Hot Ice (9 page)

Jason noted Momma’s eyes narrow slightly, a sure sign something devious was going on behind them. “Excellent! If you and I can persuade Jason to manage to find out what happened to Boris, your expertise will be very helpful. Maybe my company might sponsor a trip down inside this, er, big volcano. How many people would that involve?”

Jason was instantly suspicious. “How?”

“Well,” Momma said sweetly, “you know I can’t divulge a confidence, but I can say Boris was in Iceland on a matter related to the geology of the place.”

Jason was having a hard time seeing anyone getting shot over the study of rocks, plus Momma’s penchant for scheme and intrigue was as indigenous to her nature as heat and rain to her native Haiti.

“Exactly what would you expect Jason to do?” Maria wanted to know, obviously enticed by the prospect of a funded expedition.

Momma studied thin air for a theatrical moment. “Well, honey, he’s already indicated he doesn’t want to be directly involved in anything risky. All I’m asking him to do is find out what happened to an old friend, come back, and tell me.”

“You wouldn’t expect him to participate in anything if there’s trouble, anything violent?”

Momma gave her head a slight shake. “He’s far too valuable to risk.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Jason felt like a goat being haggled over in some Middle Eastern bazaar.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, sweetie.” Momma had on her most innocent face, a sure sign of deception.

“No violence, no killing?”

Momma shrugged, a human earthquake. “Just information gathering.”

Momma’s voice had taken on that musical lilt of Haiti’s patois again, an indication she was pleased with the way things were going.

“But you don’t intend to initiate violent action, and if it does happen, Jason won’t be involved.” A statement, not a question.

“Of course not.”

Was Maria’s objection to violence personal rather than generic, practical rather than altruistic? Or was the possibility of being able to fully explore a recent volcanic eruption too inviting to pass up?

Maria was silent, thinking.

Momma rose again, this time motioning to Semedi. “It’s been wonderful to meet you, Maria. I hope you can find a safe place. I know you and Jason will be happy together there. But I’ve got a crisis to handle.”

The ploy worked.

Maria also stood. “No, wait! If you can fund an exploration of the volcanic activity and you are sure Jason will only be involved in gathering facts …”

A fish that had swallowed the bait whole could be less securely hooked.

Narcom’s operations had as much chance of being nonviolent as an NHL hockey game did.

Jason started to remind both women that it was, after all, his decision, then stopped. He could protest, decline to participate. And then? He was still going to have to move, disrupt his life again to escape his enemies, having to look over his shoulder again here in the Bay of Naples or somewhere else. Going to Iceland wasn’t going to put an end to that, but it would be better than the running and hiding. Besides, his whole life had been a series of actions until three years ago. The brief encounter in Africa had reminded him how much he missed the excitement, the rush of life-and-death decisions.

In any event, he and Maria could not stay here, not with today’s attack. It would be followed by others.

He kept his mouth shut and listened before asking questions.

From the outside door of the upstairs loggia, Jason and Maria watched Momma’s departure until Jason checked his watch.

“We’re gonna have to move if we’re gonna make the hydrofoil. Momma might change her mind about letting us use the Gulfstream out of Naples.”

Maria took a long look around. “You plan on leaving today?”

“You heard what the lady said: whoever made the try this afternoon isn’t going to quit, and I’d just as soon not be home when they try again. Gianna can take care of the house as well as Pangloss and Robespierre. I’d suggest you start packing.”

“I’ve hardly unpacked.”

“So much the better, but you’d better add some warm clothes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to throw a few things into a suitcase.”

Once alone in the bedroom, Jason locked the door. If Maria tried to get in, he would have to think of an excuse. Kneeling before an eighteenth-century chest on a stand, he felt along the bottom until his fingers found what he was probing for. There was the sound of tearing tape and he sat back on his heels, unwrapping an oilskin package. The rich smell of Hoppe’s Elite Gun Oil filled his nostrils as he unwrapped his special double-edged knife in its special sheath with two straps, which he bound to his right leg just below the knee. Next, he gently unfolded the cloth from around a Glock 18 9 mm pistol and two extra clips, fully loaded. The gun was a version of the Glock 17 but with an automatic-fire option. With a thirty-three-shot double-stack clip, its firepower made up for the lack of accuracy of a barrel just short of four and a half inches. You could fill the air with a lot of lead very quickly.

