White Death

by Clive Cussler

  Pia beamed when she opened the door at his knock and invited him inside. The exertions of the day must have been apparent in his face. When he stepped into the light, her smile disappeared. “Are you all right?” she said, with concern in her voice.

  “Nothing a glass ofalamt couldn't help.”

  Clucking like a mother hen, she ushered him to the kitchen table, poured him a tall glass ofafavit, then watched as he drank. “Well?” she said finally. “Did you catch many fish?”

  “No, but I went to visit the mermaids.”

  Pia let out a whooping laugh, clapped her hands and poured him a couple more fingers of liquor. “I lew it!” she said, with excitement in her voice. “And were the caves as wonderful as my father said?”

  She listened like a child as Austin described his entry through the Mermaid's Gate at slack tide and his journey into the cave network. He told her that he would have stayed longer but men with guns chased him away. Cursing impressively in Faroese, she said, “You can't go back to the cottage tonight. Gunnar says he doesn't work for those people, but I think he does.”

  “I was wondering the same thing. I left the car at the fish pier. Maybe I should leave town.”

  “God, no! You'll drive off the road into the sea. No, you will stay here tonight and leave early tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure you want a gentleman staying the night? People will talk,” Austin said with a broad smile.

  She grinned back, eyes sparkling with childlike mischief. “I hope so.”

  Shortly before dawn, Austin awakened and got up from the sofa. Pia heard him stir and rose to make him a breakfast. She cooked an industrial-sized potato omelet with smoked fish and pastry on the side. Then she packed him a lunch of cold cuts, cheese and apple and sent him on his way, first eliciting a promise to return.

  The town was coming alive as he made his way in the damp morn- ing air to the fish pier. A couple of fishermen on their way to work waved at him from their trucks as he was opening the car door. The keys slipped from his fingers as he waved back-and when he bent to pick them up, his nostrils picked up a chemical smell, and he de- tected a soft splat-splat sound. He got down on his knees and peered under the car, where the odor was even stronger. Fluid dripped where the brake hoses had been cleanly cut. Austin grunted to him- self softly, then he went over to the fish pier and asked around for a aood mechanic. The harbormaster said he would call, and before long a lanky, middle-aged man showed up.

  After inspecting the damage, the mechanic stood and handed Austin a section of the hose. “Somebody don't like you.”

  “No chance it was an accident?”

  The taciturn Faroese pointed to where the road out of town skirted a cliff, and he shook his head. “I figure you'd be flying with the birds up there on the first curve. No problem to fix, though.”

  The mechanic repaired the brakes in short order. When Austin went to pay him, he waved away the money. “That's okay, you're a friend ofPia's.”

  Austin said, “The people who did this might know I was at Pia's. I wonder if I should talk to the police.”

  “No such thing here. Don't worry, the whole town will keep close watch on her.”

  Austin thanked him again, and minutes later he was driving out of town. As he surveyed the sea stack in his rear view mirror, he men- tally ticked off the events of his short stay in Skaalshavn. He was leav- ing town with more questions than answers. Look on the bright side, he told himself with a grin. He had made some terrific new friends.

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  15

  PAUL TROUT STEPPED onto the deck of Neals wooden- hulled trawler and appraised the boat with an expert eye. What he found surprised him. Neal was a charming conniver and a drunk, but he was a no-nonsense fisherman who took pride in his boat. The signs offender care were everywhere. Woodwork gleamed with fresh paint. The deck was scrubbed clean of oil stains. Rust was kept under control. The pilothouse had the latest in fish-finding and naviga- tional equipment.

  When Trout complimented Neal on the condition of his boat, the fisherman beamed like a father who'd been told his firstborn was his spitting image. Soon he and Neal were swapping sea stories. At one point, when Neal was out of hearing, Gamay raised an eyebrow and said, “You and Mike appear to be getting along swimmingly. I sup- pose you'll be trading recipes before long.”

  “He's an interesting guy. Look at this boat. It's as well-found as anything I've ever been on.”

