Iceberg dp-3

by Clive Cussler

  Somebody has got to know something. You can't keep a craft like that a secret on an island this small. And third, the two scaled replicas of South American capitol buildings. I'm afraid you threw us a weird twist when you fished them from the briny deep. They must have a functional purpose. They may be vital to whoever built them, or they may not. Just to play safe, I'd better request Washington to fly in an expert on miniatures and have every square inch of those models thoroughly examined."

  "Efficient, industrious, professional. Keep it up. I may slowly become impressed."

  "I'll try to do my best." Lillie said sarcastically.

  "Would you like an extra hand?" Pitt asked. "I'm free for the evening."

  Lillie smiled a smile that made Pitt feel a twinge of uneasiness. "Your plans are already made, Dirk. I wish I could trade places with you, but duty calls."

  "I'm afraid to ask what's on your nasty little mind," Pitt said dryly.

  "A party, you lucky dog. You're going to a poetry reading party."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  "No, I'm serious. By special invitation from Oskar Rondheim himself. Though I suspect it was Miss Fyrie's idea."

  Pitts eyebrows came together over his penetrating green eyes. "How do you know this? How could you know this? No invitation arrived before you picked me up at the consulate."

  "A trade secret. We do manage to pull a rabbit out of the hat occasionally."

  "Okay, I'll concede a point and stick a gold star on your chart for the day." It was beginning to get chilly so Pitt rolled up his window. "A poetry reading," he said disgustedly. "God, that ought to be a winner."

  Chapter 13

  It is debated among Icelanders whether the great house, sprawling over the crest of the highest hill above Reykjavik, is even more elegant than the President's mansion at Bessastadir. This could be argued until both structures crumbled to dust, mostly because there is no real case for comparison. The President of Iceland's residence is a model of classic simplicity, while Oskar Rondheim's modern edifice looked as if it had been spawned by the unleashed imagination of Frank Lloyd Wright.

  The entire block in front of the ornate grille doors was lined with limousines representing every expensive auto manufacturer of every country: Rous-Royce, Lincoln, Mercedes-Benz, Cadillac. Even a Russian-built Zis stood temporarily in the circular driveway, unloading its cargo of formally dressed passengers.

  Beyond the entryway, eighty to ninety guests drifted in and out of the mairl salon and the terrace, conversing in a spectrum of different languages. The sun, which had been hidden off and on by a stray cloud, shone brightly through the windows even though it was just past nine o'clock in the evening. At the far end of the great salon, Kirsti Fyrie and Oskar Rondheim anchored the receining line under a massive crest bearing the red albatross and greeted each arriving guest.

  Kirsti was radiantly beautiful, gowned in white silk with gold trim, her blond hair elegantly wound Grecian style. Rondheim, tall and hawklike, towered beside her, his thin lips cracking in a smile only when politeness required. He was just greeting the Russian guests and smartly steering them toward a long table set with even rows of caviar and salmon and embellished by a huge silver punch bowl, when his eyes widened a fraction and the forced smile froze. Kirsti stiffened suddenly as the murmur of the guests died to a strange stillness.

  Pitt swept into the room with all the flourish of a matinee idol whose grandiose entrances were his stockin-trade. At the head of the stairway he stopped and took the handle of a lorgnette, hanging around his neck by a small gold chain, and held the tiny single lens up to his right eye and surveyed the startled audience who unabashedly stared back at him.

  No one could reOly blame them, even an authority on etiquette. Pitts outfit looked like a cross between a Louis XI court costume and God knew what. The red jacket sported ruffles on the collar and sleeves while a pair of brocaded yellow breeches tapered and disappeared into the red suede boots. Around his waist he wore a brown sHk sash, whose tasseled end hung to within inches of his knees. If Pitt had been searching for an eye-shattering effect, he achieved his purpose with honors. After building the scene to its peak, he daintily walked down the stairway and approached Kirsti and Rondheim.

  "Good evening, Miss Fyrie… Mr. Rondheim. How good of you to invite me. Poetry readings are absolutely my favorite soirees. I wouldn't miss one for all the lace in China."

