Pandora's Curse

REYKJAVIK, ICELAND

Since Mercer was a geologist, this small island in the middle of the Atlantic fascinated him. Formed a mere eighteen million years ago by subsea volcanoes that were still active today, Iceland was living proof of the turbulent nature of our planet. Earthquakes were a daily occurrence, and one of the many volcanoes dotting the country erupted every couple of years. The landscape was littered with incredible geologic features — geothermal vents, ancient craters, and a mountain valley that was the only place where the mid-Atlantic ridge crossed dry land. By contrast, Greenland, its huge neighbor to the west, was once part of Pangea, the supercontinent that formed as the earth cooled. The rock there was upward of 3.5 billion years old and geologically dead.

That didn’t mean that Mercer was too keen on the place as a tourist. Iceland was rather desolate. Half of the population of a quarter million lived in and around the capital, Reykjavik. If not for the geothermal plants that provided hot water for heat and electricity, the sustainable population would have been only a fraction of that number. Also, its isolation ensured that everything was sickeningly expensive.

Reykjavik’s international airport sat on an open plain blistered by the radar domes of an adjacent American military base. As Mercer stepped through the revolving exit door of the futuristic terminal, he was hit by a blast of cold wind shrieking off the north Atlantic. The Gulf Stream, the river of warm water that flowed from Florida to Europe, passed along Iceland’s south coast and warmed the island enough to make it habitable, but by no stretch was it comfortable, even in summer. The sky was leaden, with low tumbling clouds that seemed to hang just a few hundred feet off the ground. A distant beam of sunlight made a far-off mountain glow neon green.

Mercer zipped up his bomber jacket and donned a khaki baseball cap while he waited at the curb with his two large bags. The air smelled fresh, sharp with the scent of the sea, and it only added to the unreality of his position. Eight hours ago Harry had dropped him at Dulles with the promise that he wouldn’t use the Jag, and now he was here. Though he traveled constantly, the thrill of being in a new place never wore off. It was like a flicker of lightness in his chest.

Mercer had also asked Harry to forward his mail to the satellite office Geo-Research would maintain in Reykjavik to transship mail and supplies to the team in Greenland once a week. While downloading the two hundred e-mail messages from his server, Mercer had come across a cryptic note from a lawyer in Munich about some documents being sent to him on behalf of an unnamed client. Mercer had no idea what it was about and had sent a query back. There hadn’t been a reply by the time he and Harry left for the airport, so Mercer asked his old friend to keep an eye out for it and make sure it reached him.

Mercer had been waiting for five minutes when a Toyota van pulled up to the building. The burly passenger rolled down his window. “Dr. Mercer, da?” His accent was Russian.

“I’m Mercer.”

The Russian threw open the door with a big grin. Even without the bright blue parka he was huge, taller than Mercer by at least a foot and broad across the shoulders and chest. To judge by his florid face, he appeared to be in his early fifties, but he looked like an outdoorsman and might have been younger. “Welcome to Iceland. I am Igor Bulgarin.”

Mercer’s hand vanished in his grip. “Thank you. Are you part of Geo-Research?”

“Nyet. They are all Germans. I am from Russian Academy of Science. But I am lone Russian on expedition. All others from my group are from Western Europe.” He spoke in a flood of words as if fearful they would dry up.

The driver got out of the Toyota. He was Mercer’s age and about the same build. His sour expression seemed to be a permanent feature, and he had slow, watchful eyes. Mercer made the quick assumption that the two were not working together. Bulgarin had the jocularity of an excited puppy, while the blond-haired driver seemed overly taciturn.

“This is Ernst Neuhaus,” Igor introduced. “He is head of Geo-Research support office here in Iceland.”

“Oh, how do you do?” Mercer said.

“Good evening, Dr. Mercer,” Neuhaus replied, briefly shaking hands without first removing his glove. His voice was sharp and lightly accented. “You’re the last of the Society’s people to arrive. In fact, everyone’s here except for one person from Igor’s group.”

