That was before the second attempt.

Bolan planned to play the tourist for two days in Reykjavik. He would see enough of the Icelandic countryside on his self-imposed river trip. The kayak and the ULM were to be freighted to Egilsstadir, on the east coast of the island, and he would follow on a domestic flight two days later.

Right now he was tired and he was hungry. He checked into the Hotel Wotan, in the city center. It was a comfortable, old-fashioned place with creaking elevators and its central heating and hot water drawn as it was for every dwelling in Reykjavik from the thermal springs whose source Bolan himself would soon be exploring.

His third-floor room overlooked Austurvollur Square and the red-brick, steep-roofed Althing building where the parliament met. After a shave and a shower he went out to eat and take in the nightlife of the city though in this season nightlife was something of a misnomer it was weeks before the winter "darkening time," when the earth's Northern Hemisphere tilted away from the sun and the hours of darkness grew unbearably long, the incidence of alcoholism increased and the murder rate shot up.

Bolan almost smiled as he thought of his narrow escape earlier. These people were getting ahead of themselves.

He arrived at Nielsen's, which was recommended by the hotel's head porter.

It was a candlelit basement and the meal smorrebrod preceded by slices of smoked sturgeon followed by raw herring in a variety of sauces was excellent.

Thule, the Icelandic beer, was practically nonalcoholic, but the aquavit aperitif was strong and the afterdinner Brennivin more fiery still.

It was with a feeling of well-being but with combat instincts on alert that Bolan climbed the stone steps beneath the striped awning to regain the street.