Frozen Solid: A Novel (21 page)

“What is it?”

“Something special. You will like it.”

Brank sipped, gingerly at first, then took a real swig. “Good shit,” he said, licking his lips. “Where’d you get that?”

“Some friends in France make it special. I keep a supply.”

Brank handed the flask back. He wore black sweatpants and a red tank top. A big man, six-two and 220, and strong, but a coat of bearlike fat covered his muscles.

“So,” Guillotte said, extending a hand. “Put that behind us?”

Brank looked suspicious, but only for a second. He shook. “No problem, man. It’s forgot.”

“Do you mind if I work out some, too?”

“Hey, more the merrier,” Brank said. He picked up fifty-pound dumbbells and started pumping out a set.

Guillotte pulled off his gray sweatshirt. Underneath, he was wearing a sleeveless black tank top that was stretched skin-tight over his torso. Brank glanced over, one lifter checking out another; then the two got down to work. Guillotte put on an old pair of fingerless gloves, started with push-ups and sit-ups and dips, then put four 45-pound plates on the bench-press bar, for a total weight of 225.

“Would you spot me for this? I am going up twenty pounds now.”

“Yeah, sure.” Brank was unable to contain a smirk at so little weight. He stood at the head of the bench and kept his hands several inches beneath the bar as Guillotte pushed it up off the rack, balanced it over his chest, and started his reps. After ten his arms started to shake and the bar’s ascent slowed.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Brank urged. “You got another one in there,
push it out!
”

Guillotte grunted and heaved and got the bar back in place on the uprights. He panted a few times, stood up, massaged his pecs and arms, got some water. Two minutes later he was ready again.

“Watch me close on these,” Guillotte said. “I am feeling shaky.”

“I got you,” Brank said. “Go for it.”

Guillotte managed nine, and half of the tenth. Brank had to help him get the bar back into place. Guillotte stood, red-faced, breathing hard. He patted his chest, grinned. “On fire here.” Brank nodded. He did not seem impressed with the weight. “What are you putting up now?” Guillotte asked.

“Two sixty-five,” Brank said.

“You shit me? No way. Two
sixty-five
?”

“Fuckin’ A, man. Want to bet?”

Guillotte looked doubtful. “How much?”

“Shit, I don’t care. Twenty bucks.”

“Yes, I bet that. Go ahead. I spot.”

Brank looked smug as he added twenty pounds to either end of the
bar and locked down the collars. “Watch now, see how it’s done. You got me?”

“I got you. Go for it.”

Guillotte positioned himself at the head of the bench. Brank started to push the bar up off its rests, then stopped.

“Wait a second,” Brank said. “How many reps?”

“What?”

“How many reps I got to do here?”

“Six.”

Brank grinned. “Piece of cake.” He got the bar up over his chest, lowered it, raised to full extension, and kept going. By the fourth rep his face was scarlet and he was holding his breath on the lifts, rather than exhaling. His whole body shook with the sixth rep’s effort. Just before he set the bar back on its pegs, Guillotte said, “A hundred says you do not have one more in you.”

Brank tried to look back at Guillotte. “Done,” he gasped. He moved the bar over his chest and started lowering it. His face was the color of brick. Guillotte put his hands on top of Brank’s.

“I got it,” Brank said.

Guillotte pulled back, so that the bar was directly over Brank’s face. He began to press down.

“
Don’t!
What the fuck are you—” The bar touched the bridge of Brank’s nose, and he stopped talking.

“Frogman?”
Guillotte said. “You insult me, and my country? Big mistake, fat fuck.” He pushed down again, but not very hard. Two hundred and sixty-five pounds did the work. There followed the brittle snaps of cracking bone and a very brief scream.

CAROL HAD BROUGHT COFFEE, COLD DRINKS, AND ROAST BEEF
sandwiches to Barnard’s office. They drank the coffee, left the rest alone. Barnard removed his pearl tie tack and handed it to Bowman, who plugged its stem into a digital voice-stress analyzer the size of a laptop computer.

“How does it work?” Barnard asked.

“The unstressed human voice produces sounds within a known range, measured in hertz units. Deception causes involuntary sound anomalies called Lippold tremors. Higher vocal frequencies, in lay terms.”

“And it can work from a recording?”

