Surprise showed for a brief instant in the stranger's face, then true shock as Jonsson clamped a heavy gauze pad over his mouth and jammed a syringe against his neck in the same movement. ne shock gave way to terror, and he moaned in his throat, a moan that could not be heard because Pitt was loudly cursing Jonsson for a nonexistent sewing operation. The eyes above the white gauze began to lose focus, and the man made a desperate effort to hurl himself backward, but his wrists were held solidly in the vise of Pitts grip.
Then the eyes turned upward and he quietly collapsed into Jonsson's arms.
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Pitt quickly knelt down and pulled a service revolver from the unconscious man's belt holster and stepped softly to the door.
As soundless as he was swift, he lined up the gun and jerked open the door, swinging it all the way to its stop. For a second the touth-looking brute with the spectacles sat there in stunned immobility, staring at Pitt in the doorway. Then his hand shot to his holster.
"Freeze!" Pitt ordered.
The command was ignored, and a shot blasted through the small waiting room. There are many who claim the hand is quicker than the eye, but there are few who will take the stand that the hand is quicker than a speeding bullet. The gun flew from the bogus policeman's hand as Pitts shell tore into the wooden grip, taking a thumb along with it.
Never before had Pitt seen such dazed uncomprehension and shocked 1).in the paid killer stared at the bloody half-inch stump where his thumb had been. Pitt made to lower his gun, but raised and aimed it again as he caught the look on his opponent's face-mouth tightened to a thin white line, black hatred glaring out from the squinting eyes behind the glasses.
"Shoot me, Major, quickly, cleanly here!" He tapped his chest with his uninjured hand.
"Well, well, so you speak English. My compliments, you never gave me the slightest hint that you understood any of the conversation."
"Shoot me!" The words seemed to echo in the little room and in Pitts ears for an interminable time.
"Why rush things? There's every possibility you'll hang for murdering Sergeant Amarson anyway." Pitt pulled the hammer of the revolver back for single-action g. "I take it I'm safe in assuming you did kill ?"
"Yes, the sergeant is dead. Now please do the same for me." The eyes were cold, yet pleading.
"You're pretty anxious to get yourself planted."
Jonsson looked but said nothing. Totally off balance, he struggled to graspr a new set of circumstances, a complete reversal of all his previous values. As a doctor, he couldn't just stand there and watch an injured man bleed profusely without aid.
"Let me take care of the hand," Jonsson volunteered.
"Stay behind me and don't move," Pitt said. "Any man who wants to die is more dangerous than a cornered rat."
"But good Lord, man, you cannot stand there and gloat over his pain," Jonsson protested.
Pitt ignored Jonsson. "Okay, four eyes, I'll make a deal with you. The next bullet goes through your heart if you tell me the name of the man who pays your salary."
The animal-like eyes behind the glasses never left Pitts face. He shook his head silently and said nothing.
"This isn't wartime, friend. You're not betraying your god or country. Loyalty to an employer is hardly worth your life."
"You will kill me, Major. I shall make you kill me." He advanced toward Pitt.
"I'll give you credit," Pitt said. "You're a persistent bastard."
He pulled the trigger and the revolver roared again, the .38 bullet smashing into the burly character's left leg just above the knee.
Rarely had Pitt seen such disbelief in a human face. The paid killer slowly sank to the floor, his left hand clutching his torn left leg, trying to stem the blood flow, his right hand lying motionless on the tile, surrounded by a growing pool of red.
It seems our friend has nothing to say," Pitt said.
He pulled back the hammer to fire again.
"Please do not kill him," Jonsson pleaded. "His life is not worth the burden on your soul. I beg you, Major, let me have the gun. He can cause no further harm."
Pitt hesitated several moments, torn between compassion and revenge. Then, slowly, he handed the revolver to Jonsson and nodded. Jonsson took it and put his hand on Pitts shoulder as if in secret understanding.
