Assignment - Black Viking (14 page)

“A moment,” he said again. “I feel you do not want me with you, Durell. You think you do not need me. But you have orders to cooperate with me.”

Durell waited.

“And you do not disobey orders, eh?”

“I might,” Durell said. “Push me, and we’ll see.”

“Ah. You pretend anger. It covers your guilt for the murder of my countryman.”

“Maybe you killed him, Smurov. I wouldn’t put it past you. I know your main weapon. You use fear better than the gun in your lap. You lay about you with terror to keep everyone at their distance. It keeps you safe. It holds your power. But no one here is afraid of you. You can come or go, as you like. I’d prefer that you go.”

“But if I killed you now,” Smurov said heavily, “I would be justified. My superiors would listen to me, if I told them how you murdered poor Traskin.”

“We didn’t kill him,” Durell said.

“Then who did? Someone killed the poor fool. Yes, Traskin was a fool, and often troubled by the things we do to survive against your imperialist schemes. So he was careless.” Smurov shrugged again. “Very well. He

was a nuisance to me. It is not my fault he has been eliminated. And it leaves me with a free hand.”

“To do what?”

Smurov gave him a cold, reptilian stare. “You will know when the time comes, Gospodin Durell.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Durell said softly.

“I shall sail with you. I give you permission. We will leave now,” Smurov said.

“Thanks for nothing.”

“But I shall remember Traskin. I will remind you of him again, when our work is finished.”

LAPLAND

Beyond the shores of the Bootenviken, that last arm of the Baltic Sea that reaches up to the Arctic Circle, the sun never sets from May to mid-July. Sweden has introduced trains, plane service, and fine highways into this region that once was accessible only to the most daring and the Laplanders who live there with theii reindeer herds and indigenous economy.

The lure of iron ore at Kiruna, the glacial peaks and remote snow-clad valleys and tundras, attract tourists in increasing numbers to this unreal world, to ski and to view the spectacular mining operations at Luossavaara.

Southward, the Ume River valley leads through the beautiful university town of Ume a on the coast. Cars and buses go through the highlands to Mo in Rana on an Atlantic fjord in Norway. Farming homesteads are found even up in the mountains.

In winter, the Gulf of Bothnia is iced over from shore to shore. By May, in normal weather, the seas are open again for the short summer season.

THE
Vesper
shuddered and shook cakes of ice off her bow as she plunged into the green sea. Rime shrouded her rigging and masts, and stiffened the storm trysail that steadied her against the gale winds that blew now from the north, now from the east, in disconcerting and irregular cycles. The helmsman had to be relieved every hour. The Sicilian crew, accustomed to the mild Mediterranean, suffered bitterly from the cold. Now and then the world was blotted out by swirling snowstorms that roared down to envelop them in an icy white grip.

Durell used a lifeline to work his way below. It was evening of the second day out of Stockholm, and the weather proved a mixed blessing. The
Vesper’s
spoon bow was capable of riding over and smashing the occasional ice floe they met. And the overcast, the driving sleet and lowering cyclonic clouds and general gloom effectively hid them from the Swedish Dragon jets that risked destruction to hunt for them. Now and then the howl of the wind was mixed with the boom of the jets as they came in low for the search; but although they heard the planes several times, they were not seen, and the
Vesper
continued undiscovered.

He estimated another hour to their destination. But this was difficult to judge, since they hadn’t seen the sun since they left Saltsjobaden. The lingering twilight at this latitude made it difficult to judge if it was day or night. An eerie whiteness prevailed, a combination of driving snow and the half-gloom of the Arctic daylight.

They had made a landfall in the Kvarkin, off the island of Holmon, and adjusted course by dead reckoning. But they might be an hour from the village of Skelleftsvik, or almost upon it. Durell worked forward to the bow lookout, ordered him to stay sharp, and went below.

He was grateful for the warmth of the cabins. He exchanged a few words with Baron Uccelatti, working at charts that were useless without a look at the sun. The Palermitan nobleman was pale and strained. Durell went to Sigrid’s cabin, knocked, and entered without waiting for a reply.

She looked at him with sullen eyes. “I have nothing more to say to you, Sam. You are taking us all to destruction. The voyage is one of suicide.”

