Her son, she’d told him in a remarkably clear voice, had been dead for many years. When Mercer explained where he was going, Mrs. Rosmunder said that she would like to speak with him before they sailed to Greenland. She told him that she fed the ducks living in the small lake called the Pond in the middle of Reykjavik every morning at nine-thirty and asked if he would meet her there. Of course, Mercer agreed.
Just in case he overslept, Mercer put in one wake-up call for six and another for six-ten and fell into bed. He wasn’t tired and the meal he’d had on the flight was churning in his stomach, so it was difficult to slow his mind and relax. Over and over his conversation with Elisebet Rosmunder replayed in his head. He decided that it was her voice that had disturbed him. Rather than hearing sorrow for her dead son as he expected, she had sounded frightened.
Dark dreams made his sleep fitful.
He abandoned his bed thirty minutes before his first wake-up call and dressed. The harbor was four blocks away, a straight walk down Posthusstreati — Post Office Street. The sun was long risen. He studied the merchandise in the windows of the tourist shops. Beautiful sweaters and woolens were piled on tables and cascaded off racks. They would make an ideal gift for a woman, he thought, but the only one in his life at the moment was Fay, the wife of FBI director Dick Henna. Mercer and Dick had been friends ever since the Hawaii crisis a few years ago and he decided that he would buy Fay a sweater when the expedition was over.
At the base of the street, across a wide quay, the Geo-Research ship, Njoerd, lay low in the water of the protected inner harbor, thick manila ropes securing her to bollards. The wind was a constant force that stung Mercer’s cheeks and made his eyes tear. Across the bay, the snowcap atop Mount Esja seemed gilded.
The red-hulled Njoerd was a functional vessel about two hundred feet long with a large superstructure mounted well forward. A coil of smoke rose from both her side-by-side funnels. Her aft deck was an open cargo area nearly hidden under the equipment that was going to Greenland with them. Amid the pallets of stores and sections of the base’s buildings, Mercer could just see the tops of the Sno-Cats over the gunwale. An overhead crane mounted on rails that ran the length of the ship could shift her cargo as needed, as well as offload her on some hostile coast. Placed transversely behind the funnels but still accessible by the crane was a large oceangoing powerboat that he assumed they used as a fast shuttle. She also had a small helipad.
If not for her oversize superstructure that housed laboratories and accommodations for passengers and crew, Mercer thought she looked a bit like an oil field resupply ship. The Denmark Strait separating Iceland from Greenland had a reputation for being treacherous, but the Njoerd seemed more than capable of handling anything the seas threw at her.
He was chilled by the time he returned to the Hotel Borg, and the smell of fresh coffee and the breakfast buffet made his mouth flood in anticipation. The mauve-colored dining room was full of Geo-Research people and members of the other two teams, and the excited conversation made the room buzz. Mercer noted nearly everyone in the room had facial hair of some sort and guessed they cultivated a mountain man look because of what they did. Arctic research attracted a very specific type of person. Igor Bulgarin waved when he saw Mercer enter.
“You are always late, my friend,” he greeted.
“I went down to the dock to check out our ship.”
“Fine boat,” Igor said. “Her bows are hardened to break ice up to a meter thick. I’m afraid this meal is a segregated one. Teams are eating only with each other. That is Marty Bishop at the corner table with the other member of Society team.”
“Then I guess I should grab a plate and join them.”
“A group are going to Blue Lagoon in a few minutes. Sure you not come?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks anyway.”
“Is okay. See you on Njoerd at noon.”
Mercer mounded his plate with eggs, smoked salmon, and sweet breakfast rolls before approaching the Society’s table. One of the men looked at him suspiciously, then got to his feet. He was short and heavy across the gut, about fifty years old, and he had the pale look of someone who didn’t spend much time outside an office. His gray hair was thin at the top and along the front, and it swayed with just a small toss of his head. His neatly trimmed mustache was a few shades darker than his hair and was the only thing that gave his ordinary face any character. Considering his soft appearance, Mercer wondered how much of his being here was his idea and how much was pressure from his father.
“Marty Bishop. Pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands. Bishop’s palm was as smooth as an accountant’s. “Charlie Bryce says you’ve got one hell of a reputation.”
“He exaggerates. It’s good to be part of your team,” Mercer said, intentionally establishing his subordinate status.
Bishop nodded, obviously pleased that Mercer understood who was in charge. “Glad to have you on board.” He pointed to the other man at the table. He was about the same age as Bishop, though had a harder look. “This here’s Ira Lasko, U.S. Navy.”
“Retired,” Lasko added.
Lasko’s handshake was like a bear trap and Mercer suspected that he had never been a pencil pusher. Eater maybe, but not a pusher. His hands had deep scars across all the knuckles and white pads of calluses at the base of each finger. They were the hands of a worker. He was about five foot seven and wiry. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were pushed up, and while his arms were thin, ropes of muscle and sinew pushed outward from beneath his skin. He kept his head completely shaved, though there was a fringe of five o’clock shadow circling just above his ears. His eyes were murky brown under dark brows.
“I understand we’re missing a team member,” Mercer invited as he sat.
“Jim Kneeland,” Marty replied, blowing out a long breath. “He was supposed to get time off from the National Guard but was suddenly called back to duty. Kinda throws us off. I asked my dad to consider postponing the search, but he refused.” He shrugged. “Considering his health, I can’t blame him.”
“Charlie said he’s in a wheelchair.”
“He’s now in a hospital bed at home. Cancer. Doctors don’t give him more than six months.”
“Opening Camp Decade means a lot to him?”
“Actually, he rarely mentioned his time in the Air Force until about a year ago. Suddenly it was all he talked about. When he asked if I was willing to come up here to make a video of the place, I couldn’t say no.”
“This is a hell of a thing you’re doing for him,” Ira said somberly. Mercer nodded.
It seemed as if Marty hadn’t thought about this situation from another’s point of view. He started to smile. “Yeah,” he agreed without conceit. “I guess it is. What the hell? It gets me out of the office for a while, and this might actually turn out to be fun.”
“I was never told — are you part of the Surveyor’s Society?” Mercer asked Lasko.
“No, but I’ve done some work for Charles Bryce before. He recommended me to Marty.”
“What do you do?”
“I used to teach snot-nosed kids how to survive accidents aboard submarines. Now I run the garage at a truck stop. My job here is to make sure all our equipment runs properly. Charlie told us what you do for a living. Why the hell do you live in a cesspool like Washington?”
Mercer laughed. “My first job out of the Colorado School of Mines was for the U.S. Geological Survey. I actually liked living in D.C., so when I went out on my own, I just stayed. All I really need for my work is a computer and easy access to an airport. Have you guys met any of the Geo-Research people coming with us?”
Ira leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “They’re headed by a real asshole named Werner Koenig. He’s got a fistful of degrees and a real superior attitude. Bryce told you how the Danish government forced him to bring us along and move his operation to conform to our mission, so you can believe he ain’t too pleased with us.”