Iceberg

by Clive Cussler

  "A change in the weather, Admiral?"

  "A fog bank-rolling in from the south."

  "How long?"

  "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes."

  "Not much time."

  "Enough . . . enough for a quick dive."

  Minutes later Pitt had slipped into his gear and dropped over the side. Down again into a world where there is no sound, no wind; down where air is not known. He cleared his ears and kicked his fins hard and descended, his muscles cold and aching, his brain still sluggish from sleep.

  He swam silently, effortlessly, as though suspended by a wire through the great fluid backdrop. He swam through the darkening colors, the bluegreen now changing slowly to a soft gray. He swam with no sense of direction, save for what his instinct and the landmarks on the bottom told him. Then he found it.

  His heart began pounding like a bass drum as he approached the plane cautiously, knowing from experience that once he entered the tangled wreckage, every movement would be a menace.

  He flippered around to the shattered opening of the fuselage eight feet aft of the wings and was greeted by a small rosefish, no more than six inches long. Its orance-red scales contrasted vividly with the dark background and fluoresced in the dim light like a tiny Christmas tree ornament. It stared at Pitt for a moment from one beady eye set solidly under a spiny head. then began darting back and forth in front of his face mask as he entered the plane.

  As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, they met with a jumbled mess of seats, broken from their moorings on the floor, and wooden boxes floating in confusion against the ceiling. Tugging two of the boxes toward the opening, he pushed them out and watched until they lifted free on their way toward the surface.

  45

  Then he spied a glove with its finger sockets still encasing a man's hand. The body attached by a greenish arm to the hand was jammed between the seats in the lower corner of the main cabin. Pitt pulled the corpse out and searched its clothing. He must have been the one who fired the machine gun from the doorway, Pitt reasoned.

  The head wasn't a pretty sight; it had been smashed to semiliquid paste, the gray matter and skull fragments straggling in reddish tentacles away from the center mass and swaying in unison with the current. The pockets of the torn black overalls covering the remains held nothing but a screwdriver.

  Pitt shoved the screwdriver under his weigbtbelt then, half swimming, half gliding, he entered the cockpit. Except for a broken windshield on the copilot's side, the heart of the aircraft appeared empty and undamaged. But then he happened to look up at his air bubbles rising to the overhead panel and travelin(Y like a shyer snake in search of an escape exit. They eventually ran together and clustered in one corner, encircling another corpse, pushed up there by internal gases expanding under the decomposing flesh.

  The dead pilot wore the same type of black overalls. A quick search revealed nothing; the pockets were empty. The little rosefish wiggled past Pitt and begin nibbling on the bulging right eye of the pilot. Panting heavily, Pitt pushed the body upward out of the way.

  He fought an urge to vomit into his mouthpiece and waited until he regained control of his breathing again.

  He glanced at the Doxa watch. He had only been down for nine minutes, not the ninety his imagination suggested. There was little time left. Quickly he groped around the small enclosure, looking for a log book, a maintenance or check-out list, anything with printing on it. The cockpit kept its secret well. There was no record of any kind. Not even a sticker with the aircraft's call letters adhering to the face of the radio transmitter.

  It was like leavin(, the womb, being born again, when he emerged from the plane. The open water was darker now than when he had entered. After checking the tail section, he kicked over to the starboard engine.

  No hope here; it was almost totally buried in the bottom silt. He got lucky on the port engine. Not only was it easily accessible, but the cowling had broken off, leaving the turbine casing bare for inspection. But fate wasn't playing the game. He discovered the area where the identification plate should have been. It was gone.

  Only the four little brass screws that once held it remained, neatly set in their threads.

  Pitt slammed his fist against the casing in frustration. It was useless to look further. He knew all identifying marks on instruments, electrical components, and other mechanical units on the plane would be erased.

