"I wondered why the children appeared so unconcerned when sitting next to a corpse."
"Death to us is merely a separation, and only a visual one at that. For you see," the doctor's hand pointed through a large picture window at the gravestones in the churchyard, "they who went before us are still here."
Pitt stared several moments at the grave markers, all rising on their individual crooked angles among the green mossy grass. Then his attention was caught by the farmer, who was carrying a handcrafted pine coffin to the Land Rover. He watched attentively as the big, silent man lifted Hunnewell's form into the traditional tapered box with all the strength and tenderness of a new father with a baby.
"What is the farmer's name?" Pitt asked.
"Mundsson, Thorsteinn Mundsson. His son's name is Bjarni."
Pitt stared through the window until the coffin was pushed onto the truckbed. Then he turned away.
"I'll always wonder if Dr. Hunnewell would still be alive if I'd done things differently."
"Who will ever know? Remember, my friend, if you had been born ten minutes sooner or ten minutes later, your path might never have crossed his."
Pitt smiled. "I get what you mean. But the fact is, his life was in my hands, and I fumbled and lost it." He hesitated, seeing the scene again in his mind. "On the beach I passed out for half an hour after I bandaged his arm. If I had stayed awake, he might not have bled to death."
"Put your conscience to rest. Your Dr. Hunnewell did not die from loss of blood. It was the shock of his injury, the shock of your crash, the shock of below freezing sea water. No, I'm certain an autopsy will show that his aging heart gave out long before his blood. He was getting on in years, and he was not, from what I could determine, a physically athletic man."
"He was a scientist, an oceanographer, the best."
"Then I envy him."
Pitt looked at the village physician speculatively.
"Why do you say that?"
"He was a man of the sea, and he died by the sea he loved, and perhaps his last 'thoughts were as serene as the water."
"He talked of God," Pitt murmured.
"He was fortunate, yet I feel I will be fortunate when my time comes to be laid to rest over there in the churchyard only a hundred steps from where I was born and among so many of the people I have loved and cared for."
"I wish I could share your affinity for staying in one spot, Doctor, but somewhere in the distant past one of my ancestors was a gypsy. I've inherited his wandering ways. Three years is my all-time record for living in the same location."
"An interesting question; which of us is the most fortunate?"
Pitt shrugged. "Who can tell? We both hear the beat of a different drummer."
"In Iceland," Jonsson said, "we follow the lure of a different fisherman."
"You missed your true calling, Doctor. You should have been a poet."
"Ah, but I am a poet." Dr. Jonsson laughed. "Every village has at least four or five. You will have to search far and wide for a more literate country than Iceland. Over five hundred thousand books are sold annually to two hundred thousand people, our entire population-" He broke off as the door opened and two men walked in. They stood calm, efficient and very official in their police uniforms. One nodded a greeting to the doctor, and Pitt suddenly got the entire picture.
"You needn't have been secretive about calling the police, Dr. Jonsson. I have nothing to conceal from anyone."
"No offense, but Dr. Hunnewell's arm was obviously mangled by gun shots. I've treated enough injured hunters to know the correct signs. The law is explicit, as I'm sure it is in your country. I must report all bullet wounds."
Pitt didn't like it much, but he had little option.
The two muscular policemen standing before him would hardly buy a story about a phantom black jet attacking and shooting the Ulysses full of holes before being rammed in midair. A connection betAeen the derelict in the iceberg and the jet was neither coincidental nor accidental. He was certain now that what started out as a simple search for a missing ship had turned out to be an unwanted involvement in a complex, farflung conspiracy. He was tired-tired of lying, sick of the whole goddamn mess. only one thought gripped his mind: Hunnewell was dead, and someone had to pay.
"Were you the pilot of the helicopter that crashed, sir?" one of the policemen inquired. An ut]Mistakable British accent and a courteous tone, but the "sir" seemed forced.
"Yes," was all Pitt answered.
The policemen seemed taken aback for a moment by Pitts terse reply. He was blond, had dirty fingernails, and was dressed in a uniform that left his wrists and ankles showing. "Your name, and the name of the deceased?"
"Pitt, Major Dirk Pitt, United States Air Force.
