Hot Ice (33 page)

But not before selecting her successor, Abigail Prince. Mrs. Prince was a grandmotherly type with a Wagnerian bosom, a smile missing a few teeth, and a lineage stretching back to the days the island was governed by the dukes of Normandy. Even though she was a relentless cleaner, she had the English love of animals, managing to overlook Robespierre’s peccadillos and Pangloss’s fondness for sneaking a nap on Jason’s bed when he thought no one was looking.

It had taken her a couple of weeks to abandon her machinations to introduce Jason to the few single women on the island, mostly sorrowful widows or women who for one reason or another had been passed over as the first rounds of marriage rampaged among their contemporaries.

Jason put his brush down on the tray under the canvas and scowled. The damn wind had shifted again, sending spray up from the opposite side of the rocks below. In the past, he would tune out such annoyances by simply turning up whatever he was listening to on his iPod and letting the music sweep him along. Lately he had left his earphones inside, preferring to let the wind’s music play a part in reproducing the slashing waves below.

But that wasn’t the wind.

It was the dog barking.

For reasons known only to Pangloss, he had begun barking at anything that moved: a meandering cow, the postman on his bicycle, even the occasional tractor going to or from the field—the only motorized vehicles permitted on the island. Yelling at him to hush did no more good than howling at the moon might have.

At first, Jason thought the mutt had unearthed another mole, though how the tiny animals survived in Sark’s rocky soil was still a mystery. But no, it was something in the lane hidden by the rocks.

Jason’s right hand reflexively went to the Glock in its holster at his back. Slipping from rock to rock, he quickly made his way back to the cottage. The angle of the sunken road gave him a clear advantage and he reached the back door before anyone could have made it from the road to the house.

He dashed through the kitchen, catching Mrs. Prince red-handed in pouring a bowl of cream for Robespierre from the morning’s milk delivery, a luxury she admitted only enhanced the cat’s sense of entitlement. Surprised at his sudden appearance, she watched him take giant strides across the single room that served as dining and living room toward the rough wooden staircase leading to his bedroom, the only room on the second story.

Oblivious to anything but his own comfort, Robespierre continued his dainty sipping of his treat.

Reaching his bedroom, Jason pulled aside the curtains that covered the one window facing the road. The added height enabled him to partially see into the sunken pathway. He was looking at a horse in the harness used to pull one of the island’s two-wheeled wagons, a vehicle that served to haul freight or people.

A wagon would be hard pressed to carry more than three adults, including a driver with the local knowledge to find Jason’s house. There could be no more than two intruders unless others were infiltrating his property by the orchard. A quick glance showed naked tree limbs supplicating an unheeding sky. No sign of human life.

Good. Two he could handle if need be.

He knelt, rolling up a woven hearth rug, a local product the former occupant didn’t think worth the effort to take with him. It was perfect to conceal a modification Jason had made. Underneath the rug, a rectangle had been cut into the wooden floor. Lifting the specially modified boards, Jason was looking at a small arsenal.

A Heckler & Koch PS61 with scope, identical to the sniper’s rifle he had used in Africa; a Striker Street Sweeper shotgun, whose stubby barrel and rotary cylinder gave it the appearance of a handheld Gatling gun; and a Mac 10, a banana clip already fully loaded and inserted into the machine pistol. Besides extra ammunition, the cache was supplemented with a half dozen grenades, both fragmentation and flash-bang; a vest of Kevlar body armor; and his killing knife. Since access to the Channel Islands was only from France and the UK, both Common Market countries, no customs or immigration controls existed. The weaponry had been shipped from La Havre.

He chose the Street Sweeper, checked to make sure there was a full complement of twelve-gauge shells in the cylinder, and dropped the boards back into place.

Before descending the stairs, he took another look out the window and stopped, dumbstruck.

Shit!

He reversed his course to furiously replace what he had removed and cover the hiding place with the rug. He was just smoothing it out when the front door opened downstairs.

He heard voices, feminine voices, but could not make out the words. He went downstairs.

