Jack Higgins

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

EAST OF DESOLATION

 

A
Berkley
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
1968
by
Higgins Associates Limited

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-0366-8

 

A
BERKLEY
BOOK®

Berkley
Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Berkley
and the “
B
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: May, 2002

Books by Jack Higgins

 

THE PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER
DRINK WITH THE DEVIL
YEAR OF THE TIGER
ANGEL OF DEATH
SHEBA
ON DANGEROUS GROUND
THUNDER POINT
MIDNIGHT MAN (Originally published as EYE OF THE STORM)
THE EAGLE HAS FLOWN
COLD HARBOUR
MEMORIES OF A DANCE-HALL ROMEO
A SEASON IN HELL
NIGHT OF THE FOX
CONFESSIONAL
EXOCET
TOUCH THE DEVIL
LUCIANO'S LUCK
SOLO
DAY OF JUDGMENT
STORM WARNING
THE LAST PLACE GOD MADE
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING
THE EAGLE HAS LANDED
THE RUN TO MORNING
DILINGER
TO CATCH A KING
THE VALHALLA EXHANGE

For Arnold Spector
—good friend

I
brought the plane in low over the sea and took her up to three thousand as land appeared and beyond, through the harsh white moonlight, the Greenland ice-cap gleamed like a string of pearls.

East from Cape Desolation the Julianehaab Bight was full of smoky mist indicating no wind to speak of and certainly nothing more than five knots, which was something. At least it gave me a chance of dropping into the valley at the head of the fjord. Not much of one, but better than staying here.

It was cold in the cabin with the night wind streaming in through the splintered windscreen and the lighted dials on the instrument panel were confusing in their multiplicity, occasionally merging together in a meaningless blur.

And then, on the far side of the mist the waters of the
Fjord gleamed silvery white in the intense light and the strange twisted moonscape rolled towards the ice-cap, every feature etched razor-sharp.

It was time to go. I reduced speed, put the auto pilot in control and unbuckled my safety belt. When I turned, he was there as he always was, the head disembodied in the light from the instrument panel, eyes fixed, staring into eternity as he lolled back in the co-pilot's seat.

I moved into the darkness of the cabin and stumbled, falling to one knee, my outstretched hand touching the cold, ice-hard face of the other, and panic seized me as it always did and it was as if I couldn't breathe as I lurched through the darkness and clawed at the quick release handles on the exit hatch.

It fell away into the night and I stepped into space without hesitation, aware of the intense cold, feeling strangely free. I seemed to somersault in slow motion and for a single moment saw the plane above me in the night drifting steadily eastwards like some dark ghost and then I reached for the ring to open my chute and it wasn't there and I gave one single despairing cry that was swept away into the night as I plunged into darkness.

 

I usually only got the dream when I was overtired or depressed, but it always left me in the same state—soaked in sweat and shaking like a leaf. I lay there looking up at the ceiling for a while, then flung aside the bedclothes and padded across to the window. When I rubbed the condensation away a fine morning greeted me.

I was flying out of Frederiksborg that year, Godthaab the capital having got just a little too civilised for
comfort. It was a small place about two hundred miles below the Arctic Circle on the southwest coast. The population couldn't have been more than fifteen hundred, but during the short summer season it was artificially inflated by the influx of two or three hundred construction workers from Denmark who were engaged in building rather ugly three-storied blocks of concrete flats as part of the government development programme.

But Frederiksborg, like most places on the Greenland coast, still had the look of a raw pioneering town, the mushroom growth of some gold or silver strike. The roads were unsurfaced and most of the town was scattered over a peninsula of solid rock. The houses were made of wood and painted red, yellow and green, and because of the rock foundations everything went overhead and telephone and electric cables festooned the air from a forest of poles.

The harbour was half a mile away at the end of a rocky road beside the new canning factory and contained half a dozen fishing boats, a Catalina flying boat used by East Canada Airways for coastal traffic, and my own Otter Amphibian which was parked on dry land at the head of the concrete slipway.

