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.
13
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.”