The Lure Part 41

There is just a trace of sadness in Petrosians voice. 'I understand your reasoning, gentlemen. Id probably think the same if I hadnt lived under the n.a.z.is.

2.

Flesland Alpha.

The new millennium.

Death and destruction entered Findhorns Aberdeen office in the form of a small, bespectacled, mild-mannered Norwegian with an over-long trenchcoat and a briefcase. He claimed that his name was Olaf Petersen, and the briefcase was stamped with the letters O.F.P. in faded gold.

Anne put her head round the door. She was being a redhead today. 'Fred, theres a Mister Olaf Petersen here.

The red leather armchair had been purchased for a knockdown price at a fire-damage sale but it was all bra.s.s studs and wrinkles and it gave the little office a much-needed air of opulence. Petersen sank into it and handed over a little card. He looked around at the photographs which covered the office walls: icebergs, aurora borealis, a cuddly little polar bear, an icebreaker apparently stranded on a snowfield.

The card read:.

Olaf F. Petersen, Cand.mag., Siv.ing. (Troms).

Flesland Field Centre.

Norsk Advanced Technologies.

'Coffee? Findhorn asked, but he sensed that the man had little inclination for social preliminaries.

'Thank you, but I have very little time. The Company would appreciate some help, Doctor Findhorn. Like many Scandinavians, the mans English was excellent, only the lack of any regional accent revealing that it was a second language.

'Norsk and I have done business from time to time.

'This particular task is quite different from anything you have done for us before now. Something has turned up. The matter is urgent and requires the strictest confidentiality. We hope that you can help us in spite of the very short notice.

Findhorn thought of the empty diary pages yawning over the coming months. Petersen was looking at him closely. 'I had hoped to take a few days break over Christmas.

Petersen looked disappointed. 'Frankly, Im disappointed. You were perfect for this a.s.signment.

Findhorn thought it better not to overdo the hard-to-get routine. He said, 'Why dont you tell me about it?

Petersen, smiling slightly, pulled a large white envelope from his briefcase. 'Do you have a light table?

'Of course. Through here.

By labelling the door 'Weather Room, Findhorn hoped to imply that further along the corridor there were other rooms with labels like 'Mud a.n.a.lysis or 'Core Sample Laboratory or even 'Arctic Environment Simulation Facility. Do Not Enter, rather than two broom cupboards and a toilet. The light table, about five feet by four, took up much of the room. They picked their way over cardboard boxes and piles of paper. Findhorn switched on the table and pulled the black curtain over the window. Petersen opened the envelope and pulled out a transparency about a foot square. Lettering in the corner said that it had been supplied courtesy of the National Ice Center and a DMSP infrared satellite.

Findhorn laid the transparency on the table. Down the left, the west coast of Greenland showed as a grey-white, serrated patch except where sea fog obscured the outline. Someone had outlined the limit of the pack ice with a dotted line. There was a scattering of icebergs. Little arrows pointed to them, with numbers attached.

'Do you see anything odd? Petersen asked.

Findhorn scanned the picture. 'Not really. He pointed to an iceberg off the Davy Sound, just on the boundary between Greenlandic and international waters. 'Except maybe A-02 here. Its pretty big.

'Unusually so, for the east coast. The big tabular bergs are usually found on the west of Greenland. They break off from the Petterman or the Quarayaq or the Jungersen glaciers, and drift down through Baffin Bay to the Newfoundland Bank.

'So where is this one headed?

'Its been caught up in the East Greenland Current. It may round Cape Farewell and join its western cousins or it may break out into the North Atlantic. But size and drift arent the issue, Doctor Findhorn. Take a closer look.

There was a little dust on the transparency, overlying the big iceberg, and Findhorn puffed at it. The dust didnt blow away. He brushed it lightly with his finger but again it stayed put. He frowned.

'Try the microscope, Petersen suggested politely.

Findhorn swivelled the microscope over the big transparency. He fiddled with the knurled k.n.o.b, brought the photograph into focus.

The iceberg filled the field of view. A pattern of ripples marked its line of drift through the surrounding ocean. It was surrounded by a flotilla of lesser floes, like an aircraft carrier surrounded by yachts.

Findhorn swivelled the front lens holder. He frowned some more, puzzled.

The specks of dust had resolved themselves into rectangles, man-made structures like huts. Other, smaller shapes were scattered around.

He turned the microscope to its highest setting and increased the intensity of the light s.h.i.+ning up through the translucent gla.s.s. And then he looked up from the microscope, astonished. 'But this is crazy.

Olaf agreed. 'Icebergs melt. Split. Capsize. No sane individual sets foot on an iceberg.

'But...

'But a large camp has been set up on this one. Olaf, leaning over the light table, tapped the photograph with a stubby finger. 'Yes, Doctor Findhorn, this is crazy. These small irregular shapes you see. Theyre men. On an iceberg which could overturn at any time.

Findhorn stood up from the microscope. The light from the table, thrown upwards, gave Petersen a slightly sinister look, like a mad scientist in an old horror movie. A vague feeling of uneasiness was coming over him. 'What exactly does Norsk want from me?

Petersen gave a good imitation of a smile. 'First, wed like you to fly out to the northernmost rig in our Field Centre.

'Norsk Flesland?

'The same. Then, from there, wed like to fly you out to the Norsk Explorer, our icebreaker, which is currently about three hundred kilometres north of the rig, just on the limit of the helicopters range. The Explorer will take you to A-02, which is further north again. We want you to climb that berg.

And now it was happening again, the old, lurching sensation in the stomach. 'Why? And why me in particular?

Petersen was still smiling, but he had calculating eyes. 'Perhaps I will have that coffee after all.

ST. MARTINS PAPERBACKS t.i.tLES.

by Bill Napier.

The Lure.

Nemesis.

Splintered Icon.

Praise for Bill Napier.

NEMESIS.

"The most exciting book I have ever read."

-Arthur C. Clarke.

SPLINTERED ICON.

"Its hard not to get sucked into Bill Napiers incredible vortex. Truly an extraordinary tale, and one that throws the perfect bridge from England to the Americas ... Sir Walter Raleighs Da Vinci Code. More, its smart as h.e.l.l. It reads like an exploding brush fire ... what a ride! Splintered Icon is a really terrific novel, head and shoulders above the genre."

-Jeff Long, New York Times bestselling author of The Descent "Napier nimbly twists two separate tales into a thrilling novel of exploration, discovery, and, ultimately, survival. Fans of Dan Brown, take note, this is a one-sitting book."

-Jack DuBrul, USA Today bestselling author of The Medusa Stone "Intriguing and imaginative. An inventive piece of storytelling."

-Steve Berry, national bestselling author ofThe Amber Room "Deftly mixing history, science, and fiction, Napier keeps the action escalating toward a satisfying climax."

-Publishers Weekly.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fict.i.tiously.

Originally published in Great Britain by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLIs.h.i.+NG.

Extracts from the Marine Observer reprinted by permission of the Meteorological Office.

THE LURE.

Copyright 2002 by Bill Napier..

end.