by Nick Carter
It had occurred to him that since Iceland derived all of its energy from geothermal sources, the Icelandic Internal Energy Commission's responsibilities concerned the steam wells located in the lava beds, and now, as the chimneyless buildings of Reykjavik rushed toward him through the speeding cab's windows, he wondered if there wasn't some connection between Thorstein Josepsson, Iceland's Internal Energy Commission, and whatever project Lydia had been working on when she died.
The university campus consisted of four monolithic buildings set into a barren, rock-strewn field on the south side of the city. The cab pulled up in front of the largest of these, and Carter paid the driver and headed up the sidewalk toward the main entrance. A young student with long blond hair was just coming out of the building, and he stopped her to ask where he might find the geology department. She smiled enchantingly and motioned toward the second building down, which she said housed all the natural sciences.
He thanked her, marveling at the ease with which everyone here spoke English. Icelandic is basically Old Norse, which the Vikings spoke in the tenth century. It is a complicated, highly inflected language with several consonants foreign to English. Although Carter spoke a little Danish, and understood both Swedish and Norwegian, he was thankful he did not have to converse with people here in their native tongue.
The door to the geology department's administrative office was one of a series along a narrow corridor. Carter was about to open it and go in when something on the wall outside caught his eye. Pinned to a bulletin board, framed in black, was a photo of Lydia. Although it wasn't exactly as he remembered her, he figured it must have been the snapshot she submitted with her application. Probably an old school picture. He'd known a mature woman, eyes full of knowledge of the world… frank yet bittersweet, the corners of her mouth slightly lined. And yet here was the photograph of a young woman… cheeks blooming, a gleaming smile, eyes bright and full of promise. She looked very innocent and very beautiful. It was hard to believe that she was dead.
"Pity, isn't it?" asked a lanky, red-haired man who had stopped to study Carter while Carter studied the photograph.
Carter looked at him.
"Did you know her?"
"Yes, I did."
"In America?"
"Yes, there," Carter said. "You worked with her here?"
"We were colleagues. I am Dr. Petur Tomasson. You?" he said, extending his hand.
Carter shook it. "Nick Carter. I think you're the man I came here to speak with."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lydia wrote me of you. And of her work. I'd like to know more about both. Is there someplace we can talk?"
Tomasson looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "This way," he said. He went down the corridor, around a corner, and through a steel door with a thick quartz window set into it at eye level. "The lab," Tomasson said tersely. "My office is in the rear."
They went through the lab, which was filled with a variety of modem, up-to-date, and very expensive equipment, while Carter explained about Lydia's letter.
"And now you've come to me to see if I know what it is she found, is that it?" asked Tomasson.
They came into his tiny cubicle of an office, which was nothing more than a tiny room, filled with books and journals, containing a worktable and two chairs.
Tomasson went behind the table and sat down, motioning for Carter to take the other chair.
"She seemed concerned, and now she's dead," Carter said, sitting down. "I'd like to know what she was working on."
Tomasson shrugged. "But I have no idea. None whatsoever. Several days before her accident, we talked about a project I've been working on, which is not at all related to what happened. I'm sure. I needed her input on some ideas I'd come up with, and she gave her ideas as freely as she always did. But I'm sure if she'd found anything 'incredible, as she reported to you in her letter, she would have said something. We had no secrets from one another, professionally, that is."
"Maybe she thought what she found was potentially dangerous. Maybe she thought she was protecting you by not saying anything."
"Perhaps," said Tomasson, touching a match to the tobacco in his pipe.
"Just what was she working on?"
"There has been some new volcanic activity a bit offshore of the Reykjanes Peninsula. Not far from here, actually. That sort of thing was right down her alley."
"But she was in the interior when she died. Miles from the ocean."
"That's true. I have no idea what she could have been doing there."
"Would it be possible to see where she was… where she died?"
Tomasson had picked up the hesitation. "You don't think it was an accident, do you."
"I don't know. Can I get to the site?"
The man was silent for a long moment. "Yes, it's possible to go there. One has to have a Land-Rover — and some equipment, of course. She died in a rather inaccessible place. It would also help to have someone along who knew the area."
Carter played with a pencil for a moment, thinking. "Did Lydia have an office here?"
"Yes, she did, as did all of the staff. But I believe we sent her personal effects to her family in Ohio."
"What about her notes, her scientific data, that sort of thing?"
"It all belongs to the university, Mr. Carter."
"I understand that. Is it still here?"
"Yes. It's still in her office."
"May I see it?"
Tomasson got to his feet and opened the door of his office. "I have a feeling if I said no, you'd see it anyway." He beckoned to Carter, and they walked across the lab. Several students had shown up to use the small seismographic laboratory and developing room to one side of the lab, and they all looked up with curiosity. Tomasson ignored them, puffing on his pipe in a preoccupied way. The revelation of Lydia's letter seemed to have disturbed him.
Lydia's office was only slightly smaller than Tomasson's and differed in layout only in that it had a window that looked out across the parking lot, and to the ocean beyond.