“That should suit your Swedish temperament,” he said. “Have you anything to drink?”

“Only your bourbon. Most of the liquor was smashed in the last gale. Help yourself.”

He poured a stiff three fingers, bracing himself against the lift and pitch and plunge of the laboring vessel. He kept ducking his head to keep from scraping against the cabin ceiling. The girl huddled in a blanket on her bunk, her long hair loose about her shoulders. Her mouth was sulky.

“What’s bugging you now?” he asked.

“You do not know this coast. You. are blind and foolish, filled with rage against defeat. You will not admit that you are defeated.”

“If men have made this storm,” he said, “then they must be made to end it.”

“You blame my father, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you think it is all his fault, through some quixotic, idealistic belief. And you are the hard-headed American engaged in fighting the Cold War. You hold my father in contempt.”

“I didn’t say that, either. You’re simply projecting your own thoughts on me, Sigrid.”

She turned away. “Leave me alone,” she whispered. “I feel miserable enough.”

“I promise you,” he said gently, “if your father is alive, we’ll find him and get him back.”

“Suppose he does not wish to come back?”

“I’m sure he didn’t want this. If he’s the man you say he is, he didn’t intend his weather machine to freeze and destroy so many innocent people.”

“But if you find him, what will you do to him?” “That depends on many things. One thing is certain, we mustn’t let Smurov get him.”

“That man frightens me.”

“He frightens me, too,” Durell admitted. “He’s very sure of himself. He has power behind him, and he’s not far from his own borders. He can call for help whenever he feels the time is right. But something else is bothering you, isn’t it, Sigrid?”

She looked at him. “Perceptive man.”

“Are you worried about Olaf? You do love him?”

“I don’t know. I am attached to him, a part of him, since we were children. Yes, I suppose I love him.”

“But he’s a bit mad. He called it himself—a berserker.” “He would never hurt me.”

“Sigrid, if he must, he’ll kill you.”

She turned her head away. The
Vesper
shuddered as an exceptional sea broke over her. She heeled far to port and took a long time to right herself. Ice scraped along her stout planks. Nothing could be seen through the cabin ports. Durell sat on the bunk beside the girl.

“Sigrid, be honest with me. Don’t you think that Olaf will kill you, if you get in his way?”

“I cannot believe it. We are such old friends, and we have shared so much together. . . .” She turned in sudden anger. “It is you, strange man, who brought this trouble with you. Everything was clear until you came along. I cannot understand myself. My duty to my job struggles with my feelings for Olaf. And I cannot understand you, either.”

She clasped her hands behind his neck and looked long into his eyes. Then she abruptly released him and shook her head; her long, pale hair swayed. “No, I do not know myself. How can I do my work and love Olaf, too?” “Perhaps you don’t care much about either of them,” he said gently.

“I am confused. My duty must go against both you and Olaf.”

“Can you tell me what your orders are, exactly?”

“It is for—no, I cannot say.”

“Have you kept your people informed of what you’re doing? Are those planes from your Air Force? Are they hunting us?”

“Some of them,” she admitted.

“And the others?”

“Russian, I suppose.” She looked miserable at the thought, then abruptly took another tack. “Have you talked to Elgiva today?”

“Only briefly, at lunch.”

“She loves my father, too. But she is so strange—such a witch. She offers something to all men. Love, to my father; a kinship of spirit to Uncle Eric, with her infatuation for old things of the pagan world. In those days she would have been a priestess, I think, cutting the hearts out of quivering, living sacrifices.”

“She’s not as bad as all that.”

“Why do you suppose she came on this insane voyage? We will all die, you know. The storm will destroy us. It will be impossible to get into Skelleftsvik.”

“Why do you say that?”

She shrugged. “One must know the coast intimately, as I do, or we shall be wrecked on the coast and thrown into this icy sea.”

“We’re almost there. Will you help pilot us in?”

She thought about it for a long time. Then she said, “No, I am afraid. I do not want the responsibility.”

