Michael Dibdin - And then you die

'But you keep working?' 'Oh yes. What else would I do?' 'So where are your paintings?' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson stood up. 'Would you like to see them?'

Zen's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was a guided tour round some amateur dauber's studio. Fortunately the telephone rang next door.

'It’s Rome’ said the consul, reappearing in the doorway a moment later. Tor you.'

Gudmundsson's study, by contrast with the living area, was a jumble of papers and files. Zen seated himself at the desk and picked up the phone.

'Pronto.'

'Buona sera, dottore. This is not a secure line, so ifs important that we do not identify ourselves or be too specific about the matters under discussion.'

'I understand’

'We have spoken before, most recently on your connecting flight from Pisa to Milan.' 'Ah yes.'

'I understand that you have had a tiresome time recently, but that everything is now sorted out’

'That s right. What’s not clear is how I'm to continue my journey.'

'The answer is that you aren't.' 'I'm not?'

'No. There have been developments. In fact we have reason to suppose that they may have pre-dated your departure, but our American counterparts have only just seen fit to inform us.'

'I hope there's no lack of trust implied.'

'If so, it would be totally unjustified. There have been no breaches of security this end, I can assure you.'

'That s good to know. So if one of these attempts on my life finally succeeds, I can die secure in the knowledge that the leak was of non-Italian origin.'

'Please don't be facetious. Ifs also most inappropriate to mention such matters on this connection. In any case, there will be no more such episodes.'

'That's certain, is it?'

'Absolutely certain. As I said, there have been developments, as a result of which the event at which you were to participate in the United States has now been postponed and may well be cancelled altogether.'

Zen hardly dared to believe what he had heard.

'In short, one of the two principal protagonists has decided to co-operate with our side’ the Foreign Ministry man went on. 'As a result, your participation has been rendered superfluous. There is therefore no need for you to attend, and no risk that any further attempts will be made to prevent you from doing so.'

Zen laughed lightly.

'It was Nello, right?' he said.

'Please!'

'All right, but it was, wasn't it?' 'Well, yes. How did you know?'

'He talked to me in the car, while they were driving me to meet you know who. He explained how they lit the landing strip for the aircraft. The other man told him to shut up. I could tell he was a talker then. Any competent cop or magistrate could have got him to open up eventually. He was one of those people who just can't bear to be silent’

'Well, that’s what happened. And you'll be pleased to know that there's some evidence that the incident at Versilia may have been a contributing factor. In their view, it seems, that was their last hope of preventing your appearance at the event in America, and when it failed the outcome was preordained. So one of the protagonists, the one you mentioned, apparently decided to make a deal. His cooperation in return for a new identity and a new life over there’

'Any chance of that for me?'

'Better still, you can have your old one back. You're to return immediately for a complete briefing at your normal place of employment. Our embassy in Copenhagen will send full details to the consul shortly. I wish you a pleasant journey and a safe return home.'

When Zen reappeared in the living room, Snaebjorn Gudmundsson looked at him curiously.

"The embassy in Denmark is going to contact you about my travel arrangements,' Zen told him.

'Ah’

'Basically, I'm going back to Italy.' ‘I see.'

'Immediately’

The consul nodded his understanding of the rules of this game. He glanced at his watch. 'Well, that'll probably be the two-thirty to Copenhagen.'

Zen looked surprised.

'What time is it now?'

'Half past ten. Plenty of time.'

'It can't be only half past ten! It must be noon at least.'

'No, half past ten in the evening. The flight's in the early morning. We're so remote, you see. It takes three hours to get to Europe, and we're on British time, so that's another hour. If you want to get to a business meeting on time, you have to leave after midnight. But don't worry, I'll get you there in plenty of time.'

He looked at Zen and smiled.

'You asked to see my paintings. Come this way.'

Zen, who had completely forgotten this aspect of their conversation, followed the consul into his kitchen, then out into the back yard of the house, a concreted rectangle containing a large pile of black ash.

'There they are,' said Gudmundsson. 'The most recent ones, that is. The others are feeding the flowers in the beds at the front. What do you think?'

Zen gave a nervous smile.

'Are you some sort of performance artist?' he asked.

He had heard of people like that, who did things associated to his mind with circus performers and children's entertainers.

'Well, maybe I am,' Gudmundsson replied. 'I hadn't thought of it that way. This business has disrupted my normal schedule, of course, but on the whole I work hard, six hours a day at least. And at the time I'm always convinced that I've finally managed to produce something worthwhile. But then when it's finished I look at it and realize that I was wrong. If s just another botched job, one more piece of ugly nonsense. And God knows there's enough ugly nonsense in the world already. So I bring it out here and burn it.'

Zen gave what he hoped would be perceived as a judicious nod.

'If s like the Hippocratic Oath,' the consul went on with a face as straight as a priest. 'All would-be artists should be made to sign it. Rule number one, "Do No Harm". If I can't achieve something even vaguely resembling the sort of art I saw every day while I lived in Italy, the very least I can do is not clutter up the planet with any more trendy bric-a-brac. It seems that all I can manage is the clever, and who needs that? We're all clever these days. We're all so fucking clever. I'd rather make a nice bonfire and at least feel clean afterwards.'

He closed the door and led the way back inside.

'I'd better call the embassy in Copenhagen and find out about your flights.'

Zen went back to the storeroom where he had spent the night, and packed up his bags. When he reappeared next door, Gudmundsson was already there.

'Right They've booked you on the two-thirty to Copenhagen, as I thought, with an onward connection to Rome. You're to contact someone named Brugnoli on arrival. The tickets will be waiting at the SAS counter at Keflavik. If you're all set, we might as well go’

Zen lugged his bags back to the car and they set off. As soon as they were past the outskirts of the bleak, cheerless town, Zen felt his spirits rise. He still felt half drunk and totally disorientated, and had had no time to work out the implications of what had happened. But all that mattered was that he was leaving. He had never felt such a visceral urgency to get away from any place.

Suddenly the car drew in to the side of the highway.

'Do you see that rock over there?' asked the consul, pointing.

It was a massive outcropping of volcanic basalt, worn and weathered by the elements into myriad fantastic gullies and crevices.

'Thafs where they're supposed to live, in rocks like that one, hidden away in the crannies and crevasses. Allegedly they can be very vindictive if disturbed.'

Zen glanced at the consul, who restarted the car and drove on.

'The huldufolk, I mean,' he explained. 'There's a rock much like that on the property where my family's summer house is. My father was a member of parliament for the Alpyduflokkurinn, a very radical, left-wing party. He was also a close friend of Halldor Laxness, our Nobel Prize-winning writer, and generally prided himself on being a progressive, forward-looking individual. But when we had a new driveway put in to the summer house, he made the builders go all the way round that rock rather than blow it up, even though it added almost half a kilometre to the length of the drive, and of course to the cost "You surely don't believe in that superstitious nonsense?" I asked him mockingly. I've never forgotten his reply. "Of course not," he said. "But you can't be too careful.'"