Valhalla (13 page)

“If that was the case, it's gone,” said Lexy. “The journal was in my sleeping tent, which was bulldozed down the ice shaft with everything else.”

“That's why Jensen removed his clothes,” said Macaulay.

“I'm not following you,” she said.

“Jensen murdered him,” said Macaulay, “almost certainly because he discovered that Falconer had breached the secrets of the cave. After killing him, he stripped his clothes off because he thought there might be something hidden in them, and he had no time to make a careful search.”

Lexy was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

“You need to rest,” said Macaulay. “I'll bring in enough wood to last the night. We should probably pull out early in the morning.”

Putting on his thermal suit, he went back out to the lean-to. The snow was coming down in a dense white curtain. A wild and mountainous sea was slamming into the shoreline. No one could find them in this weather, he concluded.

She was already in bed when he returned to the hut, her eyes gazing up at him like twin violet moons. After restoking the fire, he shut the stove's iron door and partially closed the damper.

By the time he went to the table to turn down the kerosene lamp, she was asleep.

26 November
RV
Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Yarmouth, Nova Scotia

The rain was coming diagonally, slashing at the Perspex windows of the pilot's cockpit as the AgustaWestland AW139 jet helicopter slowly descended through the windswept darkness toward the brilliantly lit landing deck.

The ship was pitching and rolling in a heaving black sea, but the helicopter pilot was a veteran of North Atlantic air-sea rescue missions and an expert in contending with aberrational winter weather.

It was the last stage of a long journey for His Royal Highness Johannes Prinz Karl Erich Maria von Falkenberg, who had left his castle on the Rhine River one day earlier to fly by private jet across the Atlantic to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and then had boarded the Italian-made helicopter that took him the rest of the way.

The helicopter's sumptuous leather VIP seats were designed for ultimate comfort, but they couldn't eradicate the searing pain that was raging unabated through the prince's lower abdomen.

Steiger sat beside him, an ampoule of morphine resting in his hand; he was ready to administer it if the pain became too great to endure. When the helicopter touched down, the Lynx rushed across the landing deck to the passenger compartment to help the prince disembark.

Determined to emerge by himself, von Falkenberg stepped out into the earsplitting roar of the icy wind and was almost carried away. The Lynx scooped him up in his powerful arms, crossed the deck to the nearest hatchway, and carried him inside.

“Danke, mein Sohn,”
said the prince.

Out of the wind and fierce rain, he revived quickly, regaining his feet and his composure. Bowing his head for a moment, he silently prayed. Wodan give me the strength to see this through and grant me the chance to cast my eyes on my god.

A bearded man in a trim blue naval uniform and the distinctive white cap denoting his rank as captain joined them in the passageway. Peter Bjorklund was forty-seven and a former captain in the Norwegian navy. He had first met the prince prior to the refitting of the vessel in Stockholm a year earlier.

“Would you like to take a few moments to rest, Your Grace?” asked Bjorklund.

“There is no time,” said the prince. “Please lead the way to the Marquess de Villiers.”

As they walked along the passageway, the prince glanced into a succession of well-appointed compartments, each decorated with warm and inviting pastel colors. Steiger followed him, carrying his emergency medical kit in a leather satchel. The Lynx led the way, his eyes taking in every new movement ahead of them.

“No expense was spared to meet the challenges you outlined,” said Captain Bjorklund. “The
Leitstern
is prepared for any eventuality.”

Originally designed as a research vessel by the Ludendorff Institute for Marine Research in Bremerhaven, the four-hundred-foot-long
Leitstern
, or
Lodestar
, had been built for service in Antarctica. It was double-hulled and capable of breaking through a five-foot-thick belt of ice. The ship's lower decks now contained a satellite communications center, a small hospital, and three fully equipped laboratories devoted to biological, genetic, and chemical research.

After
Leitstern
had been acquired by a holding company controlled by Prince von Falkenberg, the research ship had also been modified in other ways. It was now equipped with an advanced command-and-control weapons system that included a bank of concealed cruise missile launchers, an array of antiship and antisubmarine missiles, and modern Gatling guns.

