Iceberg (Dirk Pitt 3)

"Your concern for my welfare comes a little late."

They stared at each other, green eyes locked on violet.

"Elsa Koch, Bonny Parker and Lucretia Borgia," he said, "all could have taken lessons from you on how to kill friends and influence enemies."

"I had to do what I've done," she said faintly' "But I swear to you I have killed no one. I was unwillingly pulled into the vortex by Oskar. I never dreamed that his association with Kelly would lead to death for so many."

"You say you've killed no one."

"Yes.

"You're lying."

She gazed at him oddly. "What are you talking about?"

"You killed Kristjan Fyrie!"

She looked at him now as if he'd gone mad. Her lips were trembling, and her eyes-those lovely violet eyes-were dark with fear.

"You can't mean what you're saying," she gasped.

"Kristjan died on the Lax; he was burned . . . burned to death."

The time had come, Pitt told himself, to settle the account, balance the entries, tally the final score. He leaned forward.

"Kristjan Fyrie didn't die a fiery death on a ship in the North Atlantic-he died under a surgeon's scalpel on an operating table in Veracruz, Mexico."

Pitt let it sink in. He took a couple of sips of his drink and lit a cigarette. The words were not easy for him. He watched her without speaking.

Kirsti's mouth had fallen open. She closed it quickly and numbly searched for something to say. She was on the verge of tears that would never come. Then she lowered her head and covered her face with her hands.

"I have it on good authority," Pitt continued. "The operation took place at the Sau de Sol Hospital and the surgeon was a Dr.

Jesus Ybarra."

She looked up with an expression of agony. "Then you know everything."

"Almost. There are still a couple of loose ends."

"Why do you torture me by beating around the bush? Why don't you come out and say it."

Pitt spoke calmly. "Say what? That you're really Kristjan Fyrie?

That there never was a sister. That Kristjan died at the exact moment you were born?" He shook his head. "What difference would it make? As Kristjan you weren't willing to accept the sex your body had given you so you undertook sex conversion surgery and became Kirsti. You came into this world a transsexual. Your genes crossed you up. You weren't satisfied with the hand nature dealt y

ou so you made a change.

What more is there?"

She came from behind the bar and leaned against the leather-padded surface. "You can never know, Dirk. You can never know what it is to lead a frustrating and complicated existence, playing the strong, virile male adventurer on the outside while inside you are a woman longing to be free."

"So you escaped the shell," Pitt said. "Slipped away to Mexico to a surgeon who specializes in conversions. You took hormone injections and silicone implants for your . . . ah . . . chest. Then you soaked up the sun on a Veracruz beach, getting a tan while your incision healed. Later, at the appropriate time, you showed up in Iceland claiming to be your long-lost sister 102

from New Guinea.

"What astonishing confidence you must have had to think you could get away with it," Pitt continued.

"I've met a few slick operators in my short life span, but by God, Kirsti, or Kristjan, or whoever, you've got to be the shrewdest bastard . . . or rather, bitch that ever came down the pike. You took everyone. You conned Admiral Sandecker into thinking you were going to turn the undersea probe over to our government. You faked a thousand men and their ships and aircraft into a wild-goose chase, searching for a ship that was never missing. You beguiled Dr. Hunnewell, an old friend, into identifying a charred body as your own. You used Fyrie Limited's personnel-and they died carrying out your orders. You used Rondheim.