Valhalla (23 page)

4 December
Boothbay Harbor
Maine

Macaulay kept the throttle of the motorbike shoved all the way forward. Its maximum speed was just thirty-five miles an hour. Fortunately, there was no traffic on the small country road and very little after they turned onto Coastal Route 1. They slowly puttered past ice-rimmed harbors, aromatic mudflats, and darkened coastal villages.

A strong wind began gusting off the sea, occasionally threatening to blow the bike into the oncoming traffic lane. When the rain turned to sleet, Macaulay was forced to lower his hooded head against the stinging flakes of ice.

They stopped once to refill the bike's small tank at an all-night gas station. The manager of the station, an old man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, watched them through the window with open curiosity.

They had passed through the village of Wiscasset and were crossing a low bridge across tidal mudflats, when Macaulay heard a growing roar behind him and looked back to see an eighteen-wheeler overtaking them. The guardrail hemmed the bike into the roadway, but he moved to the right as far as possible without wrecking them.

The truck driver was going at least seventy miles an hour and didn't see the motorbike's small headlamp and tail reflectors until he was right on top of them, swerving to the left at the last moment and almost jackknifing his rig before bringing it under control. As he disappeared ahead of them, he let out a long angry blast of his air horn to make clear there was no place on a highway for them.

Past Wiscasset, they saw a sign for Boothbay Harbor and turned onto another secondary road. Fifteen minutes later, they rolled into the village's tiny commercial district, which was dotted with art galleries, boutiques, antiques shops, and restaurants, all closed for the winter.

A side street took them down to a deserted wharf. Beyond it, through the sleet, Lexy could make out a smattering of fishing and pleasure boats lying at moorings in the wind-roiled harbor.

“We have to get rid of the bike in case anyone saw us,” said Macaulay, “and then we have to find a boat to take us out to the island.”

His fingers were almost frozen into a curled position from gripping the handles, and his hands felt like blocks of ice. Wheeling the bike to the end of the unlit wharf, he glanced in every direction before shoving it over the edge. It dropped ten feet into the harbor with a loud splash, disappearing a few moments later.

The sleet turned to driving snow as they walked two blocks back into the village. Passing another side street, Lexy saw a signboard swinging in the wind under a single lamp. It read
THE BARNACLE, C. 1782
.

Inside, a scarred walnut bar extended along one of the exposed brick walls. Oak booths were clustered along the other. There was an open kitchen at the end. The room had a low ceiling and hand-hewn, smoke-blackened beams. It was blessedly warm, and Lexy smelled the aromas of baked bread and freshly brewed coffee. An unseen radio was tuned to a jazz station.

“A dirty night it is,” said the female bartender as they sat down at the bar. “Welcome to the Barnacle.”

She was in her fifties, with a long ponytail and a pleasant, wrinkled face. Two men in jeans and dungaree jackets sat farther down the bar, nursing bottled beer. Otherwise the tavern was empty.

Lexy looked at the clock behind the bartender and saw it was past ten.

“Are you still serving food?” she asked.

“This is the Barnacle,” she said. “If we're open, we're serving, but right now I'm down to what's left from the dinner crowd. . . . All I have for you is a lobster pot au feu with garlic, herbs, carrots, leeks, and onions. There's also my sour cream biscuits and apple brown betty. That's it, I'm afraid.”

“We came to the right place,” said Macaulay, ordering a double whiskey.

She headed back to the kitchen.

It was eleven by the time they had finished their main course. By then, the other two men at the bar had come over to join them. Both worked as crewmen on local fishing trawlers. Macaulay bought them a round of drinks.

“How long does it take to get out to Monhegan on the regular ferry?” he asked casually.

“About an hour, but the
Balmy Days
stopped running on Columbus Day,” said one of the fishermen. “She won't be back running until Memorial Day.”

“We were hoping to charter a boat as soon as possible to take us out there,” said Lexy. “Like tonight.”

The others laughed.

“Only a crazy fool would take a chance going out there with a nor'easter on the way,” said the first fisherman.

There was a moment's silence before the bartender and the other fisherman said, “Chris,” in perfect unison. “And he ought to be along before too long.”

“Who is Chris?” asked Macaulay.

“Chris Pakkala . . . He lives on Monhegan,” said Sue. “He's . . . a little different.”

“Not the only one,” said one of the fishermen.

