Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Prologue
Dr. Lydia Coalsworth strode into her small office in the geology lab at the University of Iceland carrying a large pile of photographs. She cleared the coffee cups, files, and other paraphernalia from the desk top and arranged the glossy prints in rows, starting in the upper left-hand corner and working her way down.
The photos were bizarre: the same shot over and over of a craggy finger of rock protruding from what looked to be the mouth of the River Styx, a roiling section of seawater from which mist and vapor poured like steam from a kettle. Occasionally, as she dealt them out, she'd squint down at one of them under the light, tap her finger making note of it, then go on. The experiment was almost completed, she told herself, the last piece of evidence about to fall into place. The conclusion inevitable but impossible, not to be believed.
When she finished, she had six rows of photos, sixty to a row, two complete time-lapse sequences taken one-a-second for three minutes, each sequence twenty-four hours apart. She took a set of calipers from the drawer and, with the deliberate slowness of an experienced scientist, began to take measurements of images in each photo, noting her results in a thick notebook.
The roiling water and steam were the surface phenomena of a volcanic fissure that had opened up in the ocean floor several hundred yards off the coast. It had been discovered only a week earlier, the captain of the passing trawler reporting the incident to the Department of Fisheries, which in turn passed it on to the university for further study.
Dr. Coatsworth had leaped at the opportunity to study this new activity. She was a visitor to Iceland, part of a faculty exchange program with the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and saw in the new volcano a chance to familiarize herself with the unique structure of Icelandic geology. She made it her pet project from the beginning, attacking it with characteristic thoroughness. She took hourly temperature readings at various depths to build heat gradient charts, took seismographic readings to determine the size of the opening and the amount and direction of the lava flow, and chemical analyses of the steam to see if it compared with other volcanic hot spots in and around Iceland.
It was this last series of tests that began to point to something wrong, terribly wrong: so wrong it sent a tremor through the terra firma of her geological knowledge.
Among the trace chemicals mentioned in the lab report was a polymer — di-chloridepolyethanol — a man-made constituent of certain types of anticorrosive plastic pipe joints used in oil production and occasionally to transport live steam. It was never known to occur in nature.
The results were rechecked, of course. There was no mistake. The dcp was definitely in the steam, not in the testing equipment. And Lydia Coatsworth was forced to wonder what the true source of this fissure was.
Then other evidence surfaced. The fissure had a dormant period during which the eruption ceased altogether. It lasted roughly eight hours, from 2340 until 0815, and was so exact she could set her watch by it. Too exact. It was almost as though someone were turning a switch off and on.
Two nights ago she had guided a small rowboat through the churning water, steam, and mist to a tiny rock in the center of the activity, where she set up a camera. She pointed the lens at another rock a dozen yards away, then set the time-lapse trigger for one shot every second for a total of three minutes bracketed around 2340 and again around 0815. Then she'd returned to her car to wait. In the morning she rowed out, collected the film, then rushed back to the lab to develop and analyze it.
By measuring the fluctuations of the height of the water on certain areas of the rock, she was able to determine when the eruption began and ended. From this, two facts emerged. First, the entire cycle was not a gradual process, such as usually occurred in nature; the eruption stopped precisely at 2341:23 and began again at 0815:56. And second, the startup was not accompanied by a constant surge; there was a hesitation in the water flow, such as when a hydraulic pump clears itself, then reprimes.
The conclusion was being forced on her, yet it seemed too fantastic to believe. Better to wait, she thought. Better to corroborate the evidence.
The previous night she'd once again dared the dangers of froth and mist aboard the small boat. She'd taken her photographs and returned, spending an hour in the darkroom. Now, as she pored over them, she tried very hard to be objective about what she was seeing, not letting the weight of past evidence influence her findings. But as she took her measurements and made her tables of differences in water level, her heart beat faster and her tongue clicked noisily in the dryness of her mouth.
The hesitation at the beginning of the cycle was still there. Just as it had been the night before. There was no mistaking it. The eruption ceased at exactly the same time both nights, then started again as if on cue, to the very second. The chances of something like this happening naturally were trillions to one. There was no way to escape the conclusion this time. The fissure was being operated mechanically. But by whom? And why?
