Pandora's curse

brighter now.

“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 plate 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