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“Gravity,” Sam said. “Think about it. Clipped at the top, propeller bounces down the summit on this side as the plane continues on its crash course on the other side. That propeller had a lot of years to make it down here. Every time the ice melted, in fact.”
“Good theory, Sam,” Remi said.
“Only if it turns out to be true.”
“It won’t,” Dietrich said. “I’ve been up there. I’ve looked. There’s nothing on the other side.”
“If we’re lucky, you’ve missed something.”
The next day, they climbed to the top of the glacial ridge, and Sam realized not only that Dietrich was right but Sam’s theory was highly flawed. For one, they were staring at sheer cliffs, which held very little snow, and definitely no place that could hide an entire airplane. Two, the plane would have to have been on an upward trajectory to make it over the cliffs of the next ridge, which was higher t
han the one they were currently standing on.
“Next hypothesis,” Remi said.
Sam stared for several seconds longer, then turned back, looking down along the glacier, trying to picture how that propeller could have landed on it. His gaze swung to the high cliffs on their right, and he pictured the plane flying past, clipping it instead. “Maybe we’re wrong about that downward trajectory from here, where we’re standing. What if it was up there?”
The two turned and looked as Sam pointed to the higher cliff on their right. He traced the direction in the air, and they followed along, as he said, “Starboard wing, barely clears that cliff, knocks off the propeller, which lands down here, where we’re standing. Plane continues on its downward spiral . . .” He eyed the cliffs, and ridges beyond the ridge where they stood, noting a few narrow passes that a plane could have hurtled through. “And lands somewhere over there, through the pass on the left.”
“You’re sure about the angle?” Dietrich said. “Because using that theory, depending on exactly which angle the plane was traveling when it hit, any of those passes could be the one. That’s a lot of miles to cover between here and there.”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “And why we have a helicopter and pilot on retainer.”
77
The Fargos were looking for a pilot.”
“You’re sure?” Rolfe asked Leopold, who was studying the information he’d just received from a lengthy text. “What on earth are we doing out here in the middle of the jungle, then?”
“This is hardly the middle of the jungle,” Leopold said without looking up.
“Close enough,” Rolfe replied, eyeing the Wolf Guard compound with distaste. They were seated in a Quonset hut, camouflaged on the outside to avoid being detected from the air. They’d spent the last couple of nights here in order to interview the survivor who’d managed to escape the assault by whoever it was who rescued the tour guide. And while they were no closer to learning anything, there was no doubt in Rolfe’s mind who it was. The very thought angered him, and he pulled at the collar of his shirt, sweat dripping down his neck. “Back to this pilot—how do you know that’s who they were looking for?”
“Because the men I sent out to make inquiries about this so-called student they found wandering in the jungle were able to confirm he was actually a guide who was hired to take a married couple to find the man.”
“So we were right.”
“More important, the man they were looking for was a descendent of Ludwig Strassmair.”
“Then why aren’t we going after him?”
“No need. He was the owner of a bar in a village to the east of here. I’ve already sent someone out there.”
“And how long until we hear back?”
“Anytime now.”
The news struck Rolfe as highly suspicious. “How far is this village?”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” he said. Because, right now, it didn’t. It was more important to find the Fargos and figure out what they were up to. Later, he’d have to take into consideration exactly how much it was that Leopold was keeping from him. Clearly, more than he was letting on.
Rolfe got up, walking to the open door, wondering if it was possibly cooler outside. He watched the Argentine Guardsmen in the yard, resting beneath camouflaged netting. Turning back toward Leopold, who was now talking on his phone in Spanish, Rolfe pulled out his own phone and hit RECORD, so he could translate Leopold’s side of the conversation, to make sure he wasn’t being left out of the loop.
He stood there, pretending to read email, until Leopold finally ended the call. “Well?” Rolfe asked, looking up from his phone.
“We found them. Or where they went. Mendoza.”
