Iceberg (Dirk Pitt 3)

Before he followed Tidi and Sandecker away from the forlorn and battered little boat, Pitt left a note on the helm.

SORRY ABOUT THE MESS. WE WERE ATTACKED BY A SWARM OF RED-NECKED FUZZWORTS. PUT THE

REPAIRS ON OUR TAB.

He signed it Admiral James Sandecker.

Twenty minutes later they reached the consulate.

The young staff members who played such professional roles as bait fishermen beat them by five minutes and had already locked the two models away in the consul's vault. Sandecker thanked them warmly and promised to replace the diving gear Pitt had been forced to jettison with the best that U.S. Divers manufactured.

Pitt then quickly showered and changed clothes and took a taxi to the airport at Keflavik.

His black Volvo cab soon left the smokeless, city behind. its meter humming headed onto the narrow -asphalt belt that was the coastal road to the Keflavik airport. To his right stretched the Atlantic, at this moment as blue as the Aegean waters of the Grecian Isles. The wind was rising off the sea, and he could see a small fleet of fishing boats running for the harbor, pushed by the relentless swells. His left side took in the green countryside, rolling in an uneven furrowed pattern, dotted by grazing cattle and Iceland's famous long-maned ponies.

As the beauty of the scenery flashed by, Pitt began to think about the Vikings, those dirty, hard-drinking love-a-fight men 53

who ravaged every civilized shore they set foot on, and who had been romanticized beyond all exaggeration and embellishment in legends handed down through the centuries. They had landed in Iceland, flourished and then disappeared.

But the tradition of the Norsemen was not forgotten in Iceland, where the hard, sea-toughened men went out every day in storm or fog to harvest the fish that fed the nation and its economy.

Pitts thoughts were soon jolted back to reality by the voice of the cab driver as they passed through the gates of the airport.

"Do you wish to go to the main terminal, sir?"

"No, the maintenance hangars."

The driver thought a moment. "Sorry, sir. They are on the edge of the field beyond the passenger terminal. Only authorized cars are permitted on the flight line."

There was something about the cab driver's accent that intrigued Pitt. Then it came to him. There was an unmistakable American midwestern quality about it.

"Let's give it a try, shall we?"

The driver shrugged and pulled the cab up to the flight line gate and stopped where a tall, thin, grayhaired man in a blue uniform stepped from the same austere, white-painted guard sha

ck that seemed to sit by gates everywhere. He touched his fingers to his cap brim in a friendly salute. Pitt rolled down the window, leaned out, and showed his Air Force I.D.

"Major Dirk Pitt," he snapped in an official tone, introducing himself. "I'm on urgent business for the United States government and must get to the commercial maintenance hangar for nonscheduled aircraft."

The guard looked at him blankly undl he bed and then, smiling dumbly, shrugged.

The cab driver stepped from behind the steering wheel. "He doesn't understand English, Major. Allow me to translate for you."

Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the driver put an arm around the guard and gently walked him away from the car toward the gate, tag rapidly but gesturing gracefully as he rattled off a flow of words in Icelandic. It was the first chance that Pitt had a good look at his helpmate.

The driver was medium height, just under six foot, not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with straw-colored hair and the light skin that usually goes with it. If Pitt had passed him on the street, he would have pegged him as a jor assistant executive, three years out of university, eager to make his mark in his father-in-law's bank.

Finally the two men broke out laughing and shook hands. Then the driver climbed back behind the wheel and winked at Pitt as the still smiling guard opened the gate and waved them through.

Pitt said, "You seem to have a way with security guards."

"A necessity of the trade. A cab driver wouldn't be worth his salt if he couldn't talk his way past a gate guard or a policeman on a barricaded street."

"It's apparent you've mastered the knack."

"I work at it. . . Any particular hangar, sir?

There are several, one for every major airline."