Mercer turned to the Russian. “Is there a problem?”

“We have medical doctor coming. She is German who studies stress but not part of Geo-Research. She had accident back home and will join us on Greenland.”

“I thought your group were all meteorologists?”

“Nyet. Three of them investigate sunspots, I look for meteorite fragments, and Dr. Klein looks at us.”

“I never asked you, Igor,” Neuhaus interrupted. “Why go to Greenland to look for meteors?”

“Meteor doesn’t hit ground. Meteorite does,” Igor Bulgarin corrected. “We search on ice for same reason polar bear is white. White bear, white ice — no can see. Black meteorite on white ice, find easy. Meteorite in desert looks like all other rocks. Very hard to find.”

Mercer decided quickly that he liked the animated Russian. His less than positive reaction to Neuhaus was irrelevant since the German wasn’t going to Greenland. “Are you guys my ride to town?”

“Da. Others wait at hotel. Very boring. I volunteer to come with Ernst for something to do.”

Mercer’s luggage was tossed into the cargo section at the rear of the van, and he jumped into the seat behind Neuhaus’s. “I’m surprised Marty Bishop didn’t come to pick me up.”

“He’s getting drunk,” Igor Bulgarin scoffed. “Last night he learn that friend of his not coming on trip. Last-minute crisis cause him to cancel.”

“You mean there’s only going to be three of us opening Camp Decade?” Mercer had thought that four was ludicrous but losing Marty’s buddy meant they would be even more shorthanded.

“Mr. Bishop has already taken care of that,” Neuhaus said. “Geo-Research is sending thirty people to the ice. He’s made arrangements to use some of our workers as needed. Plus, we have enough equipment and provisions to last a couple of months for anything else you may need.”

“Da, is true,” Igor admitted with a grunt. “Four Sno-Cats with trailers, a Land Cruiser with special tires, and many, many preformed buildings that are supposed to go up like house of cards.”

“How are we getting all that equipment to Camp Decade?” Mercer asked. “It’s too much for choppers.”

Bulgarin twisted in his seat so he could look at Mercer. Although his smile was missing a tooth, it conveyed his boundless energy. “From dock in Ammassalik, everything is transferred to ice by blimp.”

Mercer must have made a surprised sound because Ernst Neuhaus elaborated. “It’s a heavy-lift cargo airship that Geo-Research leased for the job. I guess it’s only been flying a few months.”

“Believe it or not I know something about it,” Mercer said. “It’s got a semirigid body that supports four engine pods with tilt-rotors that can pivot from horizontal like an airplane’s to vertical like a helicopter’s. It’s similar to the system used in the Marines’ V-22 Osprey.”

“This type of dirigible’s a modification of Frank Piasecki’s ill-fated heli-stat. The owners call it a rotor-stat.” Neuhaus steered the van off the airport grounds and on to Route 41 for the drive to Reykjavik. “It will ferry the vehicles to the ice directly inland of Ammassalik, where you then drive them to the camp. The heavier stores and prefab buildings will be flown to the site. By the time you arrive, an advance team will have one building ready for your use while you erect everything else.”

“Sounds like this is going to be one hell of a trip.” Mercer had always been fascinated by airships. They represented something special in the world of aviation, an evolutionary branch that was as elegant as it was short-lived. Modern materials and computer-aided design, as well as the use of nonflammable helium, were creating a minor resurgence in these flying behemoths. That flicker of anticipation he’d felt since arriving was burning a little 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 gut, about fifty years old, and he had the pale look of someone who didn’t spend much time outside an office. His gray hair was thin at the top and along the front, and it swayed with just a small toss of his head. His neatly trimmed mustache was a few shades darker than his hair and was the only thing that gave his ordinary face any character. Considering his soft appearance, Mercer wondered how much of his being here was his idea and how much was pressure from his father.

