The two muscular policemen standing before him would hardly buy a story about a phantom black jet attacking and shooting the Ulysses full of holes before being rammed in midair. A connection betAeen the derelict in the iceberg and the jet was neither coincidental nor accidental. He was certain now that what started out as a simple search for a missing ship had turned out to be an unwanted involvement in a complex, farflung conspiracy. He was tired-tired of lying, sick of the whole goddamn mess. only one thought gripped his mind: Hunnewell was dead, and someone had to pay.
'Were you the pilot of the helicopter that crashed, sir?' one of the policemen inquired. An ut]Mistakable British accent and a courteous tone, but the 'sir' seemed forced.
'Yes,' was all Pitt answered.
The policemen seemed taken aback for a moment by Pitts terse reply. He was blond, had dirty fingernails, and was dressed in a uniform that left his wrists and ankles showing. 'Your name, and the name of the deceased?'
'Pitt, Major Dirk Pitt, United States Air Force.
The man in the coffin was Dr. William Hunnewell, National Underwater Marine Agency.' Pitt thought it strange that neither policeman made an attempt to write the information down.
'Your destination? It was undoubtedly the airfield at Keflavik?'
'No, the heliport in Reykjavik.'
A flicker of surprise crossed the blond policeman's eyes. It was barely perceptible, but Pitt caught it. The interrogator turned to his partner, a dark-skinned, burly character with glasses, and said something in Icelandic.
He swung his head toward the Land Rover outside, scowled noticeably, then turned back to Pitt.
'Could you tell me your departure point, sir?'
'Greenland-couldn't give you the name of the town. It's spelled with twenty letters, and to an American it's totally unpronounceable. Dr. Hunnewell and I were on an expedition for our government, charting icebergs in the East Greenland Current. The idea was to crisscross the Denmark Strait by refueling at Reykjavik and then head back west to Greenland on a parallel course fifty miles further north. Unfortunately we didn't plan well, ran out of fuel and crashed on the coast.
That's all, give or take a few details.' Pitt lied without knowing exactly why. God, he thought, it's becoming a habit.
'Where exactly did you crash?'
'How the hell should I know,' Pitt said unpleasantly. 'Go three blocks past the cow pasture and turn left at Broadway. The helicopter is parked between the third and fourth waves. It's painted yellow; you can't miss it.'
'Please be reasonable, sir.' Pitt took satisfaction at the sudden flame in the policeman's face. 'We must have all the details in order to make a report to our superior.'
'Then why don't you stop beating around the bush and ask about Dr. Hunnewell's bullet wounds?' The official facial expression on the dark-skinned policeman cracked in a stifled yawn. Pitt stared at Dr. Jonsson.
'You did say that's the reason they're here?'
'It is my duty to cooperate with the law.' Jonsson seemed hesitant to speak.
'Suppose you explain your comrade's wound,' said dirty nails.
'We were carrying a rifle to shoot polar bears,' Pitt said slowly.
'It accidentally discharged in the crash, the bullet striking dr. Hunnewell in the elbOw.'
As far as Pitt could see, the two Icelandic policemen weren't reacting at all to his sarcasm. They stood quiet, looking at him with impatient speculationspeculation, Pitt thought, at how they would subdue him if he resisted any physical demands on their part.
He didn't have to wait long.
'I am sorry, sir, but you force us to take you to our headquarters for further interrogation.'
'The only place you'll take me is to the American consulate in Reykjavik. I have committed no crime against the people of Iceland nor broken any of your laws.'
'I am quite familiar with our laws, Major Pitt. We do not relish getting out of bed at this time of morning for an investigation. The questions are necessary. You have not answered them to our satisfaction, so we must take you to our headquarters until we can determine what happened. There you will be free to call your consulate.'
'In due time, Officer, but first, would you mind identifying yourselves?'
'I do not understand.' The policeman stared coldly at Pitt. 'Why should we identify ourselves? It is obvious what we are. Dr. Jonsson can vouch for our authenticity.' He offered no papers or the usual police identification card. All he showed was his irritation.
'There is no doubt as to your official capacity, gentlemen,' Jonsson said in an almost apologetic tone.
'However, Sergeant Amarson usually patrols our village. I do not believe I have seen you come through our village before.'
'Amarson had an emergency call in Grindavik.
He asked us to answer your call until he could arrive.'
'Are you being transferred to this territory?'
'No, we were just passing through on our way to the north to pick up a prisoner. We stopped in to say hello and have a cup of coffee with Sergeant Amarson.
Unfortunately, before the pot became hot, he received your call and the one from Grindavik almost simultaneously.'
'Then wouldn't it be wise to hold Major Pitt until the sergeant arrives?'
'No, I think not. Nothing can be accomplished here.' He turned to Pitt. 'My apologies, Major. Please do not be angry at our, how do you say it in your country, running you in.' He turned to Jonsson. 'I think it best if you came along too Doctor, in case the Major has complications from his wounds. It's merely a formality.'
A strange formality, Pitt thought, considering the circumstances. He had little choice but to comply with the policeman's wishes. 'What about Dr. Hunnewell?'
'We will ask Sergeant Amarson to send a lorry for him.'
Jonsson smiled, almost diffidently. 'Forgive me, gentlemen, I haven't quite finished with the major's head wound. I have two more stitches to insert before he is ready for travel. If you please, Major.' He stood aside and motioned Pitt back into the examining room, closing the door.
'I thought you were all through butchering me,' Pitt said good-naturedly.
'Those men are imposters,' Jonsson whispered.
Pitt said nothing. There was no surprise on his face as he stepped softly over to the door, put an ear against it and listened. Satisfied when he could hear voices across the next room, he came back and faced Jonsson.
'You're positive?'
'Yes, Sergeant Amarson does not patrol Grindavik. Also, he never drinks coffee-his system is allergic to it, so he'refuses even to stock it in his kitchen.'
'Your sergeant, does he stand five foot nine and weigh about one hundred and seventy pounds?'
'To the inch and within five pounds-he is an old friend. I have examined him many times.' Jonsson's eyes clouded with puzzlement. 'How could you describe a man you have never met?'
'The character who does all the talking is wearing Amarson's uniform. If you look closely, you can see the outlines where the sergeant stripes used to rest on the sleeve.'
'I do not understand,' Jonsson said in a whisper.
His face was very pale. 'What is happening?'
'I don't have half the answers. Sixteen, maybe as many as nineteen men have died, and the killing will probably go on. I'd guess Sergeant Amarson was the latest victim. You and I are next.'
Jonsson looked stricken, his hands clenched and unclenched in bewilderment and despair. 'You mean I must die because I have seen and talked with two murderers?'
'I'm afraid, Doctor, that you're an innocent bystander that must be eliminated simply because you can recognize their faces.'
'And you, Major, why have they concocted such an elaborate, scheme to kill you?'
'Dr. Hunnewell and I also saw something that we shouldn't have.'
Jonsson stared into Pitts impassive face. 'it would be impossible to murder us both without creating excitement in the village. Iceland is a small country. A fugitive could not run very far nor hide very long.'