“Oh yes.” Bowman opened a program, and two windows of equal size, separated by a black horizontal line, appeared on the computer screen. A thin orange line ran straight across the middle of the top window’s white background.

“That will show his voice as any audio recorder would,” Bowman explained.

The lower screen displayed a green line against a black background.
Above and below the thin green line were red lines. “This is where we’ll see evidence of the Lippold tremors. If the green response display passes beyond the red lines, there is deception.”

Bowman fast-forwarded past Barnard’s meeting with the young male assistant in the outer office.

“David Gerrin. So pleased to meet you.”

“Donald Barnard. Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Gerrin.”

“I am happy to.”

“Look at that.” Bowman paused the audio. The green line had swelled beyond both red lines. “He’s not happy to see you at all.”

“Doesn’t mean much. He could be thinking about lunch or his mistress or any one of a thousand things I was keeping him from.”

“Let’s keep going.” Bowman started the recording again.

“So, I saw your confusion and will explain. This name, David Gerrin, does not fit with my appearance. It is not the name I was born with. That one has so many syllables, even fellow Bangladeshis find it difficult.”

“Good move.”

“Would you like something to drink, Dr. Barnard?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“So. You are the director of BARDA.”

“Yes.” Pause. “That’s an interesting picture you have,” Barnard said.

“The one over the credenza?”

“From Bangladesh?”

“The capital city, Dhaka. Where I grew up.”

“Is it always like that? So many people, I mean? I don’t see how traffic moves with them in the streets like that.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Is that rush hour?”

Gerrin laughed. “That was ten in the morning of a Sunday. Think of Times Square at a rush hour that never ends. Dhaka is always that way.”

“What was it like when you were growing up?”

“It was very bad. Not like now, of course. Now it is simply unimaginable. But bad enough, I can assure you.”

“Have you been back? Recently, I mean,” Barnard asked.

“I attended a U.N. conference there not long ago. But I know your time is valuable. We should discuss your reason for coming. Unfortunately, I was not able to obtain a copy of that report.”

“Why would he lie there?” Barnard asked. Bowman stopped the recording.

“Either he didn’t try, or he has it and doesn’t want you to know.”

“But why wouldn’t he?”

“He’s afraid you’ll find something wrong with it.”

“Goddamned right. Emily Durant was no drug user,” Barnard snapped.

“Let’s keep going.” Bowman started the recording again.

“So you have no idea how she died?” Barnard asked Gerrin.

“None whatever.”

“The New Zealanders wouldn’t give you the report?”

“I did not make the inquiries myself. An assistant …”

“Look at that,” Barnard said.

“All lies.”

“But I can tell her to press on,” Gerrin said.

“And another,” Barnard said.

“Might I ask the reason for your interest?” Gerrin continued.

“Emily Durant worked for me at one time. I was shocked to learn of her death.”

“Oh yes. I believe you did mention that,” Gerrin said, but he sounded puzzled. “It was unexpected, indeed. Sadly, that happens not infrequently at the South Pole. Utterly inhospitable. Have you been?”

“Yes, once. You?”

“Oh no. I’m a warm-weather person.”

“Did you know Emily?” Barnard asked.

“
Know
her? Personally, you mean? I’m afraid not. She was, well, you know—a researcher. But you did, apparently?”

“Yes,” Barnard said.

“Why did she make the change from there to here?” Gerrin asked.

“There’s very little churn at BARDA. Twenty years from now she might have found herself still a GS-13.”

“Of course. Even scientists like money,” Gerrin said.

“So you don’t know how she died?”

“You asked me that a few moments ago.”

“Did I? Sorry,” Barnard said, and the screen showed the degree of that deception.

“Not to worry. But no, I have no idea how she died.”

“Holy shit,” Barnard blurted. “A
huge
lie.”

“Shouldn’t there have been an autopsy report by now?” Barnard asked Gerrin.

Audible sigh. “Everything goes through the New Zealand medical examiner’s office, not famed for speed. Then to their police. Then to State. Then to us. Perhaps.”

“The only thing slower than one bureaucracy is two,” Barnard said.

“Well put,” Gerrin laughed. “How does your scientist like it down there? Have you heard from him?”

Bowman stopped the audio. “What’s he lying about there?”