Maria stood just inside the door. Behind her was a white-haired older man Jason didn’t know. The rough tweed trousers stuffed into rubber wellies suggested he was local. He had a suitcase in each hand.

“Well, Mr. Peters,” Mrs. Prince asked, “will you be extending a proper greeting to the young lady who’s come all this way or not?” She nodded toward the man in knee boots. “And Mr. Frache there is getting no younger while he waits.”

Jason momentarily wondered who employed whom. Maria correctly interpreted his expression and let a smile at his confusion creep across her face. Pangloss, suffering no uncertainty, bounced back and forth from Maria, barking joyfully. Finished with licking an empty bowl, Robespierre demonstrated the aloof disinterest only a cat can display.

Jason stepped around the dog, whose exultant glee belied the fact this woman had been out of his and his master’s life for nearly half a year. Ingrate that he was, Pangloss seemed to become increasingly delirious in his happiness with every second.

Reaching for the two suitcases, Jason said, “I’ll take those.”

Mr. Frache set them down and stood, looking at Jason expectantly. “That’ll be eight quid, six.”

Maria shrugged, doing a poor imitation of being embarrassed. “I barely made the connection at Heathrow, didn’t have a chance to change currency from euros to pounds before catching the flight to Guernsey.”

“I assume you paid the ferry,” Jason said sourly.

“They took a credit card. Mr. Frache here wants cash.”

“And what if I hadn’t been here?”

“But you are. Jason, don’t be like that. I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

He was.

But he would be damned if he was going to admit it this easily. Other than an occasional text, he had not heard from her for months. She had not even acknowledged receipt of his new location, much less acknowledged that she cared. Now she appeared unannounced, certain he would take her in. Let her suffer a few minutes.

“If you want me to go away, just say so.”

“If I do, who’ll pay Mr. Frache to take you back to the ferry?”

She stared at him, he at her. Later both would swear the other broke into laughter first. Whoever it was, an instant later, they were embracing.

Jason never remembered Mrs. Prince making some excuse to visit the small local market as she joined Mr. Frache, closing the door softly behind her. In fact, Jason remembered little other than the wild, joyous, noisy lovemaking that occupied the rest of the afternoon.

Tomorrow there would be ample time for accusations and explanations, justifications and excuses. Home is not always a geographic location. It is, as Pliny the Elder observed nearly two millennia ago, where the heart is. Maria was home.

I’m unaware of any evidence of grapes growing in Iceland, today or during the Medieval Warm Period (c. 800–1300), but there is no doubt that wine grapes were (and are again) grown in improbably northern latitudes. Iceland does have a local “wine,” however. It is made from berries, not grapes.

The fact that some ice caps, or glaciers, are melting is true. But then, some, as noted in the story, are growing. As far as I know, no one has come up with a plausible explanation for the inconsistency.

The hockey stick and the Climatic Research Unit have, in fact, been pretty well discredited. Dr. Kench’s study of the growth/diminution of Pacific islands is accurately, if briefly, described. That does not mean, however, that there is no real global warming or that it isn’t caused by CO2 emissions. Doesn’t mean that it is, either. Reputable scientists on both sides are still unable to convince either one another or those who stand to politically or economically profit from either side of the controversy.

The only thing that is certain is that the statement that “there is no disputing global warming or its cause” is grossly inaccurate. The debate is likely to continue for years. Perhaps into the next ice age.

I plead the excuse of literary license for rearranging the geography of part of Old San Juan. Although there are houses built into the old wall, Calle Luna 23 is not one of them, nor are there residences along the fortifications of the three-story town house variety.

Likewise as to the carbon-credit scam participated in by the Chinese company. The research required to adequately understand the market in carbon credits is not justified by the brief mention of it here and neither is the long and boring explanation necessary to explain it.

Although I haven’t tried it, I’m told the sugar-saltpeter combination makes a safe and workable smoke bomb.

G. L.

2013

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Copyright © 2013 by Gregg Loomis

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