by Jack Du Brul
“Look.” Igor pointed to a road to their right, away from where the ocean was pounding Iceland’s black volcanic coast. “That is way to Blue Lagoon. Geothermal hot spring used as natural spa. Water in huge outdoor pool like lake. Very curative. I went yesterday with a few of the Germans.”
“The water’s actually effluent from the adjoining thirty-two-megawatt Svartsengi power plant,” Ernst explained. “They use volcanically heated water to produce electricity. It has the same salinity as seawater but it is high in silica, which helps people suffering from psoriasis.”
“I’ve been to the old Blue Lagoon,” Mercer said. Across the lichen-coated lava field, a white cloud clung to the ground just over the horizon. It was steam from the power plant. “A few years ago I came to Iceland for a conference. I understand they built a new spa about a quarter mile from the plant.”
“Yes, yes. Very nice,” Igor confirmed eagerly. “We must go tomorrow before ship leaves for Greenland.”
Mercer shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve got a meeting in the morning.” He added nothing more and his two companions didn’t pry.
They drove in silence, and eventually the rolling hills of lava gave way to urban sprawl. In Icelandic, Reykjavik means “smoking bay.” It was named for the steam that rose from the geologically active vents nearby. The city’s suburbs were newer, with a distinctive European flair. In the distance, dominating the skyline, sat the Hallgrimskirkja, a huge cement church topped by a 200-foot spire. Locals nicknamed it the “Concrete Cathedral” for obvious reasons.
The tidy old town abutting the harbor was a jumble of narrow streets laid down randomly, as though a giant had thrown a fistful of straws. The older buildings were rustic and the newer ones were given historic architectural touches. Ernst Neuhaus pulled up before the Hotel Borg, a white stone edifice across the street from a small public park.
“Home for the night,” he announced and waited while Igor helped Mercer unload his bags. “I must return to Geo-Research’s office. I can’t see you off tomorrow, so have a great trip.”
Again, Iceland’s constant wind struck Mercer when he closed the van’s side door. Igor Bulgarin didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by it and Mercer suspected he had spent a great deal of his time in climates much worse than this. “Is it this bad in Greenland?” he asked.
The big Russian laughed, hefting one bag over his shoulder for the short walk to the hotel entrance. “They have wind there called the pitaraq. Is gravity driven, like katabatic in Antarctica. It starts with small breeze from the south and then there is calm. You have about ten minutes to find shelter. Then pitaraq hits from north at about two hundred and forty kilometers per hour. Ten years ago a man I was working with was picked up by such wind. We find him twenty kilometers away. He looked like he was dragged by truck. Clothes and flesh stripped from his body by contact with ice.”
“Jesus.”
“Da.” Seeing Mercer’s concern, Igor grinned again. “Pitaraq is mostly in winter. Not so common this time of year, but must always be prepared.”
Although it was approaching ten o’clock at night, it was still light out because Reykjavik was only a hundred fifty miles south of the Arctic Circle. According to Mercer’s internal clock it was four hours earlier, but he knew he had to acclimate himself to the time change. And the best way to do that was to force himself to sleep. He got his key in the retro-1930’s lobby, thanked Igor for picking him up, and took the elevator to his room. He would meet with the Surveyor’s Society team at breakfast.
The room was small but functional and overlooked the park. Hot water would be a precious luxury once in Greenland, so he took a long shower to wash the flight from his skin. He thought about his meeting in the morning.
While researching Camp Decade on the Internet, he had come across an old article about the downed C-97 cargo plane and the subsequent search for survivors. He read that Stefansson Rosmunder, the son of one of the first men to climb Mt. Everest, had been part of the search-and-rescue effort. Because Rosmunder had been so young at the time, Mercer figured he would still be alive and he wanted to talk with the Arctic specialist about his experiences. He spent the better part of the morning before his flight to Iceland on the telephone trying to track down Rosmunder and finally reached his elderly mother just a few minutes before Harry had come over.
