Frozen Solid: A Novel by James Tabor Page B

was a lean face of juts and angles, hardly handsome but surprising enough to attract stray glances and hold them.
    Bowman worked for, or was attached to, or emanated from—Barnard had still not found the right word for Bowman’s affiliation—some dark entity hidden invisibly deep in the government’s intelligence labyrinth. Bowman had never volunteered its name, and Barnard had never pressed him for details. He suspected that Bowman had a military special operations background. Hallie had said he held a PhD in some esoteric engineering subspecialty.
    “Have you heard from Hallie?” Barnard asked.
    “No,” Bowman said. “You?”
    Wil smiled rarely and frowned almost never. If Barnard had been pressed to describe the man in a word, it would have been
centered
.
    “No.”
    “Really? I was sure she would have contacted you.”
    “I thought the same thing about you,” Barnard said.
    “That’s not like Hallie at all. Do you know if she actually reached the Pole?”
    “Not even that. I got an email from her at McMurdo on Sunday, but nothing after.”
    “I emailed her earlier this morning but haven’t gotten an answer. Have you tried to call?” Bowman asked.
    “A number of times. Apparently the moon is easier to talk to. All communications to the Pole are satellite-dependent. Right now, thereare just two two-hour windows in every twenty-four-hour period. And lots of things can screw those up—storms, solar events, power failures.”
    “She told me she would be replacing a scientist who had died unexpectedly. And that she’d known the woman here at one time.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Who was that woman working for? Durant was her name, I think.”
    “National Science Foundation,” Barnard said.
    “How long ago did she die?”
    “Not exactly sure. Sometime early last week, though.”
    “And you don’t know how?”
    “Here’s where it gets a bit strange.” Barnard recounted his conversation with Laraine Harris.
    “There should be an autopsy and a medical examiner’s report by now,” Bowman said.
    “I thought so, too. So I called a man at my own level over there. Director of Antarctic Programs. He didn’t know how she’d died, either. I explained my interest and asked if he could look into it. Very nice fellow. He agreed. I made an appointment to see him tomorrow.”
    “He wouldn’t just send a copy of whatever he found?”
    Barnard chuckled. “He’s a bureaucrat. The normal response to such a request would be to forget about it for a week or two, then hand it off to some subordinate. Bureaucrats learn never to do anything too quickly, because it will be expected of them next time.”
    “So what happens now?”
    “It’s like fencing. Can be fun if you understand the rules and weapons. I pointed out that since neither of us knew what happened, it would be better to meet in person. Possible discretion required, et cetera. Slow response is one thing; no response is another.”
    “You put him in a corner.”
    “I figured if he was blowing smoke about getting the information, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to meet. This gives him a little incentive to really find something.”
    “Keep that kind of thing up and I might have to recruit you.”
    “I’ll take that as a compliment. But my ops days are over.”
    Bowman’s expression hardened. “I don’t like this.”
    “Me, neither. Less and less, in fact.”
    “Hallie’s supposed to fly out of there before the station shuts down for winterover, right?” Bowman asked.
    “Yes. After the last flight, it’s totally isolated for eight solid months.”
    “So if anything happened and she missed that flight …”
    “It would be a long winter. For all of us.”
    Bowman stood. “Thanks for bringing me in, Don. I’ll look for that report.”
    “I was hoping you’d say that.”
    “Let me know when you get through to her. I’ll keep trying, myself.”
    Barnard had been worried not to hear from Hallie but shocked to learn that Bowman