"I am heartbroken that countrymen of mine should cause so much grief and pain to so many," the doctor said with weariness in his voice. "I will take care of these two and contact the authorities immediately. You go with Mundsson to Reykjavik and rest. You have a nasty-looking head wound, but it won't prove serious unless You aggravate it. Stay in bed for at least two days. That is a direct order from your doctor."
"There appears to be a slight obstacle to your prescription." Pitt smiled crookedly and pointed through the front doorway.
"You were one hundred percent correct about creating excitement in the village." He nodded in the direction of the road where at least twenty villagers stood silently holding every type of weapon from telescopic rifles to small-bore shotguns, all aimed steadily at the door of Jonsson's cottage. Mundsson was resting his gun easily in the crook of one arm, one foot solidly on the second doorstep, his son Biarni slightly off to one side with an old Mauser bolt-action rifle.
Pitt held both hands out where they could easily be seen. "I think now is an appropriate time, Doctor, to give me a recommendation. 'nese good townspeople aren't sure who plays the good guys or the bad guys."
Jonsson stepped past Pitt and spoke for several minutes in Icelandic. When he finished, the guns began to lower one by one and several of the villagers drifted toward their homes while a few lingered on the road to await further developments. Jonsson extended his hand, and Pitt gripped it.
"I fervently hope you meet with success in finding the man responsible for the terrible number of senseless murders,"
Jonsson said. "If you should meet him, I fear for your life. You are not a killer. If you were, two men would lie dead in my 29
home. Your concern for life, I fear, will be your defeat. I beg you, my friend, do not hesitate when the moment arrives. God and luck go with you."
Pitt threw a last salute at Dr. Jonsson and turned and stepped down the front steps to the road. Bjarni held the passenger door of the Land Rover open for him. The seat was firm and the backrest stiff, but Pitt could not have cared less; his entire body was numb. He sat there as Mundsson started the engine and shifted through the gears, steering the truck over a stretch of smooth, narrow pavement toward Reykjavik. Pitt could have easily drifted off into a dead sleep, but somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind a spark refused to go out. Something that he saw, something that was said, an undistinguishable something refused to let his mind slow down and rest. It was like a song he couldn't quite recall whose title was on the tip of his tongue.
Finally, he gave it up and dozed off.
Chapter 7
Time after time, the exact number became lost, Pitt struggled up from the bottom of the rolling surf and staggered onto the beach dragging Hunnewell. Time after time, he bandaged the oceanographer's arm only to slide into darkness again.
Desperately, every time the event ran through his brain like an image from a film projector, he tried to hang onto those fleeting moments of consciousness, only to lose out to the inevitable fact that nothing can change the past. It was a nightmare, he thought vaguely as he tried to tear himself away from the bloodstained beach. He gathered his strength and with a mighty effort forced his eyes open, expecting to see an empty bedroom. The bedroom was there all right, but it wasn't empty.
"Good morning, Dirk," said a soft voice. "I'd almost lost hope that you would ever wake up."
Pitt looked up into the smiling brown eyes of a long-bodied girl who sat on a chair at the foot of his bed. "The last birdie with a Yellow bill who hopped upon my windowsill didn't resemble you in the slightest," he said.
She laughed, so did the brown eyes. She pushed the long strands of shining fawn-colored hair b
ehind her ears. Then she stood up 'and walked around to the head of the bed with a movement that could best be described as mercury flowing down a meandering glass tube. She wore a red wool dress that clung to her precision-shaped hour-glass figure, the bern topping a pair of neatly sculptured knees. She wasn't exactly beautiful in the exotic sense nor was she overly sexy, but she was cute-damned cute-with a pert attractiveness that melted every man she met.
She touched the bandage on the side of his head, and the smile gave way to a feminine look of Florence Nightingale concern.
"You've had a nasty time, hurt much?"
"Only when I stand on my head."