Lexy was finishing her dessert when the entrance door swung open again. The man coming toward her seemed almost as broad as he was tall, with heavy shoulders and a broad neck. In his late thirties, he had shoulder-length blond hair and weathered blue eyes. Unshaven, he was dressed in shabby oilskins and had a white hand towel tucked around his neck.

“Chris, these folks could use a hand from you,” said Sue as he joined them at the bar.

Lexy smelled pipe smoke on him along with a pleasant natural musky odor as he stood close to her. A moment later she felt his hand on her lower back, a brief subtle pressure and then it was gone. Looking down, she saw that he was barefoot.

“A dark Guinness,” he said.

“Are you heading out to Monhegan?” she asked.

He grinned at her and nodded.

She saw that two of his lower-front teeth were missing. Then his hand was on her lower back again. It stayed there until she turned away from him.

“It's going to be a fun ride tonight,” he said, “but don't worry about the storm. There won't be anything too rugged until late tomorrow morning.”

“He's not always quite accurate in his predictions,” said Sue. “You should know he's lost two boats in the last three years.”

“That was beyond my control,” said Chris, downing the Guinness in one long swallow.

“You'll take us then?”

“I have to go anyway,” he replied. “Vic Lord has a roofing job for me.”

“There will be a lot more roofing jobs after this storm blows through,” said one of the fishermen as he paid their bill and left. Through the open door, Lexy heard the moan of the wind rise to a loud keening cry before it was shut again.

“Why do you want to go?” asked Chris, ordering another Guinness.

Lexy pondered her answer. There was something elemental about him, primal and strong. A lot of women were probably attracted to the hint of danger. At the same time, she sensed something decent in him, an adherence to whatever principles he held dear. She decided to tell him the truth, or at least part of it.

“I'm an archaeologist,” she said. “I'm hoping to find evidence of an ancient settlement out there.”

“You mean the Vikings?” he asked.

The surprise registered on her face.

“Sure, they were there,” he said with another toothless smile.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“There are markings out there,” he said. “Cut in the stone. I've seen them.”

“How do you know they're Norse markings?” she persisted.

“It's in books,” he said. “John Cabot wrote about them in sixteen hundred something. Ray Phillips wrote about them too. Besides, I'm Finnish. The Vikings were my people.”

“Who is Ray Phillips?” she asked.

“The island hermit,” said Chris. “He was famous up and down this coast.”

“But I thought Monhegan was a settlement.”

“It is,” said Chris. “Old Ray didn't live on Monhegan. He was on Manana. That's where the Viking markings are.”

“Where is Manana?” asked Lexy as Macaulay looked on.

“It's the little island just south of Monhegan—the tail of the whale.”

Her heart began to speed up.

“What whale?”

“The northern end of Monhegan is shaped like the head of a humpback,” said Chris. “Captain John Smith described it as looking like a whale when he got there in 1614. It's had a lot of names since.”

A thrill coursed through her.

“And Ray Phillips?”

“He lived on Manana for about forty years along with a flock of sheep and his pet gander. He built a bunch of little shacks out of driftwood for them all to live together. He always claimed the Vikings were there first.”

“Did he ever write about finding any traces of them?” asked Macaulay.

Chris took him in for the first time. He didn't like what he saw.

“He knew how to read and write if that's what you're asking,” he said with a touch of malice. “Ray was no dummy. They say the First World War screwed him up. His pictures and stuff are up at the Monhegan museum on Lighthouse Hill.”

Macaulay heard the entrance door open again and turned to see two men standing there in camel overcoats, their eyes roaming the interior. He slipped his hand under the edge of his sweater and grasped the automatic as they stepped forward.

He relaxed when they came into the light. Both were rotund, in their fifties, and wearing bow ties. One of them asked for the wine list and Sue brought it over. Lawyers, he decided.

“We would be happy to pay you to take us out there,” said Macaulay.

“I don't need your money,” he said, as if insulted.

“I can't help but notice you're not wearing shoes,” said Macaulay.

Chris gave him a superior grin and said, “I don't ever feel cold.”

“I wish I shared your powers,” said Lexy.

“I was abducted when I was a boy,” said Chris, as if that explained it.

“I'm so sorry,” said Lexy as the bartender looked on, rolling her eyes.

“They didn't hurt me,” he said, finishing his third Guinness. “They took me to perform experiments on . . . you know, sexual experiments. They brought me back in their ship when they were finished.”

“Were they ever caught?” she asked.

“They were aliens,” he said quietly, his blue eyes locked onto hers, daring her to mock him.

