He knew that couldn’t be true. He had seen the chunk of rotor blade sticking through the man’s neck and the frozen blood that coated his flight suit. The pilot had been dead long before he’d found the chopper. Because the footprints were nearly buried by snow he couldn’t tell where they originated or what size feet had made them. It was possible Anika Klein had made them, but that made as much sense as the dead pilot pulling a Lazarus act. She had been near death herself.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ira asked when he saw what Mercer was studying.
“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Mercer admitted. “Did someone beat us out here this morning to check out the crash?”
“I didn’t see any tracks besides yours, but it’s possible. Maybe they left right after you got back.”
“But why?” The pilot’s body was still strapped in his seat, his recovery being the principal reason Mercer and Ira had come out.
“Something on the chopper they didn’t want discovered?” Ira offered.
Lifting his feet to clear the powdery snow accumulated on the ground, Mercer started following the trail of prints. He was back at the crash site in just a few minutes. “They disappear about fifty yards away, blown clean by the wind.”
“What about a stowaway?”
“I was thinking that myself.”
The helo had a rear door that opened at the back of the cargo hold. It was sealed now, but it was possible someone had exited through it following the crash and closed it afterward to hide their presence.
“Given her injuries and the noise generated by the storm, Anika might not have heard anything,” Ira said after examining the door. “But we don’t need to worry about it.”
“Why’s that?”
“You think someone could still be alive out here after twelve hours?”
Mercer considered the question. “Given the right gear, yeah, they could, but they’d be in for one hell of a long walk.”
“You want to go look for him?”
“Not in the slightest,” Mercer growled. “He wanted to get away so badly he’d abandon an injured woman. I say let the son of a bitch keep going. Let’s load up the pilot’s body and anything else we can stuff in the Sno-Cat and get back to the base.”
They were ready forty-five minutes later. The pilot had been wrapped in a plastic tarpaulin, and every square inch of the Sno-Cat’s cargo area was filled with boxes of perishable food, Anika’s luggage, and anything else they felt was needed back at the camp. Despite his earlier vehemence, Mercer steered a zigzag search pattern for the first hour of the drive while Ira scanned the monotonous surroundings through a pair of binoculars. They saw no footprints or track marks left by another Sno-Cat. If it had indeed been a stowaway who had walked from the helicopter, he wasn’t headed toward the research station.
Ira put away the binoculars and reached for the mail bucket, shuffling through the parcels and envelopes looking for anything addressed to him. He sniffed appreciatively at a letter from his wife that still carried traces of perfume she must have sprayed on the paper. “Sorry, nothing for you. Doesn’t appear that anyone loves you.”
“Did you check for names that didn’t sound quite right?” Mercer asked. “Remember my last letter was sent to Max E. Padd.”
“Ah, here we go.” Ira held up a large envelope. “It’s from Arlington, Virginia.”
“That’s me.” Mercer winced when he asked Ira to tell him the name.
“Juan Tzeks Withasheep.”
It took Mercer a second to decipher Harry’s lame joke. Want sex with a sheep.
“You’ve got one warped friend there, Mercer.”
“Tell me about it. Open it up and let’s see what he sent.”
“A confirmation for your new Playgirl magazine subscription, a couple receipts from a strip joint in Washington, another envelope forwarded from Munich, and a police citation for a noise-ordinance violation.”
Mercer wondered what was in the envelope from Germany and was about to ask Ira to open the envelope when he remembered the mysterious e-mail he received before leaving for Iceland. This must be the material the lawyer said he was sending for his unnamed client. He thought it was best if he opened that in private. “When our communications are back up, I think I’ll call the Arlington police to report a squatter has taken over my house. That’ll show the old bastard.”
“Oh, that’s mean.”
“If you knew some of the crap he’s pulled over the years, you’d know he’s getting off light,” Mercer replied.
There was a crowd waiting for them when they got back to base and halted the Sno-Cat near the mess hall. Not everyone was happy to see them. Werner Koenig and Greta Schmidt stood apart from the others, scowling. Leading the group who cheered them on was Marty Bishop and a much recovered Anika Klein.
“Let’s keep those footprints to ourselves,” Mercer said when he killed the engine.
“People find out all the secrets we’re sharing, they’re going to get jealous,” Ira said in a singsong voice.
Mercer threw open his door. “Mail call.”
Greta Schmidt pushed through the crowd to confront Mercer. “That is the second time you have taken a vehicle without authorization,” she snapped.
“Which makes it two times I’ve done your job,” he replied with a mocking smile. He noted that again it was Schmidt, not Koenig, who was the most upset by his foray, and he wondered exactly which one was running the expedition.
“Relax, for Christ’s sake,” Marty boomed. “He saved Dr. Klein’s life last night.”
“I am aware of that, but there are procedures. Discipline must be maintained. I am going to report you all to the Surveyor’s Society with the recommendation that you be airlifted back to Iceland immediately. This is no place for cowboy heroics.” She stormed off.
“Your rescue was ill-advised, but appreciated.” Werner shook Mercer’s hand when Greta was out of sight. “I don’t think I will be able to stop her from ordering your evacuation. I’m sorry.” He followed in her wake.
Marty turned to Mercer. “Don’t sweat it. When we have the radios up again, I’ll square it with my old man.”
“Thanks, Marty,” Mercer said. “But I doubt it’ll make much difference. With the chopper crash coming so close to Igor’s death, I won’t be surprised if Geo-Research has their entire operation shut down by the Danish government.”
Neither man had noticed Anika Klein had moved close to them and overheard what Mercer had just said. “Igor Bulgarin is dead?” she cried.
Mercer turned, stunned that no one had told her and guilty that he’d mentioned it so casually. Even though she was in moon boots, the top of her head was below the level of his chin. Her eyes were wide with shock and he was struck again by how much she looked like a mythical imp. A tough, resilient imp, to be sure.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Klein. I didn’t know you were there,” he stammered. “Yes, Igor died in an accident yesterday morning.”
She just stared at him for a moment, her gaze wary. “I didn’t know.”
“It came as a shock to us all,” Marty said, extending his hand. “I’m Martin Bishop. I head up the Surveyor’s Society contingent here.”
“Anika Klein,” she replied absently, her mind far away from social niceties.
Mercer took her hand when she offered it. “I doubt you remember much from last night. I’m Philip Mercer.”
“I remember,” she answered cautiously. “You came out to get me. Thank you for what you did. That was brave.”