Pitt knew who she was. Her name was Tidi Royal and he knew her reason for genuine anxiety; he knew her fun and-games personality was misleading. She could pound out one hundred and twenty words a minute on a typewriter for eight hours without a yawn, and take shorthand a shade faster. The primary reasons why Admiral James Sandecker hired her as his private secretary-or so he steadfastly claimed.
Pitt pulled himself to a sitting position and peeked under the covers to see if he was wearing anything. He was, just barely-a pair of boxer shorts. "If you're here, it could only mean the admiral is close by."
Fifteen minutes after he got your message over the consulates radio, we were on a jet to Iceland. He's pretty shaken about Dr. Hunnewell's death. Admiral Sandecker blames himself."
"He's going to have to stand in line," Pitt said. "I got there first."
"He said you'd feel that way." Tidi tried to speak lightly but it didn't quite come off. "Guilt-ridden conscience, probably trying to redo the event in your mind."
"The admiral's extrasensory perception must be working overtime."
"Oh, no," she said. "I don't mean the admiral."
Pitt frowned quizzically.
"A Dr. Jonsson from a little vilage to the north called and gave the consulate very explicit instructions regarding your convalescence."
"Convalescence, crap!" Pitt snapped. "Which reminds me. What in hell are you doing in my bedroom?"
She looked hurt. "I volunteered."
"Volunteered?"
"To sit with you while you slept," she said. "Dr. Jonsson insisted. There's been a consulate staff member sitting in this room every minute since you closed your eyes last evening." Our "What time is it? "A few minutes past ten-A.m. I might add."
"God, I've wasted Nearly fourteen hours. What happened to my clothes?"
"Thrown out in the trash, I should imagine. They weren't fit for rags. You'll have to borrow some from a staff member."
"In that case, how about rounding up something casual while I take a quick shower and shave." He tossed her his bite-is-worse-than-bark look and said, "OK, dearheart, face the wall."
She remained facing the bed. "I've always wondered what it would be like to see you wake up in the morning."
He shrugged and threw back the covers. He was halfway through the motion of pushing himself to his feet when three things happened: his eyes suddenly saw three Tidis, the room swayed as though it was made of rubber, and his head began to ache 30
with the mother of all aches.
Tidi stepped forward abruptly and clutched his right arm, her face reflecting the Florence Nightingale concern again.
"Please, Dirk, your head isn't ready for your feet yet."
"Nothing, it's nothing. I stood up too fast." He made it to his feet and lurched into her arms. "You'd make a lousy nurse, Tidi.
you get too involved with Your patients."
He held onto her for several moments until the triplets became one and the bedroom stood at rigid attention; only the ache in his head refused to diminish.
"You're the one Patient I'd love to get involved With, Dirk." She held onto him tightly and made no attempt to remove her arms. "But you never seem to entice me. You'd stand next to me in an empty elevator and never recognize me at all.
There are times when I doubt whether you know I exist."
"Oh, I know you exist all right." He pushed himself away and started slowly for the bathroom, refraining from facing her as he talked. "Your vital statistics are five foot seven, one hundred thirty-five pounds, thirty-six inches around the hips, an astonishing twenty-three inches at the waist, and the bust, a probable thirty-six, C-cup. All in all, a figure that belongs on the centerspread of Playboy. There is also the light-brown hair framing an eager, bright face enhanced by sparkling brown eyes, a pert little nose, a perfectly formed mouth flanked by two dimples that only show when you smile. Oh, yes, I almost forgot.
Two moles behind the left ear and, at this moment, your heart is beating at approximately one hundred and five thumps per minute."
She stood there like a stunned winner on a TV quiz show momentarily at a loss for words. She reached up and touched the two moles. "Like wow! I can't believe I heard you. It's unreal. You like me-you really care for me."
"Don't get carried away." Pitt hesitated in the bathroom doorway and faced her. "I'm very attracted to you, as any man would be to a pretty girl, but I'm not in love with you."
"You . . . you never gave me any indication. You've never even asked me for a date."