  “Glad to hear you say that. NUMA now owns a piece of Tiffany.”

  The ransom to spring the trawler from the boatyard had been closer to a thousand dollars than to seven hundred fifty. After a quick fuel-tank fill-up, which Gamay also paid for, Neal set the trawler on a course that would take it into the open sea.

  “Fishin' ground's not far,” Neal yelled over the throb of the engine.

  " 'Bout seven miles. Ten fathoms. Bottom's smooth as a baby's behind.

  Prime for trawling. Be there shortly."

  After a while, Neal checked his GPS position, cut the throttle to an idle and lowered the net-a conical mesh bag, around a hundred- and-fifty-feet long, designed to be dragged along the sea bottom. The boat made two sets and caught lots of seaweed, but no fish.

  “This is very strange,” Trout said, inspecting the cod end, the nar- row pouch at the end of the net where harvested fish are concen- trated. “I can understand hauling in a poor catch, but it's highly unusual to bring in nothing. Not even trash fish. The net's absolutely empty.”

  A knowing grin crossed Neal's face. “You may wish it stayed empty.”

  The net was lowered again, pulled along the bottom and slowly winched back onto the boat. A boom was used to hoist the cod end over the deck where any catch could be emptied out. This time, something was thrashing wildly in the net. Flashes of silvery-white scales were visible through the tangle of mesh, as a large fish fiercely struggled to free itself. Neal yelled out a warning as he prepared to empty the contents of the net onto the deck.

  “Stand way back, folks, we've got a live one!”

  The big fish landed on the deck with a squishy thud. Freed from the net, it became even more ferocious in its exertions, skittering across the deck as it arched and snapped its long body, round eyes staring with an unfishlike malevolence, mouth wide and snapping at air. The creature slammed into the fish hold, a raised box built into the deck. Far from slowing it down, the impact seemed to make it angrier. The convulsions became more violent, and it scudded back across the slippery deck.

  “Wha-hoo!” Neal yelled, quickly stepping out of the way of the biting jaws. He lowered a gaff handle near the fish's head. In a snap- ping blur, the fish bit the handle in two.

  Paul watched, spellbound, from the raised safety of a pile of net- ting. Gamay had taken out a video camera and was busy filming.

  “That's the biggest salmon I've ever seen!” Paul said. The fish was about five feet long.

  “This is crazy,” Gamay said, holding the camera steady. “Salmon don't act like this when they're caught. They've got weak teeth that would break if they tried to do anything like that.”

  "Tell that to the damned fish/7 Neal said, holding up the jagged end of the gaff handle. He tossed it aside and grabbed a pitchfork, speared the fish behind the gills and pinned it to the deck. The fish continued to struggle. Neal produced an old Louisville Slugger and whacked the fish on the head. It was stunned for a second, then started snapping again, although less violently.

  “Sometimes you have to slam them a few more times before they quiet down,” Neal explained.

  Moving with great caution, he managed to loop a line around the tail. Then he fed the line into an overhanging pulley, pulled the pitch- fork out, lifted the fish and swung it over the open fish hold, still care- ful to stay clear of the jaws. When the fish was positioned over the hold, he took a filleting knife and cut the line. The fish fell into the hold where it could be heard banging against the sides.

  “That was the meanest fish I've eve
r seen,” Paul said, with a won- dering shake of his head. “It behaved more like a barracuda than a salmon.”

  "It looked like an Atlantic salmon, but I'm not sure what it was.

  Those strange white scales. It was almost albino.“ Gamay shut off the camera and peered into the dimness of the fish hold. ”Listen! It's far too big and aggressive to be a normal fish. It's almost as if it were some sort of mutant.“ She turned to Neal. ”When did you first start catching these things?"

  Neal took the cigar stub from between his teeth and spit over the

  side. “First boats started bringing them up in the nets around six months ago. The guys called them 'devilfish.' They tore the hell out of the nets, but they were big so we cut them up and sent them off to market. Guess the meat was okay, because nobody died,” he said with a smirk. “Pretty soon that's all we were catching. The smaller fish just disappeared.” He gestured to the fish hold with his cigar.

