“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.”
He changed the subject again. “Your police commissioner …”
“Harvor, Commissioner Harvor.”
“Yeah, Harvor. All he said on the phone was that Boris Karloff had been shot and wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. What happened?”
Was that a tightening of the mouth, a slight squint of the eyes?
“You know this man, Boris Karloff?”
Why else would he ask for me?
“Yeah, although I haven’t seen him in a long time. Any idea why he would be asking for me?”
She brought the car to a stop while a flock of sheep ambled across the road. “No, you will have to ask the commissioner.”
“Do livestock always use the highway?”
She exchanged a wave with the shepherd. “They not only use it, they have the right of way.”
They sat in silence for most of the rest of the fifty-kilometer drive.
Reykjavík had no suburbs. One moment they were in open country, then they passed one of the ubiquitous speed-limit signs and buildings sprung up like wildflowers after a summer rain. One or two stories, they all had steeply sloped roofs and small, narrow windows. Some were wood, others stone. Many were painted in bright colors.
“What’s that?”Jason was pointing to a large dome structure sitting in an open space of about a block.
“Geodesic dome. Our power company builds them over the geothermal wells that supply the country’s power. We use no coal, no gas. Iceland has the cleanest power in the world.”
The last was said with a degree of smugness.
A turn brought the Toyota to a street that ran along a bay. The water was an icy blue. Mountains crouched in the mist along the far coast.
“‘Reykjavík’ means ‘smoky bay’ in Viking,” Bretta said matter-of-factly. “When they first came here, the steam from the geothermals looked like smoke.”
“You ever considered a job as a tour guide?”
She glanced at him quizzically. “Why would I want to be a guide? I am already a police person.”
Iceland might have the world’s cleanest power, the most confusing phone books, and livestock-friendliest roads; but, if Bretta was an example, it had no sense of humor. But then, there was nothing amusing about living in the dark six months out of the year.
14
Landspítali Fossvogi was one of the few contemporary buildings Jason had seen in the city. Six or seven stories high, two wings were divided by a tower of an additional two levels. The car park was half full.
Bretta pulled up to what Jason guessed was the front entrance and leaned across him to open the car’s door. “I will call the commissioner to tell him you are here. Room 430.”
Jason barely had time to grab his overnight case, much less thank her for the ride, before she was driving off. He watched her pull into light traffic and disappear in the direction from which they had come.
Inside, he could have been in any hospital in the world. The smell of disinfectant was edged by the sickly sweet floral odor common to such institutions.
Flowers?
In Iceland?
A highly polished corridor led past a reception desk to a bank of elevators. Ignoring the woman behind the desk who could have been Bretta’s sister, Jason stepped inside the elevator, punched in the button for the fourth floor, and waited until the doors silently slid shut.
He had no problem finding Room 430. A policeman sat outside the door.
He stood as Jason approached, barring entry.
“I’m here to see Boris Karloff. I’m Jason Peters.”
The officer was not impressed. “My orders are no one sees the man in that room without orders from Commissioner Harvor.”
Swell. Fly to Iceland to speak to a mystery man I haven’t seen in years about something too secret to discuss over the telephone and some flatfoot blows me off.
“Just where might I reach the commissioner?”
“You already have.”
Jason turned to see a short, chubby man in police uniform extending a hand.
“Harvor.”
No other name. Of course.
“Jason Peters. What’s this all about?”
The commissioner was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, a pose Jason recognized from pictures of dozens of military men from Grant to Patton to McChrystal. Jason had a mental picture of him practicing the stance in front of a mirror.
“Wish I could tell you, but the man simply won’t speak to anyone but you. A couple of sheepherders found him at the Langjökull Glacier. Looked like he’d been robbed and shot. His wallet was missing and there was no identification. The only thing we have is the name he gave us and how to contact you through some American company.”
A mugging at a glacier? Well, this was Iceland, not New York.
The commissioner read his mind. “I know to an American a single shooting may not seem like much, but here in Iceland, we average less than a murder a year. You’ll notice none of our officers is armed.”
“Any idea what he was doing at the Lang, er Lang …”
“Langjökull Glacier. No, as I said, he won’t speak to anyone but you.” Harvor reached past Jason to open the door. “I suggest you ask him.”
It took a moment for Jason’s eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the room. The blur of a heart monitor danced across a screen, casting flickering shadows across a small white mound under the linen of the only bed. Tubes hung from racks or ran from under the sheets into bottles. Jason drew closer, making out a small head just above the covers.
No Spock ears.
The face was older than Jason remembered, eyelids the color of bruises against skin as white as the starched sheets surrounding it.
“Is he awake?” Harvor asked.
Eyelids fluttered open and bluish lips parted in a death’s head grimace. It took Jason a second to realize the man was speaking, whispering. He put his head next to the mouth.
“Peters? Good of you to come.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
The lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “Still the comedian, I see.”
It was as if the words had tired him. Karloff’s eyes shut and Jason feared he had drifted off to sleep. He stared at the pale face, unsure what to do next. The eyes flickered open and lips quivered. Jason leaned even closer.
“The glacier …”
Boris was struggling with each word. “The glacier … the southwestern …” His next words were unintelligible. Then: “a church …”
At least, that was what it sounded like he said. A church? Was the man simply mumbling or hallucinating?
Or Jason had not heard correctly. “Say again?”
“You will have to leave.”
A woman’s voice. A very annoyed woman’s voice.
Both Jason and Harvor turned to see a figure in white fill the doorway: white hair, white uniform, white shoes.
“I am Elga, the floor nurse and the doctor has not permitted visitors. The patient has been given a sedative and you are interfering with its effect.”
Harvor said something in a language Jason did not understand though there was no mistaking the tone. “I told her we are on police business,” he explained.