  She gazed at Pitt, fascinated, her lips parted. She said huskily: "Oskar and I are happy you could come."

  "Yes, it's good to see you again, Major-" The words stuck in Rondheim's throat as he forgot and grasped Pitts dead-fish handshake.

  Kirsti, as if sensing an embarrassing situation in the making, quickly asked, "You're not wearing your uniform tonight?"

  Pitt casually swung the lorgnette around on its chain. "Heavens no. Uniforms are so drab, don't you think? I thought it would be amusing if I came in mufti this evening so no one would recognize me." He laughed loudly at his own left-handed joke, turning every head within hearing distance.

  To Pitts extreme pleasure, Rondheim visibly forced himself to smile courteously. "We had hoped Admiral Sandecker and Miss Royal might also attend."

  "Miss Royal wig be along shortly," Pitt said, staring across the room through his eyeglass. "But I'm afraid the admiral isn't feeling well. He decided to retire early. Poor fellow, I can't blame him after what happened this afternoon."

  "Nothing serious, I hope." Rondheim's voice betrayed a lack of concern for Sandecker's health that was as obvious as his sudden interest in the reason behind the admiral's incapacity.

  "Fortunately, no. The admiral only suffered a few cuts and bruises."

  "An accident?" Kirsti asked.

  "Dreadful, simply dreadful," Pitt said dramatically. "After you were so kind to offer us the loan of a boat, we cruised to the south side of the island where I sketched the coastline while the admiral fished. About one o'clock we found ourselves enveloped by a nasty fog.

  Just as we were about to return to Reykjavik, a horrible explosion occurred somewhere in the mist. The blast blew out the windows in the wheelhouse, causing a few small cuts about the admiral's head."

  "An explosion?" Rondheim's voice was low and hoarse. "Do you have any idea as to the cause?"

  "Afraid I haven't," Pitt said. "Couldn't see a thing.

  We investigated, of course, but with visibility no more than twenty feet, we found nothing."

  Rondheim's face was expressionless. "Very strange. You are sure you saw nothing, Major?"

  "Absolutely," Pitt said. "You're probably thinking along the same lines as Admiral Sandecker. A ship might have hit an old World War Two mine or possibly a fire broke out and touched off its fuel tanks. We notified the local coastal patrol. They have nothing to do now but wait and see what vessel is reported as missing.

  All in all a terrifying experience-" Pitt broke off as Tidi approached. "Ah, Tidi, here you are."

  Rondheim turned on the smile again. "Miss Royal." He bowed and kissed her hand. "Major Pitt has been telling us of your harrowing experience this afternoon."

  The bastard, Pitt thought. He can't wait to pump answers out of her. Tidi looked cute and frisky in a blue full-length dress, her fawn hair falling straight and natural down her back. Pitt hung his arm loosely around her waist, letting the hand slip down out of sight, and pinched her soft bottom. He smiled as he looked down into those wide brown eyes-eyes that possessed a wise, knowing quality.

  "I missed most of it, I'm afraid." She reached behind her back and, clutching Pitts hand discreetly, twisted his little finger until he gave in and just as discreetly removed his arm from her waist. "The blast knocked me against a cupboard in the galley." She touched a small swelling on her forehead, the purplish bruise neatly covered by makeup. "I was pretty much out of it for the next hour and a half. Poor Dirk here trembled and threw up all the way back to Reykjavik."

  Pitt could have kissed her. Tidi had picked up the situation without the bat o
f an eye and come through like a trooper.

  "I think it's time we mingled,"' he said, taking her by the arm and whisking her off toward the punch bowl.

  He passed her a cup of punch and they helped themselves to the hors d'oeuvres. Pitt had to fight from yawning as he and Tidi drifted from one group to another. An experienced party-goer, Pitt usually mixed with ease, but this time he couldn't seem to make a beachhead. There was an odd atmosphere about this function. He couldn't put his finger on it, yet there was something definitely out of place. The usual subdivisions were present-bores, the drunks. snobs and the backslappers. Everyone they joined who could speak English was quite polite. No anti-American sentiments-a favorite, ploy during most conversations involving guests of other nations-came to the surface.

