by Nick Carter
"Thank you," Carter said. "I appreciate your help.
But the captain had sat back down and had already gone back to his typing.
* * *
That evening Carter downed a heavy meal at the local hotel, then climbed into the Land-Rover and headed south, out of town, the car's big wheels pounding over the ruts on the dirt track.
He rounded the end of Eyjafjordur, the narrow inlet that formed Akureyri's waterway to the sea, then turned southeast toward the fireball sun into some of the most desolate, Godforsaken country he had ever seen.
Akureyri was within sixty miles of the Arctic Circle. No grass grew here away from the sea; there was only rock from one horizon to the other. Along the coasts there was occasional rain. Back here it hardly ever rained, and only a small amount of snow blew down from the mountains.
From the air, he'd thought the place looked stripped, desolate, a far outpost for the machinations of man. Once he'd landed and gotten some perspective on its true size, he thought the place seemed unreal… like a stage set for a play. But now, as the last view of Akureyri faded into the distance, and he confronted the land as a lone individual, he began to realize the true immensity of it.
In the far distance against the thin gray line of the horizon, a mountain lay like a deflated black bag, its top shorn off. Valleys dipped, hills rose, distinguishable only in shades of black, gray, and brown. There were no colors here, nothing but bland geometric land forms that seemed to stretch on forever.
Here was nature unadorned, he thought: denuded, like a woman without makeup. At first it was stunning, but then it was monotonous.
He drove for several hours but made only meager progress. The map was not very clear, and often the road got lost in dried creek beds, was blocked by fallen rock, or just petered out in a drift of pumice stone.
This had happened for the second time, and for the second time he had stopped, turned off the engine, and gotten out to kick through the bits of shale and lava rock, when his ears picked up an odd sound the wind brought from the north.
He turned and saw a speck on the horizon. He would have thought it was a bird or a gull except for the unmistakable chop of helicopter blades.
He scrambled back to the Land-Rover and gunned the engine to life. He made a wide loop until he came in contact with the road again, then pressed down on the accelerator. There was no time to lose. If they decided to fight it out with him, here in the open, he'd be a sitting duck. They could strafe him from the sky, and he'd have no place to duck.
The Land-Rover's heavy-duty springs bottomed out on the deep ruts, making it very difficult to drive. A rooster tail of dust fanned out behind him that was no doubt visible for miles, but it didn't matter. They'd seen him long before he had spotted them.
He kept his eye on the approaching machine. He hadn't counted on this. For some reason he'd envisioned this fight on the ground. He hadn't realized the landscape was so wide open, affording him so little cover…Goddamnit, he was slipping. Preparation. Wasn't that the unbending rule at Mesa Verde where AXE agents were trained? Now it looked as though he was going to have to pay for his lack of foresight.
He bounced up over a mound. Mount Askja was in the distance, stark, ancient, without a blade of grass to grace her flanks. He drove for the mountain, hoping there'd be someplace, anyplace for cover.
He pressed down even harder on the accelerator, speeding around a long, rock-strewn curve along the edge of a narrow ravine, wondering if the Land-Rover's tires would hold up much longer, when he spotted what appeared to be a building. It was almost midnight now, but the sun still lingered on the horizon. At these latitudes in midsummer it never went down. Shadows were long in the twilight, however, and the play of light and dark across the rocks easily tricked the eye, and yet, half a mile ahead on the right side of the road, a triangular shape jutted out of the landscape.
As he drew closer he could see that it was an A-frame cabin of some sort. The roof had been covered with rocks and ash to protect it from the elements, but the front wall had windows and a door. Behind him the chopper had made an abrupt about-face and was bearing down on him. It was still a long way off, but it was closing the gap very fast.
The house looked like the only hope on the barren landscape. He crunched to a halt in front of the place, grabbed his pack, and scrambled down the side of the road. The chopper's blades beat the air not far away. He glanced over his shoulder. It was heading directly up the valley, nose down, making the best time it could.
He raced for the front door on the tiny porch but stopped short at the top step. He looked back. The helicopter had slowed down. This was all wrong. Alarm bells were jangling along his nerves.
The house was the obvious place out here for him to run to. It was too neat, too convenient. He was getting the definite feeling that he had been herded to this place.
The chopper was only a few hundred yards out. The popcorn sound of rapid fire filled the air, and dust began to kick up behind him.
They weren't aiming right. They wanted him inside.
He stepped back off the porch, tossed his pack at the door, and dove to the left. A horrendous roar hammered his eardrums, and the ground bucked beneath him as the door burst outward in a tremendous blast of flame. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the opening as dust and debris fell like rain.
He scrambled back through the dense smoke and threw himself down at an odd angle in front of the door. Then he used a trick he'd learned on assignment in the Orient to twist his head into such a position that even the close observer would be convinced his neck was broken.
The only way to get them out of the sky, he told himself, was to convince them that their little trick had worked.
Dust scattered in the rotor wash as the helicopter set down a minute or two later. Carter had his Luger out of his holster, hidden at his side.