He went to see Elgiva. She was drinking coffee in the salon and trying to read, although the schooner pitched so extremely he could not see how she could concentrate. Sigrid’s image of a priestess was not dispelled by the way Elgiva looked. There was something unearthly in her amber eyes that met his gaze, a fanatic joy in the storm that imperiled them all. She closed the book, but kept a finger in her place. Her eyes were speculative as Durell sat down beside her.

“And how is that devoted and impossible child, Sigrid?” she asked softly.

“Confused,” he said.

“So she has always been. It is a question of being in love with her own father. She resents me and any other woman who approaches him. And she holds up every other man to an unhappy comparison.” Elgiva sighed. “She could ruin us all.”

“Not if you help us,” Durell said.

Her eyes widened. “My dear Durell, what could I do?” “The waters here are tricky. The storm makes it worse. Sigrid won’t help to guide us in. But you’ve been here many times before. Perhaps you can do it.”

“I write poetry,” she said coldly. “I am not a sailor.” “But you know this shore. You’ve walked along it and explored it intimately.”

“Only in the sunlight, and in peaceful weather. Not in this—this darkness of the gods.”

“The gods didn’t make this weather. Peter Gustaffson did it. And I don’t think he can stop it now. So we’ve got to find him and help him, or it’s the end for everybody.”

“Perhaps the gods use Peter as their weapon against an insane mankind.”

“We can’t know that,” he said seriously. “So we must do all we can. You can help now, Elgiva. Come on deck with me.”

“No,” she said. “If we die, we die.”

“And let Peter die, too?”

“He does as he wishes.”

“If that were true, your attitude would be justified. But I don’t think so. I think he’s being forced into it.”

She considered this, then shook her head. “No, I cannot help you. I know nothing about navigation.”

“You could try,” he said urgently. “You know some of the dangers along this coast.”

“There is the Walk,” she said. “A shoal from the shore to Skelleftsvik Island. The Gustaffson house is on the mainland, but Eric built a Viking council house on the island. One can wade there, at certain times. If you are not careful, we will go aground on that sandbar.” 

“Good,” he said. “Thank you.”

She opened her book and continued to read.

No land was in sight. It was neither night nor day. A gray light filled with swirling curtains of snow from the north and the east filled the world. Huge chunks of ice lifted and fell in the wild green seas. The clouds hung low, swirling, tumbling like dirty gray blankets tossed in the sky. Durell searched all the quarters of the compass, his eyes narrowed against the bitter cut of the wind. To port, he thought he saw a dark mass that might be land; but when he looked again, there was only thick snow and jumbled ice heaving on the sea. The wind moaned in the rigging and the trysail came over with a thunderous snap as the helmsman lost the wheel. Durell jumped to help him before the
Vesper
broached. The water pouring over the deck gripped him eagerly, anxious to pull him down into its dark, insane depths.

He knew from the chart that there were numberless islands scattered off this coast. How could he be sure which was Skelleftsvik? It seemed futile. The elements were too wild and strong. At any moment, the
Vesper
might come down on a rock and split apart, lose her masts, or have her laboring engine fail. Then the sea would win and the end would come quickly for them all.

Movement caught his eye from the cabin hatch. Two men burst out of it, struggling. One was Smurov. The other was the youngster, Gino Ginelli. Smurov’s barrellike body was astonishingly quick; his foot kicked the boy in the chest. Gino tumbled down the ladder again and Smurov stood hunched, watching him. Then the Russian turned and lurched through the snow toward the wheel. Durell left the lifeline to check him.

“What is it, Colonel?” he shouted.

Smurov looked cruel and angry. “It is nothing to do with you, gospodin. I used the radio. The stupid boy tried to stop me.”

Durell stared into the other’s slitted eyes. “You called for reinforcements?”

“I had to make my report.”

“You’re a fool. Either we all get out, or none of us will survive.”

“We shall see who survives, and who dies.”

Durell swung to the hatchway. Gino was crawling stubbornly up on deck again. Durell checked him with a firm but gentle hand. The boy’s face was ashen under his dark skin.

“That son of a bitchin’—”

“Did he get his message off?” Durell asked.

“Yeah. He slugged me.” Gino rubbed the back of his black hair in wonderment. “I’ll zap him, the crazy bastard. I’ll wait until I get my chance—”

“You’ll do nothing. Go below and ask one of the women to take care of you. . .