“Marty Bishop. Pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands. Bishop’s palm was as smooth as an accountant’s. “Charlie Bryce says you’ve got one hell of a reputation.”

“He exaggerates. It’s good to be part of your team,” Mercer said, intentionally establishing his subordinate status.

Bishop nodded, obviously pleased that Mercer understood who was in charge. “Glad to have you on board.” He pointed to the other man at the table. He was about the same age as Bishop, though had a harder look. “This here’s Ira Lasko, U.S. Navy.”

“Retired,” Lasko added.

Lasko’s handshake was like a bear trap and Mercer suspected that he had never been a pencil pusher. Eater maybe, but not a pusher. His hands had deep scars across all the knuckles and white pads of calluses at the base of each finger. They were the hands of a worker. He was about five foot seven and wiry. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were pushed up, and while his arms were thin, ropes of muscle and sinew pushed outward from beneath his skin. He kept his head completely shaved, though there was a fringe of five o’clock shadow circling just above his ears. His eyes were murky brown under dark brows.

“I understand we’re missing a team member,” Mercer invited as he sat.

“Jim Kneeland,” Marty replied, blowing out a long breath. “He was supposed to get time off from the National Guard but was suddenly called back to duty. Kinda throws us off. I asked my dad to consider postponing the search, but he refused.” He shrugged. “Considering his health, I can’t blame him.”

“Charlie said he’s in a wheelchair.”

“He’s now in a hospital bed at home. Cancer. Doctors don’t give him more than six months.”

“Opening Camp Decade means a lot to him?”

“Actually, he rarely mentioned his time in the Air Force until about a year ago. Suddenly it was all he talked about. When he asked if I was willing to come up here to make a video of the place, I couldn’t say no.”

“This is a hell of a thing you’re doing for him,” Ira said somberly. Mercer nodded.

It seemed as if Marty hadn’t thought about this situation from another’s point of view. He started to smile. “Yeah,” he agreed without conceit. “I guess it is. What the hell? It gets me out of the office for a while, and this might actually turn out to be fun.”

“I was never told — are you part of the Surveyor’s Society?” Mercer asked Lasko.

“No, but I’ve done some work for Charles Bryce before. He recommended me to Marty.”

“What do you do?”

“I used to teach snot-nosed kids how to survive accidents aboard submarines. Now I run the garage at a truck stop. My job here is to make sure all our equipment runs properly. Charlie told us what you do for a living. Why the hell do you live in a cesspool like Washington?”

Mercer laughed. “My first job out of the Colorado School of Mines was for the U.S. Geological Survey. I actually liked living in D.C., so when I went out on my own, I just stayed. All I really need for my work is a computer and easy access to an airport. Have you guys met any of the Geo-Research people coming with us?”

Ira leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “They’re headed by a real asshole named Werner Koenig. He’s got a fistful of degrees and a real superior attitude. Bryce told you how the Danish government forced him to bring us along and move his operation to conform to our mission, so you can believe he ain’t too pleased with us.”

“His second in charge is Greta Schmidt,” Marty Bishop added with a smirk. “A real knockout in a Nordic ice princess sort of way. They’re sitting four tables over, next to the bar.”

Mercer turned. Greta Schmidt was easy to spot. She was bent over the table passing a folder to someone. Her hair was white-blond and fell past her shoulders. He could see just a portion of her face and got the impression that she was indeed beautiful. Koenig was the man seated next to her. He was speaking to another tablemate, rapping on the table with his hand as he made a point. He had a natural aura of leadership that Mercer recognized even at this distance. Above his dark beard, his face was weathered like old leather, though he couldn’t have been much older than forty. His eyes were a cold blue, like polished aquamarine.

“Don’t even think about it,” Bishop said, incorrectly guessing at Mercer’s interest. “I tried to chat her up two days ago. Frigid as an iceberg.”

