“If we’re right about all of this, who the hell were the people mummified in that cave?” Chin asked.
Painter checked his watch. The one person who might be able to answer that question should be here within the hour. He arranged a few more details with Chin over the phone, ordering him to remain on-site and keep monitoring that valley.
As Painter hung up, Kowalski spoke from the sofa, not bothering to lift his chin. “Causing volcanoes to erupt . . .”
Painter glanced his way.
“If that’s what this stuff can do”—one eye opened and stared back at him—“maybe you’d better tell Gray to pack some asbestos underwear for his trip to Iceland.”
Chapter 18
May 31, 1:10 P.M.
Vestmannaeyjar (Westman Islands)
Iceland
Gray crossed the stern deck of the fishing trawler. Though the day was clear, a hard wind blew the sea into a stiff chop, causing the boat’s deck to jar and buck underfoot. He found Seichan and Monk at the rail, bundled in waterproof coats against the salty chill of the breeze. The midday sun reflected brightly off the sea but did little to warm the air.
“According to the captain,” Gray said, “we’ll reach Ellirey Island in about twenty minutes.”
Seichan shaded her eyes and looked to the east. “And we’re certain that’s the right island?”
“That’s our best guess.”
The three of them had landed in Reykjavik an hour ago and hopped a private plane to the chain of islands that lay seven miles south of Iceland’s coast. The Vestmannaeyjar Islands were a fierce line of emerald-capped sentinels, riding a storm-swept sea—seas as turbulent as the region’s history. The islands were named after Irish slaves, known as Westmen, who killed their captors in AD 840 and escaped briefly to these islands, until they were eventually hunted down and slaughtered, leaving behind only their names. Today, it took a hearty soul to live out here, clustered on the largest of the islands, sharing the bits of land with seabirds and the world’s most populous colonies of arctic puffins.
Gray stared back at the picturesque harbor of Heimaey as it retreated behind them, with its brightly painted homes and shops set against a backdrop of green hills and a pair of ominous volcanic cinder cones. They’d landed at the island’s small airport and wasted no time chartering the boat to ferry them to the coordinates supplied by the Japanese physicists—but the coordinates were admittedly rough, according to Kat. And there were a lot of islands out here. More than a dozen uninhabited islands made up the archipelago, along with countless natural stone pillars and wind-carved sea arches.
The entire chain was geologically young, born within the last twenty thousand years from volcanic activity along a fiery seam that stretched across the seabed. That firestorm was still ongoing. In the midsixties, an undersea volcanic eruption gave fiery birth to the southernmost island of the chain, Surtsey. In the seventies, the Eldfell volcano—one of two cones on Heimaey—exploded and buried half of the colorful harbor town in lava. Gray had noted the aftermath from the air as they swept down toward the island’s airport. Street signs still stuck out of the lava fields; a few homes at the edges were being excavated from the rock, granting the town its other name: the Pompeii of the North.
“I think that’s the place,” Monk said, and pointed ahead.
Gray turned and spotted a towering black rock sticking out of the sea. This was no island of sandy beaches and sheltered harbors. Sheer black seawalls surrounded the island of Ellirey, which was little more than a broken chunk of volcanic cone protruding out of the waves. The top of the island was a scalloped stretch of emerald green—a high meadow of mosses, lichen, and sea grass, so bright in the sunlight it looked unnatural.
“How are we getting up there?” Monk asked as the boat churned steadily toward the towering rock.
“You climb, my American friends.”
The answer came from the wheelhouse of the boat. Captain Ragnar Huld stalked onto the deck in an open yellow slicker, wearing boots and a heavy woolen sweater. With his thick red beard traced with gray, and grizzled, salt-aged skin, he could have stripped to fur and leather and easily been mistaken for a marauding Viking. Only the easy amusement sparkling in his green eyes softened that impression.
“Afraid the only way up,” he explained, “is by rope. But you all look fit enough, so that should be fine. Young Egg will bring the boat alongside the east shore of the island, where the cliffs are lowest.”
