by Chris Angus
“Just listen and you’ll figure it out,” said Sam. She nodded at Hauptmann to continue.
“Denmark was occupied by Nazi Germany on April 9, 1940,” the owl-eyed professor went on. “Communications between Denmark and Iceland were severed, and the latter declared its neutrality, creating the Alpingi, Iceland’s parliament. A month later, British military forces invaded with twenty-five thousand troops. A year after that, some forty thousand American troops, commanded by Major General Charles Bonesteel, replaced the British. In 1943, as the tide of the war turned against Germany and it was felt there was no longer any fear of a German invasion, U.S. troops were withdrawn.” Hauptmann stared at Ryan balefully. “Prematurely, as it turns out.”
Ryan looked nonplussed. “You’re saying the Nazis came back?”
“In a manner of speaking . . . yes. Though no one knew about it until I uncovered it,” he said proudly. “All American ground troops were withdrawn, except for some coastal artillery, anti-aircraft, and a small naval presence.”
Now, Ryan was completely bewildered. He couldn’t fathom what the professor was getting at.
“I’ve been studying the log books of several German U-boats that made repeated trips to Iceland during the American occupation. After most of the Americans withdrew in 1943, there was a sudden uptick in submarine visits . . . and here is where it really gets interesting. The U-boats were taking German geologists, volcanologists, and explosives experts to Iceland, dropping them off secretly in remote bays and then picking them up later on. It appears that quite an enormous amount of material was transported to the island, as well.”
Ryan began to get interested in the tale now. He leaned forward. “What on earth were they up to?” he asked.
“The precise details have taken a great deal of time to unravel,” said Hauptmann. “And it requires a certain amount of interpretation. It was a scheme so fantastic as to be difficult to believe. All formulated in the mind of the German Reich Minister, Hermann Goering, and under the direction of a young Nazi geologist named Kraus. He had studied in Iceland before the war. Indeed, he wrote a monograph on the explosions at Laki. Kraus knew everything there was to know about the volcano.”
“Specifically,” Sam suddenly chimed in, “the devastating effects the 1783 eruption had on England and Europe.”
Suddenly, Ryan had a glimmer of what they were talking about.
“In 1783, twenty-three thousand British people died from inhaling the sulfurous gases released by Laki in just August and September. Many thousands more were killed by the severe winter of 1784, which affected Britain, France and . . . yes, Germany. A lingering fog hung over the Channel and much of North America as well.” The professor halted theatrically. “Are you beginning to see, my friend?”
It was almost too bizarre to take seriously. But Ryan did see. “You’re saying the Nazis wanted to try to make Laki erupt again in order to affect the outcome of the war.”
“Yes!” Hauptmann struck his desk with a loud bang. “Very good. That is precisely what they wanted to do. They believed the eruption would completely disrupt allied shipping over the North Atlantic, that it would demoralize and kill many of the British people, and would even make any Allied attempt at an invasion across the Channel impossible. It was the most audacious of plans!”
Ryan slumped in his chair. He looked from the professor to Sam and back again. “How . . . how in the world could they cause an eruption?”
Hauptmann nodded patiently. “Indeed, their understanding of volcanic structure was not good. We’ve learned a great deal since then. Basically, they intended to place huge amounts of explosives in the crater and set them off. Simple . . . but highly unlikely to be effective. Certainly not with the sort of explosives they had access to at the time.”
“In fact, it was an utterly crazy idea,” said Sam. “To set off massive explosions in such an unstable area could cause any number of unforeseen chain reactions, earthquakes, minor eruptions, gas emissions, lava flows, subglacial eruptions. The list goes on and probably one of the least likely outcomes would be a precise repeat of what occurred in 1783.”
“So what happened? Did they actually carry the plan out?”
Hauptmann shrugged for the first time. “This I have not been able to determine. Obviously, there’s no record of an eruption during the war, so if they set off their explosions, they didn’t have the desired effect. My former student here,” he smiled at Sam, “has been keeping an eye out for any signs of damage from explosives or residue from that period.”
“But I’ve found nothing,” she injected.
“Viking burials excepted,” Ryan said. “It’s utterly fantastical.”
“Not at all,” said Hauptmann. “The Nazis tried all sorts of things during the war. They were extraordinarily inventive. A vortex gun that used a combination of coal dust and a virtual tornado of air to bring down planes, tanks that ran underwater using snorkels, the largest glider ever conceived that could carry hundreds of troops and even tanks, a one-man rocket that launched vertically, traveled at six hundred miles an hour to an altitude of thirty thousand feet, then glided back to earth, firing rockets at enemy aircraft. Hitler loved these schemes, the crazier the better.”
Ryan thought for a moment. “Could this . . . eruption scheme . . . have anything to do with the men who’ve been interested in Sam’s work on Laki?”
“I’m convinced there must be a connection,” said Sam, “though what it could be escapes me.” She turned to the professor. “Tell him about the saga.”
Hauptmann looked off into space. “What do you know about the sagas?”
Again, Ryan looked baffled. “They were stories about early Viking history, weren’t they? Written in Old Norse. No one knows how accurate they are.”