  Silently he cursed the brim behind the thoroughness. It seemed uncanny that one man could have considered and planned for every conceivable contingency. In spite of the near freezing water, trickles of sweat rolled down his face under the mask. His mind was turning aimlessly, posing problems and questions, but impotert to come up with solutions. Without thinking!, without controlled effort, his eyes began following the antics of the rosefish. It had trailed him from the cockpit and was cavorting around a silver object a few feet beyond the bow of the plane. Pitt kept his eyes on the little fish for nearly thirty seconds, aware of nothing except the sound of his exhaust bubbles, before he finally reacted and recognized the long silver tube as the hydraulic shock absorber of the nose wheel.

  Swiftly he was over it, studying the cylinder carefully. The crash had torn it from the support strut and, together with the tire and wheel, had thrown the assembly out from under the nose section. It was the same story. The manufacturer's serial number had been filed from the aluminum housing. Then, as he was about to head toward the surface, he threw a last quick look down.

  On the end section of the housing where the hydraulic tubing had pulled from its connection, Pitt spotted a small marking: two roughly gouged letters in the metal-SC. Taking the screwdriver from his weightbelt, he etched his initials next to the other marking. The depth of his DP matched that of the SC.

  Okay. No sense in hanging around, he reasoned.

  His air was becoming difficult to inhale-the signal that his tank was getting low. He pulled his reserve valve and moved upward. The rosefish followed him until he turned and waved his hand in its path, sending the little marine creature scurrying behind a friendly rock. Pitt smiled and nodded. His playful companion would have to find a new friend.

  Pitt arched on his back at fifty feet, looking directly up at where the surface should have been, trying to get his bearings in relation to The Grimsi. The light was equal in all directions, only his ascending bubbles indicated the direction of his native element. It slowly began to get lighter, but it was still much darker than when he dropped off The Grimsi's side. Pitts anxious head broke water, to be engulfed by a thick cloak of fog. God, he thought, this soup makes it impossible to find the boat. To strike out for shore would have been at best a four-to-one gamble.

  Pitt unshouldered his airtank harness, tied it to his already unhooked weightbelt, and let them fall together to the bottom.

  46

  Now he could float comfortably, thanks to the buoyancy of his rubber wet suit.

  He lay quietly, barely breathing, listening for a sound through the dense gray blanket. At first he could hear only the water lapping around his body. Then his ears picked up a faint gravelly voice . . . a voice singing a flat version of "My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean." Pitt cupped his ears, amplifying the sound, determining the direction.

  He struck out with an easy energy-saving breast stroke fifty feet and then stopped. The offkey signaling had increased in volume. Five minutes later he touched the seaworn hull of The Grimsi and pulled himself on board.

  "Have a nice swim?" Sandecker asked conversationally.

  "Hardly enjoyable and barely profitible." Pitt unzipped the wet suit top, revealing a dense mat of black chest hair. He grinned at the admiral. "Funny thing. I could swear I heard a fog horn."

  "That was no fog horn. That was a former baritone of the Annapolis Glee Club, class of '39."

  "You were never in better voice, Admiral." Pitt looked Sandecker in the eye. "Thanks."

  Sandecker smiled. "Don't thank me, thank Tidi. She had to sit through ten choruses.
"

  She materialized out of the mist and hugged him.

  "Thank God you're safe." She clung to him, the dampness trickling down her face, her hair falling in matted tendrils.

  "It's nice to know I've been missed."

  She stood back. "Missed? That's putting it mildly. Admiral Sandecker and I were beginning to come unglued."

  "Speak for yourself, Miss Royal," Sandecker said sternly.

  "You didn't fool me for a second, Admiral. You were worried."

  "Concerned is the word," Sandecker corrected. "I take it as a personal insult when any of my men get themselves killed." He turned his gaze to Pitt. "Did you find anything of value?"

  "Two bodies and little else. Somebody went to a hell of a lot of work to remove the plane's identification. Every serial number on every piece of equipment had been removed before the crash. The only markings were two letters scratched on the nose gear's hydraulic cylinder." He gratefully accepted a towel from Tidi.

