd found in Oklahoma City were a solid three day's journey from Villa Las Estrellas, one of the only official "towns" on the continent, and their first destination.

  Located in President Eduardo Fred Montalva military base, Villa Las Estrellas was the largest of the two civilian settlements on the continent and was founded as a Chilean research station. The name translated to "The Stars Town," which brought to Kotler's mind the city of Xi-paal ‘ek Kaah, or "Star Boy City" in Central America, where they'd dealt with a global threat and a Mayan god of death all at once. Hopefully, that wasn't some sort of omen.

  Kotler hadn’t been to Antarctica before, but he had worked with researchers who had spent time on the continent, and many of them preferred the Chilean town over other accommodations. That was good enough for Kotler, and the fact that it was the closest civilization they’d find to their final destination helped to seal the deal. This would be home base, for now.

  Villa Las Estrellas wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis, but it did provide amenities and a chance to loosen up after nearly a day in the air. The population was somewhat eclectic, comprised of Chileans working to support the Chilean Antarctic Institute. There were also personnel from the Air Forces of various nationalities, along with their families.

  Families, here in the Antarctic, were kind of a miracle. Most nations, including the US and Russia, didn't allow anyone to relocate who wasn't assigned to a base or research station. Chile and their long-time rival Argentina had made exceptions, and the results were fascinating. Kotler found himself wanting to take time to study the emerging cultures here, so deeply identified with their distant South American heritage, and yet living and thriving as an offshoot community in the most barren landscape on the planet.

  That exploration would have to wait, of course.

  The town rested in an inlet on King George Island, which was just off the coast of the larger mass of Antarctica. To Kotler's surprise, there was very little snow, since it was not yet Winter here. There were actual tufts of foliage surrounding them as they disembarked and made their way to "the inn," as their local guide, Vicente, referred to it.

  "Don't worry, Winter is coming," Vicente joked, taking note of Kotler's interest in the foliage. "We'll head for the icy stuff in a couple of days. There's a storm just playing itself out on the coast, and the winds make it difficult to make entry."

  “How will we go in?” Denzel asked.

  Vicente smiled. "I'll be your pilot. We're flying in. I have a small plane that will get us there. Can't get you to the coordinates you shared," he shook his head as if he truly regretted this. "But your people arranged for a Sno-Cat that will take you the rest of the way."

  Denzel nodded. “Hope they supplied a driver,” he said. “I have no idea how to run one of those.”

  Vicente grinned and held his arms out. “I am your driver. Do not worry. I’ve done this many times.”

  Kotler detected an odd note in Vicente’s voice that made him believe the man had not done this quite as many times as he implied, but they were in no real position to object.

  They had dinner in a local pub that was apparently a favorite place to watch futbol matches, broadcast using the local high-speed internet for reliability. Satellite communication was troublesome this close to the South Pole, with geosynchronous satellites being used primarily by the various military bases peppering the continent. The Chileans and Argentinians had overcome this by bringing fiber optic lines to their settlements and using cellular towers to provide a signal over a vast range of the place. Kotler was getting higher download speeds here than he got in the States.

  As the sounds of soccer and cheering crowds filled the pub, Kotler and Denzel had a couple of beers and a meal of fish and chips, which made Kotler feel warm and oddly comforted in this strange place.

  He was used to traveling and had been to some of the world's most barren places, all in pursuit of the underlying meaning of human culture and civilization. He'd visited deserts on all the continents and had even slept on the side of an active volcano near Pompeii. He'd had his share of experiences in frozen wastelands as well, having visited some
of the mastodon tusk mining operations in Siberia, as well as lower level campsites on Everest. This, somehow, felt different. Maybe it was the presence of modern technology and amenities in what otherwise seemed like such an isolated hamlet.

  So far, they hadn't really gotten to the more barren and apocalyptic landscape of Antarctica. Villa Las Estrellas, in fact, could have been any northern lakeside small town in the US or Canada. But something about it was hitting Kotler right in the chest. Despite being amongst other humans here, Kotler felt the absence of humanity keenly. It took two beers and about an hour of conversation with Vicente before he finally started piecing it together.