  “That's the reason why.”

  “Did you contact any fishery scientists and tell them what you were catching?”

  “Oh yeah. We got in touch with the fisheries people. They didn't send anyone down.”

  “Why not?” "Short-staffed, they said. Guess you got to look at it their way.

  You're a marine biologist. Would you move out of your lab if some- one called and said big ol' devilfish was eating your stock?"

  “Yes, I would have been here in a minute.” “You're different from the others. They wanted us to ship one of these babies up for them to look at.”

  “Why didn't you do it?” “We were going to, but after what happened to Charlie Marstons, the fishermen got scared and said to hell with it and moved on.”

  “Who was Charlie Marstons?” Paul said.

  “Charlie was an old-timer. Fished these waters for years even after it got hard for him to get around because of a bad leg. He was a stub- born old coot, though, and liked to go out alone. They found him- or what was left of him-coupla miles east of here. From the looks of it, he caught a bunch of these lunkers, got too close and maybe his bum leg gave out. Hardly enough left to bury.”

  “You're saying the fish killed him?”

  “No other explanation. That's when the boys started leaving. I would have gone with them if I had my boat. Funny,” he said with a grin, “one of those babies is my ticket out of here.”

  Gamay was already thinking ahead. “I want to bring it back to the lab for analysis.”

  “Suits me fine,” Neal said. “We'll box it up as soon as it's safe.” He pointed the Tiffany back to land. By the time they pulled up to the dock, the fish was practically dead, but it managed a few spas- modic snaps, enough to warrant keeping it on board awhile longer. Neal recommended a boarding house where they could stay the night. Gamay gave him a hundred-dollar bonus, and they agreed to meet the next morning.

  A pleasant middle-aged couple warmly welcomed them at the board- ing house, a Victorian structure at the edge of town. From the en- thusiasm with which they were greeted, Paul and Gamay figured that the B and B didn't get much business. The room was cheap and clean, and the couple cooked them a hearty dinner. They had a good night's sleep, and the next morning, after a huge breakfast, they set out to find Neal and reclaim their fish.

  The pier was deserted. More worrisome, there was no sign of Neal or the Tiffany. They asked at the boatyard, but nobody had seen him since the day before when he'd paid for his engine work. A few men were idling around the waterfront because they had nothing better to do. No one had seen Neal that morning. The bartender they'd met the day before strolled by on his way to open up the restaurant. They asked if he had any idea where Neal might be.

  “Probably nursing a hangover about now,” the bartender said. “He came in last night with a hundred bucks. Used most of it up buy- ing drinks for himself and the regulars. He was pretty tanked when he left. He's done it before, so I didn't worry about him. Neal navi- gates better drunk than some men sober. He took off around eleven, and that was the last I saw of him. He's been living on his boat, even when the boatyard had it.”

  “Any idea why the Tiffany isn't here?” Paul asked. The bartender scanned the harbor and swore under his breath.

  “Damned idiot, he was in no shape to run a boat.”

  “Would any of the other people who were in the bar know where he is ?”

  “Naw, they were even drunker than he was. Only one not drink- ing was Fred Grogan, and he left before Mike.”

  Trout's analytical ear was listening for inconsistencies. “Who is Grogan?” Paul asked.

  “Nobody you'd want to know,” the bartender said with contempt. “Lives in the woods near the old plant. He's the only local guy the new owners kept on when they bought in. Pretty surprising, because Fred is such a shady character. He pretty much keeps to himself. Sometimes he sneaks into town, driving one of the big black SUVs you see around the plant.”

  The bartender paused and looked across the water, shading his eyes. A small boat had entered the harbor and was moving toward the pier at great speed. “That's Fitzy coming in. He's the lighthouse keeper. Looks like he's in a big hurry.”

  The outboard-powered skiff skidded up to the dock, and the white-bearded man in the boat tossed a line ashore. He was clearly excited and didn't even wait to climb out of the boat before he started to babble almost incoherently.

