Clive Cussler - White Death

Pia beamed when she opened the door at his knock and invited him inside. The exertions of the day must have been apparent in his face. When he stepped into the light, her smile disappeared. "Are you all right?" she said, with concern in her voice.

"Nothing a glass ofalamt couldn't help."

Clucking like a mother hen, she ushered him to the kitchen table, poured him a tall glass ofafavit, then watched as he drank. "Well?" she said finally. "Did you catch many fish?"

"No, but I went to visit the mermaids."

Pia let out a whooping laugh, clapped her hands and poured him a couple more fingers of liquor. "I lew it!" she said, with excitement in her voice. "And were the caves as wonderful as my father said?"

She listened like a child as Austin described his entry through the Mermaid's Gate at slack tide and his journey into the cave network. He told her that he would have stayed longer but men with guns chased him away. Cursing impressively in Faroese, she said, "You can't go back to the cottage tonight. Gunnar says he doesn't work for those people, but I think he does."

"I was wondering the same thing. I left the car at the fish pier. Maybe I should leave town."

"God, no! You'll drive off the road into the sea. No, you will stay here tonight and leave early tomorrow."

"Are you sure you want a gentleman staying the night? People will talk," Austin said with a broad smile.

She grinned back, eyes sparkling with childlike mischief. "I hope so."

Shortly before dawn, Austin awakened and got up from the sofa. Pia heard him stir and rose to make him a breakfast. She cooked an industrial-sized potato omelet with smoked fish and pastry on the side. Then she packed him a lunch of cold cuts, cheese and apple and sent him on his way, first eliciting a promise to return.

The town was coming alive as he made his way in the damp morn- ing air to the fish pier. A couple of fishermen on their way to work waved at him from their trucks as he was opening the car door. The keys slipped from his fingers as he waved back-and when he bent to pick them up, his nostrils picked up a chemical smell, and he de- tected a soft splat-splat sound. He got down on his knees and peered under the car, where the odor was even stronger. Fluid dripped where the brake hoses had been cleanly cut. Austin grunted to him- self softly, then he went over to the fish pier and asked around for a aood mechanic. The harbormaster said he would call, and before long a lanky, middle-aged man showed up.

After inspecting the damage, the mechanic stood and handed Austin a section of the hose. "Somebody don't like you."

"No chance it was an accident?"

The taciturn Faroese pointed to where the road out of town skirted a cliff, and he shook his head. "I figure you'd be flying with the birds up there on the first curve. No problem to fix, though."

The mechanic repaired the brakes in short order. When Austin went to pay him, he waved away the money. "That's okay, you're a friend ofPia's."

Austin said, "The people who did this might know I was at Pia's. I wonder if I should talk to the police."

"No such thing here. Don't worry, the whole town will keep close watch on her."

Austin thanked him again, and minutes later he was driving out of town. As he surveyed the sea stack in his rear view mirror, he men- tally ticked off the events of his short stay in Skaalshavn. He was leav- ing town with more questions than answers. Look on the bright side, he told himself with a grin. He had made some terrific new friends.

PAUL TROUT STEPPED onto the deck of Neals wooden- hulled trawler and appraised the boat with an expert eye. What he found surprised him. Neal was a charming conniver and a drunk, but he was a no-nonsense fisherman who took pride in his boat. The signs offender care were everywhere. Woodwork gleamed with fresh paint. The deck was scrubbed clean of oil stains. Rust was kept under control. The pilothouse had the latest in fish-finding and naviga- tional equipment.

When Trout complimented Neal on the condition of his boat, the fisherman beamed like a father who'd been told his firstborn was his spitting image. Soon he and Neal were swapping sea stories. At one point, when Neal was out of hearing, Gamay raised an eyebrow and said, "You and Mike appear to be getting along swimmingly. I sup- pose you'll be trading recipes before long."

"He's an interesting guy. Look at this boat. It's as well-found as anything I've ever been on."

"Glad to hear you say that. NUMA now owns a piece of Tiffany."

The ransom to spring the trawler from the boatyard had been closer to a thousand dollars than to seven hundred fifty. After a quick fuel-tank fill-up, which Gamay also paid for, Neal set the trawler on a course that would take it into the open sea.

"Fishin' ground's not far," Neal yelled over the throb of the engine.

" 'Bout seven miles. Ten fathoms. Bottom's smooth as a baby's behind.

Prime for trawling. Be there shortly."

After a while, Neal checked his GPS position, cut the throttle to an idle and lowered the net-a conical mesh bag, around a hundred- and-fifty-feet long, designed to be dragged along the sea bottom. The boat made two sets and caught lots of seaweed, but no fish.

"This is very strange," Trout said, inspecting the cod end, the nar- row pouch at the end of the net where harvested fish are concen- trated. "I can understand hauling in a poor catch, but it's highly unusual to bring in nothing. Not even trash fish. The net's absolutely empty."

A knowing grin crossed Neal's face. "You may wish it stayed empty."

The net was lowered again, pulled along the bottom and slowly winched back onto the boat. A boom was used to hoist the cod end over the deck where any catch could be emptied out. This time, something was thrashing wildly in the net. Flashes of silvery-white scales were visible through the tangle of mesh, as a large fish fiercely struggled to free itself. Neal yelled out a warning as he prepared to empty the contents of the net onto the deck.

"Stand way back, folks, we've got a live one!"

The big fish landed on the deck with a squishy thud. Freed from the net, it became even more ferocious in its exertions, skittering across the deck as it arched and snapped its long body, round eyes staring with an unfishlike malevolence, mouth wide and snapping at air. The creature slammed into the fish hold, a raised box built into the deck. Far from slowing it down, the impact seemed to make it angrier. The convulsions became more violent, and it scudded back across the slippery deck.

"Wha-hoo!" Neal yelled, quickly stepping out of the way of the biting jaws. He lowered a gaff handle near the fish's head. In a snap- ping blur, the fish bit the handle in two.

Paul watched, spellbound, from the raised safety of a pile of net- ting. Gamay had taken out a video camera and was busy filming.

"That's the biggest salmon I've ever seen!" Paul said. The fish was about five feet long.

"This is crazy," Gamay said, holding the camera steady. "Salmon don't act like this when they're caught. They've got weak teeth that would break if they tried to do anything like that."

"Tell that to the damned fish/7 Neal said, holding up the jagged end of the gaff handle. He tossed it aside and grabbed a pitchfork, speared the fish behind the gills and pinned it to the deck. The fish continued to struggle. Neal produced an old Louisville Slugger and whacked the fish on the head. It was stunned for a second, then started snapping again, although less violently.

"Sometimes you have to slam them a few more times before they quiet down," Neal explained.

Moving with great caution, he managed to loop a line around the tail. Then he fed the line into an overhanging pulley, pulled the pitch- fork out, lifted the fish and swung it over the open fish hold, still care- ful to stay clear of the jaws. When the fish was positioned over the hold, he took a filleting knife and cut the line. The fish fell into the hold where it could be heard banging against the sides.