The Gods of Laki

by Chris Angus

  Sam and Ryan stared at him. “What new opening?” they said in unison.

  “Follow me,” Dagursson said and continued down the tunnel.

  Near the end of the sloping trench, he stopped and brought his flashlight to bear on what indeed appeared to be a new opening. Ryan and Sam stared at it in incomprehension.

  “This is newly constructed,” Dagursson said simply. “You see the blast marks and drill holes? And this is freshly moved debris. Someone has cut through here, opening up a whole new connection of ventholes and channels. That’s what I brought you here to see. You’ve been working up here for two years, Miss Graham. Frankly, I find it hard to believe you could be unaware that someone else has been blasting and working here on Laki.”

  The utter mystification on Sam’s face was so evident that even Dagursson had to accept it. He grunted.

  “Who . . . who would be doing such a thing?” She asked quietly. “It’s as if they were continuing the Nazis’ work. But that makes no sense at all. What would be the point?”

  “What indeed?” said the commissioner.

  “Wait a minute,” said Ryan. “When we were driving out here, you seemed to suggest the Iranians might be up to something. You think they’re behind this, don’t you?”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” he said evenly.

  Ryan held up a hand. “Listen . . . something strange happened at the meeting I had the other day with the information officer at IranOil. He was all ready to give my business a sizeable donation . . . until I said we were planning some research on Laki. Then he shut me down like a leaky valve. He didn’t want me or my business anywhere near Laki.”

  Dagursson stared at him. “Maybe now we know why.”

  Sam said, “Do you think they could have found oil here? That that’s why they’ve moved into Iceland in such a big way? To tap into an oil deposit?”

  “Anything’s possible, I suppose,” said Dagursson. “Oil . . . or natural gas perhaps.”

  Ryan shook his head. “I can’t buy it. Offshore oil . . . maybe. But here in a volcanic region? I don’t know everything about it, but the geology seems unlikely. And besides, no one invests in huge new oil fields when the price of oil worldwide is falling. They go in the opposite direction, shutting down production. The way IranOil has been pouring money into Iceland makes no sense if that were the reason. Explorations push into new areas when the price of oil skyrockets, not when it tanks.”

  “Perhaps they’re looking ahead,” said Dagursson, “to when markets revive. Or maybe it’s such a big find that they know it will be profitable no matter the market price of oil.”

  “No.” Ryan was adamant. “It simply doesn’t work that way. You can’t raise billions from investors when no one is making money at current market rates. And a sudden, massive new oil source would only depress prices even further. Besides, there’s no drilling equipment, just some carved-out passageways of rock. Something else is going on down here. And it’s pretty clear that whatever it is, someone intends to keep it secret—no matter the cost.”

  Ryan hesitated. “I think you should show the commissioner your other discovery,” he said to Sam.

  She looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Why not? With this many people up here, they’ll find it eventually anyway.”

  She led the way to the entrance to the Viking burial and stood to one side as Dagursson and Ryan entered the hidden room. Then she heard Ryan mutter a curse. She ducked inside and stood with her mouth open, staring at the space she’d grown so familiar with.

  “What’s the big deal?” Dagursson asked, surveying the enclosure.

  Ryan met Sam’s bewildered eyes. “They’re gone,” he said flatly.

  Dagursson looked from one to the other. “Who’s gone?” he asked.

  Sam moved forward, her eyes sweeping every corner of the vent hole.

  “This was the site of a Viking burial . . . or some sort of living space,” Ryan said. “When we were here last, there were skeletons of at least half a dozen souls, pottery, ancient blades, battleaxes, and the like. Maybe a thousand years old.”

  “Well . . .” Dagursson said, skepticism lining his voice “they’re not here now.”

  “Obviously, someone has removed them,” Sam said. “If we figure out why, we may have an answer for your question about what those ventilation holes were for.” She stared sadly at the empty room. “Whoever did this had no interest in archaeology. By removing the contents of this room, they’ve destroyed any hope of identifying those bodies or putting them in the context of their surroundings. Whatever else is going on here, we’re standing on the site of a major cultural crime.”

  Ryan couldn’t put into words what he was feeling. Something more was missing here than a few old bones and knives. The space seemed oddly empty . . . barren. The missing bodies had filled this hole in the ground not just physically but in another way. Spiritually? He met Sam’s eyes and could tell she was thinking the same thing.

  “How long have your men been working up here?” he asked.

  “Just since you reported the deaths of those men.”

  “And have you seen anyone else up here in that time?”

  “No.” Dagursson said. “What are you getting at, Baldwin?”

  “I think you should close up shop here right away. Tell your men to recover the vent openings and remove any sign that they’ve been here.”

  “What for?”

  “Because whoever’s been doing this will be back—if you don’t scare them away. I intend to stay here and catch them at whatever they’re up to. They’ve gotten used to Sam’s presence, and my guess is they work around it, doing most of their work at night or when they’re sure she’s not on the mountain. Though the recent attempts to kill her suggest they were becoming tired of her.

  “We’ll close up her tent and make it look like no one’s around. That’s the way she leaves it when she goes back to Bjorg’s, and of course, there won’t be any cars down below. It’ll be an open invitation to them.”

