Three

I was early and ordered a Kilimanjaro beer at the bar because the country was a former German colony. Tanzanian beer was not only good, it was excellent. In fact, I’d read that beer was a source of enormous national pride in Tanzania. I understood that Serengeti beer and Safari beer were also excellent. I hoped to have plenty of time to compare the three.

The bar was crowded. Reporters from any number of outlets were clustered in comfortable circles; those with the president’s entourage had gathered in the familiarity of their own kind. I could see a few patrons wandering about, networking. The once-familiar smell of cigarette smoke filled the air, as political correctness in the guise of a public health concern had yet to penetrate this part of East Africa. As I glanced about it seemed that every gesturing hand held a cigarette.

“The president must have a death wish,” a familiar voice said. I turned, and there was Quentin Stern in an ill-fitting tan Safari jacket. He was back to wearing his blue-tinted glasses, and he’d lost even more of his red hair than when I’d last seen him at Punta Arenas in southern Chile. We’d been the only survivors of the ill-fated Vinson Massif winter assault some eight months before.

“I wouldn’t use the ‘D’ word around here,” I said by way of caution. “Some of these are certainly in the president’s security detail.”

Stern gestured toward the bartender for a drink and was ignored. “Yeah, but what else could it be? Ever since your last time on Everest, climbing with you has been the kiss of death. It’s like the Grim Reaper goes with you.”

He had a point. I’d never set out to climb the Seven Summits, but my missions for the DIA, my so-called “vacation” on Mt. McKinley, and my two climbs of Everest put me well on my way to achieving it.⁶ I’d also climbed Puncak Jaya, Aconcagua and Vinson Massif, all at the request of the DIA. With Kilimanjaro behind me, all that remained was Elbrus, which I’d not summited for reasons having nothing to do with difficulty, as it’s one of easiest of the Seven Summits. But I didn’t expect to be welcomed back in Russia any time soon.

All of these climbs had been deadly in the extreme. There’d been the usual deaths from altitude sickness, illness, falls and avalanches, but on each climb there’d been at least one murder, as well—and in some cases many more. It was as if I’d been climbing under a curse.

“All kidding aside,” Stern said, “I’m really surprised you’re here. You should be on the reject list, if for no other reason than that you always seem to bring bad luck with you.”

“I think the son wanted me. How about you?”

I thought that was an excellent question. Why was Stern here? A former tabloid writer, he’d written a simply dreadful account of the Everest expedition on which Derek Sodoc had been killed. Though a surprising best-seller, it didn’t change the fact that it was packed full of falsehoods and innuendo, much of which concerned me. He’d not done as well with his books since. Everest Redux, an account of the expedition ostensibly meant to recover Derek’s body, had in fact been pulled from sale, though admittedly not for lack of sales or content. It had been part of his publisher’s settlement with Tarja Sodoc, who alleged that he’d defamed her.

Which raised another very interesting question. Tarja had long been Stern’s favorite target, since long before she’d married Derek and become the world’s most famous grieving widow since Jackie Onassis.

“Tarja’s here,” I said.

“I know,” Stern smirked. “I saw her from a distance. So what?”

“I’m surprised they let you come. Her boyfriend’s got a lot of clout.”

Stern smirked again. “I’m not the only one who got a nice pile from that Antarctica fiasco.” He winked.

“What are you talking about?” The CIA, DIA and a whole alphabet of Federal agencies had wanted nothing so much as to squelch the story of the Inca idols or of the bizarre deaths on Vinson Massif. All of that and the involvement of the U.S. military would have raised questions they’d not wanted to deal with.

“What? You didn’t get any money?” He eyed me skeptically.

“Stern, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I got some dough, that’s what. They didn’t want me talking or writing about what happened. I told them to stuff it, I wrote for a living. They played hardball for a while, but when I said I’d go along for some cash they opened the checkbook. You should have told them the same thing. They’d have paid. Anyway, that’s how I’m here.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Stern waved at the bartender again without success. “When I read about this little shindig I made a call and said I wanted in. They didn’t like it much, as it wasn’t part of the original deal, but they gave in. I don’t get any more favors after this, though.”