  “Calm down, Fitzy,” the bartender said. “Can't understand a word.” The bearded man caught his breath and said, “I heard a big boom late last night. Rattled my windows. Figured it might be a jet flying real low. Went out this morning to take a look. Pieces of wood all over the place. Look at this.” He whipped back a tarpaulin, pulled out a jagged plank and held it over his head. The painted letters Tif were clearly visible.

  The bartender's lips tightened. He went into his bar and called the police. While he waited for the law to arrive, he made several more phone calls. Pickup trucks began to arrive, and a motley fleet of search boats was organized. With Fitzy in the lead, the flotilla had already set out when the police chief arrived. The chief talked to the bartender and got his story. By then, some of the boats were return- ing. They had more scraps of wood that identified the boat, but no sign ofNeal.

  The sheriff put in a call to the coast guard, which said it would send in a helicopter, but the consensus seemed to be that Neal had gotten drunk, decided to go for a joyride and probably hit a rock near the point and sank. The Trouts did not comment on the explanation, but as they drove back to the rooming house, their conversation dwelt on more sinister possibilities.

  Gamay put it bluntly. “I think Mike was murdered.” “Guess I wasn't the only one who saw the charring around the wood. I'd guess his boat was set on fire or simply blown up. Neal's bragging about the fish he caught could have got him killed.”

  “Is that what it is all about?” Gamay said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Neal was killed over a fish?”

  “Maybe.” She shook her head “Poor guy. I can't help thinking that we're somehow responsible-”

  “The only ones responsible are the guys who killed him.”

  “And I'm betting that Oceanus had a big hand in this.” “If you're right, they may come after us next.” “Then I'd suggest that we pack our gear and get out of town.” Paul pulled the rental car in front of the guest house, and they went inside, paid their bill and grabbed their bags. The owners were obviously sorry to see them go, and followed them out to the car. As they chattered on about how it was a shame that they were leaving, Gamay tugged Paul's sleeve and steered him to the driver's side. She got in and waved farewell.

  “Sorry to spoil our send-off party. While we were talking, I saw a black Tahoe pass by.”

  “Looks like the wolves are gathering,” Paul said. He turned onto the road that would take them out of town and glanced in the mir- ror. “No one on our tail.”

  Except for a few vehicles, they saw little traffic, and once they had

  gone beyond the town's outskirts, the road was empt
y. The two-lane road wound through thick pine woods, gradually ascending so they were driving high above the sea. On one side of the road was forest, and on the other a sheer drop-off for hundreds of feet.

  They were about two miles from the village when Gamay turned to look at the road behind them and said, “Uh-oh.”

  Unknown

  Paul glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black Tahoe bear- ing down on them. “They must have been waiting down a side road for us to pass.”

  Gamay tightened her seat belt. “Okay, then, show them what you can do.”

  Paul gave her an incredulous look. “You realize we are driving a six-cylinder family sedan that is probably half the size and weight of that black behemoth behind us.”

  “Damnit, Paul, don't be so analytical. You're a crazy Massachusetts driver. Just put the pedal to the metal.”

  Trout rolled his eyes. “Yes ma'am,” he said.

  He punched the gas pedal with his foot. The car accelerated to a respectable eighty miles per hour. Easily matching their speed, the Tahoe continued to gain. Paul managed to wring another ten miles per hour out of the engine, but the SUV moved closer.

  The road began to go into a series of curves that matched the con- tour of the coastal hills. The rental vehicle was no sports car, but it held the road better on the turns than the big SUV, which leaned heavily as the curves became sharper. Trout had to hit the brakes to keep from going off the road, but the SUV was even less maneuver- able.

  Slowed by the serpentine curves, the SUV lost ground. Trout curbed his elation. He kept his eyes glued to the road, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, pushing his car to just under the speed at which it could go out of control and overshoot a curve. He knew that one lapse-a patch of sandy highway, an errant boulder or an error of judgment-could get them both killed in a fiery crash.