Someone came toward him, then stopped. His ears were still ringing from the blast. The toe of a boot jabbed him roughly in the side. He rolled over limply, being careful not to expose Wilhelmina.
The man wasn't sure. He hesitated, then bent down and pried Carter's eyelids apart. The man's expression was grim, businesslike, the look of a pro.
The realization that Carter was still alive hit him at the same moment the bullet from the Luger penetrated his heart.
His lips parted slightly, the eyes widened with surprise, and he looked as if he wanted to say something. He fell forward on top of Carter.
"Victor? Victor?" someone called anxiously from the helicopter.
Carter threw the body off at the same time the helicopter came to life and started to lift off. He got up on one knee and began firing, but the machine was gathering altitude and speed.
Carter kept on firing until the chopper was obviously out of range, then he went back to examine the man he had killed.
There was no identification on the body. The labels had been ripped out of his clothing. In his hand was a Luger much like Carter's, although from the look of it, it had probably been manufactured during the Second World War.
"Come on, Victor," Carter muttered as he holstered his Luger, lifted the body onto his shoulder, and carried it up to the Land-Rover. Victor had been a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and by the time Carter got him situated and the tailgate closed, he was breathing hard from the effort.
He trudged back to the front and looked up toward where the helicopter had disappeared. They wanted him dead pretty badly to stage something like this. It told him that indeed he was on to something.
* * *
"Is this our killer?" asked Captain Einarsson, blinking at the body in the back of the Land-Rover. Carter got the policeman's home address, called him, and then had gone out there. It was just four in the morning.
"I don't know if he killed Dr. Coatsworth." said Carter, "but he definitely tried to kill me a few hours ago."
"Never seen him before," said the captain, shaking his head. Einarsson had called for some police assistance after hearin
g from Carter, and he nodded to two sleepy officers standing nearby who pulled the body out of the back. "Of course, I don't know you either." He held out his hand. Carter handed over his Luger. "Let's go inside," Einarsson said.
They went into the man's tiny study at the back of the house, and Carter sat down in a small wooden chair as the captain set up a tape recorder. He laid Carter's gun on the desk, then flipped on the machine.
Without prompting. Carter told the story, leaving out only his true identity as an AXE agent. He pulled out his Amalgamated Press and Wire Service credentials and laid them on the desk along with his permit to carry the weapon.
When he finished, Einarsson flipped off the tape recorder, sat back, and looked at Carter.
"Just who are you?" he asked.
"I've already told you that, Captain. I'm a stringer with Amalgamated Press. You have my identification in front of you."
"I don't buy it."
"Call my office in Washington, D.C. My identity will be verified."
"I'm sure it would be. Which doesn't mean a damned thing."
"Do you have any reason to believe I'm not telling the truth?"
"Several reasons, as a matter of fact. Most reporters I've heard of don't go around with German Lugers under their coats. And most, although quite smart, wouldn't know a trap until it was far too late."
"Maybe I got lucky."
"Maybe." Einarsson's fingers pensively curled the corners of two sheets of paper in front of him. He seemed to be waiting for something.
Someone knocked on the door a few seconds later. Einarsson excused himself, got up, and left the room. He was gone for several minutes, during which time Carter gathered up his identification and Luger and pocketed them. When Einarsson returned, he perched on the edge of his desk. He did not seem very happy.
"That was the coroner. He's checked out this man you called Victor."
"And?"
"It's just a preliminary report. Confirms part of your story… that he was shot to death at close range. But Victor was a curious man."
Carter said nothing.
"The man's fingerprints were missing. They had been surgically removed. Some years ago, the doctor suggests."
The man was a pro, Carter thought.
"In the flesh of his underarm there was a small, surgically implanted pouch. It contained a capsule of cyanide. A thumbnail could have broken it, and the man would have died instantly. Your Victor was evidently a fanatic. No one has cyanide capsules surgically implanted for the hell of it. Now I'm going to ask you again, just who the hell are you?"
"I can't answer that, Captain. Let me just say that I'm here in Iceland as a private citizen, looking into the death of a very close friend. Believe me. I'm just as surprised about this as you are."
"Not good enough, Carter. There's been a murder in my jurisdiction. We don't get many crimes of that seriousness up here. Once every ten years or so one of the local fishermen gets drunk and kills his wife's lover. Open and shut. But I can't hide something like this in a file like they would in a big city. My ass is on the line here. People are going to ask questions."
Carter sighed. "I'll make a deal with you, "he said. "I'm going to need some room to maneuver, and I'm going to need some friends in high places. If you give me the leeway and work with me on this, I promise you that you will be the first to know anything I know. You may not be able to put it in your files, but at least you'll know."
Einarsson picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. "That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?"
Carter nodded. "I'm afraid so. You could have me arrested…"
"And you'd stay in jail until you rotted without saying a word. Provided you weren't released on orders from higher up."
Carter shrugged.
Einarsson sighed deeply. "I'm not going to try to hold you. I don't think it'd do me any good. But I will hold you to your promise. Not much happens up here, but I can make a lot of waves down in Reykjavik if need be."
