Iceberg (Dirk Pitt 3)

"He was a man of the sea, and he died by the sea he loved, and perhaps his last 'thoughts were as serene as the water."

"He talked of God," Pitt murmured.

"He was fortunate, yet I feel I will be fortunate when my time comes to be laid to rest over there in the churchyard only a hundred steps from where I was born and among so many of the people I have loved and cared for."

"I wish I could share your affinity for staying in one spot, Doctor, but somewhere in the distant past one of my ancestors was a gypsy. I've inherited his wandering ways. Three years is my all-time record for living in the same location."

"An interesting question; which of us is the most fortunate?"

Pitt shrugged. "Who can tell? We both hear the beat of a different drummer."

"In Iceland," Jonsson said, "we follow the lure of a different fisherman."

"You missed your true calling, Doctor. You should have been a poet."

"Ah, but I am a poet." Dr. Jonsson laughed. "Every village has at least four or five. You will have to search far and wide for a more literate country than Iceland. Over five hundred thousand books are sold annually to two hundred thousand people, our entire population-" He broke off as the door opened and two men walked in. They stood calm, efficient and very official in their police uniforms. One nodded a greeting to the doctor, and Pitt suddenly got the entire picture.

"You needn't have been secretive about calling the police, Dr. Jonsson. I have nothing to conceal from anyone."

"No offense, but Dr. Hunnewell's arm was obviously mangled by gun shots. I've treated enough injured hunters to know the correct signs. The law is explicit, as I'm sure it is in your country. I must report all bullet wounds."

Pitt didn't like it much, but he had little option.

The two muscular policemen standing before him would hardly buy a story about a phantom black jet attacking and shooting the Ulysses full of holes before being rammed in midair. A connection betAeen the derelict in the iceberg and the jet was neither coincidental nor accidental. He was certain now that what started out as a simple search for a missing ship had turned out to be an unwanted involvement in a complex, farflung conspiracy. He was tired-tired of lying, sick of the whole goddamn mess. only one thought gripped his mind: Hunnewell was dead, and someone had to pay.

"Were you the pilot of the helicopter that crashed, sir?" one of the policemen inquired. An ut]Mistakable British accent and a courteous tone, but the "sir" seemed forced.

"Yes," was all Pitt answered.

The policemen seemed taken aback for a moment by Pitts terse reply. He was blond, had dirty fingernails, and was dressed in a uniform that left his wrists and ankles showing. "Your name, and the name of the deceased?"

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"Pitt, Major Dirk Pitt, United States Air Force.

The man in the coffin was Dr. William Hunnewell, National Underwater Marine Ag

ency." Pitt thought it strange that neither policeman made an attempt to write the information down.

"Your destination? It was undoubtedly the airfield at Keflavik?"

"No, the heliport in Reykjavik."

A flicker of surprise crossed the blond policeman's eyes. It was barely perceptible, but Pitt caught it. The interrogator turned to his partner, a dark-skinned, burly character with glasses, and said something in Icelandic.

He swung his head toward the Land Rover outside, scowled noticeably, then turned back to Pitt.

"Could you tell me your departure point, sir?"

"Greenland-couldn't give you the name of the town. It's spelled with twenty letters, and to an American it's totally unpronounceable. Dr. Hunnewell and I were on an expedition for our government, charting icebergs in the East Greenland Current. The idea was to crisscross the Denmark Strait by refueling at Reykjavik and then head back west to Greenland on a parallel course fifty miles further north. Unfortunately we didn't plan well, ran out of fuel and crashed on the coast.

That's all, give or take a few details." Pitt lied without knowing exactly why. God, he thought, it's becoming a habit.

"Where exactly did you crash?"

"How the hell should I know," Pitt said unpleasantly. "Go three blocks past the cow pasture and turn left at Broadway. The helicopter is parked between the third and fourth waves. It's painted yellow; you can't miss it."

"Please be reasonable, sir." Pitt took satisfaction at the sudden flame in the policeman's face. "We must have all the details in order to make a report to our superior."