Mercer suppressed a chuckle. He loved how a man like Marty Bishop immediately assumed a woman was frigid when she rebuffed his advances. The skin around the ring finger on Marty’s left hand was pinched and slightly discolored where until recently a wedding band had covered it. Opening his father’s old military base wasn’t the only conquest on Bishop’s mind.

They talked all through the long breakfast, forging the rapport that would sustain them for the weeks to come. Although there were forty people total, Mercer’s experience was that group dynamics quickly broke down when they were hit by the enormity of their isolation. He wasn’t concerned about himself or Ira Lasko — isolation was nothing new to a submariner. He did have some reservations about Marty. While mental character rarely showed on the outside, he felt that Bishop possessed an underlying weakness. He suspected that Marty’s father had seen it too and that this trip was more about having his middle-aged son find whatever it was he lacked than taking pictures of a long-abandoned Air Force base.

The meal broke up around nine. Everyone was going back to their rooms to pack up for the ship. Mercer wasn’t sure how long he’d be with Elisebet Rosmunder, so he asked Ira Lasko to make sure his bags made it to the Njoerd.

He was standing outside the hotel, checking his bearings on a small map, when a female voice called to him from the door.

“You are part of the Surveyor’s Society?” The voice was German accented and throaty. Without looking, he knew it had to be Greta Schmidt.

“Yes, I am.” Mercer turned and approached her. She was his exact height, and nearly as wide at the shoulders. Her hair was scraped back from her forehead, revealing a widow’s peak above her wide-spaced eyes. She wore too much lipstick, he noted, which made her mouth overly full, as though her lips were swollen. She was not as attractive as that first impression. It was the eyes. They lacked focus and depth, as if there was nothing beyond her facade. “I’m Philip Mercer.”

“I am Greta Schmidt,” she said formally but made no move to shake his hand. “I will not tolerate the way you looked at me at breakfast. You have the same bad manners as your Mr. Bishop.”

Mercer took the accusation like an ill-deserved slap. Like most men, he had been caught staring at women many times. However, unlike Marty Bishop, he never crossed the line between admiring and objectifying. And in this case, he had been doing neither.

“You misunderstood my interest, Miss Schmidt. I had just asked Marty Bishop to point out the leaders of the Geo-Research team. I wanted to assure myself that I wasn’t trusting my life to a couple of incompetents.”

At this, her stare became even harder. Mercer was sure nine times out of ten she was right about what people thought when they saw her and he could understand her anger. What disturbed him was that she enjoyed this anger, seemed to need it. He saw in her expression that she liked that her looks gave her a power to intimidate men.

“And are we,” she asked in a brittle voice, “competent?”

“I don’t judge people at a glance,” Mercer said, throwing her accusation back at her. “But after looking at your ship this morning, I feel safe with Geo-Research.”

Greta Schmidt studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and then she reentered the hotel. Mercer went back to his map. Making an enemy this soon wasn’t what he had in mind, but he’d done nothing to precipitate the confrontation.

The Tjorn, or Pond, was only a couple of blocks behind the Hotel Borg, screened from Mercer’s view by the Town Hall. It was surrounded by buildings on three sides and divided by an automobile bridge about three hundred yards from the cobblestone shore. Ducks and geese filled the air and coated a good portion of the water. They rode the wind-stirred waves like toys. It was obviously a favorite spot for the elderly who fed the birds and for young mothers with their children.

Scanning the crowd, he saw a number of people who could have been Elisebet Rosmunder yet only one paid him any attention. She was a tiny woman, bundled in a long drab coat, a wool hat covering her hair. She sat on a bench near the water’s edge, a flock of birds within an easy toss of her position. Like most locals, she looked Scandinavian, with sharp features and clear, though heavily wrinkled skin. Her eyes were as sharp and blue as Harry White’s. Mercer guessed they were about the same age too.

“Mrs. Rosmunder?” he asked as he walked nearer. There were a few unclaimed bread crumbs at her feet.