It was almost ten o'clock and I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. There was a quick knock on the outside door and I wrapped a towel around my waist and returned to the bedroom.

Gudrid Rasmussen looked in. “You are ready for coffee, Mr. Martin?” she said in Danish.

She was a small, rather hippy girl of twenty-five or so, a Greenlander born and bred, mainly Danish by blood
which showed in the fair hair plaited around her head, with just a touch of Eskimo in the high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes. Most of the year she spent housekeeping for her grandfather on his sheep farm at Sandvig about a hundred miles down the coast, but during the summer she worked as a chambermaid at the hotel.

“Make it tea this morning, Gudrid,” I said, “I'm feeling nostalgic.”

She shook her head in reproof. “You look awful. Too much work is not good for a man.”

Before I could reply the sound of an aeroplane engine shattered the stillness of the morning and I went to the window in time to see an Aermacchi flip neatly in across the harbour and drop flaps to land on the airstrip beyond the canning factory.

“Here comes your boy friend.”

“Arnie?” There was a touch of colour in her cheeks as she crossed to the window. “Any girl is Arnie's girl, Mr. Martin. I hold no special rights.”

It would have been pointless to try and pretend otherwise and we stood there together for a moment in silence watching the wheels come down beneath the skis with which the Aermacchi was fitted.

“I thought he was going to take those off and put his floats back on,” I said.

“The skis?” She shrugged. “He's got an extension of his service contract with the American mining company at Malamusk on the edge of the ice-cap. Up there the only place to land is the snowfield.”

His landing was good—not excellent, but then we all have our off-days. The Aermacchi rolled along the
air-strip and disappeared from view behind the canning factory.

Gudrid smiled brightly. “I'll bring your tea while you have a shower, then I'll order breakfast for you. I'll change the bed later.”

The door closed behind her and I went back into the bathroom and got under the shower. It was nice and hot and very relaxing and after a while my headache started to go, which was a good thing considering that I had a two and a half hour flight ahead of me. I pulled on my old silk dressing gown and went back into the bedroom towelling my hair briskly. In my absence, Gudrid had brought in a tray and the tea, when I poured, it was scalding. I finished the first cup and was pouring another when the door burst open and Arnie Fassberg blew in.

He was about my height, which was a little under six feet, but the resemblance stopped there. My hair was dark, his so fair as to be almost white, his face open, mine closed and saturnine. As yet he had not been used by life or at least had been used kindly and his forehead was as unlined as any child's. By birth an Icelander, he had perhaps the most incredible appetite for women that I have ever encountered, and like all Don Juans he was an incurable romantic, falling in and out of love with astounding frequency.

He presented a slightly theatrical figure in his fur-lined boots and old flying jacket and he tossed a canvas hold all into the corner and moved to the table.

“I thought you might have left. I've probably broken all records from Søndre Strømfjord to get here.”

“Any particular reason?”

He helped himself to tea using my cup. “You're flying supplies out to that American film actor aren't you?”

He was referring to Jack Desforge, who'd arrived unexpectedly in Godthaab early in June in his motor yacht
Stella.
Since then he'd been cruising the coast fishing and hunting and I'd been flying out supplies to wherever he was at regular intervals.

“Why the interest?”

“I've got a passenger for you. She got off the midnight jet from Copenhagen at Søndre. Wanted me to take her straight to Desforge, but I couldn't oblige. Have to be at Malamusk by noon with some spare parts they've had specially flown in from the States. Where is he, by the way?”

“Somewhere north of Disko in the region of Narquassit as I last heard; looking for polar bear.”

There was genuine astonishment on his face. “At this time of the year. You must be joking.”

“About the only thing outside of a Tibetan yak that he's never laid low. You never know, he could hit lucky. I've seen bear up there myself in August before now.”

“But not often, my friend. I wish him luck.”

“This girl—what's her name?”

“Eytan—Ilana Eytan.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Israeli?”

