“You were right all along, Lieutenant,” the young guy said. “We didn’t understand back then, but we do now. What you reported in Berlin in 1945… all of it was right. We’ve learned a lot since then.”
In a violent, sweeping motion that made the local barflies gasp, Frank rose and grabbed Danny by his pea coat lapels. “Yeah? You believe me now? What about then, when I was fucking crazy and trying to figure out just what the hell I saw? I suppose I’m expected to just forgive and forget? Let bygones be bygones, huh?”
“We can help you, Frank,” Danny said, trying to look the angry man directly in the eye — and not do anything to attract any more attention than they already had.
It was several more seconds before Frank finally released him and slumped back into his seat. “Don’t need your help,” he muttered before turning to the bartender. “Annan drykk.”
“Come on, Wallace,” Montague said, putting his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “I told you this was a waste of time.”
Danny took a long, hard look at Frank, and Frank looked right back. Then he shrugged and turned back toward the exit, taking a few steps toward the door. That was easy, Frank thought, and had nearly turned back to the bar when Danny stopped in his tracks.
“There is just one thing I’d like to know before we leave. Where did you learn Icelandic, Frank?” Danny asked. “Your file says you have no foreign language skills, and yet this is one of the rarest languages in Europe. Sounds like you speak it well.”
“Just enough to get drunk,” Frank said, giving the kid a sidelong glance. The little prick was on to something. “What’s it to you?”
Danny opened the folder. “Over the past two years, you’ve lived in Ireland, France, Portugal, and now Iceland,” he said. “Each time, you’ve taken on jobs that require working with — and communicating with — the local population. Fine, the Irish speak English OK, but French? Portuguese?”
“Guess I’m a quick study,” Frank said, frowning through another swig of brennivín.
“Specialized jobs, too. Takes a lot of know-how to be a good fishing hand,” Danny said. “Trust me, I hated basic seamanship at the Academy. But before this, you did construction in France and worked a railroad in Portugal. How does a Harvard man like yourself just happen to have all those trade skills under your belt?”
Frank slammed down the glass. “Why don’t you cut the shit and just tell me why you’re here, so I can tell you again, a little less polite this time: fuck off, and let me get back to my drinking, all right?”
Montague straightened up taller, looking as if he was restraining himself from punching Frank in the nose. “We’re here, Lieutenant, to offer you a clean record and a job. I can have that Section 8 changed to an honorable discharge or even a full reinstatement. And you can help us out with a project we have going stateside.”
Frank actually laughed at this. “You think an honorable discharge is going to change my mind? I got everything I need right here. Good job, good drink, enough goddamn fermented shark meat to last a lifetime. Why go with you?”
Montague glanced at Danny, who nodded back. “Because we think we know what you’re capable of, Mr. Lodge.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Frank snorted.
Danny took a deep breath. “When someone dies, you can absorb things from their lives as they… depart this world. It happened with that soldier next to you in Berlin—”
“That soldier’s name was Mike Petersen,” Frank interrupted, suddenly getting very serious. “Mike. Petersen.”
“Right,” Danny said slowly. “Mike Petersen. His memories, his life experiences, his learned skills, they all transferred to you. This is also how you’ve picked up all these languages, different trades, isn’t it?”
Frank sat silent.
“It’s hard on you,” Danny ventured.
“It’s damn hard,” Frank said under his breath.
Danny nodded. “Hard to control, too?”
Frank slumped further on his stool. “I can’t even walk by a hospital anymore without getting hit by it, having someone’s life flash before my eyes. Sometimes, I can’t even focus it. And I can’t shut it off.”
“We can help,” Danny offered. “We’re working with others.”
For the first time in two years, something clicked inside Frank. “Others?”
“Others. Like you, Frank.”
“…Berlin. It was Berlin.”
Danny opened his mouth to reply but caught a stern look from Montague. “We can talk about all that later. There’s… well, now, all you need to know is that we can help you. And in return, you can help us out too.”
Frank thought hard, the alcohol swimming around in his head, making everything just a little fuzzy around the edges. It’d been a tough couple years… so many lives, lost and borrowed. Too many voices in his head to listen to each and every goddamn day. No matter where Frank would run, he couldn’t escape them. Not even freezing his balls off in the middle-of-nowhere Iceland. And God, he hated the taste of brennivín.
“Fine. You help me with this, clear my record, and if it’s not too shitty a job, I’ll help you,” Frank spat. “So, what happens now?”
Montague nodded. “Get your things. We’re leaving.” The general tossed a few krónur on the bar and, turning on his heel, strode out of the building, leaving Frank to put on his coat while Danny watched uneasily.
“I said I’m going with you, kid. What more do you want?”
“When it happens, you know… does the person dying have to be… killed?”
Frank looked at the Navy man with an odd smile. “You’re wondering if we’re going to have to rub out people so I can practice?”
Danny shrugged. “Surprisingly, it’s not the strangest question I’ve asked over the past couple years.”
“I’ll bet,” Frank said. “And no… any old death will do. The violent, sudden ones, though… they’re tougher, harder to control. But I think I get more out of them.”
Danny held out his hand toward the door. “We’ll start slow.”
“Great,” Frank muttered as he ventured out into the brisk, dark Reykjavik afternoon.
8
The roar of propellers made conversation pointless, even though Maggie really felt like talking to someone. So, she was left looking out the tiny window in the second-rate cargo aircraft she’d been herded onto that morning. She’d gotten notice of her departure only a moment before she actually had to leave, and her few personal effects had been unceremoniously shoved into an olive-drab duffel bag. She’d never really had a chance to unpack them, anyway.
As she looked out over the desert mountains and parched valleys, she wondered — not for the first time — whether she would’ve been better off back at Agnews. At least in the looney bin she’d been left alone most of the time, and hadn’t been transferred around the country every other month. Plus, the plants there smelled nice. The plane, by contrast, smelled of sweat and grease — as did most of the places they took her to.
Since leaving the hospital with Danny, she’d been poked and prodded, tested and retested. She’d undergone countless physical and psychological evaluations and been subjected to mental exercises concocted by military psych guys completely out of their depth. She asked to do something physical to help pass the time, and ended up getting into pretty fit shape. She even completed the basic training course given to Army draftees — solo, of course, because there was no way they were going to let her train with the boys.