“Yes, I am she,” the elderly lady said and indicated that Mercer should sit by her side. “You are the man who phoned me yesterday? Dr. Mercer?”

“Yes, Philip Mercer. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Dr. Mercer, it was I who wanted to see you,” she reminded him in excellent English.

Mercer didn’t recall mentioning his title, but he wasn’t certain. “That’s right. You said you had something you wanted to tell me.”

“That’s correct.” He didn’t get a sense of fear from her like he’d felt during their phone call. Instead, she seemed almost relieved. “I also have something I want to show you as well.”

Mercer waited quietly while she threw a handful of bread into the water. A pair of ducks squabbled to get the food, and Mrs. Rosmunder admonished them in Icelandic.

“Do you work for your government, Dr. Mercer?”

“No, ma’am. As I said on the phone, I’m part of a scientific expedition going to Greenland. I was doing research for the trip when I came across the story of a crashed airplane and how your son was part of the search. Because it happened near where we’re going, I thought I would speak with him about conditions there.”

“Greenland’s east coast is a mystery to most people. There are only a few native settlements, and the Danes heavily subsidize them. Where Stefansson went to look for that plane is an area that even the native Inuits don’t bother with. You are wise to want to talk with someone who has actually been there.”

Mercer said nothing.

“It was the middle of August 1953, I don’t remember the exact date, when my husband received a phone call from the American military at Keflavik Air Force Base. They told him about a plane crash and how they needed guides who knew Greenland to help them in their search. Stefan had just returned from another failed attempt to climb Everest and was in no condition to attempt something that strenuous. However, our son, who was twenty at the time and every bit the Arctic expert as his father, agreed to go. Your government was offering unheard-of wages.

“Stefansson was gone for two weeks. As you probably know from the article you read, they never found the plane and they searched by dogsled, on foot, and by airplane.”

“Did they happen to go to a place called Camp Decade?”

She looked at him sharply. “You have heard of it?”

“Part of my mission is to reopen the base,” Mercer said, somehow knowing this news wouldn’t please her.

“You know what the base was supposed to be, yes?”

“It was an experiment to create a town under the ice. To see if such a place could be habitable.”

She shook her head as though he’d given her the wrong answer. “Why would your government want to know if such a thing was possible? Have you ever asked yourself that question?”

Mercer hadn’t, which was unusual. “Do you know why?”

“No. But I want to show you something.” She made no move to show him anything. She sat very still, her mind elsewhere, probably with her dead son. Finally she spoke. “Camp Decade was off-limits to the searchers. They weren’t even supposed to know it was there, though they did fly over it once. Stefansson told me he asked about it and was informed by the military pilot that he hadn’t seen anything.”

“That was the height of the Cold War.” Mercer felt a need to explain his nation’s paranoia. “My government thought that everything should be classified top secret. To look back now, so much of what they did seems comical.”

Mrs. Rosmunder winced. Mercer wasn’t sure what he’d said to cause such a reaction. She reached into her handbag and withdrew a leather wallet. From inside, she pulled out two black-and-white photographs. She handed one to him. It showed a handsome young man in a thick roll-necked sweater, his blond hair falling around his head in heavy rings. He was smiling at the camera with the easy confidence of youth.

“That is Stefansson about two months before he left for Greenland,” Elisebet Rosmunder informed him, taking back the picture and staring at it before handing over the other.

This shot showed a skeletal figure lying on a bed with sheets drawn up to the neck so all Mercer could see was an enormous head. Bony shoulder blades created sharp ridges in the covers. Whatever was wasting the person rendered its face sexless. Its eyes were sunken, and it had hollowed cheeks and just a few stray hairs covering its skull. Dark splotches marred its skin. Mercer was reminded of pictures of Holocaust victims.

