Iceberg

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 of 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."