She had no idea if he was joking. If he wasn't joking, what did it say for the accuracy of everything else he had said to her? What had been growing excitement inside her began quickly ebbing away.

“I see.”

One of the lawyers down the bar raised his voice. “You can have your saltwater fishing. I'll take lakes and streams.”

“What do you go after?” asked the second one.

“Bass, they're good fighters. The big ones can run six pounds, great eating,” said the first one.

“What do you use for bait?”

“Frogs . . . I always use frogs.”

Chris's blue eyes turned to ice. He slowly walked down the bar, stopping in front of the first man, who gazed up at him uncertainly from his bar stool, almost visibly melting as the big man glared down at him.

“Don't ever use frogs for bait,” he said.

The man seemed mesmerized, unable to respond.

“Why?” asked the second man.

“Have you ever looked at frogs after you hooked them to the line?”

Both men shook their heads no.

“They grab onto the line with their hands,” said Chris. “Do you understand now? They have hands.”

The first man still couldn't respond.

“You understand now, don't you, Norv?” offered the second one helpfully.

The first man slowly nodded, his mouth slack.

Chris came back down the bar.

“Are you ready to go?”

5 December
Central Intelligence Agency
McNamara Library Annex
Langley, Virginia

Tommy Somervell looked across his office desk at Roger Crowell and June Corcoran. None of them had slept for two nights. June's septuagenarian face had begun to remind him of a wrinkled boot. The pouches under Roger's eyes resembled wasps' nests.

Tommy had taken two amphetamine pills since morning, and had gone through the familiar pattern of euphoria and increased energy followed by sluggish torpor. He longed for the ministrations of his favorite house in Bangkok.

Like him, the other two agents had been relegated to the basement of the library annex. Tommy's office was no larger than his butler's pantry in Leesburg, and it was the largest of the three. Officially, they were the golden agers, an affectionate term designed by the director to reward them for the contributions they had made over the years. To everyone else, they were the has-beens, agents who had long ago outlived their usefulness and didn't have the good sense to leave.

For the last forty-eight hours, at least, he had removed them from the scrap pile and restored them to temporary relevance. The chain-smoking June had been a premier paper hauler for almost forty years. If a record existed, she could find it. Now sixty-seven, Roger had once been a top penetration agent, an expert at installing visual- and audio-monitoring equipment that was virtually impossible to detect. His technical prowess had helped to convict the traitor Aldrich Ames.

Tommy could count on them both for absolute secrecy, but they were no closer to solving the riddle of the White House mole or what the Ancient Way was planning. He had learned enough from his contacts in Europe to believe that something significant was about to happen on an international scale, but he had no idea what it was. Time was running out.

June had assembled the individual paper trails of Jessica Birdwell, Ira Dusenberry, and Addison Kingship, including birth records, academic records, military records, fitness reports, and job evaluations. She had pored over them for sixteen hours and followed up on every possible lead.

“There's nothing there,” she said. “They're kosher.”

“Nothing that would have made one of them vulnerable?” asked Somervell.

“In his sophomore year at Yale, Dusenberry stole a fully dressed turkey from his eating house,” said June. “Someone witnessed it and he made full restitution.”

“That's it?” asked Somervell.

She nodded.

“What about surveillance?” asked Somervell.

“Birdwell hasn't been back to her apartment since I inserted the micro camera platform two days ago,” said Crowell. “I also put a mini eavesdrop into her purse. She spent the last two nights at the White House.”

“Kingship?” asked Tommy.

“He is married to the kind of shrew who would have turned Billy Graham into an atheist. He finds his solace in the arms of a fiftyish lawyer who works in international law at the Justice Department.”

“Male or female?” asked Somervell.

“Sorry,” said Crowell. “Female.”

“What about Dusenberry?”

“I inserted the camera platform in his Watergate apartment. The man only sleeps three hours a night. Otherwise he's working. The only odd thing is that when he gets home, he grills two dozen hot dogs in a big frying pan and eats them in one sitting while watching that old BBC series
Poldark
.”

Somervell's mind was wandering. With no compelling evidence, he was still sure that one of them was dirty. After being immersed in the sweet cesspool for so many years, he just knew. One of the three was a White House mole with access to almost every secret the country possessed.

“This isn't about money,” he said. “It's about faith.”

“I assume that eliminates the hot dogs,” said June.

“Perhaps,” said Tommy. “It's got to be something in the past. We haven't dug deep enough. Let's go back farther.”

“A previous life?” said June with sarcasm through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Somervell took it in and nodded.

“Exactly,” he said.