“They’re going to let you circulate among all these people, climb with the president and his son, then trust you to write nice things?” I didn’t believe it.

“Well, I had to give a little. They approve anything I write, and I can’t give any interviews. Otherwise, I have to give the money back.”

“How’s Samantha?” The moment I asked and saw the expression on his face I was sorry. She was his only daughter. Kira, his former wife, had custody, but she’d died in Antarctica while Samantha was in Japan living with her grandparents.

“Okay, I guess. I got to see her last month, but Kira’s folks are making a stink. The Japanese government says she’s a citizen, so I’ve got to jump through some hoops to get her. But I will. I will.”

Stern waved toward the bartender a third time and was ignored. I gestured and ordered two beers for us. “You’re writing another book, I take it?” I asked with a sigh.

“A book, some articles. Things are lot better these days.”

When I’d seen him in Santiago, Chile, on the night before we’d left for Aconcagua, Stern had been a desperate man. Tarja’s lawsuit had beaten him down. His way had been paid by a magazine that demanded a cut in the proposed book. It was a last effort on his part before slipping into permanent poverty and anonymity. Now he was back on top and relishing it.

“I can see that. Well, be careful this time.” I lifted my fresh beer and took a pull.

“You know me,” he answered, scanning the room for women, as he palmed his drink.

“That’s what I mean.”

I spotted Tom and Calvin weaving their way toward us. They had no love for Stern, and he soon drifted away to conduct his non-interview interviews in the bar as he trolled for babes. Anyone foolish enough to talk to him was doing so on the record. Stern always forgot to mention that which had a lot to do with why he didn’t make many friends in life. I didn’t know what we were, exactly, but we weren’t friends.

We three were seated at 2:30 and counted ourselves lucky. Quite a crowd wanted into the Cane Restaurant. Those who’d been denied settled in for some serious drinking as they waited for dinner call. Our seating provided a stunning view of Kilimanjaro. The entire vista was breathtaking.

“Do they serve zebra?” Tom asked, half jokingly, glancing at the menu.

“I don’t see it,” I said. “No lion or giraffe, either.”

We ordered the standard Tanzanian fare for the experience of it. The meal began with a coconut bean soup that was a bit sweet for me—but very pleasant. The main dish was nyama choma or grilled meat, in this case beef, which was served with a curry sauce. It was paired with ndaya, roasted goat. The accompaniments were rice, plantains and a native dish called ugali. This was a ball of corn mush, bland but necessary when even a bit of the curry sauce had a definite bite to it—and it went well with the beer.

“What’s Stern doing here?” Tom asked as we ate. Both he and Calvin had been on the Everest expedition to recover Derek’s body and knew what he was capable of. He’d exploited every friendly relationship up the mountain, even while publishing outlandish stories and posting embarrassing photographs. I related what he’d told me.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Tom said.

I didn’t respond.

“My guess, Tom,” Calvin said, “is that it has to do with whatever happened in Antarctica. There are those who really want that silenced.” He looked at me. “You know, the Chilean Research Station not far from Patriot Hills closed a while ago under mysterious circumstances.”

“I read that,” I said.

“Say,” Tom said suddenly excited, “this isn’t about alien viruses taking over bodies, is it?”

I didn’t respond.

Tom looked at me, then at Calvin, then back to me. “I think I’ll have another drink.”

After eating and while waiting for our plates to be cleared I said to Calvin, “I’m surprised the president is being allowed to make this climb. I’ve looked at the schedule, and it seems to me he’s pressing it a bit.”