She stepped to the window and stared out at the treeless landscape of southern Iceland. In all respects except one — the timing — the fissure and the volcanic release of steam could have been natural. All but the timing, that is, she corrected herself, and the evidence of the polymer.
Her hands were shaking. She lit a cigarette, the action calming her somewhat. A large portion of the population of Iceland, which numbered almost a quarter of a million, were dependent for their heat and hot water on geothermal sources. Years ago, natural steam jets had been tapped in a lava field south of Reykjavik, the capital city. Since then, the island had enjoyed abundant, pollution-free energy at a very cheap rate. But in the last week, since this new fissure had opened, the level and intensity of the steam had decreased dramatically. Petur Tomasson, a colleague in her department at the university, had been asked by the government to investigate this latest fluctuation. There had been no official announcement, of course; such fluctuations, although not common, were certainly not rare. So far, all they had were theories. Except now for this…
The exactness with which the eruption occurred, the existence of the polymer — which strongly suggested a man-made pipeline — and the sudden decrease in the steam jets outside Reykjavik were all too much of a mysterious coincidence for her. Obviously someone was diverting water and steam from the city's supply and sending it through the fissure in the ocean. But who? And why?
Whoever it was had vast resources. Pipelines had to be dug, a pumping station erected. It had to have taken extensive planning and engineering as well as the cooperation of hundreds of people. How had something like this been kept under wraps in a country as barren and sparsely populated as Iceland? How was it that the authorities did not know?
She had to make certain, absolutely certain she was right. She went back to the desk and pulled a thick sheaf of maps from the top drawer. These were survey maps, the most detailed cartography available up here. They depicted the land formations and water tables for several hundred square kilometers of the Reykjanes Peninsula south of Reykjavik.
She found the map she wanted, men took out a pad and made some hasty calculations. Given the maximum diameter of a pipe, and the amount of water and steam to be moved, a pumping relay had to be located somewhere along an arc about six miles south of the city. She drew the arc on the map, men she folded it, stuffed it into her pocket, pulled her coat off the hook by the door, and left.
It was a Sunday, and the university was mostly empty, her heels echoing loudly on the tiled floor. She got as far as the parking lot at the front of the building when she realized she had left the photos on her desk. She went back, stuffed them into a large manila envelope that she threw in the bottom drawer of her desk, and locked the drawer. She took out her pad again and quickly scribbled a note to a very dear friend. She had no real reason for writing the note to him in particular… just something at the back of her mind told her it might be wise.
"Dear Nick," she wrote. "Have discovered something up here that is truly incredible. I'm afraid I'm about to get mixed up in some nasty local politics. Will tell you more when I see you in Washington next month. Love, Lydia."
She put the note into an envelope, addressed it to Nick Carter, care of a post office box in Washington, D.C., then put a stamp on it and stuffed it into her pocket.
* * *
The land south of Reykjavik is covered with a layer of black ash, fallout from an eruption of Mount Hekla in 1948. Not a twig or stick grows in the field, and the overall effect is a landscape as bleak and as barren as the far side of the moon. As Lydia Coatsworth's small rented car putted into this black area, leaving the city behind, she felt a sudden chill, as though she were entering the Land of the Dead. She always felt this way when she came up here. It was silly, she told herself. The sun was shining, and she'd been on this road dozens of times in her trips between the lab and the observation post at the fissure. Still, for some reason, the place gave her the creeps, especially today.
She drove slowly, examining every rock formation and dip in the landscape as if she were seeing it for the first time. If the pumping station were out here somewhere, it was well hidden, for she'd never seen it. Never even seen anyone on this road.
No, she thought. That wasn't quite true. There was a man she encountered from time to time. He drove a rusted-out Saab, she remembered now. He was a large man. She'd waved the first time she had seen him, but he had not returned the greeting. The second time, she did not wave; in fact she barely even noticed him. A taciturn local, nothing more.
She was wondering about him when something caught her eye and made her slam down hard on the brake pedal, bringing the car to a sliding hall. A power line running parallel to the highway, which she had seen and ignored a dozen times, now seemed odd to her. Something was wrong. Suddenly she realized what had struck her as being out of place. From one of the large insulators above, a cable ran down the girder and disappeared into a conduit underground. She got out of the car and let her eyes scan the horizon. There were no houses, no buildings. No need for electricity out here.
