Pitt relaxed in the cab and stuck a cigarette between his lips without lighting the end. Obtaining the mysterious black jet's serial number had been a shot in the dark that paid off in spades. He really hadn't expected to find out anything. Staring through the window at the passing green pastures, he saw nothing with his eyes, idly wondering if the plane could now be tied directly to Rondheim. This was still worrying over the possibility when b. the view impression that the countryside looked different than before. The fields were empty of cattle and ponies, the rolling hills flattened into a vast carpet of uneven tundra. He swung around and gazed out the other window; the sea was not where it should have been; instead, it lay to the rear of the cab, slowly disappearing over a long, low rise in the road. He leaned over the front seat.
'Do you have a date with the farmer's daughter or are you taking the scenic route to run up the meter?'
The driver applied pressure to the brake and slowed the cab, stopping at the side of the road. 'Privacy is the word, Major. Merely a slight detour so we can have a little chat-' The driver's voice froze into nothingness, and for good reason. Pitt had jammed the tip of the screwdriver half an inch into the cavity of his ear'.
'Keep your hands on the wheel and get this hack back on the road to Reykjavik,' Pitt said quietly, 'or your right ear will get screwed into your left.'
Pitt watched the driver's face closely in the rearview mirror, studying the blue eyes, knowing they would signal any sudden attempt at resistance. No shadow of an expression touched the boyish features, not even a flicker of fear. Then slowly, very slowly, the face in the mirror began to smile, the smile transforming into a gentle laugh.
'Major Pitt, you are a very suspicious man.'
'If you had three attempts on your life in the last three days, you'd develop a suspicious nature too.'
The laugh stopped abruptly and the bush brows bunched together. 'Three attempts? I'm aware of only two-' Pitt cut him off by pushing the screwdriver another eighth of an inch deeper into his ear, 'You're a lucky man, friend. I could try and make you contribute a few choice items about your boss and' his operation, but Russian KGB-style interrogation is way out of my line.
Instead of Reykjavik, suppose you drive nice and easy back to Keflavik, only this time to the United States Air Force side of the field where you can join a couple of your buddies and play charades with National Intelligence agents. You'll like them; they're experts at taking wanflower and turning him into a babbling life of the party.
'That might prove embarrassing.'
'That's your problem.'
The smile was back in the rear-view mirror. 'Not entirely, Major.
It would, indeed, be a moment worth remembering to see your face when you discover you brought in a N.I.A. agent for questioning.'
Pitts pressure on the screwdriver didn't relax.
'Very second-rate,' he said. 'I'd expect a better story from a high school freshman caught smoking pot in the boy's room.'
'Admiral Sandecker said you wouldn't be an easy man to talk to.'
The door was open now and Pitt had the opportunity to slam it. 'When did you talk to the admiral?'
'In his office at NUMA headquarters, ten minutes after Commander Koski radioed that you and Dr. Hunnewell had landed safely, aboard the Catawaba, to be precise.'
The door stayed open. The driver's answer tallied with what Pitt knew: the N.I.A. had not contacted Sandecker since he had arrived in Iceland. Pitt glanced around the car. There was no sign of life, no sign of an ambush by possible accomplices. He started to relax, caught himself, and then clenched the screwdriver until his fingers ached.
'Okay, be my guest,' Pitt said casually. 'But I strongly urge you to make your pitch without so much as a tic.'
'No sweat, Major. Just put your mind at ease and lift my cap.'
'Lift your cap?' Pitt repeated blankly. He hesitated a moment, then slowly, using his free left hand, removed The driver's cap.
'Inside, taped to the underside of the top.' The driver's voice was soft, yet commanding. 'There is a twenty- five caliber Colt derringer. Take it and get that damned screwdriver out of my ear.'
Still using one hand, Pitt opened the breech of the derringer, rubbed his thumb over the primers of the two tiny cartridges to make sure the chambers were loaded, and then reclosed the breech and cocked the hammer.
'So far, so good. Now ease out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them.' He loosened his grip on the screwdriver and withdrew it from the driver's ear cavity.
The driver slid from behind the wheel, walked to the front of the car and propped himself lazily against a fender. He lifted his right hand and massaged his ear, wincing. 'A clever tactic, Major. It didn't come out of any book I know.'
'You should read more,' Pitt said. 'Ramming an icepick through the eardrum into the brain of an unsuspecting victim is an old trick used by paid killers in gang wars long before either you or I were born.'
'A rather painful lesson I'm not likely to forget.'
Pitt got out and pushed the front door of the car open to its stop and stood behind the interior panel, using it for a shield, the gun in his hand trained on the driver's heart. 'You said you talked to Admiral Sandecker in Washington. Describe him. Size, hair, mannerisms, layout of his office-everything.'
The driver needed no further coaxing. He talked for several minutes and ended up by mentioning a few of Sandecker's pet slang terms, 'Your memory is good-nearly letter-perfect.'
'I have a photographic memory, Major. My description of Admiral Sandecker could have easily come from a file. Take a rundown of yourself for example: Major Dirk Eric Pitt. Born exactly thirty-two years, four months and twelve days ago at the Hogg Hospital in Newport Beach, California. Mother's name Barbara, father George Pitt, senior United States Senator from your home state.' The driver droned on as if he might have been repeating a memorized spiel, as indeed he was. 'No sense in going on about your three rows of combat ribbons which you never wear or your formidable reputation If you like, I can give you a complete account't of your actions since you left Washington.'
Pitt waved the gun. 'That will do. I'm impressed, of course, Mr.-ah-'
'Lillie. Jerome P. Lillie the Fourth. I'm your contact.'
'Jerome P. — ' Pitt made a good try but couldn't sul)press an incredulous laugh. 'You've got to be kidding- ' Lillie gestured helplessly. 'Laugh if you will, Major, but the Lillie name has been highly esteemed in St. Louis for nearly a hundred years.'
Pitt thought for a moment. Then it came to him.
'Lillie Beer. Of course, that's it. Lillie Beer. What's the slogan? Brewed for the gourmet's table.'
'Proof that it pays to advertise,' Lillie said. 'I take it you're another one of our satisfied customers?'
'No. I prefer Budweiser.'
'I can see you're going to be a hard man to get along with,' Lillie moaned.
'Not really.' Pitt released the derringer's hammer and threw the tiny gun to Lillie. 'Be my guest. You couldn't possibly be one of the bad guys and come up with a story that wild.'
Lillie fielded the gun. 'Your trust is warranted, Major. I told you the truth.'
'You're a long way from the brewery, or is that another story?'
'Very dull and very time-consuming. Some other time, perhaps, I'll pour out my biography over a glass of Dad's product.' He calmly retaped the gun to the inside of his cap as if it was an everyday occurrence. 'Now then, you mentioned a third attempt on your life.'
'You offered to give me a detailed, hour-by-hour account of my actions since I left Washington. You tell me.'
'Nobody's perfect, Major. I lost you for two hours today.'
Pitt did some fast mental arithmetic. 'Where were you around noon?'
'On the southern shore of the island.'
'Doing what?'
Lillie turned away and looked across the barren fields, his face empty of all expression. 'At exactly ten minutes after twelve this afternoon I was pushing a knife into another man's throat.'
'Then there were two of you keeping an eye on The Grimsi?'