Her son, she’d told him in a remarkably clear voice, had been dead for many years. When Mercer explained where he was going, Mrs. Rosmunder said that she would like to speak with him before they sailed to Greenland. She told him that she fed the ducks living in the small lake called the Pond in the middle of Reykjavik every morning at nine-thirty and asked if he would meet her there. Of course, Mercer agreed.
Just in case he overslept, Mercer put in one wake-up call for six and another for six-ten and fell into bed. He wasn’t tired and the meal he’d had on the flight was churning in his stomach, so it was difficult to slow his mind and relax. Over and over his conversation with Elisebet Rosmunder replayed in his head. He decided that it was her voice that had disturbed him. Rather than hearing sorrow for her dead son as he expected, she had sounded frightened.
Dark dreams made his sleep fitful.
He abandoned his bed thirty minutes before his first wake-up call and dressed. The harbor was four blocks away, a straight walk down Posthusstreati — Post Office Street. The sun was long risen. He studied the merchandise in the windows of the tourist shops. Beautiful sweaters and woolens were piled on tables and cascaded off racks. They would make an ideal gift for a woman, he thought, but the only one in his life at the moment was Fay, the wife of FBI director Dick Henna. Mercer and Dick had been friends ever since the Hawaii crisis a few years ago and he decided that he would buy Fay a sweater when the expedition was over.
At the base of the street, across a wide quay, the Geo-Research ship, Njoerd, lay low in the water of the protected inner harbor, thick manila ropes securing her to bollards. The wind was a constant force that stung Mercer’s cheeks and made his eyes tear. Across the bay, the snowcap atop Mount Esja seemed gilded.
The red-hulled Njoerd was a functional vessel about two hundred feet long with a large superstructure mounted well forward. A coil of smoke rose from both her side-by-side funnels. Her aft deck was an open cargo area nearly hidden under the equipment that was going to Greenland with them. Amid the pallets of stores and sections of the base’s buildings, Mercer could just see the tops of the Sno-Cats over the gunwale. An overhead crane mounted on rails that ran the length of the ship could shift her cargo as needed, as well as offload her on some hostile coast. Placed transversely behind the funnels but still accessible by the crane was a large oceangoing powerboat that he assumed they used as a fast shuttle. She also had a small helipad.
If not for her oversize superstructure that housed laboratories and accommodations for passengers and crew, Mercer thought she looked a bit like an oil field resupply ship. The Denmark Strait separating Iceland from Greenland had a reputation for being treacherous, but the Njoerd seemed more than capable of handling anything the seas threw at her.
He was chilled by the time he returned to the Hotel Borg, and the smell of fresh coffee and the breakfast buffet made his mouth flood in anticipation. The mauve-colored dining room was full of Geo-Research people and members of the other two teams, and the excited conversation made the room buzz. Mercer noted nearly everyone in the room had facial hair of some sort and guessed they cultivated a mountain man look because of what they did. Arctic research attracted a very specific type of person. Igor Bulgarin waved when he saw Mercer enter.
“You are always late, my friend,” he greeted.
“I went down to the dock to check out our ship.”
“Fine boat,” Igor said. “Her bows are hardened to break ice up to a meter thick. I’m afraid this meal is a segregated one. Teams are eating only with each other. That is Marty Bishop at the corner table with the other member of Society team.”
“Then I guess I should grab a pl
ate and join them.”
“A group are going to Blue Lagoon in a few minutes. Sure you not come?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks anyway.”
“Is okay. See you on Njoerd at noon.”
Mercer mounded his plate with eggs, smoked salmon, and sweet breakfast rolls before approaching the Society’s table. One of the men looked at him suspiciously, then got to his feet. He was short and heavy across the gut, about fifty years old, and he had the pale look of someone who didn’t spend much time outside an office. His gray hair was thin at the top and along the front, and it swayed with just a small toss of his head. His neatly trimmed mustache was a few shades darker than his hair and was the only thing that gave his ordinary face any character. Considering his soft appearance, Mercer wondered how much of his being here was his idea and how much was pressure from his father.
