In the far distance against the thin gray line of the horizon, a mountain lay like a deflated black bag, its top shorn off. Valleys dipped, hills rose, distinguishable only in shades of black, gray, and brown. There were no colors here, nothing but bland geometric land forms that seemed to stretch on forever.
Here was nature unadorned, he thought: denuded, like a woman without makeup. At first it was stunning, but then it was monotonous.
He drove for several hours but made only meager progress. The map was not very clear, and often the road got lost in dried creek beds, was blocked by fallen rock, or just petered out in a drift of pumice stone.
This had happened for the second time, and for the second time he had stopped, turned off the engine, and gotten out to kick through the bits of shale and lava rock, when his ears picked up an odd sound the wind brought from the north.
He turned and saw a speck on the horizon. He would have thought it was a bird or a gull except for the unmistakable chop of helicopter blades.
He scrambled back to the Land-Rover and gunned the engine to life. He made a wide loop until he came in contact with the road again, then pressed down on the accelerator. There was no time to lose. If they decided to fight it out with him, here in the open, he'd be a sitting duck. They could strafe him from the sky, and he'd have no place to duck.
The Land-Rover's heavy-duty springs bottomed out on the deep ruts, making it very difficult to drive. A rooster tail of dust fanned out behind him that was no doubt visible for miles, but it didn't matter. They'd seen him long before he had spotted them.
He kept his eye on the approaching machine. He hadn't counted on this. For some reason he'd envisioned this fight on the ground. He hadn't realized the landscape was so wide open, affording him so little cover…Goddamnit, he was slipping. Preparation. Wasn't that the unbending rule at Mesa Verde where AXE agents were trained? Now it looked as though he was going to have to pay for his lack of foresight.
He bounced up over a mound. Mount Askja was in the distance, stark, ancient, without a blade of grass to grace her flanks. He drove for the mountain, hoping there'd be someplace, anyplace for cover.
He pressed down even harder on the accelerator, speeding around a long, rock-strewn curve along the edge of a narrow ravine, wondering if the Land-Rover's tires would hold up much longer, when he spotted what appeared to be a building. It was almost midnight now, but the sun still lingered on the horizon. At these latitudes in midsummer it never went down. Shadows were long in the twilight, however, and the play of light and dark across the rocks easily tricked the eye, and yet, half a mile ahead on the right side of the road, a triangular shape jutted out of the landscape.
As he drew closer he could see that it was an A-frame cabin of some sort. The roof had been covered with rocks and ash to protect it from the elements, but the front wall had windows and a door. Behind him the chopper had made an abrupt about-face and was bearing down on him. It was still a long way off, but it was closing the gap very fast.
The house looked like the only hope on the barren landscape. He crunched to a halt in front of the place, grabbed his pack, and scrambled down the side of the road. The chopper's blades beat the air not far away. He glanced over his shoulder. It was heading directly up the valley, nose down, making the best time it could.
He raced for the front door on the tiny porch but stopped short at the top step. He looked back. The helicopter had slowed down. This was all wrong. Alarm bells were jangling along his nerves.
The house was the obvious place out here for him to run to. It was too neat, too convenient. He was getting the definite feeling that he had been herded to this place.
The chopper was only a few hundred yards out. The popcorn sound of rapid fire filled the air, and dust began to kick up behind him.
They weren't aiming right. They wanted him inside.
He stepped back off the porch, tossed his pack at the door, and dove to the left. A horrendous roar hammered his eardrums, and the ground bucked beneath him as the door burst outward in a tremendous blast of flame. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the opening as dust and debris fell like rain.
He scrambled back through the dense smoke and threw himself down at an odd angle in front of the door. Then he used a trick he'd learned on assignment in the Orient to twist his head into such a position that even the close observer would be convinced his neck was broken.
The only way to get them out of the sky, he told himself, was to convince them that their little trick had worked.
Dust scattered in the rotor wash as the helicopter set down a minute or two later. Carter had his Luger out of his holster, hidden at his side.
Someone came toward him, then stopped. His ears were still ringing from the blast. The toe of a boot jabbed him roughly in the side. He rolled over limply, being careful not to expose Wilhelmina.
The man wasn't sure. He hesitated, then bent down and pried Carter's eyelids apart. The man's expression was grim, businesslike, the look of a pro.
The realization that Carter was still alive hit him at the same moment the bullet from the Luger penetrated his heart.
His lips parted slightly, the eyes widened with surprise, and he looked as if he wanted to say something. He fell forward on top of Carter.
"Victor? Victor?" someone called anxiously from the helicopter.
Carter threw the body off at the same time the helicopter came to life and started to lift off. He got up on one knee and began firing, but the machine was gathering altitude and speed.
Carter kept on firing until the chopper was obviously out of range, then he went back to examine the man he had killed.
There was no identification on the body. The labels had been ripped out of his clothing. In his hand was a Luger much like Carter's, although from the look of it, it had probably been manufactured during the Second World War.
"Come on, Victor," Carter muttered as he holstered his Luger, lifted the body onto his shoulder, and carried it up to the Land-Rover. Victor had been a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and by the time Carter got him situated and the tailgate closed, he was breathing hard from the effort.
He trudged back to the front and looked up toward where the helicopter had disappeared. They wanted him dead pretty badly to stage something like this. It told him that indeed he was on to something.
"Is this our killer?" asked Captain Einarsson, blinking at the body in the back of the Land-Rover. Carter got the policeman's home address, called him, and then had gone out there. It was just four in the morning.
"I don't know if he killed Dr. Coatsworth." said Carter, "but he definitely tried to kill me a few hours ago."
"Never seen him before," said the captain, shaking his head. Einarsson had called for some police assistance after hearing from Carter, and he nodded to two sleepy officers standing nearby who pulled the body out of the back. "Of course, I don't know you either." He held out his hand. Carter handed over his Luger. "Let's go inside," Einarsson said.
They went into the man's tiny study at the back of the house, and Carter sat down in a small wooden chair as the captain set up a tape recorder. He laid Carter's gun on the desk, then flipped on the machine.
Without prompting. Carter told the story, leaving out only his true identity as an AXE agent. He pulled out his Amalgamated Press and Wire Service credentials and laid them on the desk along with his permit to carry the weapon.
When he finished, Einarsson flipped off the tape recorder, sat back, and looked at Carter.