  Dagursson looked skeptical. “It gets cold up here at night,” he said. “They might not come around right away . . . or ever, for that matter.”

  “I’ll stay in one of the vent openings or even here in the Viking home. No one’s likely to come back now that it’s been emptied.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe you could put something in the paper about detaining Samantha Graham for questioning. Make them believe they have free rein to get on with their work.”

  “What you’re suggesting will be dangerous,” said Dagursson. “But I have to admit, it’s not a bad plan. I could leave a couple of men with you for protection . . .”

  “Why don’t you leave me a radio instead? Your men can monitor it. I’ll call for help if anything happens.”

  He could see Dagursson’s mind working. The commissioner didn’t like the idea of leaving Ryan alone, but the truth was he was shorthanded. The financial difficulties had cut deeply into his force. Leaving men doing nothing for days or even weeks was not an option.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “We’ll try it your way, but I expect regular reports. If you need us, we can be here by chopper in an hour at the outside.”

  Sam smiled. “A real stakeout,” she said. “It’s a good idea. I have just one thing to add. I’ll be staying with you.”

  Ryan’s eyes went wide. “No way. Like the commissioner said, this could be dangerous. These people are playing for keeps, Sam. If your dad ever found out I allowed you to do this, he’d have my hide.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized he’d made a mistake in mentioning her father.

  “I told you before,” she said darkly. “I make my own decisions. Anyway, I’m pissed off at the idea that someone’s been up here on Laki the whole time and I was never aware of it. I want to know what the hell’s going on. Besides, you just might find me useful. I’ve already saved your ass once on this mountain, buster.”

  He shook his head resignedly. “Sometimes
you make me sympathetic to your father’s point of view.” He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “All right, God help me, we’ll do it together.”

  ***

  Officer Berenson wore a gray, pleated skirt, white blouse, and black loafers. Though she’d been out of high school for almost a decade, she felt that same strange queasiness in her stomach that she’d had almost every day she’d been there. Like she was on display and being tested every minute. And she’d actually had a reasonably good time in high school. She couldn’t imagine what Sahar must be going through.

  She was assigned to help out in the art class and had been sent by the teacher to get supplies from the storeroom. But Margret didn’t care a hoot if the kids ran out of brushes and paints. She had a copy of Sahar’s class schedule and knew where the girl was supposed to be every minute of the day. Margret shadowed her from the moment she entered the school.

  What she saw was painful to observe. Sahar seemed to have no real friends. Though she was pretty and smart, according to her teachers, she simply didn’t fit in easily.

  Partly it was, as David had said, her exotic looks. She was beautiful and that made the other girls wary of her. As for the boys, they watched her like a fox watches a chicken. They jostled her in the halls, joked about her behind her back, and made lewd gestures. It brought back all the stuff Margret had hated the most about high school.

  At lunchtime, Sahar took her tray and went to an empty table as far away from everyone as possible. Margret decided to make contact.

  With her own tray filled with macaroni and cheese, rock hard green peas, and something that looked like gray Jell-O, she approached the girl.

  “Hi there,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”

  Sahar looked at her, startled, but nodded and moved her tray to make room.

  “I’m Margret Berenson. I’m the new art assistant and I don’t know anyone.”

  In a soft voice, Sahar said, “I’m Sahar. It’s hard not knowing anyone.”

  “Well, you got that right,” said Margret. “I could use a friend. Someone who can tell me where things are. Like I don’t even really know where the art supply room is, can you believe that?”

  “I know,” said Sahar. “I’ll show you after lunch if you like.”

  “Really? Thanks. That’s very nice of you.” Margret made a show of eating the nauseating food on her plate. God. It hadn’t changed a bit in ten years.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Tehran,” Sahar said.

  “Wow. You’ve come a long way. You know, I used to go here myself. What do you think of our school?”

  Her eyes darted away. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Probably takes a while to make friends,” Margret said. “I know. It took me a long time and I only came from the other side of Iceland.”

  The bell sounded, ending the lunch hour. Sahar began to gather up her things. Margret knew she had history class next.

  “You got time to show me where the art stuff is?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Sahar moved slowly, obviously wanting the other kids to leave first, so she didn’t have to interact with them. Margret saw several boys looking at the girl and snickering. She gave them her best Mother Superior stare and they turned away.

  Down the hall, Sahar pointed out the art supply closet and then said she had to get to class.

  “Thanks for being my friend, Sahar,” Margret said. “Will you let me know if I can do anything for you?”

  The girl smiled shyly. “Will you have lunch with me again tomorrow?”

  “You bet. Every day, if you like. We’re buddies, right?”

  Sahar beamed at her and went into her class.

  Margret sighed. Poor girl was starved for attention—from anyone. She pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket. It contained the class schedules of Sven and Nils. They were currently in chemistry class, if they hadn’t skipped it. She also had their locker combinations, courtesy of the administration.