“I don’t know,” Barnard said.

“Can’t be the first question,” Bowman said. “Has to be something in the second.”

They both stared at the screen. Barnard spoke first:
“Him.”

“What?”

“He knows the replacement is a woman.”

“Why would he lie about that?” Bowman asked.

“He doesn’t want us to know that he knows the replacement is a woman. Goddamn, Wil. What the hell is going on here?”

Bowman hit Play.

“Her. Hallie Leland,” Barnard said to Gerrin. “Does the name ring a bell?”

“No. Not even a tinkle.”

“One of the biggest lies yet,” Barnard said.

“Have you heard from her?” Gerrin asked.

“No. Have you had
any
word from down there?”

“Not for several days. NASA preempted a lot of satellite time. And there have been solar disturbances.”

“So that’s the truth, at least,” Bowman said.

“Do you know what Emily Durant was working on?” Barnard asked.

“Specifically? Not off the top of my head.”

“Look at that. Amazing,” Barnard said.

“Ha, ha. I love that expression,” Gerrin joked. “ ‘Off the top of my head.’ Where on earth do you suppose it came from?”

“I’m sure Google could tell you in a flash.” Irritation was audible in Barnard’s voice.

“I could have one of my people look into the details of Dr. Durant’s research.”

“Son of a bitch,” Barnard said to Bowman. “He had no intention of doing that.”

“Could I ask for one other favor?” Barnard said to Gerrin. “When you do learn more about Emily’s death, could you read me in?”

“The moment I know something, your phone will ring.”

“Nor that,” Bowman said.

Several minutes of small talk.

Sounds of bodies moving.

“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Barnard,” Gerrin said.

“Even that was a lie,” Barnard said. “Asshole.”

Bowman turned off the machine. Neither man spoke for some time. Then Barnard said, “Why would he tell so many lies?”

“Why would he pretend not to know the replacement was a woman?” Bowman asked. “And deny knowing her name?”

“He lied when I asked if he knew how Emily died,” Barnard said. “So he must know what happened to her.”

“What else?” Bowman asked.

“He lied when I asked if he knew her. So he did know her.”

“Yes. And he knew the replacement was a woman.”

“And he knew her name.”

Barnard had been hungry before. Now he looked at the plate of sandwiches. His appetite had disappeared.

“Why in hell would he lie about
that
?” Bowman said.

Again neither man spoke. Bowman picked up one of the roast beef sandwiches Carol had brought. Thick whole wheat bread, crisp lettuce, slices of tomato and Bermuda onion, Dijon mustard. All the sandwiches were overstuffed with rare, red beef. As Bowman held the one he had taken, blood dripped onto the coffee table. He put the sandwich back and sat there staring at the red drops. He took one of the white cloth napkins Carol had brought and wiped up the blood. His expression changed. He looked up at Barnard.

“This is not about the science.”

“What do you mean? They told our director that it was a critically important research project.”

“It’s not about the research.”

“What then?”

“They didn’t care about research. It’s not about the science. It’s about the replacement. This is all about Hallie Leland.”

LOWRY AND GRENIER HAD SEEN HALLIE TO HER ROOM SHORTLY
after two
P.M
., which left three hours until dinner in the galley. She lay awake for two, dozed briefly, woke again. She swung down from the bunk, booted up the station computer, and checked for email. Nothing.

A knock. Agnes Merritt.

“How did you know?” Hallie asked.

“My business to know. For the record, I gave Graeter hell. He claimed it’s for your own good. Bulldoo, but he’s in command. Tell me about Fido.”

Hallie described her meeting with him the previous day. Then: “He told you about Vishnu. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She had thought Merritt might look uncomfortable. Not one bit. More like bemused. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything. Remember I said to talk to Fido about the research? I knew he’d get it right.”

Reasonable, Hallie thought. “What about Graeter?”

Merritt shrugged. “He’s with NASI. That’s part of GENERCO. Oil is what they do.”

“So they might be afraid of something like Vishnu.”

“Conceivably.”

“Fida thought Graeter might have killed Emily.”

Merritt looked skeptical. “Graeter’s bitter and angry. Hates women, for sure. But killing Emily? I don’t know.” Her tone and expression said she could not completely discard the possibility, either.