Earthfire North

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."

"No need for that," Carter said stiffly. "I've decided to leave in any event."

"I see," said Thoroddson. "In that case there will be no bill, of course. Within an hour there will be a check for you at the desk to cover the damages. I'm terribly sorry this happened."

"Why haven't you called the police?" Carter asked. "It seems obvious that a crime has been committed."

Thoroddson cast an uncomfortable glance at the detective. "That's certainly an option." he said. "If you wish to call them, by all means…

"I have a feeling I wouldn't get much satisfaction from them, either. Thank you for your time. I'll pack what few intact belongings I have left and check out immediately."

The two men turned and went to the door.

"You can tell Josepsson that it's going to take a lot more than ruining my wardrobe to frighten me out of Iceland," Carter said.

"I… I beg your pardon," said the assistant manager, turning back.

"Just pass along the message," Carter said. When they were gone he closed and locked his door.

He grabbed his coat, slutted his mutilated clothing back into the suitcase, and fastened it as best he could. He left the hotel by the rear exit, throwing his suitcase into a trash bin in the alley.

When he reached the sidewalk, the black Lancia was idling at the curb, the driver casually reading a newspaper. He came up to the driver's window and tapped. The man rolled it down, his eyes round. Carter stuck the Luger in his face.

"Tell your boss to back off," he said. "I'll find out what happened to Lydia Coatsworth… you can assure him of that."

The man swallowed hard but said nothing.

"And stop following me."

The driver nodded but held his silence.

Carter holstered his gun and headed away. The Lancia remained where it was parked.

He started walking and found a small sporting goods store on a back street half a mile away. Inside he told the clerk that he was planning a trip to see the glaciers in the center of the island and needed a complete outfitting. It had been a slow day, and the clerk gave him his undivided attention. Within a short time. Carter had purchased a sleeping bag, a wardrobe of heavy clothing, hiking boots, a compass, line and other things, including packs to carry the gear.

He took a cab out to the airport, and a couple of hours later he was looking down from ten thousand feet on a delta of dry creeks and branches that extended over the landscape like nerve endings. Then the wing flaps ground down, and the plane began its descent into Akureyri.

He had left a clear trail, he thought. Any amateur would know where he was going. He only hoped that he'd made himself appear dangerous enough to whoever was behind all this to warrant the effort of being killed.

He didn't know for certain that it had been Josepsson, although he felt from their conversation in the restaurant that the man was implicated in some way. But whoever it was would have to tip his hand when he sent in the assassin.

They landed, and Carter picked up the Land-Rover. He drove directly to the local police headquarters, where the officer at the front desk greeted him pleasantly enough until he gathered that Carter had come to turn what had already been declared an accident into a possible murder case, at which time his demeanor cooled noticeably, and Carter was referred brusquely to a Captain Einar Einarsson.

The captain, a tall, husky man, was busy in a back room when Carter came in. He looked up and listened to Carter's request, then turned from his typing with a patient sigh and asked Carter to have a seat.

"Mr. Carter, your story and suspicions are interesting, but Dr. Coatsworth was not murdered near Reykjavik and her body transported to Akureyri as you suggest. I was the officer in charge of the investigation, and I can say with certainty that is not the way it happened."

"I see," Carter said. Instinctively he liked the man.

"Dr. Coatsworth died at the foot of Mount Askja, some one hundred kilometers from here. The time of her death and the time of the discovery of her body were much too close together to allow her to have been taken from one place to another."

"Unless she had been packed in ice, perhaps, her body cooled before it was transported." Carter suggested.

"Highly unlikely. Besides, it seems like a lot of trouble to disguise a murder scene."

"What about the people who discovered her? Can their stories be believed?"

"Members of the local outing club. All of them friends of mine. Known them all my life. They are telling the truth."

"I'd still like to look into it myself."

"I don't have the manpower…"

"If you could just show me where her body was found. Perhaps you have a map? It would be a great help."

Einarsson shook his head. "I do not know who you are, Mr. Carter, but very well." He got up and produced a map from a file cabinet. He brought it back to his desk. Carter got to his feet.

"Here." the captain said, pointing to a spot inland. "Her body was just here." He marked the spot with a penciled cross.

"Thank you," Carter said. "I appreciate your help.

But the captain had sat back down and had already gone back to his typing.

That evening Carter downed a heavy meal at the local hotel, then climbed into the Land-Rover and headed south, out of town, the car's big wheels pounding over the ruts on the dirt track.

He rounded the end of Eyjafjordur, the narrow inlet that formed Akureyri's waterway to the sea, then turned southeast toward the fireball sun into some of the most desolate, Godforsaken country he had ever seen.

Akureyri was within sixty miles of the Arctic Circle. No grass grew here away from the sea; there was only rock from one horizon to the other. Along the coasts there was occasional rain. Back here it hardly ever rained, and only a small amount of snow blew down from the mountains.