The man in the coffin was Dr. William Hunnewell, National Underwater Marine Agency." Pitt thought it strange that neither policeman made an attempt to write the information down.
"Your destination? It was undoubtedly the airfield at Keflavik?"
"No, the heliport in Reykjavik."
A flicker of surprise crossed the blond policeman's eyes. It was barely perceptible, but Pitt caught it. The interrogator turned to his partner, a dark-skinned, burly character with glasses, and said something in Icelandic.
He swung his head toward the Land Rover outside, scowled noticeably, then turned back to Pitt.
"Could you tell me your departure point, sir?"
"Greenland-couldn't give you the name of the town. It's spelled with twenty letters, and to an American it's totally unpronounceable. Dr. Hunnewell and I were on an expedition for our government, charting icebergs in the East Greenland Current. The idea was to crisscross the Denmark Strait by refueling at Reykjavik and then head back west to Greenland on a parallel course fifty miles further north. Unfortunately we didn't plan well, ran out of fuel and crashed on the coast.
That's all, give or take a few details." Pitt lied without knowing exactly why. God, he thought, it's becoming a habit.
"Where exactly did you crash?"
"How the hell should I know," Pitt said unpleasantly. "Go three blocks past the cow pasture and turn left at Broadway. The helicopter is parked between the third and fourth waves. It's painted yellow; you can't miss it."
"Please be reasonable, sir." Pitt took satisfaction at the sudden flame in the policeman's face. "We must have all the details in order to make a report to our superior."
"Then why don't you stop beating around the bush and ask about Dr. Hunnewell's bullet wounds?" The official facial expression on the dark-skinned policeman cracked in a stifled yawn. Pitt stared at Dr. Jonsson.
"You did say that's the reason they're here?"
"It is my duty to cooperate with the law." Jonsson seemed hesitant to speak.
"Suppose you explain your comrade's wound," said dirty nails.
"We were carrying a rifle to shoot polar bears," Pitt said slowly.
"It accidentally discharged in the crash, the bullet striking dr. Hunnewell in the elbOw."
As far as Pitt could see, the two Icelandic policemen weren't reacting at all to his sarcasm. They stood quiet, looking at him with impatient speculationspeculation, Pitt thought, at how they would subdue him if he resisted any physical demands on their part.
He didn't have to wait long.
"I am sorry, sir, but you force us to take you to our headquarters for further interrogation."
"The only place you'll take me is to the American consulate in Reykjavik. I have committed no crime against the people of Iceland nor broken any of your laws."
"I am quite familiar with our laws, Major Pitt. We do not relish getting out of bed at this time of morning for an investigation. The questions are necessary. You have not answered them to our satisfaction, so we must take you to our headquarters until we can determine what happened. There you will be free to call your consulate."
"In due time, Officer, but first, would you mind identifying yourselves?"
"I do not understand." The policeman
stared coldly at Pitt. "Why should we identify ourselves? It is obvious what we are. Dr. Jonsson can vouch for our authenticity." He offered no papers or the usual police identification card. All he showed was his irritation.
"There is no doubt as to your official capacity, gentlemen," Jonsson said in an almost apologetic tone.
"However, Sergeant Amarson usually patrols our village. I do not believe I have seen you come through our village before."
"Amarson had an emergency call in Grindavik.
He asked us to answer your call until he could arrive."
"Are you being transferred to this territory?"
"No, we were just passing through on our way to the north to pick up a prisoner. We stopped in to say hello and have a cup of coffee with Sergeant Amarson.
Unfortunately, before the pot became hot, he received your call and the one from Grindavik almost simultaneously."
"Then wouldn't it be wise to hold Major Pitt until the sergeant arrives?"
"No, I think not. Nothing can be accomplished here." He turned to Pitt. "My apologies, Major. Please do not be angry at our, how do you say it in your country, running you in." He turned to Jonsson. "I think it best if you came along too Doctor, in case the Major has complications from his wounds. It's merely a formality."
A strange formality, Pitt thought, considering the circumstances. He had little choice but to comply with the policeman's wishes. "What about Dr. Hunnewell?"
"We will ask Sergeant Amarson to send a lorry for him."