“Yes, you are partly correct. Actually, they are epic tales in prose of heroic deeds from the distant past, about ancient Scandinavian and German history, as well as the Vikings. They relate the early Viking voyages to Iceland and tell of feuds between Icelandic families, tales of kings, commoners, and larger-than-life figures. Most sagas of Icelanders record events that occurred between AD 930 and 1030 known as the Age of the Sagas. They were passed on as oral history for more than two hundred years before being written down, which accounts for the questions about their accuracy.”
“I understand,” said Ryan. “But what does this have to do with anything?”
“I have found a previously unknown saga,” he said with obvious relish.
Ryan raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sam. She was focused intently on the professor.
“It relates the story of a woman, a sort of holy woman, who lived in a small clan on the southern coast of Iceland in the tenth century. Her name was Amma. She tells of living beneath the spirit god Laki.”
Ryan looked quickly at Sam. “Your Vikings?” he asked.
“Certainly a possibility. How many clans could have lived in the ventholes of Laki?”
But Hauptmann was rolling. “Amma relates the history of her many family members, in particular a man named Skari who became a craftsman of religious ornaments and who disappeared. Another man, whose name we don’t know, became a mystical figure and was struck dumb one day while beneath the volcano. There are others. Amma believed the volcano was a living spirit. They made sacrifices to it and lived in fear of it, even while enjoying its warmth.
“Theirs was a very long-lived clan, and they seemed to enjoy extreme good health. Amma spoke of it and she couldn’t explain it other than to say she believed the spirit of Laki was strong.”
“Tell him about the end,” Sam prodded.
“Amma relates how the clan broke apart suddenly. There was bad blood that rose quickly. This wasn’t all that unusual for Vikings, but it was most unusual on Laki. The clan had enjoyed many years of harmony. This is where the tale begins to deteriorate. She speaks of turmoil in the earth, of unexplained deaths and disappearances and of some sort of final stand made by the clan beneath the earth.”
“You see?” Sam said, excitedly. “Something killed them all at once, and that’s why we found those bodies together underground. Were they hiding from something? How were they killed? We need to study those remains and find out what happened to them.”
“Hold on,” Ryan said. “I think you’re jumping to conclusions. In the first place, we don’t know if they all died together. Those bodies could have been placed in there one at a time, over a period of years, hell, maybe even hundreds of years. Like a family burial plot.”
Sam shook her head. “I know there’s something strange about Laki. Amma talks about the spirituality of the place. I’ve felt it . . . and so have you. It’s real.”
He stared at her, at a loss for how to respond. The vision he’d had of a woman . . . could it have been this Amma? The idea was crazy. More than crazy. Lunatic.
Hauptmann looked down at his desk. “It won’t be easy to determine how these people died. I’m continuing to search for more sagas about Amma. It’s all a great puzzle, not unlike the story of the Nazis’ own involvement on Laki.”
They left the professor staring balefully at a pile of student papers. It was clear he would have spent all his time working on his research and his book, if not for the unfortunate necessity of providing for one’s upkeep.
Outside, the day had turned quite suddenly gray. They could hear the moan of the marker buoy at the harbor entrance. It was early Friday evening and the workaday city was beginning to bustle as residents prepared to help Reykjavik live up to its bawdy nightlife reputation.
“It’s Freaky Friday,” said Sam. “You’ve heard of it?”
He shook his head.
“The first Friday of every month, all day long and into the evening, our trendy youngsters line up to have their hair turned into a variety of whimsical cuts by the stylists of Galleri Gel on Hverfisgata Street. It turns into something of a party as onlookers socialize and drink beer and wine.”
She considered him. “No, on second thought . . . probably not your thing. Being a straitlaced Secret Service agent and all. Your hair looks like it was chopped by a lawnmower. Anyway, I know a little place where we can get a decent meal . . . if you’re interested.”
She looked to Ryan like something out of Vogue magazine. Quite extraordinarily beautiful, he realized with a start. Had she dressed up in anticipation of their going out to eat?
“Um . . . yes, that would be nice,” he said awkwardly.
“My treat,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “We need to get to know each other if I’m going to have you following me around like . . . a . . . a . . . Secret Service agent.”
She led the way down the street to a waterfront bistro that stuck out over the water on pilings. They went inside and Sam said something to a waiter who led them out to a terrace over the water.
They ordered frigidly cold martinis made with Icelandic vodka, clinked glasses and stared contentedly at Reykjavik’s magnificent harbor. There were only two other couples on the terrace.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“You don’t have to go far for a good sea view in Iceland. I’ve come to think of this place as home,” she said. “It’s far enough from Washington that I don’t have to look behind my back every other minute . . . at least until recently.”
“Sounds like you and your father have quite a bit of history.”
“I suppose some of it’s my fault. I’m not what he wanted in a child. Frankly, he wanted a boy. In some ways, he got one . . . a tomboy, anyway.”
“He seems pretty worried about you. I understand you’ve been stirring the pot with some articles in the New York Times. Your father seems to think that may be the reason you might be a target.”
