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.”
“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.