A pump would need a source of power, she told herself. A gas generator would eat gallons of gasoline or diesel fuel, and make a lot of noise. She pulled up the collar of her coat against the chill wind and headed for a large, dark mound on the horizon in the distance. It was the only possible place something could be hidden from view of passing motorists.
* * *
It took nearly an hour to hike across the field of cinders and ash. Half the leather had been scuffed from the toes of her boots and her feet felt like lead. Twice she'd told herself she was chasing shadows. No matter what the physical evidence, a project this big was impossible to hide in Iceland.
She rounded the far side of the huge mound, and her previous qualms about the long, probably fruitless walk and the improbability of her theory suddenly evaporated. Nestled between two hills of cinder, painted black for camouflage from the air, was a hooked drainage pipe. Probably an overload unit of some sort for the pipeline that certainly was below.
Her heart leaped into her mouth. She approached the pipe very slowly, half expecting something or someone to jump out at her. She ran her hand along the smooth surface. The metal was vibrating. The pump was not far away, and it was working.
She should go back, she told herself. Get someone. Petur Tomasson. He'd know whom to contact. He could come out here with a crew.
A door slammed somewhere close, the sound very distinct out in the open. Boots crunched across the cinders. She froze next to the pipe, her pulse beating in her throat.
A car door slammed, and an engine started. In the cleavage between the two hills she caught a glimpse of a rusted-out Saab heading for the road, and then it was gone.
A flood of relief washed over her, but in the next instant she realized the man — whoever he was — would see her car parked down on the road. He'd have to wonder where she had gone.
It was terribly important for her at this moment not to be seen. She decided it would be better if she waited up there. Behind the mounds, out of sight of the road. If he came back, she could run the other way. But if he hadn't returned within fifteen minutes or so, it would probably mean he wasn't coming back. Maybe he hadn't seen her car. Maybe he hadn't even noticed it.
She brushed the ash off the pipe and leaned back against it. The wind made an odd moan as it swept unimpeded over the hills from the ocean that was not too far away. There was no movement out here. No life… other than the man. Even the sun seemed to stand still in the sky.
But Lydia Coatsworth was, among other things, an impatient woman when she was nervous, and she began to see the absurdity of her situation here. Damnit. She was a scientist, after all, with an international reputation. There weren't any No Trespassing signs posted here. She was within her rights to explore the countryside off the road.
She dusted herself off and headed around the hill. She had heard a door slamming. A heavy, metal door. About fifty yards around the far edge of the hill she came upon what at first appeared to be an old-fashioned fallout shelter, a steel door was set into a steel bulwark of cinder block. In front of it a section of land had been leveled off to accommodate several vehicles.
Her mouth started to go dry again, and she began to have second thoughts about what she was doing. She didn't need this, she told herself. She was a scientist, not a private eye. A quiet life of study — wasn't that why she had gotten into this business? Nobody said anything about ferreting out energy thieves.
Still, there was the door and behind it… what? Proof? Summoning up her courage, she walked up and found it was unlocked. She gave a little push, and the door fell open.
Inside, it was pitch-dark. She groped along the wall for a light switch, found one, and a caged bulb flashed on overhead.
She was standing in a large, immaculately clean tiled room with a concrete floor. On the wall in front of her was a series of dials and wheel valves set into a burnished metal control panel. The constant humming told her that a gigantic engine of some sort was at work somewhere beneath her.
Two doors led off this main room. She chose the one to the left, opened it, and switched on the light. She found herself on a catwalk above two stories of pipe maze, all seemingly color-coded, gleaming as though this were a brand-new installation.
She killed the light, walked back into the control room, closed the door, and crossed to the second door. As she opened it a cloud of cement dust rose to meet her. She flipped on the switch.
The room was huge, bigger than the other two combined, and only half-finished. Scaffolding towered overhead, and the floor was strewn with construction debris and plastic drop cloths. From the size of it, it looked as though they'd hollowed out the entire inside of the mound. Whoever they were, they were up to something much bigger than just siphoning off a little geothermal energy.
