Polar Shift by Clive Cussler Page A

skills honed, and, although he was pushing eighty, constant physical exercise and strenuous outdoor pursuits had maintained a body many men half his age would have envied.
    He remained calm and confident. They would be on his turf, where he knew every tree and boulder.
    â€œI was a soldier a long time ago. Now I’m just an old man.” He lowered his head, hunching his shoulders to project an attitude of submission, and injected a tremor into his deep voice.
    â€œWe know a lot more about you than you think,” said the man with a gun. “We know what you eat, where you sleep. We know where you and your mutt live.”
    They had been in his house.
    â€œWhere the mutt used to live,” said the other man.
    He stared at the man. “You killed my dog? Why?”
    â€œYour little wiener wouldn’t stop yapping. We gave him a pill to shut him up.”
    The friendly little female dachshund he had named Schatsky was probably barking because she was glad to see the intruders.
    A coldness seemed to flow into his body. In his mind, he heard his classroom mentor, Professor Heinz. The cherubic psychopath with the kindly blue eyes had been rewarded with a teaching sinecure at the Wevelsburg monastery for his work designing the Nazi death machine.
    In skilled hands, nearly any ordinary object can be a lethal weapon, the professor was saying in his soft-spoken voice. The hard end of this newspaper rolled into a tight coil can be used to break a man’s nose and drive the bone splinters into his brain. This fountain pen can penetrate the eye and cause death. This metal wristwatch band worn across the knuckles is capable of breaking facial bones. This belt makes a wonderful garrote if you can’t quickly remove your boot laces…
    Schroeder’s grip tightened on the pole handles.
    â€œI’ll do whatever you say,” he said. “Maybe we can work this out.”
    â€œSure,” the man said with the flicker of a smile. “First, I want you to ski slowly to the base of the mountain. Follow my dog-loving friend. He’s got a gun too. I’ll be right behind you. At the end of the run, take your skis off, stick them in the rack and walk to the east parking lot.”
    â€œMay I ask where you’re taking me?”
    â€œWe’re not taking you anywhere. We’re delivering you.”
    â€œThink of us like FedEx or UPS,” the other man said.
    His companion said, “Nothing personal. Just business. Move it. Nice and easy.” He gestured with the gun, then he tucked it back into his suit so he could ski unhindered.
    With the downhill man in the lead and Schroeder in the middle, they skied the trail single file at a moderate speed. Schroeder sized up the man ahead as an aggressive skier whose muscle partly made up for his lack of technical skill. He glanced back at the other man and guessed from his free-form technique that he was the less accomplished skier. Still, they were young and strong, and they were armed.
    A snowboarder flew by and disappeared down the trail.
    Gambling that his escort would reflexively glance at the moving object, Schroeder made his move. He made a wide turn, but instead of traversing he spun his body around 180 degrees so that he was facing uphill.
    His escort didn’t see the maneuver until it was too late. He tried to stop. Schroeder jammed his downhill ski into the snow. He grasped his right ski pole with both hands, letting the other pole hang by its strap, and drove the steel tip into the small fleshy part of the man’s neck above the turtleneck.
    The man was still moving when the tip punched a ragged hole in his throat below the Adam’s apple. He let out a wet gurgle, his legs went out from under him and he crashed to the snow where he writhed in terrible agony.
    Schroeder sidestepped the flailing body like a matador evading a stricken bull.
    The lead man glanced over his shoulder. Schroeder yanked back his improvised spear.