Huld pointed a thumb toward the cabin, where his son, Eggert, twentysomething in age, shaven-headed with both arms sleeved in tattoos, manned the wheel.
“Don’t worry,” Huld said. “I bring hunters, even a few nature photographers, up here quite regularly. Never geologists like the lot of you. But I’ve never lost anyone yet.”
He gave Seichan a coy wink, but with her arms crossed, she did not look amused. According to their cover story, they were researchers from Cornell University, doing a study on volcanic islands. It went a long way to explain their heavy packs and inquiries about this specific island.
Huld pointed at the rock as it drew ever closer. “There’s a hunting lodge up top where you can rent a room, if need be. If you squint your eyes, you should be able to spot it.”
Gray searched for a moment, then found it. Sheltered square in the middle of the scooped greensward stood a good-size lodge with a blue slate roof.
“Don’t know if you will find much room up there, though,” the captain said. “Late yesterday, another ferry took out a tourist group. Hunters from Belgium, I heard. Or Swiss, maybe they were. They’re lodging here for a few more days. Besides the lot of them, you’ll only have a few cattle and the usual gathering of puffins for company.”
Just as well, Gray thought. He’d prefer to keep their search for the source of the neutrino emissions as quiet as possible.
Seichan suddenly jolted back from the ship’s rail, jostling Gray, coming close to losing her footing before he caught her.
“What’s wrong?”
Speechless, she pointed out to sea. A tall black fin crested high, splitting through the waves alongside the boat. As Gray watched, another fin rose, followed soon thereafter by a third, fourth, and fifth.
“More over here,” Monk said from the opposite side of the trawler. “Orcas. A pod of them.”
Huld puffed out his chest and waved an arm. “Not unusual. Our islands have the largest population of killer whales and dolphins in all of Iceland. They’re just curious and enjoy riding our bow wake. Or maybe looking for a nibble. I’ll often share a little of my catch with them, if I’ve had a good haul. Brings gangi pér vel—good luck—as they say around here.”
After a time, with no free meal offered, the pod sank away, vanishing in unison upon some silent signal. Still, Gray noted Seichan kept a wary watch on the waves, plainly unnerved by the sight of the large predators.
Good to know something could shake up that iron resolve.
As the trawler chugged past the southern tip of the island, Gray studied their destination, noting the waves that were crashing into the dark depths of volcanic sea caves that peppered the cliffs. If some treasure had been hidden in those watery caves long ago, the tides and storms would have wreaked havoc on it. To find what they were seeking, their best hope lay in looking somewhere that was better sheltered, an inland lava tube or cavern.
But where to begin their search?
Gray turned to Captain Huld. “In order to set up our equipment, we’re looking to get as deep into the island as possible. Any suggestions?”
The captain scratched his beard, eyeballing the towering rock faces. “Yes. Lot of caves and tunnels here. Take your pick. Place is practically a hardened chunk of Swiss cheese, carved by wind and rain. But there’s one famous cave up there, gave the island its name. Ellirey cavern. Story goes some young lass fled here and hid in that cave from the rape and pillaging of invaders—Turks or Barbary pirates, depending on the storyteller. Anyway, once safely hidden, she had a c
hild, a boy, and raised him here. That child acted as guardian to the islands and was said to have special powers, able to call the forces of fire and molten rock to protect our seas.” Huld shook his head. “Of course, it’s just wild stories, told around the hearth in the long winters here.”
Gray caught a look from Monk. Maybe there was a kernel of truth in that old tale, some hint of an explosive power buried here long ago, hidden by someone seeking a desperate refuge.
“Can you tell me where this cave is?” Gray asked.
Huld shrugged heavily. “Fjandinn if I know. But there’s a caretaker up at the lodge. Ol’ Olafur Bragason. Call him Ollie, though. Quite a piece of work, that one. Been living out here for over sixty years, as crusty and sharp-edged as the island’s rocks. But he knows every nook and cranny of this place. That’s the man to ask.”
