Clive Cussler - White Death

The man who answered the door was of medium height and slightly on the portly side. He had an apple-round face and cheeks, and thin strands of reddish-blond hair combed over his bald head. "Ja," he said with a pleasant smile.

"Mr. Jepsen?" Austin said. "My name is Kurt Austin. I'm a friend of Professor Jorgensen's."

"Mr. Austin. Come in." He pumped Kurt's hand like a used-car salesman greeting a prospect. Then he ushered him into a rustic liv- ing room. "Dr. Jorgensen phoned and said you were coming. It's a long drive from Torshavn," Jepsen said. "Would you like a drink?" "Not now, thanks. Maybe later."

Jepsen nodded and said, "You're here to do a little fishing?" "I've heard you can catch fish on dry land in the Faroes." "Not quite," Jepsen said with a grin, "but almost as good."

"I was doing some ship salvage work in Torshavn and thought fishing would be a good way to relax."

"Ship salvage? Austin." He swore in Faroese. "I should have known. You're the American who saved the Danish sailors. I saw it on the television. Miraculous! Wait 'til the people in the village learn I am entertaining a celebrity."

"I was hoping I wouldn't be bothered."

"Of course, but it will be impossible to keep your visit a secret from the townspeople."

"I met one of them outside the church. She seemed nice enough."

"That would be the minister's widow. She's the postmistress and head gossip. Everyone will know you're here by now."

"Is that the professor's cottage down the hill?"

"Yes," Jepsen said, removing a key ring from a nail in the wall. "Come, I'll show you." Austin got his duffel from the car. As they walked down the hard-packed path, Jepsen said, "You're a good friend of Dr. Jorgensen?"

"I met him a few years ago. His reputation as a fish scientist is world-known."

"Yes, I know. I was very honored to have him here. Now you."

They stopped in front of the cottage, whose porch offered a view of the harbor, where a picturesque fleet of fishing boats was anchored.

"Are you a fisherman, Mr. Jepsen?"

"In a little place like this, you survive by doing many things. I rent out my cottage. My expenses aren't great."

They climbed onto the cottage porch and went inside. The inte- rior was basically one room with a single bed, bathroom, kitchen area, a small table and a couple of chairs, but it looked comfortable.

Jepsen said, "There's fishing gear in the closet. Let me know if you need a guide for fishing or hiking. My roots go back to the Vikings, and no one knows this place better."

"Thanks for your offer, but I've been around a lot of people lately. I'd like to spend some time on my own. I understand that a boat goes with the cottage."

"Third one from the end of the pier," Jepsen said. "A double- ender. The keys are in it."

"Thank you for your help. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to unpack, then I'll go into the village and stretch my legs," Austin said.

Jepsen told Austin to let him know if he needed anything. "Dress warm," he said as he went out the door. "The weather changes quickly around here."

Heeding Jepsen's advice, Austin pulled a windbreaker over his sweater. He went outside and stood on the cottage porch, sucking in the cool air. The land sloped gradually down to the sea. From his van- tage, he had a clear view of the harbor, the fish pier and the boats. He walked back up the path to the Volvo and drove into the village.

Austin's first stop was the bustling fish pier, where a procession of trawlers unloaded their catches under an umbrella of squalling seabirds. He found the boat tied up as Jepsen had described. It was a well-built wooden inboard about twenty feet long, turned up dory- fashion at both ends. He checked the motor and found it relatively clean and new. The key was in the ignition, as Jepsen had said. Austin started the engine and listened to it for a few minutes. Satisfied that it was running smoothly, he switched it off and headed back to his car. On the way, he encountered the minister's widow coming out of a loading bay.

"Hallo, American," she said with a friendly grin. "Did you find Gunnar?"

"Yes, thank you."

She was holding a fish wrapped in newspaper. "I came down here to get some supper. My name is Pia Knutsen."

They shook hands. Pia's grip was warm and firm. "Nice to meet you. I'm Kurt Austin. I've been enjoying the sights.

Skaalshavn is a beautiful village. I've been wondering what the name means in English."

"You are talking to the unofficial village historian. Skaalshavn means 'Skull Harbor.' "

Austin glanced out at the water. "Is the bay shaped like a skull?" "Oh no. It goes way back. The Vikings discovered skulls in some caves when they founded the settlement." "People were here before the Vikings?"

"Irish monks, perhaps, or maybe even earlier. The caves were on the other side of the headland at what was the original harbor for the old whaling station. It became too small as fishing grew, so the fish- ermen moved their boats and settled here."

"I'd like to do some hiking. Would you recommend any routes where I can get a good view of the town and its surroundings?" "From the bird cliffs, you can see for miles. Take that path behind the village," she said, pointing. "You will go through the moors by some beautiful waterfalls and streams, past a big lake. The trail climbs sharply after you pass the old farm ruins, and you will be at the cliffs. Don't go too close to the edge, especially if it's foggy, un- less you have wings. The ledges are nearly five hundred meters tall. Follow the cairns back and keep them on your left. The trail is steep and goes down fast. Don't walk too close to the edge along the sea, because sometimes the waves crash over the rocks and can catch you.

"I'll be careful." "One more thing. Dress warm. The weather changes quickly sometimes."

"Gunnar gave me the same advice. He seems quite knowledge- able. Is he a native?"

"Gunnar would like people to think he goes back to Erik the Red," she sniffed. "He's from Copenhagen. Moved into the village a year or two ago."

"Do you know him well?"

"Oh, yes," she said, with a roll of her lovely eyes. "Gunnar tried to get me into his bed, but I'm not that hard up."

Pia was a good-looking woman, and Austin wasn't surprised at Jepsen's attempt; but he hadn't driven all this way to tune in on the local romances. "I heard there was a fish operation of some sort up the coast."

"Yes, you'll see it from the cliffs. Ugly concrete and metal build- ings. The harbor is full of their fish cages. They raise fish there and ship it out. The local fishermen don't like it. The fishing around the old harbor has gone bad. No one from town works there. Not even

Gunnar anymore."

"He worked at the fish farm?"

"In the beginning. Something to do with construction. He used his money to buy his houses and lives off the rentals."

"Do you get many visitors here?" Austin was watching a sleek blue yacht coming into the harbor.

"Bird-watchers and fishermen." She followed Austin's eyes. "Like those men in that pretty boat. It's owned by a rich Spaniard, I hear. They say he came all the way from Spain for the fishing." Austin turned back to Pia. "You speak English very well." "We learn it in the schools along with Danish. And my husband and I spent some time in England when we were first married. I don't get much chance to speak it." She lifted the fish under Austin's nose and said, "Would you like to come to my house for dinner? I could practice my English."

"It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"No, no. Come by after your walk. My house is behind the church."

They agreed to meet in a few hours, and Austin drove to the trail- head. The gravel path climbed gradually through rolling moors splashed with wildflowers, and passed near a small lake, almost per- fectly round, that looked as if it were made of cold crystal. About a mile from the lake, he came upon the ruins of an old farm and an an- cient graveyard.