She was in her fifties, with a long ponytail and a pleasant, wrinkled face. Two men in jeans and dungaree jackets sat farther down the bar, nursing bottled beer. Otherwise the tavern was empty.
Lexy looked at the clock behind the bartender and saw it was past ten.
“Are you still serving food?” she asked.
“This is the Barnacle,” she said. “If we’re open, we’re serving, but right now I’m down to what’s left from the dinner crowd. . . . All I have for you is a lobster pot au feu with garlic, herbs, carrots, leeks, and onions. There’s also my sour cream biscuits and apple brown betty. That’s it, I’m afraid.”
“We came to the right place,” said Macaulay, ordering a double whiskey.
She headed back to the kitchen.
It was eleven by the time they had finished their main course. By then, the other two men at the bar had come over to join them. Both worked as crewmen on local fishing trawlers. Macaulay bought them a round of drinks.
“How long does it take to get out to Monhegan on the regular ferry?” he asked casually.
“About an hour, but the Balmy Days stopped running on Columbus Day,” said one of the fishermen. “She won’t be back running until Memorial Day.”
“We were hoping to charter a boat as soon as possible to take us out there,” said Lexy. “Like tonight.”
The others laughed.
“Only a crazy fool would take a chance going out there with a nor’easter on the way,” said the first fisherman.
There was a moment’s silence before the bartender and the other fisherman said, “Chris,” in perfect unison. “And he ought to be along before too long.”
“Who is Chris?” asked Macaulay.
“Chris Pakkala . . . He lives on Monhegan,” said Sue. “He’s . . . a little different.”
“Not the only one,” said one of the fishermen.
Lexy was finishing her dessert when the entrance door swung open again. The man coming toward her seemed almost as broad as he was tall, with heavy shoulders and a broad neck. In his late thirties, he had shoulder-length blond hair and weathered blue eyes. Unshaven, he was dressed in shabby oilskins and had a white hand towel tucked around his neck.
“Chris, these folks could use a hand from you,” said Sue as he joined them at the bar.
Lexy smelled pipe smoke on him along with a pleasant natural musky odor as he stood close to her. A moment later she felt his hand on her lower back, a brief subtle pressure and then it was gone. Looking down, she saw that he was barefoot.
“A dark Guinness,” he said.
“Are you heading out to Monhegan?” she asked.
He grinned at her and nodded.
She saw that two of his lower-front teeth were missing. Then his hand was on her lower back again. It stayed there until she turned away from him.
“It’s going to be a fun ride tonight,” he said, “but don’t worry about the storm. There won’t be anything too rugged until late tomorrow morning.”
“He’s not always quite accurate in his predictions,” said Sue. “You should know he’s lost two boats in the last three years.”
“That was beyond my control,” said Chris, downing the Guinness in one long swallow.
“You’ll take us then?”
“I have to go anyway,” he replied. “Vic Lord has a roofing job for me.”
“There will be a lot more roofing jobs after this storm blows through,” said one of the fishermen as he paid their bill and left. Through the open door, Lexy heard the moan of the wind rise to a loud keening cry before it was shut again.
“Why do you want to go?” asked Chris, ordering another Guinness.
Lexy pondered her answer. There was something elemental about him, primal and strong. A lot of women were probably attracted to the hint of danger. At the same time, she sensed something decent in him, an adherence to whatever principles he held dear. She decided to tell him the truth, or at least part of it.
“I’m an archaeologist,” she said. “I’m hoping to find evidence of an ancient settlement out there.”
“You mean the Vikings?” he asked.
The surprise registered on her face.
“Sure, they were there,” he said with another toothless smile.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“There are markings out there,” he said. “Cut in the stone. I’ve seen them.”
“How do you know they’re Norse markings?” she persisted.
“It’s in books,” he said. “John Cabot wrote about them in sixteen hundred something. Ray Phillips wrote about them too. Besides, I’m Finnish. The Vikings were my people.”
“Who is Ray Phillips?” she asked.
“The island hermit,” said Chris. “He was famous up and down this coast.”
“But I thought Monhegan was a settlement.”
“It is,” said Chris. “Old Ray didn’t live on Monhegan. He was on Manana. That’s where the Viking markings are.”
“Where is Manana?” asked Lexy as Macaulay looked on.
“It’s the little island just south of Monhegan—the tail of the whale.”
Her heart began to speed up.
“What whale?”
“The northern end of Monhegan is shaped like the head of a humpback,” said Chris. “Captain John Smith described it as looking like a whale when he got there in 1614. It’s had a lot of names since.”
A thrill coursed through her.
“And Ray Phillips?”
“He lived on Manana for about forty years along with a flock of sheep and his pet gander. He built a bunch of little shacks out of driftwood for them all to live together. He always claimed the Vikings were there first.”
“Did he ever write about finding any traces of them?” asked Macaulay.
Chris took him in for the first time. He didn’t like what he saw.