She stared out at the ocean. A brisk, warm breeze curled back the edges of her hair. “I hate what IranOil is doing here. By spreading their money around, they’re hurting local industry—yours included. People are so easily bought out. They just want to save money and the hell with what’s best for Iceland, for controlling global warming, for the whole bloody world. A little cheap gasoline is all it takes.” She looked completely exasperated. “It doesn’t make any sense that IranOil would be doing this. It’s driving me crazy. So, yes, I wrote about it, and it got some people angry.”
“You know who?”
“No, but obviously the Iranians are a good bet.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish I’d lived a thousand years ago, like those Vikings. Life was a lot simpler back then. All you had to do was find food and manage to keep warm. That was it.”
He looked dubious. “I suspect they had other things on their minds, just like we do today. How to placate the gods, for instance. Amma said something about turmoil in the clan and disappearances, didn’t she?” He hesitated. “I’ve been wanting to ask you. You said you felt something spiritual about Laki. Were you serious? You don’t just think it was the effects of the rising gases?”
They were interrupted by the waiter. Ryan ordered grilled whale meat, which had the texture of beef but a faintly saline taste. Sam selected Arctic char. The prices were steep, which made him uncomfortable until he remembered that she came from a very well-to-do family.
When the man disappeared with their order, Sam played with her napkin, avoiding his eyes.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said finally. “The moment I first went underground on Laki, I felt something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know . . . a presence.”
“A spirit?”
“Maybe . . . something like that.”
He could tell she was afraid of sounding foolish. “You know,” he said, “when they opened the tombs of the Pharaohs, people felt things. There were strange disappearances, people became sick and even died. There was talk of spirits. Scientists speculated there might have been deadly microbes inside that were released when they opened the tombs.”
“Yes, I know about that. I suppose there could be some effects of the gas. But I’ve been overcome by volcanic gas before. This feels different. Like . . . don’t laugh at me . . . being possessed.”
“Whoa! I can see Amma, some kind of shaman, believing something like that. But you’re a scientist. You know there has to be a rational explanation.”
She let the subject drop, as though she just didn’t want to think about it anymore. “So what’s your story?” she asked as they contemplated desert.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’ve let me do most of the talking. Time to give. You married? Got a family?”
He shook his head. “No. I lived with someone for a number of years, but the hours a Secret Service agent works are not conducive to conjugal bliss. She left five years ago.”
“And since then?”
“Since then, I’ve pretty much put all my eggs into one basket—my business. It’s taken almost total commitment.” He hesitated. “Probably not unlike your commitment to volcanology. A fascinating field by the way. One I considered for a while.”
“What stopped you?”
“No money in it,” he said honestly.
She laughed, and he saw her face light up fully for the first time. “Precisely why I chose it! To make my father angry. He sees everything in terms of dollars and cents, so I deliberately chose a field where I’d make a pittance.”
He glanced at the menu. “Maybe we should go Dutch.”
“Don’t worry,” she smiled, her nose crinkling. “I can afford it. There’s a little matter of a trust fund.” She took a sip of martini and leaned back in her chair. “Why did you give up being in the Secret Service?”
“Boredom, partly. Disgust with the way Washington works. Everyone in town sees themselves as crucially important and significant. I thought they were all completely self-involved and totally deluded, right up to and including the President himself.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t an attitude that sat well with the Service.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I grew up with it and felt pretty much the same way. People were always coming to my father see
king favors. Most of it was petty and all of it self-serving. You ask me, you’re well out of it.”
Outside, they walked along the waterfront, enjoying one of those sudden Reykjavik weather surprises, a balmy breeze blowing in from the south. The smell of the sea was strong. Ryan started to say something and then stopped as a large, black sedan pulled up beside them. A huge man got out, glanced at them briefly, then opened a rear door and they both gaped in astonishment as Senator Graham emerged.
“Good to see you, Sam,” he said, giving her a quick hug. He nodded at Ryan. “Glad to see you’re on the job, Baldwin, but your services will no longer be required. Sam is leaving Iceland.”
Samantha’s face turned white. “The hell I am!” she said.
Graham turned to her with a look that Ryan could only describe as something between fatherly affection and total exasperation.
“I’ve just been visiting with the police commissioner. He told me what happened to you up on Laki.” He glanced at Ryan. “And how those men managed to find you, I might add. I know you think your work is important, Sam. But this is no laughing matter. Someone is trying to kill you. I won’t have you taking such a risk.”
“It’s none of your damn business what risks I take,” she said. “It’s my goddamn life!”
“Baldwin, can you talk sense to her? You’re a professional. You know how easy it is to kill someone. Even the most protected person on Earth.”
This was one argument Ryan didn’t want to be caught in the middle of, between Sam and her father, who just also happened to be his employer. He held his hands out helplessly.
“I barely know your daughter, sir, but from what I do know, she’s not likely to take my advice any more than she apparently will take yours.”
“You don’t need to speak for me,” Sam said, still seething. “I’m an adult and no one tells me what to do.”
“I can’t argue with you,” Graham said in exasperation. “I never could. Your things are in the trunk. We collected them from your boarding house, along with your passport.” He turned to the man looming over them all. “Put my daughter in the car,” he said, turning away.