A piece of machinery the size of a small house stood in one corner on a bed of massive timbers. She walked over and threw back a piece of the protective plastic covering. It looked familiar somehow. The tag dangling from the valve wheel was in German. It gave the port of origin as Mainz. Mainz… what did she know about Mainz? Then it struck her. Mainz was where Steuben and Sons had their foundry. They were the largest manufacturers of nuclear reactor components in the world. She had done a paper on the subject in her first year of graduate school. Her professor had believed that if students wanted to study geology, they might just as well understand the significance of their finds… such as the uses of nuclear fuels. And he never allowed any of his students to do anything by half. She had learned her subject well.
She threw back more of the cover. It was coming back to her now. All of it. This was a type of water pump that regulated the amount of coolant to a reactor's core. A nuclear reactor. What on earth would anyone want with a nuclear reactor in Iceland?
Tires crunched on the cinders outside, the sound coming in through a ventilation shaft. A car door slammed.
Quickly she tried to cover the pump, but she could not get the plastic sheet completely over the valves. She gave up and ran for the door.
She dashed through the control room, then ran down the stairway from the catwalk to the lower floor of the maze of pipes. Maybe here among the multicolored metal she would be able to conceal herself until it was safe to leave. She hadn't done anything illegal, yet she had a very odd feeling about this place. To begin with, who would run off leaving the door to a nuclear reactor building site open?
It was dark, the only illumination coming from a pair of lighted dials on a large control panel at the room's center. She threaded her way through the maze of plumbing until she reached a wall. She followed it for several feet until she found an elbow joint in a large pipe. She crawled behind it.
The door opening onto the catwalk flew open with a bang, and the light went on. To her horror, she saw a line of footprints in the dust leading from the bottom of the stairs to where she hid. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out.
He came down the stairs like a hunter stalking his prey, stopping every few feet to cock his head as if he were listening for something. She caught a glimpse of him through the tangle of pipes. He wore mechanic's overalls, and a huge black revolver rode in his right hand.
Now she'd done it, she chided herself. The scientist with the international reputation, with the right to look around if she saw something suspicious, was in a jam.
He'd found the footprints and was looking in her direction. Instinctively she cowered lower into her tiny refuge and felt her foot wedge between two pipes.
He came slowly toward where she was hiding, and their eyes met. He brought the pistol up, then came the rest of the way around the pipe.
"I guess you found me," she said, raising her hands over her head and trying to stand. But her foot was wedged solidly, and she fell forward.
He fired.
A vicious clang resounded through the room. Then a hissing sound quickly rose to a scream as white-hot steam blasted somewhere behind her. She screamed in pain as she pulled frantically at her foot, but it refused to move. The steam increased, billowing around her now, and the pain became suddenly more than she could bear, and she knew that she was going to die here, watched by the man in the mechanic's overalls.
Her back was searing… she was being scalded alive.
"Help me…"she tried to scream, but the words died in her throat. Darkness was overtaking her. It welled up from somewhere below, finally swallowing her.
One
As the wheels of Nick Carter's plane bumped down on the runway at Keflavik International Airport outside Reykjavik, he looked out the window at the barren, seemingly moonlike landscape and shook his head. It was nearly impossible to believe that Lydia was dead. And here, of all places.
As he made his way in line with the other passengers across the tarmac to the terminal, he got a good look at the low, featureless hills that seemed to meld into the horizon, into the low-slung, featureless sky. She had probably been happy here, with the fumaroles and lava beds and glaciers. At least she'd died working.
He collected his bag, had it checked by a perfunctory customs officer, then carried it the block or so to the airport bus terminal. The bus came promptly, a modern affair with tall, bus-tour type windows, and as he settled into his seat, the blank sky and the rocky barrenness of Iceland seemed to bear down on him. If it weren't a fit place to die, it certainly was a suitable place to mourn. The entire landscape seemed to be in mourning.
He and Lydia had been friends for several years, though it hadn't begun that way. It had started as just another conquest. A quick, easy seduction to see what came up, like a roll of the dice. It had been after a particularly difficult assignment, and he had not been himself. He had been short-tempered, cooly arrogant, and definitely, to use her words, a bastard.
She'd Iain awake that night long after they'd finished, while he slept fitfully. About dawn he felt her smooth, warm body nestle against his, and he responded to her, but she held him off.
