Arctic Kill. Don Pendleton

to speaker. Ackroyd was proving to be a less-than-docile victim. In fact, the old man had a mouth like a sailor and was steadily, if slowly, tap-dancing on Sparrow’s last nerve.

      Ackroyd gave Sparrow a rheumy glare.

      “Dr. Ackroyd,” Mervin said. Ackroyd’s glare transferred to the phone.

      “I know who I am. Who the blazes are you?”

      “I am no one, Dr. Ackroyd. I am a cog in a machine, even as you are.” Mervin rattled off an address. It meant nothing to Sparrow, but Ackroyd’s eyes widened. The old man slumped back in his chair, his face suddenly pale. For a moment, Sparrow feared he might be having a heart attack. “Do you recognize that address, Dr. Ackroyd?” Mervin asked.

      “Yes,” Ackroyd said, closing his eyes. He rubbed his face with his hands.

      “What is that address, Dr. Ackroyd?”

      “How did you get it?” Ackroyd countered.

      “Inconsequential. What is that address, Dr. Ackroyd?”

      Ackroyd licked his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he convulsively swallowed. “My granddaughter,” he said softly.

      “Correct. It is the address of your granddaughter and her family, including your great-grandchildren. They do not know who you are. But you, via your remaining governmental contacts, know who they are. You watch them. You protect them by pretending to be dead. Now you will protect them by telling me what I want to know.”

      “HYPERBOREA,” Ackroyd croaked.

      “You have anticipated me, yes. HYPERBOREA, Dr. Ackroyd. I require your expertise regarding that installation and what it contains.” Sparrow thought Mervin sounded almost cheerful.

      “If you know about it, you already know what it is,” Ackroyd said. Something in his voice gave Sparrow a slight chill. Ackroyd had the look of a man hang-gliding over hell.

      “Yes,” Mervin said.

      “You know it can’t be used for anything.”

      “Incorrect,” Mervin said. “Its use is manifold. Especially for the organization we represent. In any event, your opinions are superfluous. All we require from you is your presence. You will help us enter HYPERBOREA, Dr. Ackroyd.”

      “Why me?” Ackroyd asked.

      “You are the only member of the project still breathing,” Mervin replied. “The others have passed on through a variety of ailments, accidents and simple age-related entropy. You are the last man standing, Dr. Ackroyd.”

      “Just my luck,” Ackroyd muttered.

      “Luck is hokum. Luck is for the weak-minded. You will help us, Dr. Ackroyd. You will play ball, or your family will be butchered in their beds.”

      “And after I help you?”

      “You will die. But your family will live, unaware and unharmed.” Mervin’s voice was flat.

      Ackroyd stared at the phone. In that moment, Sparrow almost felt sorry for him. The old man had probably suspected he was living on borrowed time. In his place, Sparrow certainly would have. But to hear it stated so flatly, so baldly, was like a kick to the gut. Idly, he wondered whether Mervin did it on purpose. Maybe the abacus had a sadistic streak beneath the logic.

      “Fine,” Ackroyd said.

      “Good. You may leave. I wish to talk to Mr. Sparrow now.”

      Sparrow gestured and Alexi stepped in, hooked the old man’s arm and jerked him to his feet. Once Sparrow had watched them go he said, “He’s gone.”

      “You have the tickets?”

      Annoyed, Sparrow bit back a retort. “Yes,” he said. “What’ll I do about Horst and Bridges? Their bodies...”

      “They are dead and in no position to complain. Forget them. All that matters is getting Ackroyd to Anchorage on schedule. Can you do that, Mr. Sparrow?”

      “Of course,” Sparrow said, harsher than he’d intended.

      “Good. I would hate to see you meet the same fate as Horst and Bridges.”

      Sparrow licked his lips, suddenly nervous, and asked, “What—ah—what about the interference?”

      “What about him? If he tries again, kill him. If not, then it does not matter. All that matters is getting Ackroyd to Anchorage, Mr. Sparrow. That is all you should be concerned with.” There was a click. Sparrow stared at the phone for a moment.

      “Vril-YA, motherfucker,” he grunted.