White Death (NUMA Files 4)

"Five hundred million pounds! I'm turning in my fishing rod. I wouldn't mind seeing one of these plants. Where's the nearest one?" "The Canadian operation I just mentioned. I'd like to see it, too." "So what's stopping us? We're twiddling our thumbs while Kurt and Joe are away. The world isn't in need of saving, and if it is, Dirk and Al are always available."

She squinted at the screen. "The plant is in Cape Breton, which is more than a skip and a jump from the shores of the Potomac."

"When will you learn to trust my Yankee ingenuity?" Paul said with a fake sigh.

While Gamay watched with a bemused smile, Paul picked up the phone and punched out a number. After a brief conversation, he hung up with a triumphant grin on his boyish face. "That was a pal in NUMA's travel department. There's a NUMA plane leaving for Boston in a few hours. They have two seats available. Maybe you can charm the pilot into an add-on to Cape Breton."

"It's worth a try," Gamay said, pushing the OFF button on her computer.

"What about your toadfish research?" Paul said.

Gamay replied with a bad imitation of a toad's croak. "What about the Java Trench?"

"It's been there for millions of years. I think it can wait a few more days."

His computer monitor went blank as well. Relieved that their boredom, at last, had come to an end, they raced each other to their office door.

10

THE MORNING GLOOM had burned off, and the Faroes were enjoying a rare moment of sunshine that revealed the splendor of the island scenery. The countryside seemed to be covered in bright-green billiard table

baize. The rugged terrain was barren of trees, dotted by grass-roofed houses and an occasional church steeple, and laced by crooked stone walls and foot trails.

Austin drove the professor's Volvo along a twisting coastal road that offered inland views of distant mountains. Jagged gray out- croppings rose from the cold blue sea like huge, petrified whale fins. Birds swirled around the lofty vertical cliffs where the sea had sculpted the irregular shoreline.

Around midday, Austin emerged from a mountain tunnel and saw a doll-like village clustered on a gently sloping hill at the edge of a fjord. The serpentine road followed a series of descending switchbacks, dropping thousands of feet in a few miles. The Volvo's wheels skirted the edge of hairpin turns with no guardrails along the berm. Austin was happy when he reached the level road that ran be- tween the foam-flecked surf and the colorfully painted houses built on the slope of the hillside like spectators at an amphitheater.

A woman was planting flowers in front of a tiny church, whose grassy roof was surmounted by a short, rectangular steeple. Austin danced at his Faroese phrasebook and got out of the car.

He said: "Orsaa. Hvar er Gunnar Jepsen?" Excuse me, where could

I find Gunnar Jepsen?

She put her trowel down and came over. Austin saw that she was a handsome woman who could have been between fifty and sixty. Her silvery hair was tied in a bun, and she was tanned except for the sun blush on her high cheekbones. Her eyes were as gray as the nearby sea. A bright smile crossed her narrow face, and she pointed toward a side road that led to the outskirts of town.

"Gott taaf" he said. Thank you.

"EingisJt?"

"No, I'm American."

"We don't see many Americans here in Skaalshavn," she said, speaking English with a Scandinavian lilt. "Welcome."

"I hope I'm not the last."

"Gunnar lives up there on the hill. Just follow that little road." She smiled again. "I hope you have a good visit."

Austin thanked her once more, got back in the car and followed a pair of gravel ruts for about a quarter of a mile. The road ended at a large grass-roofed house built of vertical, dark chocolate-colored planking. A pickup truck was parked in the drive. A hundred yards down the slope was a smaller twin of the main house. Austin climbed the porch stairs and knocked.

The man who answered the door was of medium height and slightly on the portly side. He had an apple-round face and cheeks, and thin strands of reddish-blond hair combed over his bald head. "Ja," he said with a pleasant smile.

"Mr. Jepsen?" Austin said. "My name is Kurt Austin. I'm a friend of Professor Jorgensen's."

"Mr. Austin. Come in." He pumped Kurt's hand like a used-car salesman greeting a prospect. Then he ushered him into a rustic liv- ing room. "Dr. Jorgensen phoned and said you were coming. It's a long drive from Torshavn," Jepsen said. "Would you like a drink?" "Not now, thanks. Maybe later."

Jepsen nodded and said, "You're here to do a little fishing?" "I've heard you can catch fish on dry land in the Faroes." "Not quite," Jepsen said with a grin, "but almost as good."

"I was doing some ship salvage work in Torshavn and thought fishing would be a good way to relax."