  There was no history here.

  The town wasn't really a town, and in the grand scope of history hadn't been around for all that long. It was a village built in the 80s at the bidding of a dictator—General August Pinochet—who wanted nothing better than to stake a territorial claim.

  That was interesting, of course. And it had led to something of a cultural experiment that was intriguing to Kotler, as an anthropologist: Here he could see the evolution of a modern culture isolated from its roots in physical presence only. It was interesting to consider that these people, numbering only around 200 continuous citizens, had only each other to deal with in person, and yet were still connected to the world at large via Facebook and Skype and mobile phones. It was like a human civilization establishing itself on the surface of Mars.

  There was a fascinating cultural dynamic at play here, but no history that the continent could call its own. And that, to Kotler, was somehow haunting.

  He knew that there were stories about Antarctica, though. The continent represented one of the final few unexplored land masses on Earth. Unexplored, that was, below the surface of miles and miles of ice.

  There were rumors of lost civilizations out there. Rumors of cities, even entire nations that once populated the continent. A seafaring nation, perhaps. One so robust that some claimed it was the source of every lost-culture myth in history. Kotler himself had seen and read so much that hinted at something buried here that might rewrite everything humanity ever thought it knew of ancient history.

  Under the ice, some said, were the remains of an advanced culture, lost to some ancient cataclysm, waiting for its rediscovery.

  The idea thrilled Kotler. But here, on King George Island, he wasn't feeling it. He wasn't getting that sense of ancient history, the clues that someone had been here before. Here, in Villa Las Estrellas, all he could sense was determination. The people here had a mission and a cause. They had work to do and families to tend to. They had soccer to watch on television and play in the biodome-esque gymnasium, and fine liquor brought to them from every nation on earth, and month after month of passing the time indoors during the harshest winters on the planet. History played little part in this place, in Kotler’s opinion, beyond what history was being made as this community continued to develop here.

  Still, this was bias, and Kotler felt mildly ashamed of it. The reality, he knew, was that Antarctica actually had an incredible and intriguing history. He was letting frozen toes and a lack of coffee shops sway him, but he knew the truth.

  The central continent, that was where the really interesting stuff might be hidden. There were stories of ancient voyagers gracing the coast. Darwin had once led an expedition to these shores. There were some who were convinced that under the ice there still lived strange and never-seen life forms that would redefine evolution as a theory. Indeed, Darwin had thought this to be the case, and had come to study any life the isolated continent had to offer.

  In more recent history, the Nazis were rumored to have tested a wide range of devices and vehicles and weaponry here, to have used this place to hide both their activities and their treasures. The rumors also claimed that Nazi subs still peppered the continent, buried in ice with their cargos intact. Treasure hunters came here from far and wide in search of Nazi gold, or stolen Jewish artwork, or any other treasures the ice might yield.

  Kotler wasn't sure about any of it. Antarctica had never been the most intriguing place to him. It had never beckoned to him. Give him arid climates and snake-infested tombs. He could handle guerrillas and mercenaries, ancient temples and sunken galleons. Climate cold enough to freeze his blood wasn't quite to his taste.

  But if it allowed him to finally put an end to Gail’s reign, it would be worth every shiver.

  They settled their tab, Vicente thanked them for the meal and their company, and then Kotler and Denzel were shown to the only accommodations for strangers in this place—a couple of bunks in the research facility, which resembled crew quarters on a cargo ship more than a hotel room.

  “You take me to the nicest places,” Kotler said to Denzel.

  “Why do they always bunk us together?” Denzel grumbled. “We’re not a couple.”

  Kotler chuckled and called the bottom bunk, tossing his bag onto it and slumping beside it, weary from travel and the effect of the beer and low oxygen levels in this extreme climate. Denzel, again grumbling, took the top bunk, kicking his shoes off as he scaled the ladder and collapsed without bothering to get undressed.

  Kotler made his bed ready and sat up against the bulkhead as he scanned his phone, doing a quick check of email and messages before turning in.

