cc.iceberg-第31节

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　〃What　changed　his　mind？〃
　〃The　lookout　on　the　beach。〃
　〃But　where　did　he　pop　from？〃
　〃Reykjavik　by　car。〃　Pitt　inhaled　and　held　the　smoke　before　letting　it　out　and　continuing。　〃Having　us　tailed　by　air　was　no　problem　except　that　eventually　losing　us　in　an　Icelandic　fog　bank　was　a　foregone　conclusion。　He　simply　ordered　one　of　his　men　to　drive　across　the　Keflavik　peninsula　and　wait　for　us　to　show。　When　we　obliged；　the　lookout　followed　us　along　the　coast　road　and　stopped　when　we　anchored。　Everything　looked　innocent　enough　through　his　binoculars；　but　like　Rondheim；　we　took　too　much　for　granted　and　overlooked　one　minor　point。〃
　〃We　couldn't　have；〃　Sandecker　protested。　〃Every　precaution　was　considered。　Whoever　was　watching　would　have　needed　the　Mount　Palomar　telescope　to　tell　Tidi　was　masquerading　in　your　clothes。〃
　〃True。　But　if　the　sun　caught　them　where　they　broke　surface；　any　Japanese　seven　by　fifty　glasses　could　have　picked　up　my　air　bubbles。〃
　〃Damn！〃　Sandecker　snapped。　〃They're　hardly　noticeable　close　up；　but　at　a　distance　in　a　calm　sea　with　the　sun　just　right…〃　He　hesitated。
　〃The　lookout　then　contacted　Rondheim　by　radiophone　in　his　car；　most　likely…and　told　him　we　were　diving　on　the　wreck。　Rondheim's　back　was　to　the　wall　now。　We　had　to　be　stopped　before　we　discovered　something　vital　to　his　game。　He　had　to　lay　his　hands　on　a　boat　capable　of　matching　The　Grimsi's　speed　and　then　some。　Enter　the　hydroplane。〃
　〃And　the　something　vital　to　his　game？〃　Sandecker　probed。
　〃We　know　now　it　wasn't　the　aircraft　or　its　crew。
　
　All　trace　of　identity　was　erased。　That　leaves　the　cargo。〃
　〃The　models？〃
　〃The　models；〃　Pitt　repeated。　〃They　represent　more　than　just　a　hobby。　They　have　a　definite　purpose。〃
　〃And　how　do　you　intend　to　find　out　what　in　hell　they're　good　for？〃
　〃Simple。〃　Pitt　grinned　cunningly。　〃Rondheim　will　tell　us。　We　drop　them　off　with　the　consulate　boys　on　the　bait　boat　and　then　we　sail　right　up　to　the　Fyrie　dock　as　if　nothing　happened。　Rondheim　will　be　so　hungry　to　know　if　we've　discovered　anything。　I'm　counting　on　him　to　make　a　careless　move。　Then　we'll　shove　it　to　him　where　it　hurts　most。〃
　
　It　was　four　o'clock　when　they　tied　up　to　the　Fyrie　dock。
　
　The　ramp　was　deserted；　the　dockmaster　and　the　guard　obvious　by　their　absence。　Pitt　and　Sandecker　weren't　fooled。　They　knew　their　every　move　had　been　studied　the　second　The　Grimsi　rounded　the　harbor　breakwater。
　
　Before　he　followed　Tidi　and　Sandecker　away　from　the　forlorn　and　battered　little　boat；　Pitt　left　a　note　on　the　helm。
　
　SORRY　ABOUT　THE　MESS。　WE　WERE　ATTACKED　BY　A　SWARM　OF　RED…NECKED　FUZZWORTS。　PUT　THE　REPAIRS　ON　OUR　TAB。
　
　He　signed　it　Admiral　James　Sandecker。
　
　Twenty　minutes　later　they　reached　the　consulate。
　
　The　young　staff　members　who　played　such　professional　roles　as　bait　fishermen　beat　them　by　five　minutes　and　had　already　locked　the　two　models　away　in　the　consul's　vault。　Sandecker　thanked　them　warmly　and　promised　to　replace　the　diving　gear　Pitt　had　been　forced　to　jettison　with　the　best　that　U。S。　Divers　manufactured。
