Iceberg

A somber little man with soft green eyes enlarged by thick steelrimmed glasses came out, introduced himself as Dr. Jonsson and, after examining Hu

The boy nodded to Pitt and spoke. "My father would consider it a great honor if he could transport you and your friend to Reykjavik if that is where you wish to go."

Pitt stood and stared a moment into the father's warm gray eyes. "You tell your father that I am deeply grateful, and that the honor is mine." Pitt held out his hand and the Icelander gripped it hard.

The boy translated. His father simply nodded and then they both turned and left the room without another word.

Pitt lit a cigarette and looked quizzically at Dr. Jonsson. "You're a member of a strange people, Doctor. You all seem to be brimming with warmth and courtesy within, but your exterior seems completely dry of any emotion."

"You'll find the citizens of Reykjavik more open. This is the country; we are born into an isolated and stark but beautiful land. Icelanders who live away from the city are not noted for gossip; we can almost come to understand each other's thoughts before we speak. Life and love are commonplace; death is merely an accepted occurrence."

"I wondered why the children appeared so unconcerned when sitting next to a corpse."

"Death to us is merely a separation, and only a visual one at that. For you see," the doctor's hand pointed through a large picture window at the gravestones in the churchyard, "they who went before us are still here."

Pitt stared several moments at the grave markers, all rising on their individual crooked angles among the green mossy grass. Then his attention was caught by the farmer, who was carrying a handcrafted pine coffin to the Land Rover. He watched attentively as the big, silent man lifted Hu

"What is the farmer's name?" Pitt asked.

"Mundsson, Thorstei

Pitt stared through the window until the coffin was pushed onto the truckbed. Then he turned away.

"I'll always wonder if Dr. Hu

"Who will ever know? Remember, my friend, if you had been born ten minutes sooner or ten minutes later, your path might never have crossed his."

Pitt smiled. "I get what you mean. But the fact is, his life was in my hands, and I fumbled and lost it." He hesitated, seeing the scene again in his mind. "On the beach I passed out for half an hour after I bandaged his arm. If I had stayed awake, he might not have bled to death."

"Put your conscience to rest. Your Dr. Hu

"He was a scientist, an oceanographer, the best."

"Then I envy him."

Pitt looked at the village physician speculatively.

"Why do you say that?"

"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 a

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

"No offense, but Dr. Hu

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 co

"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?"

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

The man in the coffin was Dr. William Hu

"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-ski

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. Hu

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