He didn't think anyone would be here. Everyone would be back by the barracks or by the reactor site. Yet he didn't want to be caught again as he had been back at the trailer.
Ziegler had been a lot smarter than Carter had given him credit for being. The explosion at the barracks, instead of being a diversion, had caused Ziegler's men to concentrate on the vulnerable reactor. A barracks could be replaced. If the reactor core was destroyed, the project would be all but finished.
After he had gotten away from the trailer, Carter had seen dozens, perhaps even a hundred or more men all heading toward the reactor site. It would be difficult now, if not impossible to get close. But he had to try.
He bolstered his Luger and pulled out his stiletto, then, keeping low, raced away from the building toward a line of a half-dozen jeeps and several heavy-duty trucks parked near the gas pumps.
He jumped up on the running board of one of the trucks, got in behind the wheel, and ducked under the dashboard. He pulled out his penlight and shined it up on the wires around the ignition switch In less than a minute he had hot-wired the truck, and it started up with a roar.
He sat up, pulling the pack around, and opened it up on the seat next to him. He pulled out the plastique, and working quickly but very carefully, he inserted the timer into the lump of claylike explosive. He set this one beside him, then took the second plastique brick and detonator out, and inserted the detonator into the explosive.
He jumped out of the truck, went around to the gas pumps, and molded the brick against the base of the center one. He set the timer for sixty seconds, raced back to the truck, put it in gear, and ground away from the motor pool.
As he came around the comer of the big maintenance building, he slammed the truck into second gear and accelerated up the rough construction road toward the reactor area half a mile away.
There were a lot of lights shining around the scaffolding and tall cement forms. The core building itself, along with the supports, was completely bathed in spotlights. As he drove he could pick out dozens of troops ringing the building.
He flipped on his lights, pulled his hard hat low, and jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, the big truck bucking and swaying over the deeply rutted dirt track. The gas pumps blew with a tremendous flash.
There were a half-dozen medics around the fallen troops behind the barracks, which was still burning, and they looked up for just a moment as Carter passed but immediately went back to what they were doing.
Carter cranked down the window on his side as he swung back up toward the reactor building, and with one hand set the timer for ninety seconds.
He was going to have one pass at this, and that was it. He didn't think much of his chances for success, but he just couldn't lei it go.
The detonator was ticking as he closed in on the reactor building. Four guards came out from behind some scaffolding, and they began to wave for Carter to stop. He swung a little further left so that he would come even closer to the core support.
The guards raised their weapons at the last moment and started firing, the windshield shattering as Carter ducked down.
Then he was past them. He straightened up and tossed the plastique out the window with all his might, but it fell short.
He just caught a glimpse of the package lying on the ground as he came around the main reactor building, made a wide turn on two wheels, and headed directly for the main gate.
He was counting out loud to ninety. He was off. At eighty-four the night sky behind him was split with a tremendous explosion.
The damage he had done here tonight would keep them busy for a little while. But he failed to destroy the core. There'd have to be another time… one way or the other.
Carter got the impression that there were no guards on duty, and that the main gate had been unlocked, when without stopping or even slowing down he crashed out to the dirt road that led down to the highway. But then he was past and careening away from the huge compound, already making plans for his second attempt. He and Roberta would have to get away from the hotel they were staying at, of course. Ziegler would have his people crawling all over town by morning. The man would stop at nothing, Carter was sure.
He made it down to the highway a few minutes later and checked his rearview mirror to make sure no one was following him. Then he turned left toward Reykjavik and accelerated smoothly through the gears.
He took off the hard hat and tossed it aside, then lit a cigarette. For just a moment he had the ugly thought that Roberta might have tried something tonight on her own. She had acted strangely on the way out, and earlier in the day, when he had been watching the harbor, he had looked up once to find that she had left the room. She had been out shopping… but for what?
But he dismissed the thought. She wanted Ziegler — although she wouldn't explain to him exactly why — but he didn't think she wanted him so badly she'd jeopardize this mission. She was more of a professional than that.
He settled back for the long ride into the city, his mind slowly going over everything that had happened so far on this strange operation. He thought back as well to Lydia Coatsworth. Even now, after all that had gone on, he found it nearly impossible to believe she was dead. And he had to admit to himself that he had really felt very deeply about her. Perhaps too deeply for a man in his occupation.
There was virtually no traffic on the highway until he came within a few miles of Reykjavik itself, and then there was only an occasional car or truck, and one bus.
He parked the big truck outside a heavy equipment service center, pulled off the coveralls, and then walked a mile and a half up to the Sudurlandsbraut, near the sports grounds, where he hitched a ride with a truck driver returning to the Telephone and Telegraphic office.
The man said something to Carter in Icelandic, but when he realized that Carter was an American he drove the rest of the way in dark silence. Like many Icelanders, he did not care for Americans. Although there were treaties between the two countries, outlining fishing rights, as well as allowing American military bases here, Icelanders mistrusted America's interests. Too many other countries had been swallowed, economically, by the giant to the south, and in the process had lost their national identities. Icelanders did not want that happening here.
He dropped Carter off downtown, then hurried way down the street and around the corner. Carter walked the two blocks to his hotel, went in the back way, took the stairs up, and knocked on his door.
"Roberta?" he called out softly. There was no answer, so he knocked a little louder. She had to be back by now, he thought, unless…
He pulled out his stiletto and picked the lock. The room was dark. He flipped on the light, half expecting to see evidence of a search, but nothing had been disturbed.
Locking the door behind him, he crossed the room and looked into the bathroom. Roberta had not been back. Damnit, she was still out there.
He turned and was about to leave when the corner of an envelope sticking out from beneath his pillow caught his eye. Even before he opened it he knew what it was: Roberta's explanation of why she wasn't there.
It was that, but it was much more than he expected. She had written him a lengthy letter that began by asking him to forgive her and please understand why she was doing what she was doing.
He poured himself a stiff drink as he read Roberta's account of what had happened to her mother during the war.
"So you see, Nick darling, I must kill him in the same way he caused the death of my mother's spirit," she concluded.
She was still out there.
He finished his drink, stuffed the letter into his pocket, and threw open the door but stopped short, the barrel of a.357 magnum poking him in the chest, a giant of a man with blue eyes and blond hair standing there. Behind him was another giant of a man and Thorstein Josepsson.