One of the men who had kept watch over Austin came into the dining room. He handed Aguirrez a plastic bag and whispered into his ear.

Aguirrez nodded and said, “Thank you for being so forthcoming about your visit to the caves, Mr. Austin. Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“I wouldn't mind a lift back to the village.”

“Done. My man has informed me that we are passing the sea stack and should be anchoring in a few minutes.” He handed the plastic bag over. “Your clothes and personal effects have been drying out.”

Austin was ushered back to his cabin so he could change. The bag also held his wallet, which contained his NUMA photo ID card prominently displayed in its plastic window. Aguirrez was a cool one. He would have known that Austin's story about being in ma- rine salvage was made out of whole cloth, yet he'd never let on. In- side the bag was a business card with his host's name and a telephone number. Austin tucked the card into his wallet.

Aguirrez was waiting on deck to say good-bye.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Austin said, shaking hands with his host. “I hope I'm not being rude having to eat and run.”

“Not at all,” Aguirrez said, with an enigmatic smile. “I wouldn't be surprised if our paths crossed again.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Austin said, with a grin. Moments later, Austin was in the launch heading across the quiet harbor.

NUMA 4 - White Death

14

TWO THOUSAND FEET above Skaalshavn harbor, the Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopter that had been tracking the yacht along the coast came to a hover and focused its Wescam high- resolution surveillance camera on the launch making its way to shore. The man in the pilot's seat stared at a video monitor, watching as a lone passenger disembarked from the boat.

The helicopter pilot had a pie-shaped face with high cheekbones marked with vertical tattoo lines. His coal-black hair was cut in bangs over his low forehead, characteristics that might lead a casual ob- server to take him for a native of the northern tundra. But the fea- tures normally associated with the Eskimo were distorted. In place of a pleasant smile was a cruel, leering expression. Eyes that should have twinkled with innocent good humor were as hard as black di- amonds. The brownish-red skin was pockmarked, as if the corrup- tion within had seeped through the pores. The hastily applied band- age taped across the man's crushed nose intensified the grotesque image.

'We have the target in view," he said with a nasal snarl, speaking in an ancient language that had its origins under the aurora borealis.

The electronic signal from the camera, which was housed in a pod beneath the cockpit, was converted into microwaves and transmitted instantaneously to the other side of the globe to a darkened room, where pale-gray eyes watched the same picture seen from the heli- copter.