  Once the halls emptied out, she found Sven’s locker in a cul-de-sac with no classrooms and opened it. Junk fell out. The thing was a mess, filled with clothes, uniforms, a lacrosse stick. On the top shelf she pulled out a box of condoms and a small whisky bottle. Contraband. In a folder on the shelf, she found a picture of Sahar. The girl’s hands were being held above her head by a boy whose face was hidden, while another boy had lifted up her skirt and pulled down Sahar’s panties. He crouched in front of her, his tongue on her stomach and his hands behind, grabbing her buttocks. It was clearly Sven.

  “What the hell you doing?”

  She looked up to see Sven standing next to her. He towered over her and had a disbelieving look on his face.

  “I said what the hell you doing in my locker?”

  “Searching for contraband,” she said. “Found some too.” She waved the picture, then put it in her pocket.

  “Give me that.” Sven reached for her jacket, pressing his body against her and pushing her up against the wall.

  Margret smiled at him sweetly and brought her leg up into his groin with all the force she could muster. He howled in pain and collapsed on the floor, legs pulled up tight to his chest.

  “I’m glad we had this little discussion,” she said. “I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.” She slammed the locker shut and moved on down the hall, a decided bounce in her step.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stanley Budelmann pulled the collar of his down jacket up around his neck and slapped his hands together. Iceland was too damn cold, and he hated the cold. He hated this assignment as well, writing about the ongoing repercussions of the country’s disastrous economic downfall for his paper, the Wall Street Journal.

  Why couldn’t he get assigned to some place warm . . . say, Costa Rica, writing about fancy restaurants, eco-tourism, and posh hotels for the rich? He knew the paper’s culture editor had an enormous expense account for such things. He distracted himself from the cold for a few minutes by thinking about finagling a ticket for his girlfriend, Shawntel, to join him on such an assignment. They’d lie on the beach drinking piña coladas, eating fabulous meals by the bay and enjoying long nights wrapped in each other’s arms. Damn! He was in the wrong end of this business.

  But maybe things were looking up. He’d received a tip that some important bigwigs were coming into Keflavik Airport. Evidently, their arrival had been kept largely secret. But a bunch of IranOil executives flying in shortly after the recent OPEC meeting in Dubai had to have significance. Or at least his editor thought so when he told him about it.

  “Find out what those bloody rich Arabs are up to,” was how his chief had so indelicately put it.

  And he had to admit, he was intrigued. He’d already poked about enough to learn that IranOil was spreading money around Iceland like cow manure. And no one had any idea why.

  He’d been camped out at the airport for three days now, checking every flight in from the Middle East, tramping about the freezing parking lots checking for rentals charged out to IranOil.

  He reentered the reservation hall and sighed with contentment at the warmth. He checked the list of incoming flights. Two from the Mideast had landed only moments ago. He went to the arrivals section and had to first watch as a stream of tourists disembarked from a New York flight. The struggling Icelandic economy had spurred a boom in vacation bargain-seekers.

  His eyes roamed the line and kept coming back to a distinguished-looking man who seemed vaguely familiar. He moved in for a closer look. Damned if the fellow didn’t bear a striking resemblance to the American Senate Majority Leader, Shelby Graham.

  He followed the man through the airport uncertainly. After clearing customs, his target went and collected his luggage. This wasn’t how senators traveled, alone, without any entourage whatsoever. Such a well-known political figure probably wouldn’t even have to clear customs in the normal manner. Maybe he was mistaken. Finally, he decided to confront the man.

  The moment they were
face to face, he knew he was right. He’d covered enough stories on the Hill to have seen Graham before. There was no doubt.

  “Evening, Senator Graham,” he said. “I hadn’t heard you were coming to Iceland.”

  The majority leader looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “I beg your pardon?”

  Budelmann smiled self-deprecatingly. “Knew it was you straight off. Stan Budelmann, Wall Street Journal.”

  Graham looked like he was going to have a coronary. He obviously didn’t recognize the reporter. “You must have me mistaken for someone else,” he said, moving away.

  Budelmann stayed with him. There was nothing unusual about famous people denying who they were to reporters.

  “Just a vacation, Senator? Or a business trip?”

  “I’m not a senator. Now please leave me alone or I’ll have to call security.”

  Budelmann couldn’t have been more pleased if someone had told him he’d won the lottery. Graham was clearly here for something of a clandestine nature. No way was he going to call security and have to identify himself. But there was no upside in pushing the matter. He allowed the senator to slip away, making sure he could keep an eye on him in the crowd.

  The proof of the pudding came when Graham hooked up with the Iranian minister of oil, Ali Akbari. There wasn’t a financial writer in the western world who didn’t know Akbari on sight. The two men left the airport together by private sedan.

  Budelmann hailed a taxi and followed them for an hour as they drove out of the city and turned into a gated drive that led to a remote headland. He dismissed his driver and hiked overland to a point where he could see a large, rambling, modern building of glass and steel. Built entirely on one level, the building sprawled over a rocky headland that jutted into the ocean. There must have been spectacular views from every room.

  Something big was happening. He could feel it in his reporter’s bones. He needed to get closer, to get inside if possible, and hear what was being talked about.

  He began to circle the building. The rocky landscape provided good cover in the form of outcrops that allowed him to get close to several of the big windows.