Along with its weapons arsenal, the ship had become the operational headquarters for a full company of the elite commando unit known as Thor's Hammer, along with its complement of six attack and transport military helicopters.

Captain Bjorklund led him into a gleaming white compartment. A woman sitting at the polished oak conference table was typing a message into a mobile operating system. She stood up and bowed when she saw it was von Falkenberg.

Cherubically plump, with bushy white eyebrows and a spray of purplish hair surrounding her head like a victory wreath, the sixty-five-year-old Frenchwoman may have resembled a female version of Dickens's Mr. Pickwick, but she was one of the most brilliant and influential diplomats in Europe.

The Marquess Antoinette Celeste de Villiers was the European Union's current secretary-general of health. She and von Falkenberg had been friends and colleagues for forty years.

“Is everything in place?” asked von Falkenberg breathlessly.

“Phase one will begin on schedule,” said de Villiers. “And we are thrilled to have you here to witness its implementation.”

27 November
Eastern Coast
Greenland

Macaulay awoke to an unnerving silence. The ghostly light of early morning suffused the room. Outside, the wind had died. He slipped out of bed and went to the front windows. What he could see of the ocean was black and tranquil, with gentle waves rolling toward the stony beach.

He looked at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. They had slept another ten hours. He could feel his strength slowly returning as he thought about the next steps in their journey.

Once it was discovered that only Sir Dorian had died in the helicopter crash, they would be coming after him, whoever they were. They might already be on their way. The snowstorm would have obliterated his tracks across the ice cap, but the pursuers would certainly have sophisticated tracking tools aboard their helicopters, and they would know he couldn't have traveled far on foot.

It was time to go.

Macaulay wasn't sure exactly where they were along the coast, but from the compass headings he had followed in the blizzard, he knew they were south of Kulusuk, the closest destination that had satellite radio communications. Once there, he could contact Anschutz in Dallas and they could alert the FBI. After he and Lexy were able to tell their story to the authorities, their lives would no longer be at risk.

By walking north, it might also be possible to reach an Inuit settlement where one of the natives had a snowmobile or some other means of transportation to carry them the rest of the way. But if the surrounding rock-strewn landscape was any example, they would have serious problems making good headway on foot.

He thought about the kayak out in the lean-to. If it didn't leak, they might be able to make it to Kulusuk by sea. He didn't want to think about what would happen if they were caught in open water by the attack helicopter.

After stoking the fire again, he put on his thermal suit and went outside to the lean-to. Pulling away the remainder of the canvas cover from the kayak, he dragged it out for closer examination.

Most kayaks he had seen were flat-bottomed, but this one was V-shaped, with gunwales that rose to a point at the bow and stern. It was about twelve feet long with three cockpit openings. The fabric on the deck and hull appeared to be made of stretched animal skin. He went over every inch of it with his flashlight but couldn't find any fissures or cracks. In the lean-to, he found two long paddles.

If the old kayak proved seaworthy and the ocean remained calm, they could probably cover three or four miles an hour. He decided the kayak gave them the best chance to make it. Returning to the hut, he found Lexy standing at the Primus stove.

“Camp cakes in bacon grease,” she said, smiling at him. “James Beard.”

“They'd better be good,” he said.

The cabin was now warm, and she was wearing only her long flannel shirt, its tails barely covering her panties. Her feet were shoved into her boots. He reluctantly repressed the idea of helping her remove the shirt and steering her back to the bunk.

As they ate, he told her his plan to launch the kayak. In response, she crossed her legs and began to remove one of her boots. He stared down at it as if seeing them for the first time.

“Your boots,” he said.

“L.L. Bean,” she said. “I've had them for years.”

“No,” said Macaulay, shaking his head. “Falconer knew you always placed your journal in one of your boots. What if he had planned to hide the memory disc or whatever it was in your journal and you surprised him before he could do it. It's possible he just slid it inside the boot he was holding. What if he put the memory card or whatever it was into a boot instead of the journal?”

He grabbed the one she was holding and began removing the laces while she pulled off the second boot. Spreading the leather uppers, he searched its interior down to the sole for a slit or opening in the insulated lining, but found nothing unusual. The sole was covered by a rubber insole. Removing it, he checked the underside, and then shined the flashlight into the toe area.

