Iceberg

Mind lettin' me in on your secret?"

"No secret," Pitt said slowly. "A Lorelei crashed a couple of days ago and nothing except a portion of the nose gear was left to identify. I'm trying to trace it, that's all."

"Wasn't it reported as missin'?"

"I wouldn't be here if it was."

"Ah knew there was something fishy about them guys. That's why ah went ahead and filled out a maintenance report."

Pitt leaned over, his eyes boring into Cashman's.

"What good was a report if you couldn't identify the aircraft?"

A shrewd smile split Cashman's lips. "Ah may be a country boy, but mah momma didn't drop me outta her bottom this mornin'." He stood up and tilted his head toward a side door. "Major, ahim go

He led Pitt into a small dingy office furnished with only a battered desk that was decorated with at least fifty cigarette burn marks, two equally battered chairs and a huge metal filing cabinet. Cashman walked straight to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer, rummaged for a moment, found what he was looking for and handed Pitt a folder soiled with greasy fingerprints.

"Ah wasn't kidding' ya, Major, when ah said it was too dark to make out any paint markin's. Near as ah could tell, the plane had never been touch by a brush or spraygun. The aluminum skin was —,Is shiny as the day it let the factory."

Pitt opened the folder and sca

"How did you get it?" Pitt asked.

"Compliments of a limey inspector at the Lorelei factory," Cashman answered, sitting on a corner of the desk. "After replacin' the seal on the nose gear, ah took a flashlight and checked out the main landin' gear for damage or leakage, and there it was, stuck away under the right strut as pretty as you please. A green tag sayin' that this here aircraft's landin' gear had been examined and okayed by master inspector Clarence Devonshire of Lorelei Aircraft Limited. The plane's serial number was typed on the tag."

Pitt threw the folder on the desk. "Sergeant Cashman!" he snapped.

Stu

"Your squadron!"

"Eighty-seventh Air Transport Squadron, sir."

"Good enough." Pitts cold expression slowly worked into a huge grin and he slapped Cashman on the shoulder. "You're absolutely right, Sam. You truly made my day."

"Wish ah could say the same," Cashman sighed, visibly relieved, "but that's twice in the last ten minutes ya scared the crap outta me. Why'd ya want mah squadron?"

"So I'd know where to send a case of Jack Daniel's. I take it you enjoy good whiskey?"

A look of wonder suddenly came over Cashman's face. "By gawd, Major, you're sumthin' else. Ya know that?"

"I try." Already Pitt was plotting how to explain a case of expensive whiskey on his expense account.

What the hell, screw Sandecker, he thought; the tab was worth the consequences. Screw, the word bounded out of his mind and caused him to remember something. He reached inside his pocket.

"By the way, have you ever seen this before?" He handed Cashman the screwdriver he'd found on the black Lorelei.

"Well, waal, fancy that. Believe it or not, Major, this here screwtwister is mine. Bought it through the catalog of a tool specialty house in Chicago. It's the only one of its kind on the island. Where'd you come across it?"

"In the wreck."

"So that's where it went," he said angry. "Those dirty bastards stole it. Ah should a known they were up to sumthin' illegal. Ya just tell me when their trial is, and ah'fl be happier than a rejected hog at a packin' plant to testify against them."

"Save your leave time for a wor-thwbhe escapade.

Your friends won't be showing for a trial. They bought the farm."

"Killed in the wreck?" It was more statement than question.

Pitt nodded.

"Ah suppose ah could go on about crime not payin', but why bother.

If they had it coming', they had it coming'. That's all there is to it."

"As a philosopher, you make a great hydraulic specialist, Sam." Pitt shook Cashman's hand once more.

"Good-by and thank you. I'm grateful for your help."

"Glad to do it, Major. Here, keep the screwdriver for a souvenir.

Already ordered a new one, so won't be needin' it."

"Thanks again." Pitt shoved the screwdriver back in his pocket, turned and left the office.

Pitt relaxed in the cab and stuck a cigarette between his lips without lighting the end. Obtaining the mysterious black jet's serial number had been a shot in the dark that paid off in spades. He really hadn't expected to find out anything. Staring through the window at the passing green pastures, he saw nothing with his eyes, idly wondering if the plane could now be tied directly to Rondheim. This was still worrying over the possibility when b. the view impression that the countryside looked different than before. The fields were empty of cattle and ponies, the rolling hills flattened into a vast carpet of uneven tundra. He swung around and gazed out the other window; the sea was not where it should have been; instead, it lay to the rear of the cab, slowly disappearing over a long, low rise in the road. He leaned over the front seat.

"Do you have a date with the farmer's daughter or are you taking the scenic route to run up the meter?"

The driver applied pressure to the brake and slowed the cab, stopping at the side of the road. "Privacy is the word, Major. Merely a slight detour so we can have a little chat-" The driver's voice froze into nothingness, and for good reason. Pitt had jammed the tip of the screwdriver half an inch into the cavity of his ear'.

"Keep your hands on the wheel and get this hack back on the road to Reykjavik," Pitt said quietly, "or your right ear will get screwed into your left."

Pitt watched the driver's face closely in the rearview mirror, studying the blue eyes, knowing they would signal any sudden attempt at resistance. No shadow of an expression touched the boyish features, not even a flicker of fear. Then slowly, very slowly, the face in the mirror began to smile, the smile transforming into a gentle laugh.

"Major Pitt, you are a very suspicious man."

"If you had three attempts on your life in the last three days, you'd develop a suspicious nature too."

The laugh stopped abruptly and the bush brows bunched together. "Three attempts? I'm aware of only two-" Pitt cut him off by pushing the screwdriver another eighth of an inch deeper into his ear, "You're a lucky man, friend. I could try and make you contribute a few choice items about your boss and' his operation, but Russian KGB-style interrogation is way out of my line.

Instead of Reykjavik, suppose you drive nice and easy back to Keflavik, only this time to the United States Air Force side of the field where you can join a couple of your buddies and play charades with National Intelligence agents. You'll like them; they're experts at taking wanflower and turning him into a babbling life of the party.

"That might prove embarrassing."

"That's your problem."

The smile was back in the rear-view mirror. "Not entirely, Major.

It would, indeed, be a moment worth remembering to see your face when you discover you brought in a N.I.A. agent for questioning."