"There's nothing here," Carter said. The shelves were bare, and the desk had been stripped of everything except a lamp.
"Most of it was either sent to her relatives or returned to university stock. Reference books, tools, that sort of thing."
Carter pulled out several of the desk drawers, which were mostly empty. The large bottom drawer, however, was locked. "What about this one?"
Tomasson came around the desk. "I forgot all about it. It's locked. I was hoping the key would turn up. But I got busy and it slipped my mind."
Carter took a thin metal pick from the seam of his wallet and inserted it into the lock. In a few moments it popped open.
Tomasson said nothing, but his lips were compressed.
Carter poured the contents of the drawer onto the desk top and rummaged through the files and papers until he found a sealed manila envelope with photos inside. He pushed the rest of the papers to one side to make room for them.
"What's this?" Tomasson asked, his professional curiosity piqued.
"Your guess is as good as mine." Carter said. "Any ideas?"
"It's some kind of a time sequence," Tomasson said, studying the photos. "The times are stamped." He shuffled through the photos, laying them in order.
Carter noticed the date stamped on the shots. It was the day before she died.
"This was probably the fissure she was studying. She did mention something about it."
"These were taken the day before she died. One day at the seashore. The next inland. Isn't that odd?"
Tomasson shook his head. "I don't know. But I would not go looking for deep dark plots, Mr. Carter. We are scientists here, not spies."
"Still, it's odd."
"Yes," Tomasson admitted. He was staring at the photos.
"Do these photos mean anything to you? Do they fit in with what it was she was working on?"
"I don't know. It'll take some analyzing."
"Will you do it?"
>
"Yes. It may take a few hours. Maybe a day."
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'm going to rent myself a Land-Rover and a guide."
Tomasson looked up. "Let me give you a word of advice, Mr. Carter. Sometimes strange things happen here. I don't want to unduly alarm you, but I do want you to be careful."
"Thank you."
Tomasson nodded, then started gathering up the photos.
Carter telephoned for a cab from the lobby of the university's main building, and while he waited for it to come he did some thinking. He was certain now that Lydia had not met with any accident, although he did not really know what made him so sure. It was just a very strong hunch.
He was also reasonably sure that Josepsson had something to do with whatever political trouble Lydia had mentioned. The man was hiding something, definitely hiding something, and it was time. Carter thought, to begin drawing the man out.
The cab came, and as they started down the highway that led into Reykjavik, a small, black Lancia pulled out behind them.
Two
When they arrived at the Borg Hotel, Carter got out and was paying the driver when he noticed the Lancia parked just down the street. He went upstairs to his room.
As he opened the door he saw a small piece of notepaper he'd stuck in the doorjamb. It had fallen out. Someone had been in the room since he had left.
The place looked untouched, but he took out his gun and carefully checked the bathroom and closet. No one was there. From beneath his bed he pulled out his suitcase. Both locks had been forced, and every piece of clothing had been shredded. The lining of the suitcase had been ripped out all the way to the leather.
This had been no casual search. This was harassment, pure and simple, and whoever had done it felt no need to be subtle.
He went to the telephone and dialed for the operator. "Desk," said a mellow female voice.
"This is Carter in six-oh-eight. Someone's been in my room, and whoever it was used a master key. There's no sign the lock has been tampered with."
"Sir, the maid service enters each room about midday."
"Since when does the maid service shred clothing and destroy suitcases? Please send up your security people."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
He slammed the phone down. He could ignore this, he thought. Obviously this tactic was intended to frighten him, but whoever was responsible didn't know Carter. Letting it slide wouldn't be in keeping with his cover as an average citizen. Besides, the use of the master key implied the hotel had allowed it to happen, and he wanted to see what would come of raising a little hell with the management.
While he waited for the hotel to react, he called the coroner's office. A pleasant-sounding young woman told him in perfect English that any information he might require concerning the location of Lydia Coatsworth's accident would have to be obtained from the local authorities — in this case the police of Akureyri, the major town of Northern Iceland, about an hour from Reykjavik by air.
He hung up and placed a second call to the travel agency office in the hotel lobby. He made a reservation on a domestic Icelandic Airlines flight to Akureyri at 3:00 that afternoon and arranged to have a Land-Rover from one of the local outing clubs waiting for him when he arrived.
As he hung up from talking to the travel agency, a brisk knock sounded at the door. He opened it to find two men standing in the corridor. One was large, grim, and had a handshake like a vise. He introduced himself as the house detective. The other was smaller, more nervous, and his hands were noticeably damp. His name, he said, was Magnus Thoroddson. He was the assistant manager.
"Come in, gentlemen," said Carter. "I'd like to show you something." He motioned them over to the suitcase that lay open on the bed. "I returned from a business meeting a few moments ago, and this is what I came back to."
The detective lifted out a sport shirt that had been slashed. "I didn't see any evidence that the door had been forced," the man said. "Did you lend your key to someone?"
"Of course not." Carter snapped petulantly. "In point of feet, obviously a master key was used. "He said this looking directly at the assistant manager.
