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“Where does the Surveyor’s Society fit in?” Mercer asked. He’d been to Greenland’s tiny neighbor, Iceland, once before, but had never visited earth’s second-largest island. He felt his interest rising.

  “Back in the 1950s, there was an American base on Greenland’s eastern coast called Camp Decade. It had to do with Project Iceworm, something about determining if permanent towns could be sustained under the ice sheet. One of our board members was assigned to Camp Decade when it closed in late 1953, and he wants a team sent there to see what the place looks like today. Bob Bishop’s his name and he’s unable to make the trip himself. He’s been bound to a wheelchair for the past two years. What he’s sponsoring is a small team to reopen the facility and videotape the interior, check what kind of damage has been done to it — that sort of thing.”

  “I’m not saying I’m not interested, but this Bishop is willing to pay for an entire expedition just for a tape of the base? Are you serious?”

  “Money’s meaningless to most members. I told you about the Yorktown expedition. This one’s a bargain by comparison.”

  “I read about a group who recovered a P-38 Lightning from southern Greenland that had crashed during World War Two,” Mercer said. “They found the plane in near perfect condition, but it was a couple of miles from where it crashed and buried under two hundred and fifty feet of ice. Camp Decade might be in good shape, but it could be almost as deep.”

  “You’d think, but it’s not. Don’t ask me to explain the phenomena — I’m no glaciologist — but the camp was anchored to a subice mountain of rock that cuts the natural flow of Greenland’s glaciers, splitting the ice around it like an island in a stream. The base is actually only about thirty feet under the surface. New snow that falls on it gets carried away by the moving ice, but the base has stayed in just about the same place. I’m familiar with the search for the ‘Lost Squadron’ that you mentioned. It was actually a whole flight of planes that went down, six P-38s and two B-17s that hit a blizzard and were forced to land. There is a hell of a lot more snowfall where those planes went down than where our team’s heading.”

  “So the catch to joining the Society is to lead your expedition?”

  “Well” — Bryce drew out the word — “we already have someone to lead it: Bob Bishop’s son, Martin.” Charles waited for a reaction, but Mercer remained impassive. “This doesn’t mean to say you can’t handle it. I know you can. Even though the Danish government has pushed up our schedule, this has been in the works for a year, and Bob is footing the bill. That’s why I said earlier that your application was rushed through the committee. We don’t have any other trips planned until next year. If you want to wait until then, I certainly understand.”

  “What would my job be?”

  “That’s the other reason you’d be perfect for the trip. We can put you right on top of Camp Decade, but you’ll need to pinpoint the main entrance before starting your tunnel down to it. You have experience with portable subsurface radar sets as well as ice tunneling.”

  “What are you planning on using to open the base?”

  “Thermal chemicals that melt ice and snow. You are familiar with the technique?”

  “We call them hotrocks. I can’t remember the exact chemical makeup, but yeah, I’ve worked with them before. They’re tricky as hell to use and produce a god-awful stench but they can melt about a foot an hour, depending on the diameter of the hole. Problem is, you need powerful pumps for the water runoff or the chemicals become too diluted to melt the snow.”

  “Apart from you and Marty, there will be two others. One’s an old friend of Marty’s, an Army colonel with some Arctic experience and the other’s a guy I recommended. He’ll be responsible for the pumps and generators.”

  There was no doubt in Mercer’s mind that he would go. Charles could have offered him the latrine digger’s job and he would have done it. Still, he was curious how this would work. “That’s an awfully small team to unbury an entire town.”

  “Camp Decade is actually a large H-shaped building. Everything’s connected. All you need to do is dig your way to the main entrance and you should gain access to the whole facility.”

  “Four guys alone on the ice? I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but this sounds like an invitation to a suicide party.”

  “You’re forgetting how we got invited to go in the first place. The Danes want teams working in the same area rather than spread across the ice. Geo-Research is the umbrella organization for the entire trip. We are joining up with them, plus another group doing some sort of meteorological work. Everyone in one location, which reduces the chance of accidents.”