The president was known for his love of basketball, but if he worked out otherwise, no one knew about it. And Diana was constantly answering questions about his smoking by saying he was in the process of quitting. Kilimanjaro might not be the most difficult major mountain in the world to climb, but it couldn’t be taken lightly.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Calvin said. “When the subject first came up the White House doctor contacted me. I advised against the climb. The man should take at least three months to physically prepare for it. You don’t just up and decide to climb any of the Seven Summits, but that’s what’s happening here.” He took a sip of his drink. “I doubt that either of you have read my latest book, but I make two significant points that I think apply here. First, altitude sickness can strike anyone without warning. It doesn’t matter how often they’ve climbed, what kind of shape they’re in, or how high they usually go. It’s completely unpredictable. Second, there is every reason to believe that exposure to very high altitudes causes some brain loss. Climbers who do this a great deal, or experience a serious incident high up, suffer the most.”

Tom smiled at me. “I’d say that explains a great deal about you, Scott.”

“Anything else?” I asked, ignoring Tom.

“Just that the president’s got no business doing this; 19,000 feet is extreme, in my opinion.”

“And there are security concerns,” Tom added. “Natasha told me that the Secret Service has fought this trip tooth and nail from the beginning. He and the First Lady had scheduled their annual vacation to the red rock country in Sedona, Arizona, and that was all set. Instead, he’s taking the same time slot for this quickie expedition.”

“The First Lady is in Sedona anyway,” Calvin said. “Two vacations for the price of two. This is all costing a pretty penny. Not that this First Family has ever seemed to care.”

“It’s not the money,” Tom said. “They just haven’t had time to vet everyone who will be on the climb—not the way they usually do. Did either of you meet Grant St. Oakes on the flight?” We shook our heads as the waiter arrived to clear. After he left, Tom continued. “He’s number two with the Secret Service. We shared a drink winging our way over the Atlantic. I met him before in New York when Natasha saw the president after she took over SNS and Global News. He says that even with all the security talk they’re primarily concerned about illness. I guess the president’s been fighting a cold off-and-on all winter in D. C. Plus he’s never done anything like this before, not at these altitudes. You saw all that gear being offloaded from the C-130? A hazmat team came in on it with a mini hospital and there’s another helicopter. It’ll be ready on a moment’s notice to airlift him off that mountain. I heard there’s another medical team and a mobile operating station at the base of the mountain in an isolated area.”

In most cases, a lower elevation promptly alleviated altitude related problems. I glanced across the grounds and noted the men standing discreetly here and there. “I guess they’re making up for their security concerns with an abundance of manpower.”

“They can try,” Tom said, “but I don’t see how it’s the same thing. Natasha’s got her own detail, former Mossad people. That’s how little she thinks of what the Secret Service is doing.”

“The Tanzanian government is cooperative, I take it?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. They’re delighted to have the president make his first official trip to Africa as president here. It’s quite a coup. The son’s village has been spruced up and readied for the hordes that will descend on it. Expeditions long since approved have been cancelled. No one else will be on the mountain except us. But the local government’s security resources are quite limited. Except for keeping their own people away, they don’t have much to offer. The Secret Service has a significantly enhanced presence and will have even more on the mountain.”

“To change the subject, when are you and Natasha getting married?” Calvin asked. “I keep reading about you two on the Internet.”

Tom all but blushed. “No plans. She’s got a pretty busy life, and I’ve still got my own affairs in Arizona to see to. I’m joining her after the climb for a couple of weeks. It’s the first extended time we’ve had together for months.”

“Money and beauty,” Calvin said. “Can’t beat that, and for some crazy reason she actually seems to love you.”

Tom had partnered as a consultant with Natasha’s deceased husband, the much older Michael Sodoc, founder of SNS, in a commercial real estate business deal. Big for Tom, it was small peanuts for Sodoc. Then Tom had learned of irregularities by others in the partnership, irregularities that would have embarrassed Sodoc had they been exposed. He’d brought them to the man’s attention in time for him to act. After that, Sodoc put his trust in Tom and had used him to check out other of his real estate investments when needed. Following the senior Sodoc’s unexpected and violent death in a helicopter explosion just outside of Base Camp on Everest, Natasha had found herself suddenly in control of the business empire and without a friend in sight except for Tom. There wasn’t a single member of the board who didn’t think he or she could do a better job at running the media empire.