　
　Pitt　then　quickly　showered　and　changed　clothes　and　took　a　taxi　to　the　airport　at　Keflavik。
　
　His　black　Volvo　cab　soon　left　the　smokeless；　city　behind。　its　meter　humming　headed　onto　the　narrow　…asphalt　belt　that　was　the　coastal　road　to　the　Keflavik　airport。　To　his　right　stretched　the　Atlantic；　at　this　moment　as　blue　as　the　Aegean　waters　of　the　Grecian　Isles。　The　wind　was　rising　off　the　sea；　and　he　could　see　a　small　fleet　of　fishing　boats　running　for　the　harbor；　pushed　by　the　relentless　swells。　His　left　side　took　in　the　green　countryside；　rolling　in　an　uneven　furrowed　pattern；　dotted　by　grazing　cattle　and　Iceland's　famous　long…maned　ponies。
　
　As　the　beauty　of　the　scenery　flashed　by；　Pitt　began　to　think　about　the　Vikings；　those　dirty；　hard…drinking　love…a…fight　men　who　ravaged　every　civilized　shore　they　set　foot　on；　and　who　had　been　romanticized　beyond　all　exaggeration　and　embellishment　in　legends　handed　down　through　the　centuries。　They　had　landed　in　Iceland；　flourished　and　then　disappeared。　But　the　tradition　of　the　Norsemen　was　not　forgotten　in　Iceland；　where　the　hard；　sea…toughened　men　went　out　every　day　in　storm　or　fog　to　harvest　the　fish　that　fed　the　nation　and　its　economy。
　
　Pitts　thoughts　were　soon　jolted　back　to　reality　by　the　voice　of　the　cab　driver　as　they　passed　through　the　gates　of　the　airport。
　〃Do　you　wish　to　go　to　the　main　terminal；　sir？〃
　〃No；　the　maintenance　hangars。〃
　
　The　driver　thought　a　moment。　〃Sorry；　sir。　They　are　on　the　edge　of　the　field　beyond　the　passenger　terminal。　Only　authorized　cars　are　permitted　on　the　flight　line。〃
　
　There　was　something　about　the　cab　driver's　accent　that　intrigued　Pitt。　Then　it　came　to　him。　There　was　an　unmistakable　American　midwestern　quality　about　it。
　〃Let's　give　it　a　try；　shall　we？〃
　
　The　driver　shrugged　and　pulled　the　cab　up　to　the　flight　line　gate　and　stopped　where　a　tall；　thin；　grayhaired　man　in　a　blue　uniform　stepped　from　the　same　austere；　white…painted　guard　shack　that　seemed　to　sit　by　gates　everywhere。　He　touched　his　fingers　to　his　cap　brim　in　a　friendly　salute。　Pitt　rolled　down　the　window；　leaned　out；　and　showed　his　Air　Force　I。D。
　〃Major　Dirk　Pitt；〃　he　snapped　in　an　official　tone；　introducing　himself。　〃I'm　on　urgent　business　for　the　United　States　government　and　must　get　to　the　mercial　maintenance　hangar　for　nonscheduled　aircraft。〃
　
　The　guard　looked　at　him　blankly　undl　he　bed　and　then；　smiling　dumbly；　shrugged。
　
　The　cab　driver　stepped　from　behind　the　steering　wheel。　〃He　doesn't　understand　English；　Major。　Allow　me　to　translate　for　you。〃
　
　Without　waiting　for　an　acknowledgment；　the　driver　put　an　arm　around　the　guard　and　gently　walked　him　away　from　the　car　toward　the　gate；　tag　rapidly　but　gesturing　gracefully　as　he　rattled　off　a　flow　of　words　in　Icelandic。　It　was　the　first　chance　that　Pitt　had　a　good　look　at　his　helpmate。
　
　The　driver　was　medium　height；　just　under　six　foot；　not　more　than　twenty…six　or　twenty…seven　years　old；　with　straw…colored　hair　and　the　light　skin　that　usually　goes　with　it。　If　Pitt　had　passed　him　on　the　street；　he　would　have　pegged　him　as　a　jor　assistant　executive；　three　years　out　of　university；　eager　to　make　his　mark　in　his　father…in…law's　bank。