  To all outward appearances, it seemed like the common, middle-of-the-road get-together. Then suddenly he had it. He bent down and whispered in Tidi's ear.

  "Do you get the feeling we're persona non grata?"

  Tidi looked at him curiously. "No, everyone seems friendly enough."

  "Sure, they're sociable and polite, but it's forced."

  "How can you be certain?"

  "I know a warm, sincere smile when I see one.

  We're not getting any. It's as though we're in a cage.

  Feed and talk to the animals, but don't touch."

  "That's silly. You can't really blame them for being uneasy when they talk to someone who's dressed the way you are."

  "That's the catch. The oddball is always, without fail, the center of attraction. If I wasn't dead sure, I'd say this was a wake."

  She looked up at Pitt with a sly smile. "You're just nervous because you're way out of your league."

  He smiled back. "Care for an explanation?"

  "See those two men over there?" She nodded her head sideways to her right. "Standing by the piano?"

  Pitt casually rolled a slow glance in the direction Tidi indicated. A small, rotund, lively little man with a bald head was gesturing animatedly as he spoke in rapid bursts into a wiry, thick white beard no more than ten inches from his nose. The beard belonged to a thin, distinguished-looking man with silver hair that fell well below his collar, giving him the appearance of a Harvard professor. Pitt turned back to Tidi and shrugged.

  "So?"

  "You don't recognize them?"

  "Should I?"

  "You don't read the society pages of The New York Times."

  "Playboy is the only publication I bother with."

  She threw him a typical feminine disgusted-withthe-male-of-the-species expression and said: "It's a pretty sid state of affairs when the son of a United States Senator can't identify two of the richest men in the world."

  Pitt was only half listening to Tidi. It took a few seconds for her words to sink in. But then they slowly began to register and he turned his head and brazenly stared at the two men who were still heavily involved in conversation. Then he swung back and gripped Tidi's arm so hard she winced.

  "Their names?"

  Her eyes flew wide in surprise. "The bald-headed fat man is Hans Von Hummel. The distinguished-looking one is F. James Kelly."

  "You could be mistaken."

  "Maybe… no, I'm positive. I saw Kelly once at the President's Inaugural Ball."

  "Look around the room! Recognize anyone else?"

  Tidi quickly did as she was told, scanning the main salon for a familiar face. Her gaze stopped not once, but three times. "The old fellow with the funny-looking glasses sitting on the settee. That's Sir Eric Marks. And the attractive brunette next to him is Dorothy Howard, the British actress-"

  "Never mind her. Concentrate on the men."

  "The only other who looks vaguely familiar is the one who just came in, talking to Kirsti Fyrie. I'm pretty sure he's Jack Boyle, the Australian coal tycoon."

  "How come you're such an authority on millionaires?"

  Tidi gave a cute shrug. "A favorite pastime for a lot of unmarried girls. You never know when you might meet one, so you prepare for the occasion even if it only comes off in your imagination."

  "For once your daydreams paid off."

  "I don't understand."

  "Neither do I except this is beginning to look like a meeting of the clan."

  Pitt pulled Tidi out on the terrace and slowly walked her to a corner away from the mainstream of the crowd. He watched the small groups of guests milling about the expansive double doors, catching them looking his way and then turning back, not in embarrassment, but rather as if they were scientists observing an experiment and discussing its probable outcome. He began to get the uneasy feeling that coming into Rondheim's lair was a mistake. He was just in the process of thinking up an excuse to leave when Kirsti Fyrie spied them and came alongside.

  "Would you care to be seated in the study? We're almost ready to begin."

  "Who is giving the reading?" Tidi asked.

  Kirsti's face brightened. "Why, Oskar, of course."

  "Oh, dear God," Pitt mumbled under his breath.

  Like a lamb to slaughter, he let Kirsti lead him to the study with Tidi tagging behind.

  By the time they reached the study and found a seat among the long circular rows of plush armchairs grouped around a raised dais, the room was nearly brimming to capacity. It was small consolation, but Pitt considered he and Tidi fortunate to sit in the last row near the doorway, offering a possible means of unnoticed departure when the opportunity arose. Then his hopes went up in smoke-a servant closed and bolted the doors.