  "The boxes I sent up. Did you retrieve them?"

  "It wasn't easy," Sandecker said. "They broke surface about forty feet away. Twenty tries later-I haven't cast with a pole in ears-I managed to reel them in."

  "You opened them?" Pitt probed.

  "Yes. They're miniature models of buildings . . . like dollhouses."

  Pitt straightened. "Dollhouses? You mean threedimensional architectural exhibits?"

  "Call them what you want." Sandecker paused to flip a cigar stub overboard. "Damned fine craftsmanship. The detab on each structure is amazing. They even break away by floors so you can study the interior."

  "Let's take a look."

  "We carried them to the galley," Sandecker said.

  "It's as good a place as any to get you into some dry clothes and a cup of hot coffee into your stomach."

  Tidi had already changed back into her own blouse and slacks. She demurely turned her back as Pitt finished stripping off the wet suit before he donned his colorful mod outfit.

  He smiled while she busied herself over the galley stove. "Did you keep them warm for me?" he asked.

  "Your gay threads?" She turned and stared at him, her face showing the beginning signs of a blush. "Are you kidding?

  You're at least eight inches taller, and you outweigh me by nearly sixty pounds. I literally swam in the damn things. It was as if I was wearing a tent. The cold air swept up my legs and out my neck and arms like a hurricane."

  "I sincerely hope it didn't cause any critical damage to your vital parts."

  "If you're referring to my future sex life, I fear the worst."

  "My sympathies, Miss Royal." Sandecker didn't sound very convincing. He lifted the boxes onto the table and pulled off the lids. "OK, here they are, including furniture and draperies."

  Pitt looked into the first box. "No indications of water damage."

  "They were watertight," Sandecker offered. "Each packed so carefully the crash left them entirely intact.

  To say the models were simply masterpieces of difficult art would have been a gross understatement.

  The admiral was right. The detail was amazing. Every brick, every windowpane, was precise in scale and placement. Pitt lifted off the roof. He had seen model exhibits before in museums, but never workmanship like this. Nothing had been overlooked. Paintings on the walls were exacting in color and design. The furniture had liny designs printed on the fabric.

  Telephones on desks had receivers that could be picked up, connected to wires that led into the walls. As a crowning touch, the bathrooms even possessed toilet paper rolls that unraveled to the touch. The first model building consisted of four floors and a basement. Pitt carefully lifted them off one at a time, studied the contents and just as carefully replaced them. Then he inspected the second model.

  "I know this one," Pitt said quietly.

  Sandecker looked up. "Are you sure?"

  "Positive. It's pink. You don't often forget a structure built of pink marble. It was about six years ago when I entered those walls.

  My father was on an economic survey mission for the President, conferring with the heads of finance of Latin American 47

  governments. I took a thirty-day leave from the Air Force and acted as his aide and pilot during the trip. Yes, I remember it well, especially this exotic black-eyed little secretary-"

  "Spare us your erotic escapades," Sandecker said impatiently. "Where is it located?"

  "In El Salvador. This model is a perfect scaleddown replica of the Dominican Republic capitol building." He gestured toward the first model. "Judging from the design, the other model also represents the legislative offices of another South or Central American country."

  "Great," Sandecker said unenthusiastically. "We've come up with a character who collects miniature capitols."

  "It doesn't tell us a hell of a lot." Tidi handed Pitt a cup of coffee and he sipped it thoughtfully. "Except that the black jet was doing double duty."

  Sandecker met his stare. "You mean it was delivering these models when it changed course to shoot down you and Hunnewell?"

  "Exactly. One of Rondheim's fishing trawlers probably spotted our helicopter approaching Iceland and diverted the jet by radio so it would be waiting for us when we reached the coast."

  "Why Rondheim? I see nothing tangible that ties him in with any of this?"

