Iceberg (Dirk Pitt 3)

Satisfied when he could hear voices across the next room, he came back and faced Jonsson.

"You're positive?"

"Yes, Sergeant Amarson does not patrol Grindavik. Also, he never drinks coffee-his system is allergic to it, so he'refuses even to stock it in his kitchen."

"Your sergeant, does he stand five foot nine and weigh about one hundred and seventy pounds?"

"To the inch and within five pounds-he is an old friend. I have examined him many times." Jonsson's eyes clouded with puzzlement. "How could you describe a man you have never met?"

"The character who does all the talking is wearing Amarson's uniform. If you look closely, you can see the outlines where the sergeant stripes used to rest on the sleeve."

"I do not understand," Jonsson said in a whisper.

His face was very pale. "What is happening?"

"I don't have half the answers. Sixteen, maybe as many as nineteen men have died, and the killing will probably go on. I'd guess Sergeant Amarson was the latest victim. You and I are next."

Jonsson looked stricken, his hands clenched and unclenched in bewilderment and despair. "You mean I must die because I have seen and talked with two murderers?"

"I'm afraid, Doctor, that you're an innocent bystander that must be eliminated simply because you can recognize their faces."

"And you, Major, why have they concocted such an elaborate, scheme to kill you?"

"Dr. Hunnewell and I also saw something that we shouldn't have."

Jonsson stared into Pitts impassive face. "it would be impossible to murder us both without creating excitement in the village. Iceland is a small country. A fugitive could not run very far nor hide very long."

"These men are no doubt professionals when it comes to killing Someone is paying them and paying them well. An hour after we're dead, they'll probably be relaxing with a drink in one hand aboard a jetliner bound for either Copenhagen, London or Montreal."

"They seem lax for professional assassins."

"They can afford to be. Where can we go? Their car and Mundsson's truck are in front of the house-they'd easily cut us off before we could open a door." Pitt swung a hand toward a window. "Iceland is open country. There aren't ten trees within fifty miles. You said it yourself, a fugitive could not run very far nor hide very long."

Jonsson bowed his head in silent acceptance, then he grinned faintly. "'Then our only alternative is to fight. It is going to be difficult taking a life after spending thirty years trying to save them."

"Do you have any firearms?"

Jonsson sighed heavily. "No, my bobby is fishing, not bunting. The only equipment I possess that might be classed as weapons are my surgical instruments."

Pitt walked over to a white ste

el-framed, glasspaneled cabinet that held an assortment of neatly arranged medical instruments and drugs, and opened the door. "We have one convenient advantage," he said thoughtfully. "They don't know we're wise to their nasty little plot. Therefore, we shall introduce them to a good old American game known as Pin the Tali on the Donkey."

Only two more minutes had elapsed when Jonsson opened the door to the examining room, revealing Pitt parked on a stool holding a bandage to his bleeding head. Jonsson motioned to the blond man who spoke English.

"Could you please assist me for a moment? I am afraid that I need a third hand."

The man raised his eyebrow questioningly, then shrugged to his partner, who sat with his eyes half closed, his over-confidence giving birth to thoughts a thousand miles away.

Jonsson, keeping any suspicion at a low level, purposely left the door slightly ajar, but not enough to allow vision of more than a fraction of the examining room. "If you could hold the major's head on a slight angle with both hands, then I can finish without interruption.

He keeps twitching and ruining any chance for a neat stitch job." Jonsson winked and then spoke in Icelandic. "These Americans are like children when it comes to pain."

The fraudulent policeman laughed and nudged the doctor with his elbow. Then he walked around in front of Pitt, bent down and gripped Pitts head with both hands on the temples. "Come, come, Major Pitt, a few stitches are nothing. What if the good doctor had to amputate your-" It was all over in less than four seconds-silently.

With seeming indifference and nonchalance, Pitt reached up his hands and grabbed the blond man around the wrists.

Surprise showed for a brief instant in the stranger's face, then true shock as Jonsson clamped a heavy gauze pad over his mouth and jammed a syringe against his neck in the same movement. ne shock gave way to terror, and he moaned in his throat, a moan that could not be heard because Pitt was loudly cursing Jonsson for a nonexistent sewing operation. The eyes above the white gauze began to lose focus, and the man made a desperate effort to hurl himself backward, but his wrists were held solidly in the vise of Pitts grip.