“He knew how to read and write if that’s what you’re asking,” he said with a touch of malice. “Ray was no dummy. They say the First World War screwed him up. His pictures and stuff are up at the Monhegan museum on Lighthouse Hill.”
Macaulay heard the entrance door open again and turned to see two men standing there in camel overcoats, their eyes roaming the interior. He slipped his hand under the edge of his sweater and grasped the automatic as they stepped forward.
He relaxed when they came into the light. Both were rotund, in their fifties, and wearing bow ties. One of them asked for the wine list and Sue brought it over. Lawyers, he decided.
“We would be happy to pay you to take us out there,” said Macaulay.
“I don’t need your money,” he said, as if insulted.
“I can’t help but notice you’re not wearing shoes,” said Macaulay.
Chris gave him a superior grin and said, “I don’t ever feel cold.”
“I wish I shared your powers,” said Lexy.
“I was abducted when I was a boy,” said Chris, as if that explained it.
“I’m so sorry,” said Lexy as the bartender looked on, rolling her eyes.
“They didn’t hurt me,” he said, finishing his third Guinness. “They took me to perform experiments on . . . you know, sexual experiments. They brought me back in their ship when they were finished.”
“Were they ever caught?” she asked.
“They were aliens,” he said quietly, his blue eyes locked onto hers, daring her to mock him.
She had no idea if he was joking. If he wasn’t joking, what did it say for the accuracy of everything else he had said to her? What had been growing excitement inside her began quickly ebbing away.
“I see.”
One of the lawyers down the bar raised his voice. “You can have your saltwater fishing. I’ll take lakes and streams.”
“What do you go after?” asked the secon
d one.
“Bass, they’re good fighters. The big ones can run six pounds, great eating,” said the first one.
“What do you use for bait?”
“Frogs . . . I always use frogs.”
Chris’s blue eyes turned to ice. He slowly walked down the bar, stopping in front of the first man, who gazed up at him uncertainly from his bar stool, almost visibly melting as the big man glared down at him.
“Don’t ever use frogs for bait,” he said.
The man seemed mesmerized, unable to respond.
“Why?” asked the second man.
“Have you ever looked at frogs after you hooked them to the line?”
Both men shook their heads no.
“They grab onto the line with their hands,” said Chris. “Do you understand now? They have hands.”
The first man still couldn’t respond.
“You understand now, don’t you, Norv?” offered the second one helpfully.
The first man slowly nodded, his mouth slack.
Chris came back down the bar.
“Are you ready to go?”
FIFTY-ONE
5 December
Central Intelligence Agency
McNamara Library Annex
Langley, Virginia
Tommy Somervell looked across his office desk at Roger Crowell and June Corcoran. None of them had slept for two nights. June’s septuagenarian face had begun to remind him of a wrinkled boot. The pouches under Roger’s eyes resembled wasps’ nests.
Tommy had taken two amphetamine pills since morning, and had gone through the familiar pattern of euphoria and increased energy followed by sluggish torpor. He longed for the ministrations of his favorite house in Bangkok.
Like him, the other two agents had been relegated to the basement of the library annex. Tommy’s office was no larger than his butler’s pantry in Leesburg, and it was the largest of the three. Officially, they were the golden agers, an affectionate term designed by the director to reward them for the contributions they had made over the years. To everyone else, they were the has-beens, agents who had long ago outlived their usefulness and didn’t have the good sense to leave.
For the last forty-eight hours, at least, he had removed them from the scrap pile and restored them to temporary relevance. The chain-smoking June had been a premier paper hauler for almost forty years. If a record existed, she could find it. Now sixty-seven, Roger had once been a top penetration agent, an expert at installing visual- and audio-monitoring equipment that was virtually impossible to detect. His technical prowess had helped to convict the traitor Aldrich Ames.
Tommy could count on them both for absolute secrecy, but they were no closer to solving the riddle of the White House mole or what the Ancient Way was planning. He had learned enough from his contacts in Europe to believe that something significant was about to happen on an international scale, but he had no idea what it was. Time was running out.
June had assembled the individual paper trails of Jessica Birdwell, Ira Dusenberry, and Addison Kingship, including birth records, academic records, military records, fitness reports, and job evaluations. She had pored over them for sixteen hours and followed up on every possible lead.
“There’s nothing there,” she said. “They’re kosher.”
“Nothing that would have made one of them vulnerable?” asked Somervell.
“In his sophomore year at Yale, Dusenberry stole a fully dressed turkey from his eating house,” said June. “Someone witnessed it and he made full restitution.”
“That’s it?” asked Somervell.
She nodded.
“What about surveillance?” asked Somervell.
“Birdwell hasn’t been back to her apartment since I inserted the micro camera platform two days ago,” said Crowell. “I also put a mini eavesdrop into her purse. She spent the last two nights at the White House.”
“Kingship?” asked Tommy.
