Our site, Marshall thought with a mirthless smile.

“Speaking of wandering around, have you heard the talk of polar bears? If we don’t freeze to death we’re likely to get eaten.”

“We should be getting hazard pay.”

“The place stinks. The water pressure is terrible. And the craft service sucks. I’m used to fresh stuff-pineapple slices, canapés, finger sandwiches, sushi. Here we get prison rations: beans, hot dogs, frozen spinach.”

A sudden cheer erupted on the far side of the outbuildings. A moment later, there came another. Sealing the cooler again, Marshall trotted over to investigate.

About a dozen people had just gathered outside the little steel-walled vault. They were congratulating each other, shaking hands and hugging. A short distance away stood Conti. He was short and dark-haired, with a closely trimmed goatee. He watched the celebratory group, arms folded. Beside him stood the “network liaison,” or channel rep: a man named Wolff. And beside Wolff were two photographers, one with a large camera on his shoulder, the other with a portable handheld. Still another man-the one who had almost knocked Marshall over a few minutes earlier-stood nearby, holding a microphone fixed to a boom. Wires from the cameras led to a device attached to his belt.

Marshall glanced curiously at Conti. The man’s reputation preceded him: his documentary From Fatal Seas, about research submarines exploring the very deepest depths of the ocean, had won half a dozen awards and was still routinely shown in museums and IMAX theaters. He had done a number of other documentaries, mostly dealing with the natural world and environmental crises, and they had all been critical and popular successes. With his goatee and fussy demeanor, the wide-angle lens hanging from his neck like some huge black jewel, he looked the very picture of the brilliant and eccentric director. The only things missing, Marshall reflected, were a megaphone and white ascot. He reminded himself that looks were deceiving: this man was not only well respected but influential, as well.

“Again,” said Conti, in a clipped, mild Italian accent. “More excitement this time. Remember: you’ve done it. Mission accomplished. Let me see it in your faces, hear it in your voices.”

“Rolling,” said the man with the handheld camera.

“And-action,” said Conti.

Once again, shouts of jubilation burst from the assembled group. They jumped in the air, whooped and yelled, slapped one another on the back. Marshall glanced around in puzzlement, painfully aware of his total ignorance of the project.

Ekberg stood nearby, watching the goings-on. She had been very busy the last several days but had always smiled politely when she saw him-unlike most of the crew, who clearly found the scientists annoyances to be merely tolerated.

He stepped closer to her. “What’s happened?”

“It’s all over,” she said. “A major success.”

“It’s over?”

“Well, that’s what we’re filming, anyway.”

“But-” he began. Then, suddenly, he understood. Conti was filming the crew’s reaction to a successful conclusion…whatever and whenever that conclusion might ultimately be. It seemed the producer was filming everything he could, as quickly as he could, whether it was real or simply staged. Clearly the concept of linear time didn’t exist here-and Marshall realized he had a lot to learn about documentaries.

Conti was nodding, apparently pleased by this latest effort. He turned toward the photographer with the smaller camera. “Get the B rolls?”

The man gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Conti glanced from him to Ekberg, caught site of Marshall. “You’re Marshall, right? The ecologist?”

“Paleoecologist, yes.”

Conti glanced down at his clipboard, checked something off with a pencil held in one heavily gloved hand. “Good. That’s next on the list.” He looked up at Marshall again, more carefully this time, his gaze running up and down as if examining a side of beef. “Could you assemble the rest of your team in the staging area, dressed for outdoors? Fifteen minutes, if you please. Having all of you on hand will increase the realism of the shot.”

“What shot is that?”

“We’re going up the mountain.”

Marshall hesitated. “I’d be happy to assemble the others. But first I think it’s time you explained just what it is you’re documenting here. You’ve said nothing specific. I don’t mean to be difficult, but we’ve all been kept in the dark long enough.”

Conti sniffed the chill air. “We’re getting all the footage we can before Ashleigh arrives.”

“That’s something else I don’t understand. Why does a host need to fly all the way up here? Why can’t she add her narration back in New York, when the film is cut and edited?”

“Because we’re not just talking about narration,” Conti replied. “We’re talking about a docudrama. A huge docudrama.”

Marshall frowned. “What does that have to do with our work here? Or with the cat we discovered?”

At this, Conti gave a faint smile. “It has everything to do with the cat, Professor Marshall. You see, we’re going up the mountain to cut it out of the ice.”

Marshall felt a chill of disbelief settle over him. “Cut it out, you said?”

“In a single block. For transport back to our specially prepared vault. The vault will be sealed, the block of ice melted under controlled conditions.” Conti paused for effect. “And when the vault is unsealed again, it’s going to be done live, right here-before an audience of ten million viewers.”

8

For a moment, Marshall felt almost too dazed to speak. And then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling of disbelief vanished, flushed away by an anger he wasn’t even aware he’d been keeping in check.

“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised by the calmness of his own voice, “but that isn’t going to happen.”

The smile didn’t leave Conti’s face. “No?”

“No, it’s not.”

“And why is that?”

As the producer asked this question, Marshall saw Sully approaching from the direction of the base. No doubt he’d heard the commotion of Conti’s last shot and come to investigate. The climatologist had been fawning over Conti every chance he had, eager to curry favor and perhaps land a supporting role in the production.

“Mr. Conti has just told me the real reason they’re here,” Marshall said as Sully joined the group.

“Oh?” Sully asked. “What’s that?”

“They want to cut the Smilodon out of the ice cave and thaw it in front of live television cameras.”

Sully blinked in surprise at this revelation, but said nothing.

Marshall turned back to the producer. “It’s one thing for you to take over our base, interrupt our research, let your people treat us like squatters. But I’m not going to allow you to jeopardize our work.”

Conti folded one arm over the other. Marshall realized Ekberg was staring at him intently.

“That carcass represents an important-maybe hugely important-scientific discovery,” he continued. “It’s not some cheap publicity stunt you can exploit for your own ends. If that’s why you came up here, I’m sorry you wasted your time and money. But you might as well pack up and leave now.”

Sully seemed to master his surprise and hear Marshall once again. “Ah, Evan, there’s really no need-”

“And another thing,” Marshall spoke over Sully. “I’ve already told Ms. Ekberg here: that cave is unsafe. The vibration of heavy equipment could bring the damned thing down on your heads. So even if we didn’t object to your crazy idea, there’s no way we’d grant you access.”

Conti pursed his lips. “I see. Was there anything else?”

Marshall stared at him. “Isn’t that enough? You can’t have the cat. It’s as simple as that.”

He waited for Conti’s response. But instead of replying, the director threw a significant glance at Wolff.