From the air, he'd thought the place looked stripped, desolate, a far outpost for the machinations of man. Once he'd landed and gotten some perspective on its true size, he thought the place seemed unreal… like a stage set for a play. But now, as the last view of Akureyri faded into the distance, and he confronted the land as a lone individual, he began to realize the true immensity of it.

In the far distance against the thin gray line of the horizon, a mountain lay like a deflated black bag, its top shorn off. Valleys dipped, hills rose, distinguishable only in shades of black, gray, and brown. There were no colors here, nothing but bland geometric land forms that seemed to stretch on forever.

Here was nature unadorned, he thought: denuded, like a woman without makeup. At first it was stunning, but then it was monotonous.

He drove for several hours but made only meager progress. The map was not very clear, and often the road got lost in dried creek beds, was blocked by fallen rock, or just petered out in a drift of pumice stone.

This had happened for the second time, and for the second time he had stopped, turned off the engine, and gotten out to kick through the bits of shale and lava rock, when his ears picked up an odd sound the wind brought from the north.

He turned and saw a speck on the horizon. He would have thought it was a bird or a gull except for the unmistakable chop of helicopter blades.

He scrambled back to the Land-Rover and gunned the engine to life. He made a wide loop until he came in contact with the road again, then pressed down on the accelerator. There was no time to lose. If they decided to fight it out with him, here in the open, he'd be a sitting duck. They could strafe him from the sky, and he'd have no place to duck.

The Land-Rover's heavy-duty springs bottomed out on the deep ruts, making it very difficult to drive. A rooster tail of dust fanned out behind him that was no doubt visible for miles, but it didn't matter. They'd seen him long before he had spotted them.

He kept his eye on the approaching machine. He hadn't counted on this. For some reason he'd envisioned this fight on the ground. He hadn't realized the landscape was so wide open, affording him so little cover…Goddamnit, he was slipping. Preparation. Wasn't that the unbending rule at Mesa Verde where AXE agents were trained? Now it looked as though he was going to have to pay for his lack of foresight.

He bounced up over a mound. Mount Askja was in the distance, stark, ancient, without a blade of grass to grace her flanks. He drove for the mountain, hoping there'd be someplace, anyplace for cover.

He pressed down even harder on the accelerator, speeding around a long, rock-strewn curve along the edge of a narrow ravine, wondering if the Land-Rover's tires would hold up much longer, when he spotted what appeared to be a building. It was almost midnight now, but the sun still lingered on the horizon. At these latitudes in midsummer it never went down. Shadows were long in the twilight, however, and the play of light and dark across the rocks easily tricked the eye, and yet, half a mile ahead on the right side of the road, a triangular shape jutted out of the landscape.

As he drew closer he could see that it was an A-frame cabin of some sort. The roof had been covered with rocks and ash to protect it from the elements, but the front wall had windows and a door. Behind him the chopper had made an abrupt about-face and was bearing down on him. It was still a long way off, but it was closing the gap very fast.

The house looked like the only hope on the barren landscape. He crunched to a halt in front of the place, grabbed his pack, and scrambled down the side of the road. The chopper's blades beat the air not far away. He glanced over his shoulder. It was heading directly up the valley, nose down, making the best time it could.

He raced for the front door on the tiny porch but stopped short at the top step. He looked back. The helicopter had slowed down. This was all wrong. Alarm bells were jangling along his nerves.

The house was the obvious place out here for him to run to. It was too neat, too convenient. He was getting the definite feeling that he had been herded to this place.

The chopper was only a few hundred yards out. The popcorn sound of rapid fire filled the air, and dust began to kick up behind him.

They weren't aiming right. They wanted him inside.

He stepped back off the porch, tossed his pack at the door, and dove to the left. A horrendous roar hammered his eardrums, and the ground bucked beneath him as the door burst outward in a tremendous blast of flame. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the opening as dust and debris fell like rain.

He scrambled back through the dense smoke and threw himself down at an odd angle in front of the door. Then he used a trick he'd learned on assignment in the Orient to twist his head into such a position that even the close observer would be convinced his neck was broken.

The only way to get them out of the sky, he told himself, was to convince them that their little trick had worked.

Dust scattered in the rotor wash as the helicopter set down a minute or two later. Carter had his Luger out of his holster, hidden at his side.

Someone came toward him, then stopped. His ears were still ringing from the blast. The toe of a boot jabbed him roughly in the side. He rolled over limply, being careful not to expose Wilhelmina.

The man wasn't sure. He hesitated, then bent down and pried Carter's eyelids apart. The man's expression was grim, businesslike, the look of a pro.

The realization that Carter was still alive hit him at the same moment the bullet from the Luger penetrated his heart.