“Marty Bishop. Pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands. Bishop’s palm was as smooth as an accountant’s. “Charlie Bryce says you’ve got one hell of a reputation.”
“He exaggerates. It’s good to be part of your team,” Mercer said, intentionally establishing his subordinate status.
Bishop nodded, obviously pleased that Mercer understood who was in charge. “Glad to have you on board.” He pointed to the other man at the table. He was about the same age as Bishop, though had a harder look. “This here’s Ira Lasko, U.S. Navy.”
“Retired,” Lasko added.
Lasko’s handshake was like a bear trap and Mercer suspected that he had never been a pencil pusher. Eater maybe, but not a pusher. His hands had deep scars across all the knuckles and white pads of calluses at the base of each finger. They were the hands of a worker. He was about five foot seven and wiry. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were pushed up, and while his arms were thin, ropes of muscle and sinew pushed outward from beneath his skin. He kept his head completely shaved, though there was a fringe of five o’clock shadow circling just above his ears. His eyes were murky brown under dark brows.
“I understand we’re missing a team member,” Mercer invited as he sat.
“Jim Kneeland,” Marty replied, blowing out a long breath. “He was supposed to get time off from the National Guard but was suddenly called back to duty. Kinda throws us off. I asked my dad to consider postponing the search, but he refused.” He shrugged. “Considering his health, I can’t blame him.”
“Charlie said he’s in a wheelchair.”
“He’s now in a hospital bed at home. Cancer. Doctors don’t give him more than six months.”
“Opening Camp Decade means a lot to him?”
“Actually, he rarely mentioned his time in the Air Force until about a year ago. Suddenly it was all he talked about. When he asked if I was willing to come up here to make a video of the place, I couldn’t say no.”
“This is a hell of a thing you’re doing for him,” Ira said somberly. Mercer nodded.
It seemed as if Marty hadn’t thought about this situation from another’s point of view. He started to smile. “Yeah,” he agreed without conceit. “I guess it is. What the hell? It gets me out of the office for a while, and this might actually turn out to be fun.”
“I was never told — are you part of the Surveyor’s Society?” Mercer asked Lasko.
“No, but I’ve done some work for Charles Bryce before. He recommended me to Marty.”
“What do you do?”
“I used to teach snot-nosed kids how to survive accidents aboard submarines. Now I run the garage at a truck stop. My job here is to make sure all our equipment runs properly. Charlie told us what you do for a living. Why the hell do you live in a cesspool like Washington?”
Mercer laughed. “My first job out of the Colorado School of Mines was for the U.S. Geological Survey. I actually liked living in D.C., so when I went out on my own, I just stayed. All I really need for my work is a computer and easy access to an airport. Have you guys met any of the Geo-Research people coming with us?”
Ira leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “They’re headed by a real asshole named Werner Koenig. He’s got a fistful of degrees and a real superior attitude. Bryce told you how the Danish government forced him to bring us along and move his operation to conform to our mission, so you can believe he ain’t too pleased with us.”
“His second in charge is Greta Schmidt,” Marty Bishop added with a smirk. “A real knockout in a Nordic ice princess sort of way. They’re sitting four tables over, next to the bar.”
Mercer turned. Greta Schmidt was easy to spot. She was bent over the table passing a folder to someone. Her hair was white-blond and fell past her shoulders. He could see just a portion of her face and got the impression that she was indeed beautiful. Koenig was the man seated next to her. He was speaking to another tablemate, rapping on the table with his hand as he made a point. He had a natural aura of leadership that Mercer recognized even at this distance. Above his dark beard, his face was weathered like old leather, though he couldn’t have been much older than forty. His eyes were a cold blue, like polished aquamarine.
“Don’t even think about it,” Bishop said, incorrectly guessing at Mercer’s interest. “I tried to chat her up two days ago. Frigid as an iceberg.”