Tom had been of use to her in sorting out the business matters he knew about, then she’d used him increasingly to help her with other matters. Following the birth of Derek Sodoc’s son some months after his death, they’d fallen into a passionate affair that showed no ending. Though SNS and its world-wide media presence Global News didn’t cover it, Natasha didn’t control all the world’s news, so other outlets still wrote about her and her mysterious boyfriend.

“Keep your head down,” I advised.

“You know it. There’s an official reception and greeting tonight. Are you going?”

Calvin sighed and nodded, while I shook my head.

“Lucky you,” Tom said to me.

Our conversation turned to Everest—not to the ugliness or deaths, but to the times of laughter. We swapped stories, many of which included our dear, departed friend, Peer. His memory flooded back to me. When our last drinks arrived and we knew we’d soon be returning to our rooms, I raised my glass. They joined me as I said, “To Peer. If only he could be with us.”

Everyone staying at the lodge, it seemed, went to the reception that evening, except me and the security types. I’d slept for three hours, then forced myself up so I’d be able to sleep again later that night. Still, I knew from experience it would be three days before my biological clock properly reset itself.

I showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes, then walked the grounds for a bit to stretch my legs. Elephants and zebra peeked at me through the shrubbery. Near the vast swimming pool was a thatched roof cabana bar, where I ordered a Serengeti beer. It was as good as the Kilimanjaro had been. This was going to be a tough process—one, I could see, I would be dedicating myself to. I was under no mission pressure on this climb, and the most interesting thing I could think to do was compare beers.

Suddenly I heard a lion’s roar and all conversation stopped. A moment later it repeated, sounding much too close. There was nervous laughter, then someone said, “Hope that was a recording.”

There was a drop-dead gorgeous blond plying the pool waters in a scanty, Brazilian-cut two-piece suit. The pool area was dimly lit with torch-like lights, but the bottom of the pool was brightly illuminated, highlighting her as a dark, sensuous form snaking through the water. I watched her make four laps, then, at my end of the pool, she placed her hands on the side and all but leaped out of the water in a single athletic burst.

Tarja.

She was a beauty, no doubt about it; a perfectly proportioned goddess. Last year she’d been pictured in a breathtaking centerfold and her photos had gone viral. Not long thereafter she’d been photographed on Cavendish’s arm.

The deadly coral snake is beautiful, and so is the lovable polar bear, while one of the most beautiful sights I ever experienced at sea was a drifting Portuguese Man-of-War.

She tossed her long hair back, reached gracefully down, retrieved her towel, and dried. Every male eye was fixed on her. Finally, she wrapped some flimsy thing around her waist and walked directly over, smiling as she took the stool beside me. “Buy me a drink?”

I’d first met Tarja on my second Everest climb when we’d returned to recover Derek Sodoc’s body. She’d been Derek’s new widow at the time—but behaving anything like one. She’d slept around and argued her way up the mountain, angling every instant for the big payoff she was certain was coming her way. She’d seemed confused about my role there, but at least she didn’t think I’d murdered her husband, unlike some.

Later she’d been in Kislovodsk, Russia, trying to corner Natasha while they negotiated a settlement of Tarja’s claim to Derek’s estate. After the murder of a senior Russian official, I’d shared a cramped vehicle with her and others as we’d fled the Russian Special Forces determined to kill us. While it had not been a bonding experience exactly, it meant we shared some significant history together and we’d never been enemies.

Quentin Stern’s book had just come out, and he was the focus of her venom, for the most part. I could see nothing but bad coming from the two of them being on this climb and was shocked that anyone concerned with security had permitted it. Of course, neither of them was a threat to the president unless he got caught in their crossfire.

I let her order her drink and got another Serengeti while I was at it. I’d need it.

“Let’s sit over here,” she suggested as she moved us to a quiet table and more comfortable chairs. “I saw you on the list,” she said as I sat. “Why are you here?”

I shrugged. “I’m under the impression the president’s son wanted me to come along.”

She took a sip, then licked her lovely upper lip with a pink tongue. “Aleister says the pres wants you here, as well.”