  "Any port in a storm." Pitt shrugged. "I admit I'm groping. And, at that, I'm not completely sold on implicating Rondheim myself. He's like the butler in an old movie mystery. Every piece of circumstantial evidence, every finger of doubt, points to him, making him the most obvious suspect. But in the end, our friendly butler turns out to be an undercover policeman and the least obvious character turns out to be the guilty party."

  "Somehow I can't picture Rondheim as an undercover cop." Sandecker crossed the cabin and poured himself another cup of coffee. "But he's just enough of a prick for me to fervently wish that in some form or manner he's behind Fyrie's and Hunnewell's death, so we could zero in on the bastard and nail him to the floor."

  "It wouldn't be easy. He's in a pretty solid position."

  "If you ask me," Tidi interjected, "you two schemers are jealous of Rondheim because of his hold over Miss Fyrie."

  Pitt laughed. "You have to be in love to be jealous."

  Sandecker grinned at her. "Your forked tongue is showing, lady."

  "I'm not being catty out of spite. I like Kirsti Fyrie."

  "I suppose you like Oskar Rondheim too" Pitt said.

  "I wouldn't like that snake if he was General of the Salvation Army," she said. "But you have to give the devil his due. He's got Kirsti and Fyrie Limited tucked neatly in his pocket."

  Why? Answer that!" Pitt said speculatively.

  "How can Kirsti love him if she's terrified of him?"

  Tidi shook her head. "I don't know. I still see the pain in her eyes when he squeezed her neck."

  "Maybe she's a masochist and Rondheim's a sadist," Sandecker said.

  "If Rondheim is masterminding these terrible murders, you must turn everything you know over to the proper authorities,"

  Tidi pleaded. "If you persist in pushing this thing too far, both of you might be killed."

  Pitt made a sad face. "It's shameful, Admiral.

  Your own secretary is vastly underestimating her two favorite people." He turned and looked dolefully at Tidi. "How could you?"

  Sandecker sighed. "It's almost impossible to find loyalty in an employee these days."

  "Loyalty!" Tidi looked at them as if they had gone mad. "What other girl would let herself be dragged over half the world in uncomfortable military cargo planes, frozen on smelly old boats in the middle of the North Atlantic, and be subjected to constant male harassment for the meager salary I'm paid. If that isn't loyalty, I'd like to know what you typical inconsiderate men call it?"

  "Crap! that's what I call it," Sandecker said. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked warmly into her eyes. "Believe me, Tidi, I value your friendship and your concern fo
r my welfare very highly, and I'm certain Dirk prizes you just as highly.

  But you must understand, a close friend and three of my people have been murdered and an attempt made on Dirk here. I'm not the kind of guy who hides under a mattress and calls a cop. By God, this whole bung-twisting mess was pushed on us by persons unknown. When we find out who they are-then and only then-will I stand back and let the law and its enforcers take over. Are you with me?"

  The surprise of Sandecker's sudden display of affection held, then slowly passed from Tidi's face and big tears began to well in her eyes.

  She pressed her head against the admiral's chest. "I feel such a monkey," she murmured. "I'm always shooting off my mouth.

  Next time it runs away from me, please stuff a gag in it."

  "You can count on it," he said more softly than Pitt had ever heard him. Sandecker held Tidi another minute before he released her. "Okay, let's up anchor and get the hell back to Reykjavik." The old familiar gravel tone was back. "I could use a nice hot toddy."

  Pitt suddenly stiffened, held up a hand for silence, and stepped to the wheelhouse doorway and listened intently. It was very faint, but it was there. Through the blanket of mist it came as a steady drone: the sound of an engine running at very high rpm's.

  Chapter 11

  "Do you hear it, Admiral?"

  48

  "I hear it." Sandecker was at his shoulder. "About three miles, coming fast." He concentrated for a few seconds. "I make it dead ahead."