"Sorry, Tidi. You're the admiral's personal secretary. I make it a rule never to play games that close to him." Pitt leaned against the doorframe for support. "I respect that old guy; he's much more than just a friend or boss. I won't cause complications behind his back."
"I understand," she said humbly. "But I certainly didn't figure you for the modest hero who sacrifices the heroine to a typewriter."
"The rejected virgin who throws herself into a convent isn't exactly your bag either."
"Must we get nasty?"
"No," Pitt said approvingly. "Why don't you be a good girl and scrounge me up a change of clothes, Let's see if you're as observant of my dimensions as I am of yours."
Tidi said nothing in reply, just stood there looking forlorn and curious. Finally she shook her head 'm a feminine display of irritation and left.
Exactly two hours later, clad in surprisingly wellfitting slacks and sport shirt, Pitt sat across a desk from Admiral James Sandecker. The admiral looked tired and old, far beyond his years. His red hair was tousled in a shaggy unkempt mane, and it was obvious from the stubble on his chin and cheeks that he hadn't shaved for at least two days. He held one of his massive cigars casually in the fingers of his right hand, stared at the long cylindrical shape for a moment, and then set it in an ashtray without lighting the end. He granted something about being glad to see Pitt alive and still connected in all the right places.
Then the weary, bloodshot eyes studied Pitt intently.
"So much for preliminaries. Your story, Dirk. Let's have it."
Pitt didn't give it to him. Instead, he said: "I just spent an hour writing a detailed report of what occurred from the time Hunnewell and I lifted off from the NUMA pad at Dulles International until the farmer and his boy brought us to the consulate.
I also included my personal opinions and observations.
Knowing you, Admiral, I'venture to guess you've read it at least twice. I have nothing to add. All I can do now is answer your questions."
What little of Sander-ker's face was open for expression seemed to indicate a certain interest, if not downright curiosity at Pitts flagrant, insubordinate behavior. He stood up, all five foot six inches of him, revealing a blue suit that cried out for a pressing, and peered down at Pitt, a favorite tactic when he was ready to orate.
"Once was all I needed, Major." No "Dirk" this time. "When I want sarcastic remarks, I'll book Don Rickles or Mort Sahl and be assured of a professional job. I appreciate the fact that you've been harassed by the Coast Guard and the Russians, had your butt frozen off on an iceberg looking at incinerated cadavers, not to mention getting shot at, crashing in the Atlantic Ocean, and having a man die in your arms since I pulled you off that nice warm beach in California just seventy-two hours ago. But that does not give you the unmitigated right to hard-ass your superior."
"I apologize for the disrespect, sir." The words were there, but the tone was sadly lacking. "If I seem a bit testy, it's simply because I smell a put-on. I have the distinct impression that you dropped me into an intricate maze without benefit of a road map."
"So?" An eighth of an inch lift of the heavy red eyebrows.
31
"To begin with, Hunnewell and I were on damn thin ice when we swindled the Coast Guard into using its finest cutter for a refueling base, or at least I thought we were. Not Hunnewell. He knew the whole setup was fixed from beginning to end. I thought we'd bought a jail cell when Commander Koski signaled Coast Guard Command in Washington for confirmation of our presence. I studied Hunnewell; he pored over his charts as if nothing was happening. No quiver of the hand, no indication of sweat on the brow. He was completely at ease with the situation, knowing that you had taken care of everything before we left Dulles."
"Not quite." Sandecker picked up the cigar and lit it and gave Pitt a shrewd look. "The commandant was inspecting a damn hurricane warning facility in Florida.
You were already crossing Novascotia before I could get to them." He blew a huge cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Please continue."
Pitt slouched back in his chair. "A dim, nearly undistinguishable outline of a ship turns up in an iceberg.
The Coast Guard doesn't have the slightest idea what registry it is. Yet four days go by and there is no investigation. The Catawaba is only hours away but is never notified of the sighting. Why? Somebody in the capitol with the authority, high authority, ordered hands off, that's why."
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