By now, the trawler had cleared the southern tip and made a slow approach toward a broken section of cliff face. A thick rope, anchored in places to the jumble of rock, snaked down from above, marking a trail meant more for mountain goats than human traffic. It ended at a small tie-down. To reach the rope, they would have to row an aluminum dinghy from the trawler, but at least the place was relatively sheltered from the crashing waves.
Still, it took some crafty maneuvering by the captain’s son to bring them in close. In short order, Gray was helping Seichan climb from the dinghy to the slick rock, where she shifted her pack and grabbed tightly to the rope. Staring up, Gray shouldered his backpack. It would be a hard trek. He suddenly found himself envying Monk’s prosthetic hand. With the newly designed actuators, he could crush walnuts between his fingers. Such a grip would serve him well during the long climb.
Huld shared the dinghy with them, manning the small outboard at the stern. “Egg and I will keep close by, do a little fishing. When you are ready, radio us and we’ll come fetch you. But if you decide to stay the night, let us know that, too. We can come out any time tomorrow to ferry you back.”
“Thanks.”
Gray stepped from the rocking dinghy onto solid ground. The volcanic rock, while damp, was coarse and sharp, giving good traction for the tread of his boots. The path up, while steep, had plenty of good footholds and shelves of rock. The rope added extra reassurance.
He stared up, appreciating the view. Seichan climbed steadily without resting, her thighs stretching her jeans and rising to the gentle curve of her backside. The pace she set made it clear that she was happy to flee the dark waters below.
A few yards down the rope, Monk must have noted the direction of Gray’s gaze. “Don’t let that Italian girlfriend of yours catch you gaping like that.”
Gray scowled down at him. Luckily the winds ate away most of his words before they reached Seichan. He’d not seen Rachel Verona in over four months. Their occasional dalliances had dried up after her promotion within the carabiniere forces, locking her down in Italy, while his own issues with his parents made long weekend trips to Rome impossible. They still kept in touch by phone, but that was about it. Separated by a gulf far wider than the Atlantic, they both recognized that they needed to move on.
After one last haul, the group climbed clear of the cliffs and out onto a beautiful panorama of grasses and outcroppings painted in mosses and lichens in every shade of green. A slight mist clung within the sheltered scallop of volcanic cone, casting a prismatic glow across the landscape.
Monk whistled sharply. “Looks like we just stepped into some Irish folktale.”
Seichan was not enchanted. “Let’s go interview the caretaker.”
She led the way toward the two-story hunting lodge nestled in the center of the meadow to the right. To the left, the summit of the island dropped in a series of large tiers and labyrinthine tumbles of black rock. Gray hoped the caretaker could help them narrow their search.
After a short hike, they reached the sole building on the island. Clad in wood with a few tiny windows, the hunting lodge looked more like a rustic barn, especially with the handful of cows, lowing pitifully, that were grazing farther up the green slope. A sickly spindle of smoke rose from the homestead’s single chimney.
Passing through a fenced gate and across a small vegetable garden, Gray reached the front door and knocked. When no one answered, he tested the latch and found it unlocked. Then again, why wouldn’t it be?
He pushed inside.
The main room of the lodge was shadowy and stiflingly warm after the cold trek. A scarred and stained plank table crossed before a low fire, making the space both a meeting hall and dining room. A single flickering oil lamp lit the tabletop, revealing a spread of topographic maps and sea charts. They were in disarray, clearly well thumbed through.
Gray unzipped his coat, freeing an easy reach to his holstered SIG Sauer. Seichan also tensed, a dagger appearing in her fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Monk asked.
Gray searched around. The place was too quiet. The pile of maps looked more like a war room than the staging area for a casual hunt. A low groan rose from a room at the back.
He freed his pistol and hurried forward, sticking to the walls, leading with his gun. Seichan flanked to the other side. Monk took up a position at a window facing the front of the lodge, keeping watch.
With a quick peek into the back room, Gray spotted a wiry old man tied to a chair, his nose broken, his lip split and bleeding. It had to be Olafur Bragason. Gray swept the rest of the room before entering. No one else was there.
He moved over to the man, whose head lolled back, hearing Gray’s footsteps. A bleary, dazed eye rolled over him before the man’s chin fell back to his chest.