"Don't." she said.
"What's the matter?"
"Just hold me."
"I don't know you well enough for that," he had said, or something equally as lousy, and she had begun to cry. He studied her face in the early-morning light, and a rising pity for her was mixed with anger at himself for the cruelty of what he had just said and thoughts about AXE, the highly secret intelligence agency for which he worked. He was an agent. Killmaster, N3… licensed to kill, just like in the James Bond novels, but for real. He also thought about the many roles he had to play, including, occasionally, that of assassin. It was the pressure, he told himself. Nothing more.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You're a bastard."
That was that, he had thought. He had fully expected her to get up, get dressed, and leave then and there. But to his surprise her fingertips trailed softly across his shoulder blades.
"We… we can make love again… if you'd like, Nick."
When they had first met, he had seen a bored scientist who had given to him the holier-than-thou routine. She was above him, but she might consent to perhaps make love. She was slumming. But now he knew he had been mistaken. As he looked into her eyes, he saw something else, something much more honest and infinitely more dangerous.
"I love your body," she murmured softly, running her hand down his collarbone and across the stiff, hard shell of the scar from an old bullet wound.
He kissed her then, long and full, and for the first time something buried deep inside her came to life, and she clung to him as if she never wanted to let him go.
"Oh…God, "she moaned, her fingernails digging into his back.
"It's all right, Lydia," Carter whispered, and after a long time she began to relax, and she laid back, her eyes moist.
He kissed her breasts, then, the nipples erect, and worked his way slowly down to her flat stomach, and the small tuft of pubic hair as she spread her legs for him.
"Nick," she whimpered, holding his head between her hands, her hips gyrating.
He rose up, kissing her breasts as he entered her, and soon they were making slow, gentle love, her body coming up to meet his thrusts. And it was good. Much better than it had been for Carter for a very long time.
After that night and morning together they had gone their separate ways: he to Peru to take care of a Communist guerrilla defection the CIA was on the verge of mishandling; and she to the mountains of Montana to study igneous rock formations. But she had written from time to time. Timidly at first, a line or two, just to let him know she was alive and well, then longer letters, more of herself, but always careful never to infringe on him… never to ask questions.
They met again in Washington. He was on leave between assignments, and she had returned to write a grant for George Washington University. They dined in Georgetown, attended a concert at the Kennedy Center, then checked into the Watergate for a night of champagne and lovemaking that culminated at the rooftop pool at about five that morning.
It was while sitting there, dangling his feet in the tepid water, watching her absolutely perfect form break the surface then dip again beneath the moon-jeweled wavelets, that he wondered if AXE could do without him for a few years, and if he could do without AXE.
But it wasn't to be. The phone rang the next morning and he'd picked it up, feeling better and more relaxed than he had in years. It was David Hawk, AXE's two-fisted director, with the usual summons. This time to Lahore, where supply lines for the Afghan nationalists were in serious danger of being cut off. They said their good-byes again. She said she understood, although he suspected she didn't. And shortly after that she had accepted the faculty job with the University of Iceland for a year. It was a chance to study the fissures she had talked about. It was to be the last time they would ever see one another.
A month later he'd come back to Washington, the supply lines flowing once again, to be greeted by a very odd piece of mail. A large brown envelope postmarked Iceland with a Thorstein Josepsson, Althing Committee on Internal Affairs, on the return address. Inside was another envelope, this one badly water-damaged, and a letter. The letter spoke in somber tones of regrets and condolences, and told of a freak accident in a geyser field, a foot caught, and a horrible scalding death. She'd been carrying a letter, sealed, stamped but never sent.
Lydia's letter was incendiary. His suspicions burned. What had she found? How did it figure in the local politics? What were the local politics?
He had appealed to Hawk for a week's leave and was offered three days. But Hawk saw the look in his eyes and gave him a no-limit on the time as long as he was willing to be on twenty-four-hour call. He'd agreed, got cash and a ticket on his credit card, and boarded the first flight to Iceland. Now that he was here, however, in full view of the melancholy sky and the tired sea pounding its worn waves time after time against the shore, he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake. After all, mere was absolutely no reason to suspect she hadn't died exactly as Josepsson had written. Maybe he should have gone to the Caribbean or to the Mediterranean, someplace light and airy where the atmosphere wouldn't contribute to his gloom. He was full of sadness and regrets.