His lips parted slightly, the eyes widened with surprise, and he looked as if he wanted to say something. He fell forward on top of Carter.

"Victor? Victor?" someone called anxiously from the helicopter.

Carter threw the body off at the same time the helicopter came to life and started to lift off. He got up on one knee and began firing, but the machine was gathering altitude and speed.

Carter kept on firing until the chopper was obviously out of range, then he went back to examine the man he had killed.

There was no identification on the body. The labels had been ripped out of his clothing. In his hand was a Luger much like Carter's, although from the look of it, it had probably been manufactured during the Second World War.

"Come on, Victor," Carter muttered as he holstered his Luger, lifted the body onto his shoulder, and carried it up to the Land-Rover. Victor had been a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and by the time Carter got him situated and the tailgate closed, he was breathing hard from the effort.

He trudged back to the front and looked up toward where the helicopter had disappeared. They wanted him dead pretty badly to stage something like this. It told him that indeed he was on to something.

"Is this our killer?" asked Captain Einarsson, blinking at the body in the back of the Land-Rover. Carter got the policeman's home address, called him, and then had gone out there. It was just four in the morning.

"I don't know if he killed Dr. Coatsworth." said Carter, "but he definitely tried to kill me a few hours ago."

"Never seen him before," said the captain, shaking his head. Einarsson had called for some police assistance after hearing from Carter, and he nodded to two sleepy officers standing nearby who pulled the body out of the back. "Of course, I don't know you either." He held out his hand. Carter handed over his Luger. "Let's go inside," Einarsson said.

They went into the man's tiny study at the back of the house, and Carter sat down in a small wooden chair as the captain set up a tape recorder. He laid Carter's gun on the desk, then flipped on the machine.

Without prompting. Carter told the story, leaving out only his true identity as an AXE agent. He pulled out his Amalgamated Press and Wire Service credentials and laid them on the desk along with his permit to carry the weapon.

When he finished, Einarsson flipped off the tape recorder, sat back, and looked at Carter.

"Just who are you?" he asked.

"I've already told you that, Captain. I'm a stringer with Amalgamated Press. You have my identification in front of you."

"I don't buy it."

"Call my office in Washington, D.C. My identity will be verified."

"I'm sure it would be. Which doesn't mean a damned thing."

"Do you have any reason to believe I'm not telling the truth?"

"Several reasons, as a matter of fact. Most reporters I've heard of don't go around with German Lugers under their coats. And most, although quite smart, wouldn't know a trap until it was far too late."

"Maybe I got lucky."

"Maybe." Einarsson's fingers pensively curled the corners of two sheets of paper in front of him. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Someone knocked on the door a few seconds later. Einarsson excused himself, got up, and left the room. He was gone for several minutes, during which time Carter gathered up his identification and Luger and pocketed them. When Einarsson returned, he perched on the edge of his desk. He did not seem very happy.

"That was the coroner. He's checked out this man you called Victor."

"And?"

"It's just a preliminary report. Confirms part of your story… that he was shot to death at close range. But Victor was a curious man."

Carter said nothing.

"The man's fingerprints were missing. They had been surgically removed. Some years ago, the doctor suggests."

The man was a pro, Carter thought.

"In the flesh of his underarm there was a small, surgically implanted pouch. It contained a capsule of cyanide. A thumbnail could have broken it, and the man would have died instantly. Your Victor was evidently a fanatic. No one has cyanide capsules surgically implanted for the hell of it. Now I'm going to ask you again, just who the hell are you?"

"I can't answer that, Captain. Let me just say that I'm here in Iceland as a private citizen, looking into the death of a very close friend. Believe me. I'm just as surprised about this as you are."

"Not good enough, Carter. There's been a murder in my jurisdiction. We don't get many crimes of that seriousness up here. Once every ten years or so one of the local fishermen gets drunk and kills his wife's lover. Open and shut. But I can't hide something like this in a file like they would in a big city. My ass is on the line here. People are going to ask questions."

Carter sighed. "I'll make a deal with you, "he said. "I'm going to need some room to maneuver, and I'm going to need some friends in high places. If you give me the leeway and work with me on this, I promise you that you will be the first to know anything I know. You may not be able to put it in your files, but at least you'll know."

Einarsson picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. "That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?"

Carter nodded. "I'm afraid so. You could have me arrested…"

"And you'd stay in jail until you rotted without saying a word. Provided you weren't released on orders from higher up."

Carter shrugged.

Einarsson sighed deeply. "I'm not going to try to hold you. I don't think it'd do me any good. But I will hold you to your promise. Not much happens up here, but I can make a lot of waves down in Reykjavik if need be."

Carter got up. "Thanks. I won't forget my promise."

Einarsson smiled. "If anyone ever murders me, I'd like to think that someone like you would be on the case."

Carter smiled, and left.