Sliding back the action, he verified that the automatic already had a magazine in it. The gun went into a holster he clipped to his belt at the small of his back.

Momma was not all generosity. She knew better than to mention in front of Maria that use of her private aircraft meant not only convenience, but also an opportunity to carry weapons, a subtle way of telling him he might well need them. Hardly the peaceful intelligence gathering she had promised Maria.

Finally, Jason selected several CDs from a stack in a bedside table and placed them in a special container. He toyed with the idea of taking a few brushes and tubes of pigment before discarding the thought. No matter how alluring the possible subjects, he wouldn’t have the time to paint.

He stood, looking around the room. Three of his paintings hung on the walls, depicting various scenes of Isola d’Ischia. Over the bed hung a pair of capriccios he had picked up in Rome. Imaginary scenes of architectural landscapes, they had been popular decoration in eighteenth-century Italy. In unusually shaped frames, one depicted a view of what might have been the ruins of Venice had the city fallen into decay. The other was a fanciful view of ancient Rome, also in ruins as suggested by cattle grazing before the three remaining columns of the temple of Saturn, arbitrarily juxtaposed next to what might have been the Arch of Titus, which, in reality, was at the other end of the Forum. Both paintings were topped by a sky of the rose-tinted clouds that always adorned the genre.

He would miss this place, the slow pace of life and the vistas that seemed to leap onto his canvases. But he had known somewhere deep in his mind this day would come. It was the price demanded by his other life, the one that would not stay in the past. Now that his presence had been discovered by his enemies, there was no chance he could live there. Even if the terrorist group were destroyed, there were always others. Like the Hydra, as soon as one head was removed, two more appeared. Intolerance and hatred needed little nourishment to flourish.

He grinned grimly. He was one person who could do without the job security.

Stuffing only clothes that could be washed into a small handbag along with toiletries and an iPad, he took a final survey of the room, unlocked the door, and went out.

He was relieved Pangloss was not there as he and Maria drove through the gates for what he suspected would be the last time. He didn’t need the dog’s howling at being left behind no matter how earnestly Jason assured him of reunion.

He stood beside Maria at the stern of the hydrofoil as it rose out of the water and turned toward Naples. Wordlessly, he watched the craggy peaks of the island sink below the horizon just as so many places he had come to love had faded out of his life.

The tires of the Gulfstream gave the single runway a smoky kiss before twin jet engines howled in reverse thrust. A few seconds later, the aircraft sedately turned onto a taxiway and rolled past the ultra-modern terminal building to the tarmac of the general aviation area.

It was followed by a Toyota Land Cruiser. Had its white paint job with blue lettering and blue-and-yellow trim not been sufficient, the flashing blue lights announced Lögreglan, Icelandic Police. As the Gulfstream maneuvered into a spot among the few transient aircraft, its engines spooled down with a final whine and the police car drew abreast of the single door.

Jason and Maria stood in the opening as the hiss of hydraulics lowered the stairs. He fumbled in a jacket pocket for a pair of sunglasses, feeling both foolish and disoriented. Disoriented because he was looking into the glare of sunlight at twenty-two hundred hours, ten o’clock at night, local time, foolish because he should have anticipated the twenty-plus hours of daylight summer brought to sixty-five-degree-north latitudes. He was thankful he had remembered to bring both light jackets and sweaters, items used only on the rare cold winter day on the Bay of Naples. June or not, the temperatures would be bouncing between fifty-five and forty-five here, chilly for someone used to a Mediterranean climate.

A woman was getting out of the police car, hair the color of straw falling almost to the shoulders of the black uniform trimmed in white. Behind her was a man wearing the armband of Iceland’s Customs Service. Iceland had no military; instead, the national police was divided between the normal police functions, a naval police similar to a coast guard, and customs. From his reading on the flight, Jason knew the entire force numbered in the neighborhood of 750.