“I would have said English.” He grinned. “Not that it matters—in any language she's a lot of woman.”

“Good looking?”

He shook his head. “Ugly as sin and it doesn't matter a damn.”

“A rare combination. I look forward to meeting her.”

“She's having breakfast downstairs.”

The door opened and Gudrid entered as I knew she would, her excuse the clean sheets she carried. Arnie swung round and advanced on her.

“Gudrid—sweetheart.”

She side-stepped him neatly and dropped the sheets on the bed. “You can cut that out for a start.”

He unzipped one of the pockets of his flying jacket and took out a roll of notes. “I got paid, angel. A thousand dollars on account. Where would we be without our American friends?”

“And how much of that will go across the card table at the Fredericsmut?” she said acidly.

He peeled off two hundred-dollar bills and held out the rest of the money. “Save me from myself, Gudrid. Be my banker like always.”

“What would be the point? You'll want it back again tomorrow.”

He grinned. “Put it in the bank then, in your name. Just so I can't get at it. I trust you.”

And as usual, she was putty in his hands. “If you're sure you want me to.”

“Would I ask if I didn't?” He patted her on the bottom. “I'd better come and see where you do put it, just in case you get knocked down in the street or anything.”

I didn't need the wink he gave me over his shoulder as they went out to tell me what that meant. Poor Gudrid. Always on hand to keep him occupied in between affairs, never facing up to the hopelessness of the situation from her point of view. And yet in his own selfish way he had a genuine affection for her, and she did act as his banker
on occasion, which was probably the only reason he had any money at all.

But I had enough problems of my own without worrying too much about other people's and I finished dressing quickly and went downstairs.

 

As was only to be expected at that time in the morning, the restaurant was empty except for the girl sitting at a table in the bow window drinking coffee and looking out into the street. I could see at once what Arnie had meant, but he was wrong about one thing—she wasn't beautiful, not in any conventional sense, but she was far from ugly.

She had a strong Jewish face, if one can use that term these days without being called a racialist—a proud face with strong lines that might have been carved from stone. Full red lips, high cheekbones, hooded eyes—a face that was unashamedly sensual and the straight black hair that hung shoulder-length in a dark curtain was perfectly in keeping. No Ruth in any cornfield this, but a fierce proud little queen. An Esther perhaps or even a Jezebel.

She looked up as I approached, her face calm, the dark eyes giving nothing away. I paused, hands in pockets.

“Miss Eytan? Joe Martin. I understand you want to see Jack Desforge. Mind if I ask why?”

She looked faintly surprised. “Does it matter?”

“It might to him.”

I sat down opposite her and waved to the waiter in the kitchen entrance who immediately produced a whale steak from the hotplate and brought it across.

“Are you his keeper or something?” she said without the slightest touch of rancour in her voice.

“Let's put it this way. Jack has a great big sign out that says:
Don't disturb.
I fly supplies to the
Stella
once a week and he not only pays me double—he pays me cash. Now I just love that kind of arrangement and I'd hate to see anything spoil it.”

“Would it make any difference if I told you we were old friends?”

“Not particularly.”

“Somehow I thought you might say that.” She opened her handbag and took out a wallet that was surprisingly masculine in appearance. “How much do you charge to make the sort of flight you're doing this morning?”

“Five hundred krone.”

“What's that American?”

“Call it a hundred and fifty dollars.”

She extracted three notes and flipped them across the table. “Three hundred. That means I've paid in advance for the round trip if he doesn't want me to stay—satisfied?”

“Considering that I'll be getting paid twice, how could I be otherwise?” I took out my wallet and put the notes away carefully. “We leave in forty minutes. The flight should take just over two hours if the wind is right.”

“That's fine by me.”

It was only when she stood up that I realised just how small she was—not more than five feet three or four. She was wearing an expensive tweed suit, nylon stockings and flat-heeled pigskin shoes.

“One more thing,” I said. “You're dressed just fine for those long country weekends, but you'll need something different for where we're going.”