  “I get it now. We’re piggybacking onto their expedition. How many people in total?”

  “About forty, I think. Since Geo-Research is bringing a full support staff for their scientists, we’ll pay them for your room, board, and any additional labor you need. The Germans are furious about the arrangement, by the way. Because our expedition is site specific, the Danes told them they had to work near Camp Decade to accommodate us. It shouldn’t really matter to them. In terms of global warming research, one patch of Greenland is pretty much like all the others. But they wanted to work about a hundred miles north of our destination.”

  “And the other team you mentioned?”

  “They couldn’t care less just as long as they get their work done.” Charles knocked back the last of his drink and set the Waterford tumbler on the desk. “We pulled a few strings to get the Danes to force Geo-Research to agree to our location.”

  Mercer cocked an eyebrow, inviting an explanation.

  “One of the Society’s armchair explorers like myself happens to be the U.S. ambassador to Denmark. Some members buy their way in with money and others with position.” Bryce then added with a smile, “Because of his geology background, Herbert Hoover belonged to the Surveyor’s Society long before he went into politics. You can imagine the bloody murder we got away with when he became president. For the club, Prohibition ended at his inauguration, not when Roosevelt repealed it in ’33. Not that we took much notice anyway.”

  Mercer smiled with Bryce. “Any lingering problems with Geo-Research?”

  “There shouldn’t be any difficulties by the time you arrive. Geo-Research has had a couple of months to calm down about the change. Even if there are problems, our part of the expedition shouldn’t last for more than a couple of weeks. After you leave, the Japanese who were kicked out last year are going to replace you.”

  “What do you know about Geo-Research? I’ve had a run-in with an environmental group before that I’d just as soon forget.”

  “They’re not tree huggers, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Geo-Research is dedicated to hard science, not flavor-of-the-month crusades. They’ve been around for about six years, contracting their ship and services to various governments and universities.” Charles looked at Mercer levelly. “Do you have any other questions? You haven’t said even if you want to go.”

  Fighting to keep the grin off his face, Mercer set his empty glass next to Bryce’s. His murky gray eyes were bright. “The only question I have is, when do I leave?”

  “Congratulations and welcome to the Surveyor’s Society.” Charles pumped Mercer’s hand vigorously. “I knew you’d do it. In fact, we’ve already submitted your name to Geo-Research and your participation was posted on our Web page a few weeks ago.”

  “Am I that easy?”

  “You have a choice as to when you leave. You can join Geo-Research’s ship, Njoerd, in Reykjavik in three days and sail with her to Ammassalik, Greenland, where she’ll be offloaded for the trek to the camp. Or you can leave about a week later when the base camp has been established.”

  “When is the rest of our team leaving?” Mercer noted he was already using the possessive in reference to the expedition. He was truly excited about this. It was a tremendous opportunity on so many levels. The geologist in him wanted to explore one of the largest ice sheets on the planet and
the romantic in him loved the idea of joining the Society.

  “They’re opting for the sea voyage.”

  “I’ll bring my shuffleboard stick.” Because he worked on a contractual basis, Mercer could easily shift his schedule to accommodate the trip.

  It was nearing four in the afternoon by the time Mercer left the Society’s headquarters. Lunch had ranked as one of the finest meals he’d ever eaten and the company around the table had been fantastic. They’d dined with the billionaire Herriman and several others who regaled Mercer with slightly embellished stories about expeditions they’d financed or been part of.

  With a three-day window before the flight to Reykjavik, Mercer decided to spend the night in the city and visit the Natural History Museum the following day. Mercer explained his plans to Charles, and ten minutes later, Dobson, the steward who’d met Mercer at the door, had arranged for a Town Car to take him to the Carsyle, where a room was waiting. Dobson had also booked him on the following evening’s shuttle to Washington.

  Charles Bryce waved to Mercer from the stoop and went back inside. In the borrowed office of the assistant administrative director, he threw himself behind the desk and reached for the phone. He had the number memorized.