“Damn,” he said. “It's not here.”

“No, it's here,” said Lexy, her fingers emerging from the insole and holding a tiny plastic-and-metal chip. They both stared at it for a few moments.

“Now we're back in the hunt,” said Macaulay.

Outside, he found the plastic tarp he had used to haul Lexy across the ice cap and cut away three circular patches, each about three feet in diameter. In the rapidly waning light, he and Lexy hauled the kayak down to the water's edge.

“I'll take it out far enough to make sure the seams are holding,” he said.

He inserted his legs into the rear cockpit and Lexy gave the kayak a shove out into open water. Using one of the paddles to gain headway, Macaulay went across the cove and back. As Lexy watched nervously, he brought it ashore and stepped out.

“The seams are okay,” he said. “We'll stay close to shore. If it starts leaking, we can head straight in.”

He took one of the plastic patches he had cut and used it to seal the circular middle cockpit opening. Then he cut intersecting slits in the other two, showing Lexy how to slide it up and around her waist to cover the opening when she got into the front cockpit.

“If the sea gets rougher, the patches will help prevent waves from filling the kayak,” he said, getting into the rear cockpit.

Glancing into the darkness that was settling over the sea, he saw that fog was rolling in. He felt it slowly envelop them, cold, dense, almost impenetrable. The perfect cover if it lasted.

When they had paddled out fifty yards, Macaulay used his compass to steer due north. A slight wind was coming from the south, which helped to propel them along.

They quickly settled into a slow, steady rhythm.

Through occasional breaks in the fog, Lexy glimpsed the unending rock formations along the forbidding coast. At one point, they had to steer around an ice floe, its bluish core menacing them from just under the surface.

Macaulay estimated they had gone a mile or more, when he heard the slowly mounting roar of a jet helicopter engine. It was coming from the north and moving slowly down the coast.

He stared up to see the reflected glow of powerful searchlight beams trying to penetrate the fog bank as it came toward them. It flew directly over, the thunderous din of the jet engine assaulting their eardrums. The noise slowly receded as the big helicopter continued south.

“They're searching for me,” said Macaulay. “They couldn't know you're still alive.”

The sea became turbulent. Lexy was alarmed when chunks of ice began coursing across the narrow deck. She could feel seawater seeping down around the plastic patches and soaking her legs.

A moment later, they were in a maelstrom of converging currents and the kayak was spinning. They could only sit helplessly as it swung around, almost broaching under the force of the waves. After glancing off a partially submerged black rock, they plunged onward.

Lexy was forced to stop paddling after three hours. The deck of the kayak was coated with ice, and an unnatural coldness had seeped back inside her. She felt her mind going numb again, when she thought she heard a bell ringing. To her torpid brain it sounded like a demented volunteer for the Salvation Army ferociously ringing a Christmas bell.

“It's a bell buoy,” said Macaulay, staring into the distance.

The fog began to dissipate as he slowly paddled toward the sound. The clanging was getting louder, when the noise was suddenly drowned out by the mounting crescendo of another helicopter. It was coming from the south. Macaulay thought it was probably the same one that had passed over earlier.

Its powerful searchlights were turning a forty-foot-wide swath ahead of them into virtual daylight as the helicopter came on. Macaulay paddled furiously toward the nearest bank of curling fog, but the kayak remained fully exposed as the helicopter arrived overhead. Lexy averted her eyes from its blinding intensity until the kayak finally skidded inside the fog bank.

There was no way for Macaulay to know how many eyes aboard the helicopter were still scanning the sea. He waited in the darkness, expecting with each passing moment to hear the change in engine pitch that signaled the helicopter was turning around to come back.

Instead, it continued on along the same northerly track until nearly out of sight. Macaulay was still watching its trajectory when the search beams went out, replaced a moment later by the helicopter's green landing lights.

As it began to descend, the landscape erupted in parallel lines of high-intensity white, yellow, and red lights. Macaulay immediately recognized them as the runway lights of an airport.

“It's Kulusuk,” he called out as Lexy slumped over in her cockpit.