Carter got up. "Thanks. I won't forget my promise."
Einarsson smiled. "If anyone ever murders me, I'd like to think that someone like you would be on the case."
Carter smiled, and left.
Three
Carter drove through the clean, broad streets of Akureyri until he found a pleasant-looking hotel by the waterfront. He had a multitude of things on his mind, each one of them an unanswered question. He had not slept in almost twenty-four hours, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to think straight.
He checked in and went up to his room, leaving strict instructions with the desk clerk that he was not to be disturbed. Once upstairs, he locked the door, fell onto the bed fully clothed, and slept. It was shortly after five in the morning.
* * *
When he awoke, he called the desk and had some coffee sent up. It was just 9:30 A.M., and although he had slept only a little more than four hours, he felt somewhat refreshed.
He got the operator and had her place a long-distance call. Petur Tomasson was in his office. He answered on the second ring.
"This is Carter. Have you found anything?
"I've been trying to get in contact with you," Tomasson shouted excitedly. "I've found something, I think, in Dr. Coatsworth's photographs."
"Just a rock formation, wasn't it?"
"That's what I thought at first, but I kept thinking about it. I had a feeling, don't you see, that I was missing something. And then I had it. The water…"
"What about the water?"
"She was liming the water's movement. Its vertical rise and fall against the rocks."
"The tide…" Carter started, but Tomasson interrupted him impatiently.
"No… no, not the tide. Something else. An upwelling of sorts. She was timing the upwellings."
"I still don't understand." Carter said, frustrated. "I'm not a geologist."
"I'll try to put it as simply as I can. Dr. Coatsworth was evidently studying some kind of an underwater eruption. She found… I think… that the phenomenon was not natural. It was man-made."
"What do you think is going on — if it's not volcanic?"
Tomasson hesitated for a moment as if he were having trouble getting the words just right. "Someone wants to disguise the fact that geothermal power is being siphoned from the hot springs outside of Reykjavik."
"Can you explain that a little more?"
"Well, beneath Iceland, there is what we call the geothermal-aquifer-interface. The lower volcanic action heats up the mid-level water layers, which in turn erupts on the surface as usable steam. And someone is tapping into it."
Carter whistled into the phone. "Are you sure about this?"
"Reasonably."
"So that's what she found. No wonder they wanted her dead."
"Who. Mr. Carter? Who's 'they'?"
"I don't know. But whoever it was took a stab at killing me earlier today."
"This is madness. We have to go to the authorities. I can tell them everything. I'm not afraid."
"Afraid of what?" Carter said, holding his voice very steady. Tomasson evidently was on to something.
"I think I know who could have wanted Lydia dead. About a week ago, two members of the Althing Energy Commission came to see me. They said our geothermal energy could be depleting itself. I laughed, of course, but they said the steam vents outside Reykjavik had lessened in intensity. They were having to run the turbines continuously to make up for the loss in power. They said that if something wasn't done soon, the entire city would be in trouble."
"What else did they say?" Carter prompted after a moment.
"They were concerned, naturally. But they also seemed worried. Their engineers had studied the problem and concluded that the fissure venting the steam was collapsing very far underground. Nothing that they knew of could be done. They were hiding the information, of course, from the public until they could decide on some alternative plan. That's why they came to the university… to me, so quietly. They did not want to arouse any s
uspicions." Again Tomasson fell silent.
"Is mere more?" Carter asked.
"Yes," the man replied. "For a number of years there have been people here who have wanted to develop nuclear power as an alternative energy source. Come into the twentieth century, they say. But it's the big profits they're really interested in. The Energy Commission people were afraid that this decrease in available geothermal energy would help the nuclear proponents. They pleaded with me to do an independent study to see if there wasn't some way to reverse the trend."
"And you assigned the job to Lydia?"
"Yes," Tomasson said. "There are natural fluctuations in the energy levels. It happens all the time. I thought this was another such event. I didn't think it too important."
"Lydia got caught in the middle of the political haggling over nuclear power?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Who are the leaders on this nuclear thing?"
"Members of the Althing. Representatives of Iceland's big business… even members of the Energy Commission."
"Thorstein Josepsson?"
"Yes," Tomasson said. "In fact Josepsson is the leading proponent of the 'nuclear alternative', as they call it."
Carter whistled.
"What is it?" Tomasson asked. He was clearly worried.
"Josepsson was the one who notified me that Lydia was dead. She had been carrying a letter for me in her pocket. He forwarded it. But when I showed up, he seemed very nervous. In fact after I had spoken with him, someone followed me when I went to the university and met you, and while we were talking, my hotel room was entered, my luggage searched, and my personal belongings vandalized."
"You think Josepsson was responsible?"
"It's possible. As I said, they even tried to kill me about nine hours ago."
Both men were silent for a few seconds while Carter's mind raced to take in all the implications of what he had been told. Then Tomasson asked. "You say you were followed yesterday."
"Yes," Carter said.