“If you knew, why ask?”

“Just checking.” She flashed a quick smile.

What to say to her? How’d you manage to lose $100 million in three years? Isn’t Cavendish a little old for you? I thought your centerfold spread was just great. I stuck to the tried and true. “You’re looking good.”

She smiled lightly. “Thanks. I’ve been getting ready for the climb, though I’ve not had much time.”

“Do you plan on summiting?”

“Sure. Why not? I’ve conquered most of the Seven Summits. Why let this chance go to waste? I read you just climbed Vinson Massif in the winter.”

“Yes.” Though the true circumstances of the climb had not appeared in the media, nor the nature of or cause of so many deaths, including that of international arms dealer Robert Ainsworth, the expedition had been reported. There’d been too much pre-publicity for it not to be.

“You and Quentin, the only ones to get back?”

“Right.”

“Quentin?” Her voice expressed disbelief.

“Right.”

“He climbed Vinson Massif at 100 degree below zero?”

“Well, after a fashion.”

“I thought as much. Tell me.”

So I related what I could. Ainsworth had acquired the very latest extreme cold weather vehicles and gear for the assault. Some of it had been developed by NASA for the long-planned Mars expedition, the rest was from the U.S. military. All of it had been experimental and, for a time, had worked just fine. But in the end, much of it succumbed to breakdowns, when it wasn’t sabotaged. Everyone on the expedition had perished on that mountain, except for Stern and me. The only other survivors had been the two who’d stayed behind to maintain the camp at Patriot Hills, where the airstrip was located. Even that had been a close call.

“That’s more than I’d read,” she said. “So you rode in these high tech snowmobiles almost to the summit, then climbed the rest of the way in your space suits?”

“Something like that.”

She laughed. “I figured as much. You know, I climbed it with Derek, not long after we met.”

I knew. She’d met Derek for the first time at a hotel in Punta Arenas, and after a couple of days in the sack he’d invited her to join him in Antarctica. That was the sixth of the Seven Summits for him, his last before his sensational climb of Everest, what was to have been his crowning achievement. It was generally accepted that she’d ambushed him in Punta Arenas, that what had followed was all part of her plan.

“Even the so-called summer down there was pretty cold,” she continued. “I wouldn’t want to tackle it in winter, with or without NASA helping out.” She paused to take another sip. “So Ainsworth bought it?” I nodded. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“Don’t tell me…”

She made a face. “No-oo. I wouldn’t let that creep near me. What do you think I am? I get the shivers thinking about it. You knew he was a Derek groupie, though? Bought Derek’s yacht, bought the Greek island. I just think he wanted Derek’s wife, you know? It’s not very flattering. I could have been a skank and he’d have wanted to hook up with me.”

I glanced toward the bar. The men were doing their best to not stare. “I was sorry to read about your financial problems.” I couldn’t think of a way around it. Everyone knew.

She shrugged again. “Easy come, easy go.” Her jawline said there was a lot more to it than that.

“But you seem well on your way to remedying the situation.” The words just came out. I waited for her reaction.

Tarja patted my forearm. “That’s what I like about you, Scott. Always looking out for my best interest.”

“How’s the clothing line doing?” I asked to change the subject. Contemporaneous with her centerfold spread she’d launched her own line of sports clothing.

“Okay, I hear. Thanks for asking. I’ll bury Kim Kardashian. Have you seen the crap she’s peddling?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“And what is it with this dark-haired exotic look all of sudden? I’m banking on Americans going back to the tried and true.” She passed some of her golden locks through her fingers. “Blondes.” She grinned and polished off her drink. “By the way, thanks for Russia. I know I’m a bitch, but I’m not unappreciative. I’d be buried back there if not for you.” She leaned forward. “Aleister’s busy right now. Why don’t we see what your room looks like?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can’t a girl show a little appreciation?” She leaned forward, giving me an improved few of her scarcely restrained breasts. “Afraid I’ll bite?”

I met her eye. “You know it.”

6 See Murder on Mt. McKinley.