“Nei, nei . . .” he gasped softly out. “I told you all I know.”
Seichan turned to Gray. “Looks like someone else knew about the neutrino emissions and beat us here.”
She didn’t have to mention a name. But how could the Guild know about this island? A twinge of suspicion flashed through him as he stared her way. Something must have shown on his face. Seichan’s manner stiffened with anger, but he also saw the hurt in her eyes. She swung away to the door. She had gone a long way to prove her loyalty. She didn’t deserve his suspicions.
Gray crossed to the door, touched her arm, offering a silent apology, but he had no further time for injured feelings. He waved to Monk. “I’m going to search the rest of the lodge. You help the caretaker. We need to be able to get him moving. Whoever’s here surely noted our approach by sea.”
A loud explosion burst across the island, rattling the windows. Gray rushed across the room. He recognized the crack of TNT. Out one of the windows, he spotted a dark smoky cloud rising from the jumble of rocks halfway across the island. A flock of black-and-white puffins took to wing, fluttering through the smoke, rousted and panicked. Someone was trying to blast their way deeper into the island.
Closer at hand, movement caught his attention. A line of eight men rose from the boulder line and stalked across the meadow, staying low, moving stealthily from outcropping to outcropping. They were armed with rifles, scopes sparking in the sunlight. Here were the hunters who had been described by Captain Huld.
Only apparently the true hunt was just beginning.
10:14 P.M.
Gifu Prefecture, Japan
Jun Yoshida must have fallen asleep at his desk. The knock on the door startled him awake. Even before he could compose himself, Riku Tanaka came rushing inside, drawing Janice Cooper in his wake.
“You must see this,” Tanaka said, and slapped a fistful of papers on his desk.
“What? Has there been another neutrino burst?” Jun tilted straighter in his chair, earning a twinge from his aching back. He’d left the main lab below three hours ago to finish some paperwork in his office, which still lay untouched on his desk.
“No . . . well, yes . . . not really,” Tanaka stammered, clearly agitated, and waved the question aside in exasperation. “Some minor ongoing blips. I’ve been tracking them, but they don’t appear to be important.”
&nb
sp; Dr. Cooper cut him off. “That’s not why we rushed up here, Dr. Yoshida.” She turned to Tanaka. “Show him.”
Tanaka came around his desk, invading his personal space. He shoved aside the pile of paperwork, replacing it with his own printouts. “We’ve been monitoring the surge in Iceland. Graphing the results. Look at how the neutrino spikes radiating from that island have grown steadily more frequent.”
“You noted that before.”
“Yes. I know.” Tanaka’s face reddened. Clearly he did not like to be interrupted.
Jun allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction. “Then what’s this sudden invasion of my office all about?”
Tanaka traced the graph. “Over the past hour, I’ve been noting how the double beat of the Icelandic signature has been changing. The smaller bursts have been growing stronger, while the taller spikes have been getting weaker.”
Dr. Cooper explained, “The changes have been slow. It took hours to recognize what was happening.”
Tanaka set two graphs side by side. “This first graph is from four hours ago. The second one was taken within the last half hour.”
Jun picked up his reading glasses, secured them in place, and leaned over to see. Tanaka’s assessment appeared to be correct. On the older graph, the paired bursts of neutrinos were of distinctly different amplitudes. In the latest readings, the pairings were nearly equal in size.
“But what does that mean?” Jun took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.
Tanaka looked to Dr. Cooper, who nodded encouragement. It was rare for the man to show such insecurity. That small fact spoke to how truly upset Tanaka must be. Something had the man scared.
“I believe,” Tanaka said, “that what we’re witnessing is an approach toward critical mass. Once those two amplitudes match and come into alignment, it will trigger a massive chain reaction within the substrate that’s radiating these subatomic particles.”
“Like a nuclear reactor melting down,” Dr. Cooper said. “Riku and I believe the escalating frequency and changes in amplitude are acting like a natural timer, counting down until the unknown substance in Iceland goes critical.”