The bus pulled into Austurvollur Square and stopped in front of a building that advertised itself as the Borg Hotel. "Final stop," the driver said through the public-address system. Other buses were lined up outside.
Carter followed the crowd to the front of the bus, then leaned over the driver's seat.
The man looked up at him.
"Tell me about the Althing."
"It's our Parliament. Oldest continuously meeting parliament in the world. Dates back to 930 A.D. Meets over there." The driver indicated a nineteenth-century two-story stone building on the other side of the square.
"Is it in session now?"
"No," the driver said. "It is summer vacation."
"They're all gone then?" Carter asked, looking at the building.
"Some of them remain here. There are offices. There is work to be done."
He thanked the man and got out. A few minutes later he picked his bag up from the sidewalk where the driver had pitched it, then went inside the hotel. They had a room, but it was small and had no view of the harbor. He took it. A bellman carried his suitcase upstairs, and when the young man was finished opening the drapes and closet doors and explaining hotel policy, Carter gave him a folded bill.
"Have you ever heard of Thorstein Josepsson?" he asked.
The bellman looked at the money, then up at Carter. He nodded. "He's a distinguished member of the Althing."
"Where does he live?"
"Here, in town."
"What else do you know about him?"
The bellman hesitated. Carter peeled off another bill and handed it over.
"He likes scotch whiskey, no ice, no water. Usually eats his dinner here in the hotel dining room."
Carter smiled. "What else does he do?"
"Mr. Josepsson is on the board of directors of the Icelandic Internal Energy Commission, and is on the boards of several large businesses."
"Where can I find him?"
"At this moment, sir?"
Carter nodded.
"I believe Mr. Josepsson is downstairs in the dining room."
Carter handed the bellman another bill. "Meet me downstairs in five minutes, and point him out to me."
"Very good, sir."
When the bellman was gone. Carter locked the door and began unpacking with his customary caution. He pulled all the drapes, and when the room was quite dark, he turned on the lights. He checked the walls, outlets, and fixtures for signs of anything unusual. Even though no one knew he was coming up here, this was standard operating procedure. When he found nothing, he put his suitcase on the bed and unlocked it.
From an inside pocket he took out a shoulder holster, the leather of which had been worn dark with use, and he strapped it on. Then he pulled out a radio-cassette player, removed the back, then the main component board. Inside, in a Styrofoam mold, lay Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger, and below it a silencer. The player had been made by AXE technicians to allow Carter to carry his weapons aboard commercial flights without detection. He pocketed the silencer, then took out the gun and pushed it into the holster.
From inside the suitcase's satin lining he drew out a narrow sheath of chamois leather and a pencil-thin blade with a wickedly sharp point. He strapped the sheath to his forearm under his shirt and inserted the stiletto, years ago nicknamed Hugo. Then he buttoned the shirt over it and put on his jacket. He studied his image in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. When he was satisfied that none of his weaponry showed, he closed the suitcase and shoved it under the bed, then left, locking the door behind him.
He carried another weapon as well, a gas bomb dubbed Pierre, attached to his leg, high on his right thigh, much like a third testicle. Any other man thus loaded down would have felt like a walking arsenal, but Carter had been dressing this way for a good many years and had had occasion to call on each of his weapons in time of crisis. Consequently, for the first time since leaving Washington, he felt fully secure and ready for anything.
The bellman stepped up to him as he entered the dining room and handed him a folded white card. Carter opened it and found a schematic drawing of the dining room, showing three tables in front of a bay of large windows at the far end of the room. At one of the tables the bellman had made a check mark.
Carter glanced across the room. The man sitting at that position was neither old nor young, but like many Icelanders Carter had seen, he had rugged, rocklike features that seemed to have been borrowed from the landscape. Two other men were seated with him, and they looked decidedly foreign… that is, foreign to Iceland.
Carter reached into his pocket for an additional tip, but the bellman, apparently not interested in being involved any further with the American and his questions, had moved away. Carter shrugged, then went across the room to where Josepsson was seated.
"Mr. Josepsson," Carter said.