The woman reached the top of the stairs. “Mr. Peters, Dr. Bergenghetti?”

Both extended hands and received a firm, very unfeminine grip in return.

She grasped first Maria’s hand then Jason’s, and moved aside so the customs man behind her could pass. He stood for a moment, admiring the interior of the aircraft.

“I’m Bretta, Lieutenant Bretta,” she announced.

“Sounds more like a first than a surname,” Maria observed.

She treated Maria and Jason to a brilliant smile. “It is. There are few of what you call last names in Iceland.”

Jason searched deep blue eyes, suspecting he was being had. “That must make the phone books interesting.”

“We have what you call ‘patronymic’ names. Hroarsson would be son of Hroar.”

The customs man interrupted. “Anything to declare?”

Both Jason and Maria handed him their passports.

“No, nothing,” Jason said. “I left in something of a hurry when I heard about the call from your police commissioner.”

The man was examining the passports. “Your stay will not exceed three months?”

“Speaking for myself, I’m hoping it won’t be three days. Dr. Bergenghetti here is a volcanologist. I believe she may tarry longer; she has an appointment with—”

“Dr. Pier Sevensen,” Maria piped up. He’s driving down from Askja, where the university’s Nordic Volcanological Center is located. I hope to plan an expedition to explore the caldera of Eyjafjallajökull as soon as it finishes cooling off, maybe a month or so from now.”

The customs man’s eyes widened. “Explore? I would think it is too dangerous for that.” He handed them back their passports. “In any event, welcome to Iceland.”

“Iceland is lovely in summer,” Bretta volunteered.

That remains to be seen.

By this time the Gulfstream’s crew, pilot, first officer, and flight attendant were fidgeting in the aisle, eager to disembark. The customs man reached for the General Declarations held by the pilot, those papers required of all international flights listing passengers, their nationality, origin of flight, and other information whose purpose was obscure if not nonexistent. Jason suspected the true function of these documents was to give jobs to the bureaucrats of all nations who filed, stored, and created space for them. Never once had he seen anyone ever actually read a General Dec.

“The commissioner is waiting,” Bretta said pointedly.

Scooping up a small overnight bag, Jason followed her to the aircraft’s door before speaking to the crew. “I hope to finish my business here quickly. I’ll call the pilot on his cell when I’m ready to go. In the meantime, take in the sights.” To Maria, he said, “Have any idea when you and your professor might finish up?”

“We’re going up to Askja tonight. He has to be back at the university’s main campus here in Reykjavík tomorrow. I’ll call you.”

Easier said than done, thought Jason, noting his BlackBerry showed “No contacts” within minutes of leaving the airport.

May as well enjoy the local sights. The sole “sights” within the vicinity of Keflavík consisted of sheep and occasional reindeer grazing on the green moss that covered black volcanic rock with craggy, glacier-carved hills towering above. The few houses—farm dwellings, he supposed—were modest wood structures, many with sod roofs. The road itself, Highway 1, was a four lane, but every few minutes the Toyota had to slow down for humps that reminded Jason of speed breaks.

“There are no trees,” he marveled.

“The early settlers cut most of them for fuel and building. Since it takes nearly fifty years for a tree to mature in these latitudes, reforestation efforts move slowly.”

Bretta’s explanation was punctuated with a bounce of the Toyota that sent Jason’s head dangerously near the roof despite his seat belt.

“What’s with the bumps?” he asked.

Bretta didn’t take her eyes from the road. “The winter causes what you would call ‘potholes.’ The locals patch them by filling them with gravel and paving over them.”

“But doesn’t that slow … ?”

She spared a glance for him. “In Iceland, few people are in a hurry. You will note that, unlike most European countries, we have a posted speed limit: ninety kilometers an hour in the country on paved roads, fifty in town or on gravel roads.”

Jason had noted the frequent speed-limit signs. He changed the subject. “You speak excellent English.”

She did not seem to be complimented. “All schoolchildren are taught English and Danish from the first day.”