Jonsson smiled, almost diffidently. "Forgive me, gentlemen, I haven't quite finished with the major's head wound. I have two more stitches to insert before he is ready for travel. If you please, Major." He stood aside and motioned Pitt back into the examining room, closing the door.
"I thought you were all through butchering me," Pitt said good-naturedly.
"Those men are imposters," Jonsson whispered.
Pitt said nothing. There was no surprise on his face as he stepped softly over to the door, put an ear against it and listened. Satisfied when he could hear voices across the next room, he came back and faced Jonsson.
"You're positive?"
"Yes, Sergeant Amarson does not patrol Grindavik. Also, he never drinks coffee-his system is allergic to it, so he'refuses even to stock it in his kitchen."
"Your sergeant, does he stand five foot nine and weigh about one hundred and seventy pounds?"
"To the inch and within five pounds-he is an old friend. I have examined him many times." Jonsson's eyes clouded with puzzlement. "How could you describe a man you have never met?"
"The character who does all the talking is wearing Amarson's uniform. If you look closely, you can see the outlines where the sergeant stripes used to rest on the sleeve."
"I do not understand," Jonsson said in a whisper.
His face was very pale. "What is happening?"
"I don't have half the answers. Sixteen, maybe as many as nineteen men have died, and the killing will probably go on. I'd guess Sergeant Amarson was the latest victim. You and I are next."
Jonsson looked stricken, his hands clenched and unclenched in bewilderment and despair. "You mean I must die because I have seen and talked with two murderers?"
"I'm afraid, Doctor, that you're an innocent bystander that must be eliminated simply because you can recognize their faces."
"And you, Major, why have they concocted such an elaborate, scheme to kill you?"
"Dr. Hunnewell and I also saw something that we shouldn't have."
Jonsson stared into Pitts impassive face. "it would be impossible to murder us both without creating excitement in the village. Iceland is a small country. A fugitive could not run very far nor hide very long."
"These men are no doubt professionals when it comes to killing Someone is paying them and paying them well. An hour after we're dead, they'll probably be relaxing with a drink in one hand aboard a jetliner bound for either Copenhagen, London or Montreal."
"They seem lax for professional assassins."
"They can afford to be. Where can we go? Their car and Mundsson's truck are in front of the house-they'd easily cut us off before we could open a door." Pitt swung a hand toward a window. "Iceland is open country. There aren't ten trees within fifty miles. You said it yourself, a fugitive could not run very far nor hide very long."
Jonsson bowed his head in silent acceptance, then he grinned faintly. "'Then our only alternative is to fight. It is going to be difficult taking a life after spending thirty years trying to save them."
"Do you have any firearms?"
Jonsson sighed heavily. "No, my bobby is fishing, not bunting. The only equipment I possess that might be classed as weapons are my surgical instruments."
Pitt walked over to a white steel-framed, glasspaneled cabinet that held an assortment of neatly arranged medical instruments and drugs, and opened the door. "We have one convenient advantage," he said thoughtfully. "They don't know we're wise to their nasty little plot. Therefore, we shall introduce them to a good old American game known as Pin the Tali on the Donkey."
Only two more minutes had elapsed when Jonsson opened the door to the examining room, revealing Pitt parked on a stool holding a bandage to his bleeding head. Jonsson motioned to the blond man who spoke English.
"Could you please assist me for a moment? I am afraid that I need a third hand."
The man raised his eyebrow questioningly, then shrugged to his partner, who sat with his eyes half closed, his over-confidence giving birth to thoughts a thousand miles away.
Jonsson, keeping any suspicion at a low level, purposely left the door slightly ajar, but not enough to allow vision of more than a fraction of the examining room. "If you could hold the major's head on a slight angle with both hands, then I can finish without interruption.
He keeps twitching and ruining any chance for a neat stitch job." Jonsson winked and then spoke in Icelandic. "These Americans are like children when it comes to pain."
The fraudulent policeman laughed and nudged the doctor with his elbow. Then he walked around in front of Pitt, bent down and gripped Pitts head with both hands on the temples. "Come, come, Major Pitt, a few stitches are nothing. What if the good doctor had to amputate your-" It was all over in less than four seconds-silently.
With seeming indifference and nonchalance, Pitt reached up his hands and grabbed the blond man around the wrists. 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.
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.
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