  There was nothing remarkable, and that somehow struck Kotler as odd. He had expected some taunt from Gail by now—some cryptic message to tell him that he needed to step things up, to get this solved, that she'd be waiting for him. It was her way, to taunt and prod him, to show she was in control.

  But there was nothing.

  Kotler settled into his bunk, turned off the light overhead, and stared up into the darkness as he thought about what this meant. The FBI had Gail's network on its radar, and of late some of her moves felt a little desperate. Could they finally be circling in on her? Was she feeling the pressure?

  Was this the end game?

  And why did that make Kotler feel somewhat empty?

  He closed his eyes and let sleep take him. The days ahead were going to be challenging, and he would need all the rest he could get.

  It had taken three days for the storm to clear enough that Vicente could pilot them to "the mainland." It was a joke, and Vicente found it hilarious enough to repeat it three times during the trip. Neither Kotler nor Denzel really got it, but they let him have his fun.

  Their aircraft was a red and white De Haviland DHC-6 Twin Otter, named “Sofia” by Vicente, who claimed it was an homage to his first love. Kotler was very familiar with the aircraft, having flown in planes just like it in just about every climate on the planet.

  The DHC-6 was a twin-engine, turbo-prop plane that was a favorite for getting a couple of passengers and their gear into some of the most remote places in the world. It was a STOL aircraft—short take-off and landing—and could be outfitted with a variety of landing gear for water, rough ground, and ice. Sofia sported a set of skis under each engine and one under the nose, making it possible to land on the icy terrain of Antarctica.

  They'd need it. The landscape of white stretched to every horizon here, making Kotler appreciate the more hospitable landscape of Villa Las Estrellas even more.

  Vicente touched down near a large and lumbering research station that resembled a giant metal caterpillar, standing on a multitude of metal pilings and bracing beams that resembled insect legs clinging to the icy terrain. The station stood in dark contrast against the white blanket of Antarctic snow, unquestionably the most noticeable thing for miles.

  They were close to the edge of the ice here—close enough that penguins could be seen doting along, diving into the icy waters and emerging again to join their flock on some floating wedge of miniature iceberg.

  Kotler, Denzel, and Vicente exited Sofia, and the three of them lashed and anchored her in place before marching to the entrance of the research station. They were greeted by several of the researchers, including the head of the facility. There wasn’t much traffic here, an
d strangers were a rarity, so their presence was something of an event.

  Kotler had anticipated this and had brought along a bottle of Macallan 15-year old scotch. It wasn't a rare bottle, but it was fine enough that it drew smiles and appreciative groans from the team. It also helped grease the wheels and make some fast friends, which was what Kotler had hoped for.

  Even still, it was a couple of hours before they'd gotten through all of the paperwork and questions and assurances that they would be entirely on their own, once they left the station behind.

  “There’s a radio in the Cat,” growled the site’s resource officer. He was a gruff, short man with a bushy beard that fell over the front of his parka like a bib and held frost like dew drops in tree moss. “There’s also the wireless data system. When one fails, use the other. We can send a rescue team during daylight hours. At night, huddle up for warmth.”

  “This is all very comforting, and I’d like to leave you a five-star review on Yelp,” Kotler said, smiling.

  “Mints will be on yer pillow,” the man grumbled before turning to march back into the warmth of his repair bay.

  “Don’t antagonize the locals,” Denzel said.

  Kotler nodded, grinning as he climbed up and into the Sno-Cat.

  Though the machine looked like a retro tractor with tank treads on the outside, inside it had been fitted with all the comforts one could expect from a snow-faring vehicle. It had an extended cab that would let it seat up to six people, or four people with lots of gear. Kotler decided this last was the more likely scenario, as it would give a small team room to huddle in on longer trips. Sort of an RV for extremely cold climates.

  The Cat had four sets of tank treads that raised its profile considerably but somehow made Kotler feel far more comfortable about it as both transportation and shelter from the bitter cold. Even the bright orange of the machine was somehow comforting, as if blaring out in defiance of the bleak Antarctic landscape. Inside it was warm, even cozy, and Kotler and Denzel strapped themselves in as Vicente took the wheel.