Thoroddson looked away, frowning. He gingerly picked out a pair of designer jeans that looked as though they'd been caught in a lawnmower. "Why are you in Iceland. Mr. Carter?" he asked pointedly.
"I'm investigating the death of a friend."
"I see. Apparently someone doesn't want you to investigate it."
"That thought crossed my mind." said Carter.
"Then it is a private matter between you and the party, whoever it is, who doesn't want you here. It has nothing to do with the hotel."
"A master key was used. Surely this indicates some negligence on the part of your hotel."
"We have many master keys. Every maid carries one," the house detective said.
"Let's discuss it with your staff, in that case," Carter said, raising his voice.
"There is no need to become angry, Mr. Carter," Thoroddson said hastily. "The hotel will make full restitution, of course, provided that you find other accommodations within twenty-four hours."
"No need for that," Carter said stiffly. "I've decided to leave in any event."
"I see," said Thoroddson. "In that case there will be no bill, of course. Within an hour there will be a check for you at the desk to cover the damages. I'm terribly sorry this happened."
"Why haven't you called the police?" Carter asked. "It seems obvious that a crime has been committed."
Thoroddson cast an uncomfortable glance at the detective. "That's certainly an option." he said. "If you wish to call them, by all means…
"I have a feeling I wouldn't get much satisfaction from them, either. Thank you for your time. I'll pack what few intact belongings I have left and check out immediately."
The two men turned and went to the door.
"You can tell Josepsson that it's going to take a lot more than ruining my wardrobe to frighten me out of Iceland," Carter said.
"I… I beg your pardon," said the assistant manager, turning back.
"Just pass along the message," Carter said. When they were gone he closed and locked his door.
He grabbed his coat, slutted his mutilated clothing back into the suitcase, and fastened it as best he could. He left the hotel by the rear exit, throwing his suitcase into a trash bin in the alley.
When he reached the sidewalk, the black Lancia was idling at the curb, the driver casually reading a newspaper. He came up to the driver's window and tapped. The man rolled it down, his eyes round. Carter stuck the Luger in his face.
"Tell your boss to back off," he said. "I'll find out what happened to Lydia Coatsworth… you can assure him of that."
The man swallowed hard but said nothing.
"And stop following me."
The driver nodded but held his silence.
Carter holstered his gun and headed away. The Lancia remained where it was parked.
He started walking and found a small sporting goods store on a back street half a mile away. Inside he told the clerk that he was planning a trip to see the glaciers in the center of the island and needed a complete outfitting. It had been a slow day, and the clerk gave him his undivided attention. Within a short time. Carter had purchased a sleeping bag, a wardrobe of heavy clothing, hiking boots, a compass, line and other things, including packs to carry the gear.
He took a cab out to the airport, and a couple of hours later he was looking down from ten thousand feet on a delta of dry creeks and branches that extended over the landscape like nerve endings. Then the wing flaps ground down, and the plane began its descent into Akureyri.
He had left a clear trail, he thought. Any amateur would know where he was going. He only hoped that he'd made himself appear dangerous enough to whoever was behind all this to warrant the effort of being killed.
He didn't know for certain that it had been Josepsson, although he felt from their conversation in the restaurant that the man was i
mplicated in some way. But whoever it was would have to tip his hand when he sent in the assassin.
They landed, and Carter picked up the Land-Rover. He drove directly to the local police headquarters, where the officer at the front desk greeted him pleasantly enough until he gathered that Carter had come to turn what had already been declared an accident into a possible murder case, at which time his demeanor cooled noticeably, and Carter was referred brusquely to a Captain Einar Einarsson.
The captain, a tall, husky man, was busy in a back room when Carter came in. He looked up and listened to Carter's request, then turned from his typing with a patient sigh and asked Carter to have a seat.
"Mr. Carter, your story and suspicions are interesting, but Dr. Coatsworth was not murdered near Reykjavik and her body transported to Akureyri as you suggest. I was the officer in charge of the investigation, and I can say with certainty that is not the way it happened."
"I see," Carter said. Instinctively he liked the man.
"Dr. Coatsworth died at the foot of Mount Askja, some one hundred kilometers from here. The time of her death and the time of the discovery of her body were much too close together to allow her to have been taken from one place to another."
"Unless she had been packed in ice, perhaps, her body cooled before it was transported." Carter suggested.
"Highly unlikely. Besides, it seems like a lot of trouble to disguise a murder scene."
"What about the people who discovered her? Can their stories be believed?"
"Members of the local outing club. All of them friends of mine. Known them all my life. They are telling the truth."
"I'd still like to look into it myself."
"I don't have the manpower…"
"If you could just show me where her body was found. Perhaps you have a map? It would be a great help."
Einarsson shook his head. "I do not know who you are, Mr. Carter, but very well." He got up and produced a map from a file cabinet. He brought it back to his desk. Carter got to his feet.
"Here." the captain said, pointing to a spot inland. "Her body was just here." He marked the spot with a penciled cross.