Arnaldur Indriðason - Operation Napoleon

‘But who are they? Who are they working for?’

‘I almost forgot. One of them mentioned a name when they attacked me. I wasn’t supposed to have heard. Something about “Ratoff”. Do you recognise the name?’

‘Ratoff? Never heard of him.’

‘Oh God, Elías!’ Kristín sighed. She slumped deep into the passenger seat, raking her hand through her hair. ‘What’s happened to him? They said he was dead.’

Steve drove grimly on, marvelling at the extraordinary turn the evening had taken. To think that he had come to this frozen island for a quiet life.

‘Kristín, I’m going to make a few calls and try to find out what’s going on. Do they actually know who you are?’

‘They knew where I lived. They knew about Elías. They seem to know everything I do before I do it. Yes, Steve, I’d say they know who I am.’

Kristín looked at him, then out of the rear window again. She thought about Elías, and about her father who must have gone abroad; he was forever travelling – not that they had ever had foreign holidays as children – and did not always bother to mention when it was for short trips. They did not have much contact; a phone call every month or two, a stilted conversation and some bland expression of hope that all was well. Kristín felt sad that she could never go to her father about anything, that she always had to cope on her own. And the worst of it was that he would probably blame her for what had happened to her brother. He always had done.

NEAR WASHINGTON DC,

FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 1700 EST

Miller answered the door himself and invited Carr inside. He lived in a two-storey wooden house with a tidy garden, situated in quiet, forested countryside now covered with a light dusting of snow, not far from Washington DC. Miller shuffled along in his worn-down felt slippers; he was around eighty now with a pronounced stoop, his remaining wisps of hair completely white, his face dotted with liver spots. His wife had died twenty years earlier and though they had never had any children he was well looked after, receiving home help three times a week and meals on wheels at lunchtime and in the evenings. On the face of it, Miller was nothing but a useless old husk waiting to die, his many years of service behind him, but the fragile, elderly exterior disguised a mind as lively and resourceful as ever.

After the two men shook hands at the door, Miller showed Carr into his ground floor study which was filled with mementoes of a long life, predominantly photographs of his military service: World War II comrades, scenes from Korea and Vietnam, but there were pictures from peace time as well. Everything inside the house was as neat as a pin. The walls were lined with books, mostly about war.

‘Are you sure it’s the plane?’ Miller asked, taking out two small tumblers and filling them with brandy. It was far too early for Carr but he said nothing; the time of day had obviously ceased to have any meaning for Miller.

‘No question,’ Carr replied, sipping.

‘Are they inside yet?’

‘Not yet. Ratoff’s in charge.’

Miller frowned. ‘Was that really necessary?’

‘In my estimation the operation needs a man like Ratoff. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Are you still planning to fly it over the Atlantic? To Argentina?’

‘Yup, Argentina.’

‘So the procedure hasn’t changed?’

‘No. Everything’s going to plan. Though they were spotted with the plane. By locals – two of them. I’m afraid they saw too much, but according to Ratoff everything else is under control.’

‘I don’t suppose he spared them.’

Carr turned away and looked out of the window.

‘And the brothers?’

Carr shrugged.

Miller closed his eyes. He remembered the brothers as they had been when he first met them at the foot of the glacier all those years ago: friendly, hospitable, cooperative and, most important of all, discreet. They had never asked questions, simply invited him into their home and acted as guides on the glacier. They had been more or less the same age as him.

‘Ratoff hasn’t been briefed on what the plane contains, has he?’ he asked.

‘He’ll soon find out. But I’m confident we can trust him, at least to bring us the documents. We have trucks on the spot to transport the dismantled plane to Keflavík. The bodies will accompany the wreckage. I’ve given Ratoff instructions about what to do with any papers he finds. No doubt he’ll read them but it’s an unavoidable risk and in any case, he’s stuck on an island – where can he go? All being well, this chapter of the war will be closed in a few days’ time and we’ll finally be able to breathe easier. They’ll be able to breathe easier.’

‘And what about Ratoff?’

‘We’re keeping our options open.’

‘If he reads the documents, he’ll think he’s in danger.’

‘Let’s just wait and see how he plays it. Ratoff’s not a very complicated man.’

Miller swirled the brandy in his glass.

‘Do the others know the situation?’

‘The few who are left.’

‘And the politicians?’

‘I’m confident I’ve managed to frighten them off. I gave them the Walchensee gold story. Our young secretary of defense didn’t know whether to cry or piss himself when I told him. You only have to mention the Jews and they start shitting themselves.’

‘But something’s wrong.’ It was a statement, not a question. Miller knew his successor; he had guessed from Carr’s expression and the way he talked that all was not well. It would not be the first time Carr had come to him for guidance or support but he was a man who could not bear to admit to mistakes.

Carr spoke crisply and precisely. ‘There’s a young woman in Reykjavík, the sister of one of the boys who disturbed the excavation. Apparently the boy told her over the phone that there were armed troops and a plane on the glacier – Ratoff extracted that much from him. She’s given our men the slip twice now, and is being assisted by an American from the base, an ex-boyfriend. Presumably she went to him because of what her brother said about soldiers. They’re currently somewhere on the base but I’m assured that the area has been secured and the base commander is cooperating. They won’t get far.’

Neither man spoke for a while.

‘The operation was a necessity of war,’ Miller said at last. ‘We had to clean up after the politicians. Always have done.’

‘I know – though I’m more inclined to put it down to temporary insanity. It was bedlam in the last months of the war.’

‘That’s not to say that we shouldn’t have gone into Russia. Patton was right about that.’

‘They hesitated.’

‘And we lost half of Europe.’

Miller topped up their glasses. Brandy was one of the few luxuries he still permitted himself. The doctors had told him he did not have long. Not that he cared; he had reconciled himself to dying a long time ago and would welcome it when the time came.

‘It’s not our job to write history; that’s for others to do,’ he said.

‘No, our job has always been to wipe the slate clean and rewrite it,’ Carr replied. ‘History’s all lies – you know that and I know that. There have been so many cover-ups, so many fabrications; we’ve told the truth about lies and lied about the truth, taken out one thing and substituted another. That’s our job. You told me once that the history of mankind was nothing more than a register of crimes and misfortunes. Well, it’s also a register of carefully constructed lies.’