  “Paul, it’s Charlie Bryce,” he said after getting past a legion of secretaries.

  “How did it go?” asked the cultured voice from the other end of the line.

  “Mercer’s on board,” Charles said with a trace of bitterness. “He’ll meet the ship in Iceland and sail with them to Greenland.”

  “Good job. I told you recruiting him wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “I don’t like this. Mercer should know what he’s getting into.”

  “Charles, you don’t even know what Dr. Mercer is getting into.”

  “You know what I mean,” Bryce snapped. “I don’t have a lot of friends, and I hate using the few I have without at least warning them first.”

  “This operation is compartmentalized on a need-to-know basis, and at this point Mercer has no need. Besides, he’s just a backup. Chances are, he won’t even know what’s happening in Greenland. He’ll enjoy his stay there, open that base for Bishop, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “What happens if something does go wrong?”

  “You might know the public side of Mercer, Charles, but there are things he hasn’t told you. Like how he took time off during his doctoral studies to help the Defense Department by going into Iraq with a commando team prior to the Gulf War to see if Saddam Hussein had been mining uranium ore. Or how he had a hand in averting the terrorist attack against the Alaska Pipeline last year. If for some reason something happens that puts our mission in jeopardy, Philip Mercer is more than capable of looking after himself and our interests at the same time.”

  “I didn’t know about that other stuff and it sounds impressive,” Bryce persisted. “But he doesn’t know the full story. He’s going in blind.”

  “If the time comes, he will be informed. But that is my decision to make. Your part in this is over.” The line clicked dead.

  “I’m sorry, Mercer,” Bryce whispered to the empty office. “I wish I hadn’t gotten you involved.”

  THE VATICAN ROME, ITALY

  It seemed to outsiders that the white smoke signifying the election of the first pope of the new millennium was barely out of the chimney of the Apostolic Palace when Leo XIV, the 263rd man to take the seat of St. Peter, began changing the Holy See. Those who worked within the Vatican knew this wasn’t exactly true, but it was close enough. And many were stunned by what the former Cardinal Giuseppi Salvi was planning to do.

  Salvi had been was seen as a temporary compromise between factions within the Curia. Politicking during the electoral conclave had been rampant, and the election dragged on for ballot after ballot with no end in sight. After five days, it became apparent that neither of the two principal contenders would ever receive the two-thirds needed, so each side began to play a waiting game, hoping that the final ballot on the twelfth day, when a simple majority would take the election, would see their man victorious.

  The reasons for this loggerhead were varied, but the church was at a crossroads, changes in the world had to be addressed, issues that the Curia had put off for decades could no longer be ignored, and a leader for the twenty-first century was needed. Some cardinals felt it was time for Catholicism and the papacy to modernize while others believed a more conservative, and in some instances reactionary, hand was needed.

  On the eighth day, several of the more diplomatic cardinals realized that the bitterness infecting the conclave would likely spill over and infect the new pope’s reign. The church must show a united front, they felt. A compromise was needed. A third candidate was put forth, a man who could act as a temporary solution while the church decided its future. Cardinal Salvi was seventy-four years old and in poor heath. His reign as pope, they knew, would be a short one, giving each side time to further debate points of doctrine.

  A week after Giuseppi Salvi became Leo XIV, he was in the hospital and the cardinals feared their solution had been too temporary, much like the first John Paul, who’d been pope for just over a month in 1978. However, tests confirmed that his ill health was not a grave concern. Instead, doctors found he suffered from gastric reflux, a condition he’d never discussed. Surgery for his malformed stomach valve was performed, and within a few weeks, he had made a near-miraculous recovery.

  It was at this point that Leo XIV began to change the church, reshaping it into his vision of what it should be with a vigor that stunned the hard-liners who’d elected him. He appointed his closest friend, the liberal Cardinal Peretti, to the secretariat of state, the Vatican’s number two position. Leo had always been considered a moderate but this crucial appointment loudly stated that the status quo was about to end. He made it clear that the topic closest to him, and thus all of the church, was raising religious tolerance around the world and stamping out fanaticism. Rather than issue papal decrees on the subject, he decided to go directly to the bishops who oversaw the dioceses.