　
　Finally　the　two　men　broke　out　laughing　and　shook　hands。　Then　the　driver　climbed　back　behind　the　wheel　and　winked　at　Pitt　as　the　still　smiling　guard　opened　the　gate　and　waved　them　through。
　
　Pitt　said；　〃You　seem　to　have　a　way　with　security　guards。〃
　〃A　necessity　of　the　trade。　A　cab　driver　wouldn't　be　worth　his　salt　if　he　couldn't　talk　his　way　past　a　gate　guard　or　a　policeman　on　a　barricaded　street。〃
　〃It's　apparent　you've　mastered　the　knack。〃
　〃I　work　at　it。　。　。　Any　particular　hangar；　sir？
　
　There　are　several；　one　for　every　major　airline。〃
　〃General　maintenance…the　one　that　handles　transient　nonscheduled　aircraft。〃
　
　The　glare　of　the　sun　bounced　off　the　white　cement　taxiway　and　made　Pitt　squint。　He　slipped　a　pair　of　sunglasses　from　a　breast　pocket　and　put　them　on。　Several　huge　jetliners　were　parked　in　even　rows；　displaying；　the　emblems　and　color　schemes　of　TWA；　Pan　American；　Tceltnclic；　and　B。O。A。C；　while　crews　of　whitciled　mechanics　buried　themselves　under　engines　and　crawled　over　the　wings　with　fuel　hoses。
　
　On　the　other　side　of　the　field；　a　good　two　miles　away；　Pitt　could　make　out　aircraft　of　the　U。S。　Air　Force；　undoubtedly　going　through　the　same　rituals。
　〃Here　we　are；〃　the　driver　announced。　〃Permit　me　to　offer　you　my　services　as　a　translator。〃
　〃That　won't　be　necessary。　Keep　the　meter　running。
　
　I'll　only　be　a　few　minutes。〃
　
　Pitt　got　out　and　walked　through　the　side　door　of　the　hangar；　a　sterile　giant　of　a　building　that　covered　nearly　two　acres。　Five　small　private　planes　were　scattered　around　the　floor　like　a　handful　of　spectators　in　an　otherwise　empty　auditorium。　But　it　was　the　sixth　that　caught　Pitts　eye。　It　was　an　old　Ford　Trimotor　known　as　the　Tin　Goose。　The　corrugated　aluminum　skin　that　covered　the　framework　and　the　three　motors；　one　perched　on　the　nose　directly　in　front　of　the　cockpit；　the　other　two　suspended　in　space　by　an　ungainly　network　of　wires　and　struts；　bined　to　make　it　look　to　the　unknowing　eye　a　thing　too　awkward　to　fly　with　any　degree　of　control　or；　for　that　matter；　lift　its　wheels　from　the　ground。　But　the　old　pioneering　pilots　swore　by　it。　To　them　it　was　a　flying　son　of　a　bitch。　Pitt　patted　the　ancient　washboard　sides；　idly　wished　he　could　test…fly　it　someday；　and　then　walked　on　toward　the　offices　in　the　rear　of　the　hangar。
　
　He　opened　a　door　and　moved　into　what　appeared　to　be　a　bination　locker　room　and　rest　area；　wrinkling　his　nose　from　the　pungent；　heavy　smell　of　sweat；　cigarette　smoke　and　coffee。　Except　for　the　coffee；　the　aroma　bore　a　marked　resemblance　to　a　high　school　gym。　He　stood　there　a　moment　looking　at　a　group　of　five　men　clustered　around　a　large　European…style　ceramic　coffee　urn；　laughing　good…naturedly　at　a　recently　told　joke。　They　were　all　dressed　in　white　coveralls；　some　spotlessly　clean；　others　decorated　with　heavy　splotches　of　black　oil。　Pitt　sauntered　easily　toward　them；　smiling。
　〃Pardon　me；　gentlemen；　any　of　you　speak　English？〃