  After a few moments, the servant turned a rheostat and dimmed the lights, throwing the study into solid darkness. Then Kirsti climbed the dais and two soft, pink spotlights came on, giving her the aura of a sculptured Greek goddess standing serenely on her pedestal in the Louvre. Pitt mentally undressed her, trying to imagine what an awesome picture she would have made in that revealing condition. He stole a glance at Tidi.

  The enraptured quality of her expression made him wonder if it were possible that her thoughts were similar to his. He groped for her hand, found it and squeezed the fingers tightly. Tidi was so absorbed with the vision on the dais, she didn't even notice or respond to Pitts touch.

  Standing there motionless, soaking up the stares from an audience still invisible beyond the glare of the spotlight. Fyrie smiled confidently with that inner glow of self-assurance that only a woman truly secure in her loveliness can possess.

  She bowed her head toward the hushed bodies in the darkness and began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests. Tonight, our host, Mr. Oskar Rondheim, will offer for your enjoyment his latest work. This he will read in our native Icelandic tongue.

  Then, since most of you understand English, he will read selected verses from the marvelous new contemporary Irish poet, Sean Magee."

  Pitt turned and whispered to Tidi. "I should have fortified myself with at least ten more cups of that punch."

  He couldn't see Tidi's face. He didn't have to-he felt her elbow jab him sharply in the ribs. When he turned back to Kirsti, she had disappeared and Rondheim hid taken her place.

  It might have been said that Pitt suffered the agonies of the damned for the next hour and a half. But he didn't. Five minutes after Rondheim began delivering his Icelandic saga in a rolling monotone, Pitt was sound asleep, content in the fact that no one would notice his lack of poetry appreciation in the darkened surroundings.

  No sooner had the first wave of unconsciousness swept over him than Pitt found himself back on the beach for the hundredth time, cradling Dr. Hunnewell's head in his arms. Over and over he watched helplessly as Hunnewell stared vacantly into Pitts eyes, trying to speak, fighting desperately to make himself understood.

  Then finally, barely uttering those three words that seemingly had no meaning, a cloud passed over his tired old features and he was dead.

  The strange phenomenon of the dream wasn't its actual recurrence, but rather the fact that no two sequences were exactly the same. Each time that Hunnewell died,
something was different. In one dream the children would be present on the beach as they had been in reality. In the next, they would be missing, nowhere in sight'. Once the black jet circled overhead, dipping its wings in an unexpected salute. Even Sandecker appeared in one scene, standing over Pitt and Hunnewell and sadly shaking his head. The weather, the layout of the beach, the color of the sea-they all differed from fantasy to fantasy. Only one small detail always remained faithfully-Hunnewell's last words.

  The audience's applause woke Pitt up. He stared at nothing in particular, stupidly gathering his thoughts.

  The lights had come on and he spent several moments blinking and getting his eyes accustomed to the glare.

  Rondheim was still on the dais, smugly accepting the generous acclaim. He held up his hands for silence.

  "As most of you know, my favorite diversion is memorizing verse. With all due modesty, I must honestly state that my acquired knowledge is quite formidable. I would, at this time, like to put my reputation on the block and invite any of you in the audience to begin a line of any verse that comes to your mind. If I cannot finish the stanza that follows or, complete the poem to your total satisfaction, I shall personally donate fifty thousand dollars to your favorite charity." He waited until the murmur of excited voices tapered to silence once more.

  "Shall we begin? Who will be first to challenge my memory?"

  Sir Eric Marks stood." 'Should the guardian friend or mother-' Try that one for an introduction, Oskar."

  Rondheim nodded. " 'Tell the woes of wilful waste, Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother; You can hang or drown at last!' " He paused for effect. " 'One and Twenty' by Samuel Johnson."

  Marks bowed in acknowledgment. "Absolutely correct."

  F. James Kelly rose next. "Finish this one if you can and name the author. 'Now all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams-' " Rondheim hardly skipped a beat.

  " 'Are where thy grey eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams-In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams!' 'The tine in Paradise' and it was written by Edgar Allan Poe."