  He called for a special synod of bishops, and such was the importance he placed on this meeting, he made Peretti its president. In another unusual step, Leo XIV invited other religious leaders to attend. Though they would have no voting rights, he wanted them all to understand the Vatican’s position on the subject of tolerance. Eastern Orthodox patriarchs and bishops were common at synods, but Leo also wanted Jewish leaders from Israel and the United States, prominent Buddhist monks including the Dalai Lama, influential Mullahs and Imams from both the Sunni and Shiite branches of Islam, Shinto priests from Japan, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who headed the Anglican church, and hundreds of others.

  Gathering this great body fell on Cardinal Peretti, and the sheer logistics were staggering. An ordinary synod took a year to organize and the pope had given him only six months, not only to bring together one hundred and seventy bishops from the Catholic Church, but all the others as well.

  Dominic Peretti was a native Roman, sixty-five years old and something of a Curia outsider because of his modernist views on artificial birth control. Like Leo, he believed that some form of population control was going to be crucial for the sustainability of civilization. As pope, Leo couldn’t openly declare such a belief, but by giving Peretti power within the Vatican, his intentions were clear.

  The Synod on Tolerance was a planned first step to bring the church closer to other religions so that, at some point, this other topic may be discussed. The Vatican was a two-thousand-year-old institution that moved at the ponderous pace of the world’s largest bureaucracy. Incremental change was the only way to get the church to reform and even the synod was seen as a radical departure.

  Peretti was sitting at his desk on the second floor of the Apostolic Palace when a priest knocked at his door. “Forgive me, Cardinal Peretti. His Holiness has finished with his lunch and will see you now.”

  “Grazie.” Peretti removed his reading glasses and slip
ped on his all-purpose pair. He’d tried bifocals but they gave him a pounding headache.

  He stood and stretched. At six foot five inches, he was the tallest person in the Vatican, excluding a few of the corpo di vigilanza, the Holy See’s police force, and a couple of the ornamental Swiss Guards. As a boy, he’d been something of a basketball star and on rare occasions he would still shoot a few baskets with some of the Vatican’s lay workers. His face was remarkably unlined except for a deep crease on each side of his large, hooked nose. Behind his steel-rimmed glasses, his eyes were dark and possessed captivating intelligence. He grabbed up two bundles of papers and left his spacious office.

  Although the Palace was a place of opulence and quiet dignity, Peretti moved through it with a looselimbed gait that was only now beginning to slow. He climbed the marble steps to the papal apartments and found the pontiff in the gilded library. With him already was Bishop Albani, relator for the Synod on Tolerance. He would act as a facilitator for the discussions and make sure that a consensus was reached at the event’s close.

  “You look tired,” the pope greeted his secretary of state.

  “I am,” Peretti agreed and took a chair across the desk from Leo. “This has been a trial.”

  “Another week and we’ll convene the synod, Dominic,” the pontiff said with genuine sympathy. “Our relator here will take over and you can get some sleep. While I’ve limited the time allowed for opening remarks to quicken the pace, you’ll have a few quiet days before anything of significance takes place.”

  Before Albani could mutter a protest that the opening discussions would be important, Leo XIV raised his hand, the sunlight streaming through the windows glinting off his fisherman’s ring, one of the many symbols of his office. “I’m joking, of course. We’ve given ourselves only two weeks for the synod, half the normal time, and not a moment will be wasted. Have there been any last-minute delays?”

  “Hundreds,” Peretti sighed. “But I’m dealing with them. If I may speak frankly, many of the other religious leaders are acting like prima donnas on opening night. Some want more time to address the bishops. Others want better control over their meals. Still others resent the cabin assignments. For men and women who dedicate themselves to the spiritual salvation of others, they seem inordinately preoccupied with their own corporeal needs.”