Mrs. Rosmunder held out her hand to take the photo back from Mercer. This time she didn’t even glance at it before replacing it in her wallet. Mercer waited quietly for an explanation.

“That was Stefansson six months after returning. He died a couple of days after a nurse took that picture. I never wanted to be reminded what happened to him, but I am grateful that she gave it to me anyway.” Her eyes were filled with tears while her voice had tightened. “Doctors told me it was cancer, a very aggressive cancer that he must have had for quite some time but only showed itself in those final months.”

“You don’t believe what you were told?” Mercer’s voice was as gentle as possible.

“It was certainly cancer,” she replied. “But I never believed that he’d had it before going to look for that plane.”

She spoke with absolute conviction, yet Mercer couldn’t help but think she’d fooled herself into believing that something other than cruel fate had stolen her son from her. Newspapers were full of stories about healthy people dying of cancer without having symptoms until the very end. It was the most feared disease for that and many other reasons.

Elisebet Rosmunder turned so she faced him on the bench, taking his hand into her bird-like fingers. “Dr. Mercer, you don’t have to believe me. I have long ago given up trying to convince people that there is something on Greenland that killed Stefansson. My government never looked into it, your military never looked into it, and I would never allow my husband to go over there and search for himself. I am certain that my son was exposed to some toxin or some radiation, and that is what gave him accelerated cancer. I also believe it has to do with Camp Decade.” She forestalled the question on Mercer’s lips by squeezing his hand. “I have no proof. There is no reason for me to think this. And as far as I know, no Americans stationed there suffered the way Stefansson did. I just wanted you to know the suspicions of an old woman who lost her son in the same area you are now going to. In good conscience I could not let you or your team go without warning you.”

She turned back and tossed another handful of crumbs to the ducks.

Mercer knew she had nothing more to say. He stood. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Mrs. Rosmunder. You’ve given me something to think about.”

When she looked up at him, her smile was wan. “You are years older than Stefansson when he died, but you remind me a great deal of him. Not your looks. Well, you’re as handsome as he was, but I’m talking about your spirit. You both have the same confidence in your abilities.” Mercer made a small gesture of denial. “It is true. Yet all the confidence in the world couldn’t save my son. But maybe the truth could have. I wanted you to know the truth or as much of it as I know.”

Mercer took her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

As he turned to go, she stopped him with one more comment. “Dr. Mercer, three months after the plane crash and failed search, Camp Decade was abandoned. Your military didn’t dismantle it and cart it away. They deserted it on Greenland for the ice and snow to bury. No reason was ever given. I think it is a mistake for you to reopen it.”

Mercer could understand now why he’d detected fear in her voice when they spoke on the phone. More disturbed than he wanted to admit, he left Elisebet Rosmunder with her memories and her ducks. As he walked toward the hotel, he felt a creeping suspicion, a sense of unease that he’d felt all too often. There was something to her story, even if she couldn’t provide any proof.

Given the times, Mercer had little doubt the U.S. government might have carried out some sort of experiment at Camp Decade. With its isolation, it would have been the perfect place to test chemical or biological weapons. While the camp was powered by a small reactor, he discounted nuclear testing or an accident because even a small atomic detonation registered on seismographs. He also thought that if something did get away from them, the area around Camp Decade would have been rendered safe by time and the elements; otherwise the Surveyor’s Society would not have received permission from the military to reopen it.

Mercer checked his watch. The Njoerd was leaving in an hour, which left him just enough time for two stops if he hurried. One stop was a liquor store. Despite Geo-Research’s prohibition against alcohol at the Greenland base, he’d bought a bottle of brandy at the airport duty free, and if he was going to spend three weeks with them, he’d need at least one more. The second stop was a matter of suspicion, Mrs. Rosmunder’s and his own. Mercer had built his career on risk and didn’t mind taking chances as long as he had time to manipulate the odds first. Such was his concern that he headed to the second location before finding booze, a move that would have stunned Harry White or anyone else who knew him.