“He is married to the kind of shrew who would have turned Billy Graham into an atheist. He finds his solace in the arms of a fiftyish lawyer who works in international law at the Justice Department.”
“Male or female?” asked Somervell.
“Sorry,” said Crowell. “Female.”
“What about Dusenberry?”
“I inserted the camera platform in his Watergate apartment. The man only sleeps three hours a night. Otherwise he’s working. The only odd thing is that when he gets home, he grills two dozen hot dogs in a big frying pan and eats them in one sitting while watching that old BBC series Poldark.”
Somervell’s mind was wandering. With no compelling evidence, he was still sure that one of them was dirty. After being immersed in the sweet cesspool for so many years, he just knew. One of the three was a White House mole with access to almost every secret the country possessed.
“This isn’t about money,” he said. “It’s about faith.”
“I assume that eliminates the hot dogs,” said June.
“Perhaps,” said Tommy. “It’s got to be something in the past. We haven’t dug deep enough. Let’s go back farther.”
“A previous life?” said June with sarcasm through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Somervell took it in and nodded.
“Exactly,” he said.
FIFTY-TWO
5 December
RV Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Maine
The darkness was absolute. The unfathomable blackness of the tomb.
He couldn’t be dead. His throbbing headache was real and so was the cold air that enveloped him; so was the constant rocking motion that was making him nauseated.
He was lying on his back. He tried to move his hands and legs, but they seemed anchored in position. When he attempted to raise his head, it slammed into a hard surface less than a foot above him. Had they buried him alive?
He swore aloud, but the tinny reverberation of his voice suggested he was encased in steel. One moment he was sweating and the next he was shivering. He tried to remember everything that had happened.
He had been in the ornate living room of the mansion with the old German, and had then been taken to another room and given an injection. Then he had dropped into oblivion.
How long had he been unconscious? he wondered. He had lost all sense of time. The drug they had given him could have wiped out minutes, hours, even weeks. He remembered the German talking about a truth serum.
He knew the so-called truth drugs, scopolamine, amobarbital sodium, and sodium pentothal. They had been around for ages. Maybe these bastards had improved on the cocktail. Had the serum worked? Did they own his mind? Had he already betrayed the information about the two remaining islands? The German had said the drug might erase his memory.
He tried to remember a few incidents from his childhood. They all seemed to be there. He decided to run through the catalogue of women he had slept with in his life, starting with the Nepalese girl in the tiny sleeping crib above Katmandu. They all were there, including the first wife he had vowed to forget.
The drug they had given felt more like a powerful sedative, something that had temporarily cauterized his brain. He drifted in and out of sleep, coming awake again to the changing pitch of the engines.
He attempted to decipher the rocking sensation. It was a forward-and-back motion, compounded by a sickening roll from side to side. So he was aboard a boat, maybe a ship. The dull heaviness of the engine noise suggested a ship.
Whatever it was, it was tossing wildly enough for him to be seasick. He fought to control it and gradually succeeded. He found he was very thirsty and wondered if and when someone would come to check on him.
Why was he still alive? There had to be a reason. If he had given them all they had wanted, he would be dead. He was alive because they still needed him.
He heard
the sound of metal on metal, and a bright piercing light filled the space, forcing him to shut his eyes for a few moments. He opened them to see a man standing above him in a white lab coat.
Barnaby was on his back in a small cabin with a steel bulkhead. Broad canvas belts had been strapped across his chest, midsection, thighs, and feet. The man slid the door to the berth shut behind him.
“I am Dr. Per Larsen,” he said.
For a doctor, he projected ill health, with prematurely gray hair and wrinkled pouches under his eyes. His left hand was trembling.
“You do not know me, Dr. Finchem, but your books on my Nordic ancestors were an inspiration to me as a boy,” he said. “I wanted very much to meet you.”
Barnaby’s throat was too dry to respond.
“Water,” he croaked.
Larsen went to a small steel basin mounted on the interior wall and ran cold water into a plastic cup. Gently lifting Barnaby’s head, he patiently helped him to swallow it all.
“I regret that I have no authority to release you,” he said. “I can only pray that you enjoy good fortune in the days ahead.”
“Where am I?”
“Aboard the research vessel Leitstern,” said Larsen. “You should know that the prince was able to locate the island that may hold the tomb of Leifr Eriksson without your assistance.”
“Then why am I still alive?” asked Barnaby.
“The prince believes you could still be helpful to him after they penetrate the tomb in the event they meet unanticipated challenges,” said Larsen. “At least that is what I told him.”
“Thank you.”
“It is of little consequence compared to the magnitude of what I have done,” said Larsen.
Tears began silently coursing down his cheeks.
“The Leitstern is the command center for Operation Tjikko, which is scheduled to be launched twelve hours from now.”
“The Tjikko tree in Sweden?”
“Yes. The operation is named for the oldest tree in the world,” said Larsen. “In case something happens to me, I wish to tell you what is about to happen across the world.”
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