The man looked up inquiringly, a bite of fish still in his mouth.
"I am Nick Carter. The addressee of the letter from Dr. Lydia Coatsworth you were kind enough to forward to me."
The man put down his knife and fork, laid his napkin on the table, and rose to shake Carter's hand. "We were terribly saddened, Mr. Carter. You were a close friend of Dr. Coatsworth?"
"Yes, I was."
"I am sorry, truly sorry then."
There was an awkward moment where signals seemed to have gotten crossed, then Carter gave a slight nod, acknowledging the man's expression of sympathy.
"Do you mind if I sit down?" It was pushing things, but Carter wanted to see how Josepsson would react.
Josepsson glanced uncertainly at the other two men who watched from across the table. Carter's request to join them clearly made him uncomfortable, but he had no polite way of refusing.
"Please do," he said at last. "We have an empty place."
Carter drew up a chair, and Josepsson motioned for the waiter.
Carter scanned the menu, and when the waiter arrived, he started to order, but Josepsson cut him off. "Your first visit to our country?" he asked.
Carter nodded.
"Then have the fish. Any fish. It is always best in Iceland."
Carter pointed to an entree with an unpronounceable Icelandic name. The waiter nodded, wrote it down, then gathered up the menu and left.
"May I introduce Herr Hofstaeder and Herr Boorman. Some business associates of mine."
Carter nodded to the two men, and they returned the perfunctory greeting. Hofstaeder looked every inch the typical German in his middle sixties, light-skinned, brown hair light enough to blend in with the gray and make it difficult at first glance to tell his age. His friend, Boorman, however, was another matter. Younger — in his late thirties — his hair was jet black and his skin olive-toned. Streaks of gray had just begun to appear at the temples, giving him a dashing, somewhat Latin look.
"What brings you to Iceland, Mr. Carter?" Josepsson asked without preamble. "I imagine you will want to see the university where Dr. Coatsworth worked, and perhaps travel to the interior to see the accident site. I'm guessing now as to why you have chosen this moment to visit us."
"Did you read her letter?" Carter asked, keeping his voice neutral.
"No. It was sealed. We merely sent it to whom it was addressed. It was a simple administrative matter. You must understand, Mr. Carter, that I did not know Dr. Coatsworth personally."
"She indicated to me, Mr. Josepsson, that she had found something here. Something incredible, she wrote, that would stir up the local politics. Would you have any idea what she could have meant by that?"
For the second time Josepsson looked obviously uncomfortable. He glanced at the other two men, then glanced at his fingernails. "No," he said finally. "I have no idea. You should, perhaps, go to the university. Perhaps they can be of more help."
"I will. But I wanted to make contact with you first, sir. You did send me her letter."
"It is a mystery to me what she may have meant," Josepsson said. He took a drink of water. "But I was the sponsor for the exchange program that brought Dr. Coatsworth to our country. I saw it as my logical duty to forward her letter to you, as well as her personal effects to her family. You must understand."
Carter said nothing; he was thinking again of the last time they had been together.
"I have no knowledge of what she may have discovered that could have had any effect on our politics… though I feel I speak with some authority when I say I cannot imagine what she might have been referring to." Josepsson leaned forward slightly. "You must understand, Mr. Carter, that here in Iceland politics are a good deal more honest and aboveboard than they are anywhere else in the world. The United States included." He dabbed his napkin on his lips and laid it on his plate. "Now, if you will excuse us, Mr. Carter, we still have a great deal of business to attend to. You must understand."
Josepsson and the other two got to their feet.
Carter stood up and shook their hands. "It's quite all right," he said. "Thank you for your assistance."
"Good day, sir," Josepsson said. The other two bowed, then they all left.
Carter watched them leave, then he made a soft, low whistle under his breath. He'd wanted to see Josepsson's reaction when he mentioned the contents of Lydia's letter, and he guessed he'd seen it, although he hadn't expected the man's behavior to be so obvious. There was a lot the man wasn't saying… and a lot he was hiding. What?
In a few minutes the waiter showed up with a platter of marinated herring and a half-dozen pieces of pumpernickel bread. Carter made a quick meal of it, then paid his bill and caught a cab in front of the hotel. He instructed the driver to take him to the University of Iceland campus.
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."