Arnaldur Indriðason - Operation Napoleon

‘Runólfur?’ Steve had difficulty pronouncing the name but even more in understanding Kristín. ‘What are you talking about? What’s going on?’

‘I didn’t know where else to turn,’ Kristín said a third time, as if stuck on repeat. She was pale. Her chin trembled and she chewed at her fingernails as she tried to control herself.

Perplexed but troubled by her distress, Steve went slowly over, put a tentative arm around her and led her into the living room.

‘They were going to kill me,’ she choked. ‘I don’t know why. They claimed the police and ministry were involved. Elías phoned from the glacier saying he’d seen soldiers and a plane, then we were cut off. I was just trying to get hold of the rescue service when these men turned up. They said I was going to commit suicide, then Runólfur knocked on the door and they shot him. I managed to get away. They said Elías was dead.’

Steve took care not to interrupt her. Clearly something traumatic had happened but he could make little of this incoherent monologue. He had never expected to see Kristín again, so her appearance now was inexplicable. Had she gone mad in the meantime? He wondered how long it would take for a doctor from the base to get to his flat.

‘Elías saw some soldiers on the glacier,’ Kristín tried again. ‘They must have been American soldiers. That was the last thing he said before we were cut off. Do you know what American troops could be doing on the glacier?’

‘The glacier?’

‘Vatnajökull. I can tell you think I’m talking nonsense. I keep thinking I’m dreaming, that this is a nightmare and I’ll wake up. But I’m not going to wake up. I’m never going to find that everything’s all right. It’s all true.’

He searched her face, as if it would give a clue to what chaos raged in her mind.

‘And then there are the Russians,’ she added hesitantly.

‘The Russians?’

‘The man they killed in my flat was doing business with Russia. The Americans shot him in the head. When he came to the ministry he was ranting about a conspiracy against him. His killers mentioned a conspiracy too. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve got to find out what happened to Elías. I tried to phone the rescue service but they didn’t answer and then these Jehovah’s Witnesses turned up.’

‘Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

‘The men who tried to kill me. There were two of them, dressed like Jehovah’s Witnesses – you know, dark suits and ties, neat hair, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses who go from door to door with pamphlets. That’s why I opened the door. I thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’m such a fool!’

‘Okay, it’s okay,’ Steve said soothingly, aware that none of this was okay. ‘What the hell have you been doing at the ministry that could lead to this?’

‘Nothing. Just my job. I haven’t done anything. It’s not my fault. I’ve done nothing to cause any of this. Nor has Elías.’

‘No, of course not. But it sounds like two completely unrelated matters. American soldiers on Vatnajökull on the one hand, and a conspiracy linked to doing business with Russia on the other.’

Kristín took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara. ‘I know. I can’t make any sense of it.’

She was calmer now. Steve was glad to have dispelled the tension inside her by accepting what she said without casting doubt on her bizarre story. Whatever her real state of mind, she was at her wits’ end and it would be wrong to argue with anything she said. Her sobs gradually subsided and she was able to speak with more composure.

‘Can you check this stuff about soldiers on the glacier for me? Ask around? Talk to people?’ she asked.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Steve replied. ‘What exactly did your brother say?’

‘That there was a plane in the ice and soldiers on the glacier.’

‘Did he say “ in the ice”? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

‘What?’

‘As if it was buried in the ice. Is that what he said?’

‘In the ice, on the ice – what the hell’s the difference? He mentioned a plane and soldiers.’

‘Is it possible that there’s a plane in the ice?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Steve, I can’t remember if he said in the ice or on the ice. It doesn’t matter. I just need to know what’s happening up there.’

Steve nodded. He had been stationed on the base for three years, employed by the press office to liaise with those Icelandic government ministries that dealt with the US military, chiefly the foreign ministry. He lived alone; he and his wife had divorced back in America. Of Irish extraction, he was dark, with an unruly mane of black hair. Although a few years older than Kristín at thirty-five, he was about her height, lean and strongly built. He used to make her laugh. They had met in an official capacity and eventually he had willed himself to ask her out to dinner.

On their first couple of dates at restaurants in Reykjavík, he had told her all about himself and his family. His people had always been in retailing but, having not the slightest interest in business, he had broken the mould by studying politics at university, followed by a stint working for the US defense department. But his real love was travelling, so when the opportunity to work in Iceland came up, he seized it.

For their third date he had invited her to the officers’ mess at the base, followed by a drink at his place. Once they got back to his apartment he had been considerate but her confidence had evaporated without warning and she had panicked, unable to face the prospect of getting into bed with an American on the base. The stories about Icelandic women and GIs were ugly: ‘Yankee whores’ they called them. The public had always taken a harsh view of Icelandic women who got involved with American servicemen, a throwback to the Second World War when the girls had welcomed the first foreign soldiers to arrive on these shores, seeing them as an escape route to a brighter future, a new life overseas, or else admiring their uniforms and foreign manners, so familiar from the movies, and seeing them as providers of cigarettes, nylons and good times. ‘The situation’, as it was known, was a source of shame in Iceland and women who slept with the army were branded as sluts, an attitude Kristín felt had changed little over the years.

When she tried to explain, however, he was hurt that she saw him in those terms, so she left and after that they gradually saw less and less of each other until their relationship simply petered out. It was a senseless, silent drawing away from each other; they had not spoken for six months but had never really ended it definitively.

‘Why don’t we start by calling the rescue service?’ he suggested in an attempt to placate her. ‘Find out about your brother.’

He stood up, found the number and rang it. No one answered. He tried another number; no answer there either. He tried the third number, then beckoned her over to take the phone: someone had answered at last. She sprang up.

‘My name’s Kristín,’ she said, ‘is that the Reykjavík Air Ground Rescue Team?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can I get hold of your team on Vatnajökull?’

‘We have several contact numbers for mobile phones and walkie-talkies. Can I help at all?’

‘Has there been an accident on the glacier? Is anyone missing?’

‘May I ask who you are?’

‘Kristín. My brother’s with the team. Elías.’

‘I’ll put you through to the leader of the team on Vatnajökull. Please hold the line.’

Kristín waited. She watched Steve pacing back and forth in his small living room; stared unseeingly at James Dean in the New York rain, at the face of revolution.