He paddled the kayak into the inlet next to the Kulusuk Four Seasons, and ran it up onto the gravelly shoreline. Easing Lexy out of the front cockpit, he cradled her in his arms and helped walk her to the hotel.

The front entrance was garishly lit with strings of multicolored Christmas lights. From inside, he could hear voices raised in laughter. Through one of the lobby windows, he saw a small crowd of drinkers at the bar, a few of them in uniform.

The first-floor windows were dark at the rear of the building. The back entrance door was unlocked and led into the hotel kitchen. In the shadowy glow of a bare lightbulb hanging over the dishwasher, Macaulay found the service stairs that led up to the guest rooms on the second floor.

Hancock had booked four rooms for the duration of the expedition, and the first one Macaulay came to was unlocked. He helped Lexy inside and onto the bed. He covered her with blankets and went to the window overlooking the airfield.

An air-sea rescue plane with Royal Air Force markings was the only aircraft parked on the apron near the hotel. He looked for the helicopter, and finally saw it at the other end of the runway. It was inside a fenced compound. A group of men was moving in and around it.

Lexy was already asleep. He decided to head downstairs to try to set up a satellite call to Anschutz headquarters in Dallas. Locking the door behind him, he began walking toward the front stairs.

“Fancy seeing a general bloke in a squalid place like this,” came a voice from behind him with a clipped British accent.

Macaulay turned to look at the man who had just come out of one of the rooms. He was wearing a one-piece flying suit with the Union Jack patch on his chest and colonel's bars at the collar. Recognizing his imperial mustache and flaming red hair, Macaulay shook his head and gave him a weary smile.

“It's good to see you, Harry,” he said.

“Let's not get mawkish, General Sir,” said the Englishman. “A handshake would suffice.”

Like Macaulay, Harry Tubshawe had been an air squadron commander in Desert Storm. The two men had come to respect each other in the workup to the air battle. Tubshawe had been shot down over Baghdad and spent time in an Iraqi prison. Macaulay hadn't seen him in twenty years.

“You're as ugly as ever,” said Macaulay.

“I take that as a compliment from a pillicock like you,” said Tubshawe.

“That air/sea rescue crate out there yours?” asked Macaulay.

Tubshawe nodded.

“Some plonkers from the Royal Geographical Society got themselves trapped above the Arctic Circle. We pulled them out but were then forced down here two days ago with a poxy engine. Had to wait for spare parts to be flown up from Narsassuaq. You ready for a piss-up downstairs?”

“Can't right now,” said Macaulay. “I need to make a satellite call to the States.”

Tubshawe shook his head.

“No long-distance communications here,” said Tubshawe. “Some arsehole cocked up the whole works the night we got here.”

“Any idea who those guys are at the other end of the field?” asked Macaulay.

“Haven't a clue,” said Tubshawe. “These days, every minor potentate and oligarch sports his own cavalry. Have guns, will travel. They have at least three birds over there. . . . In and out all the time. Probably some winter training exercise.”

“Any of their guys staying over here?”

“They don't mix with low society,” he said as they descended the stairs. “What we do have here is one sweet pukka. Laid up here for weeks . . . very accommodating . . . a Texas lass.”

Macaulay looked across the lobby into the hotel bar. One of Tubshawe's crewmen was sitting on a pub stool, downing a pint of beer. Melissa was curled up in his lap like a big cat.

“She deserves some comfort from the Queen's Own,” said Macaulay.

“The dog's bollocks,” said Tubshawe.

“When are you pulling out, Harry?” he asked.

“We're taking off for Narsassuaq in three hours, weather permitting. The RGS plonkers are eager to get back to the sunny isles.”

“Can you take two more passengers as far as Narsassuaq?” asked Macaulay.

Tubshawe looked at him closely.

“Highly irregular, old man,” he said. “Totally against regulations.”

Macaulay nodded.

“Where is your cock-up friend?” asked Tubshawe. “I thought bloody Hancock had his own air force.”

“He's dead,” said Macaulay. “He was murdered by those people over there.”

Tubshawe saw the pain in his eyes. He didn't ask for details.

“I have two extra flight suits . . . just in case they're watching,” he said.