“When will you learn to trust my Yankee ingenuity?” Paul said with a fake sigh.

While Gamay watched with a bemused smile, Paul picked up the phone and punched out a number. After a brief conversation, he hung up with a triumphant grin on his boyish face. “That was a pal in NUMA's travel department. There's a NUMA plane leaving for Boston in a few hours. They have two seats available. Maybe you can charm the pilot into an add-on to Cape Breton.”

“It's worth a try,” Gamay said, pushing the OFF button on her computer.

“What about your toadfish research?” Paul said.

Gamay replied with a bad imitation of a toad's croak. “What about the Java Trench?”

“It's been there for millions of years. I think it can wait a few more days.”

His computer monitor went blank as well. Relieved that their boredom, at last, had come to an end, they raced each other to their office door.

NUMA 4 - White Death

10

THE MORNING GLOOM had burned off, and the Faroes were enjoying a rare moment of sunshine that revealed the splendor of the island scenery. The countryside seemed to be covered in bright-green billiard table baize. The rugged terrain was barren of trees, dotted by grass-roofed houses and an occasional church steeple, and laced by crooked stone walls and foot trails.

Austin drove the professor's Volvo along a twisting coastal road that offered inland views of distant mountains. Jagged gray out- croppings rose from the cold blue sea like huge, petrified whale fins. Birds swirled around the lofty vertical cliffs where the sea had sculpted the irregular shoreline.

Around midday, Austin emerged from a mountain tunnel and saw a doll-like village clustered on a gently sloping hill at the edge of a fjord. The serpentine road followed a series of descending switchbacks, dropping thousands of feet in a few miles. The Volvo's wheels skirted the edge of hairpin turns with no guardrails along the berm. Austin was happy when he reached the level road that ran be- tween the foam-flecked surf and the colorfully painted houses built on the slope of the hillside like spectators at an amphitheater.

A woman was planting flowers in front of a tiny church, whose grassy roof was surmounted by a short, rectangular steeple. Austin danced at his Faroese phrasebook and got out of the car.

He said: “Orsaa. Hvar er Gunnar Jepsen?” Excuse me, where could

I find Gunnar Jepsen?

She put her trowel down and came over. Austin saw that she was a handsome woman who could have been between fifty and sixty. Her silvery hair was tied in a bun, and she was tanned except for the sun blush on her high cheekbones. Her eyes were as gray as the nearby sea. A bright smile crossed her narrow face, and she pointed toward a side road that led to the outskirts of town.

“Gott taaf” he said. Thank you.

“EingisJt?”

“No, I'm American.”