Mercer suppressed a chuckle. He loved how a man like Marty Bishop immediately assumed a woman was frigid when she rebuffed his advances. The skin around the ring finger on Marty’s left hand was pinched and slightly discolored where until recently a wedding band had covered it. Opening his father’s old military base wasn’t the only conquest on Bishop’s mind.
They talked all through the long breakfast, forging the rapport that would sustain them for the weeks to come. Although there were forty people total, Mercer’s experience was that group dynamics quickly broke down when they were hit by the enormity of their isolation. He wasn’t concerned about himself or Ira Lasko — isolation was nothing new to a submariner. He did have some reservations about Marty. While mental character rarely showed on the outside, he felt that Bishop possessed an underlying weakness. He suspected that Marty’s father had seen it too and that this trip was more about having his middle-aged son find whatever it was he lacked than taking pictures of a long-abandoned Air Force base.
The meal broke up around nine. Everyone was going back to their rooms to pack up for the ship. Mercer wasn’t sure how long he’d be with Elisebet Rosmunder, so he asked Ira Lasko to make sure his bags made it to the Njoerd.
He was standing outside the hotel, checking his bearings on a small map, when a female voice called to him from the door.
“You are part of the Surveyor’s Society?” The voice was German accented and throaty. Without looking, he knew it had to be Greta Schmidt.
“Yes, I am.” Mercer turned and approached her. She was his exact height, and nearly as wide at the shoulders. Her hair was scraped back from her forehead, revealing a widow’s peak above her wide-spaced eyes. She wore too much lipstick, he noted, which made her mouth overly full, as though her lips were swollen. She was not as attractive as that first impression. It was the eyes. They lacked focus and depth, as if there was nothing beyond her facade. “I’m Philip Mercer.”
“I am Greta Schmidt,” she said formally but made no move to shake his hand. “I will not tolerate the way you looked at me at breakfast. You have the same bad manners as your Mr. Bishop.”
Mercer took the accusation like an ill-deserved slap. Like most men, he had been caught staring at women many times. However, unlike Marty Bishop, he never crossed the line between admiring and objectifying. And in this case, he had been doing neither.
“You misunderstood my interest, Miss Schmidt. I had just asked Marty Bishop to point out the leaders of the Geo-Research team. I wanted to assure myself that I wasn’t trusting my life to a couple of incompetents.”
At this, her stare became even harder. Mercer was sure nine times out of ten she was right about what people thought when they saw her and he could understand her anger. What disturbed him was that she enjoyed
this anger, seemed to need it. He saw in her expression that she liked that her looks gave her a power to intimidate men.
“And are we,” she asked in a brittle voice, “competent?”
“I don’t judge people at a glance,” Mercer said, throwing her accusation back at her. “But after looking at your ship this morning, I feel safe with Geo-Research.”
Greta Schmidt studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and then she reentered the hotel. Mercer went back to his map. Making an enemy this soon wasn’t what he had in mind, but he’d done nothing to precipitate the confrontation.
The Tjorn, or Pond, was only a couple of blocks behind the Hotel Borg, screened from Mercer’s view by the Town Hall. It was surrounded by buildings on three sides and divided by an automobile bridge about three hundred yards from the cobblestone shore. Ducks and geese filled the air and coated a good portion of the water. They rode the wind-stirred waves like toys. It was obviously a favorite spot for the elderly who fed the birds and for young mothers with their children.
Scanning the crowd, he saw a number of people who could have been Elisebet Rosmunder yet only one paid him any attention. She was a tiny woman, bundled in a long drab coat, a wool hat covering her hair. She sat on a bench near the water’s edge, a flock of birds within an easy toss of her position. Like most locals, she looked Scandinavian, with sharp features and clear, though heavily wrinkled skin. Her eyes were as sharp and blue as Harry White’s. Mercer guessed they were about the same age too.
“Mrs. Rosmunder?” he asked as he walked nearer. There were a few unclaimed bread crumbs at her feet.
“Yes, I am she,” the elderly lady said and indicated that Mercer should sit by her side. “You are the man who phoned me yesterday? Dr. Mercer?”