Desmond Bagley - Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

The cold wastes of Vatnajökull lay just to the south of us and the track to the west was squeezed right up against it by the rearing bulk of Trölladyngja – the Dome of Trolls – a vast shield volcano. I had never been that way before but I had a good idea why the track was one way only. It would cling to the sides of cliffs and be full of hair-pin blind bends – quite hairy enough to negotiate without the unnerving possibility of running into someone head on.

I sighed and examined other possibilities. The track to the right would take us north, the opposite direction to which I wanted to go. More damaging, to get back again would triple the mileage. The geography of Iceland has its own ruthless logic about what is and what is not permitted and the choice of routes is restricted.

I said, ‘We’ll take our chances going the short way and hope to God we don’t meet anyone. It’s still early in the season and the chances are good.’ I grinned at Elin. ‘I don’t think there’ll be any police around to issue a traffic ticket.’

‘And there’ll be no ambulance to pick us up from the bottom of a cliff,’ she said.

‘I’m a careful driver; it may never happen.’

Elin went down to the river and I walked to the top of the knoll again. Everything was quiet. The track stretched back towards Askja and there was no tell-tale cloud of dust to indicate a pursuing vehicle, nor any mysterious aircraft buzzing about the sky. I wondered if I was letting my imagination get the better of me. Perhaps I was running away from nothing.

The guilty flee where no man pursueth. I was as guilty as hell! I had withheld the package from Slade on nothing more than intuition – a hunch Taggart found difficult to believe. And I had killed Graham! As far as the Department was concerned I would already have been judged, found guilty and sentenced, and I wondered what would be the attitude of Jack Case when I saw him at Geysir.

I saw Elin returning to the Land-Rover so I took one last look around and went down to her. Her hair was damp and her cheeks glowed pink as she scrubbed her face with a towel. I waited until she emerged, then said, ‘You’re in this as much as I am now, so you’ve got a vote. What do you think I should do?’

She lowered the towel and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I should do exactly what you are doing. You’ve made the plan. Meet this man at Geysir and give him that … that whatever-it-is.’

I nodded. ‘And what if someone should try to stop us?’

She hesitated. ‘If it is Slade, then give him the gadget. If it is Kennikin … ’ She stopped and shook her head slowly.

I saw her reasoning. I might be able to hand over to Slade and get away unscathed; but Kennikin would not be satisfied with that – he’d want my blood. I said, ‘Supposing it is Kennikin – what would you expect me to do?’

She drooped. ‘I think you would want to fight him – to use that rifle. You would want to kill him.’ Her voice was desolate.

I took her by the arm. ‘Elin, I don’t kill people indiscriminately. I’m not a psychopath. I promise there will be no killing unless it is in self defence; unless my life is in danger – or yours.’

‘I’m sorry, Alan,’ she said. ‘But a situation like this is so alien to me. I’ve never had to face anything like it.’

I waved towards the knoll. ‘I was doing a bit of thinking up there. It occurred to me that perhaps my assessment of everything has been wrong – that I’ve misjudged people and events.’

‘No!’ she said definitely. ‘You’ve made a strong case against Slade.’

‘And yet you would want me to give him the gadget?’

‘What is it to me?’ she cried. ‘Or to you? Let him have it when the time comes – let us go back to living our own lives.’

‘I’d like to do that very much,’ I said. ‘If people would let me.’ I looked up at the sun which was already high. ‘Come on; let’s be on our way.’

As we drove towards the fork I glanced at Elin’s set face and sighed. I could quite understand her attitude, which was that of any other Icelander. Long gone are the days when the Vikings were the scourge of Europe, and the Icelanders have lived in isolation for so many years that the affairs of the rest of the world must seem remote and alien.

Their only battle has been to regain their political independence from Denmark and that was achieved by peaceful negotiation. True, they are not so isolated that their economy is separated from world trade – far from it – but trade is trade and war, whether open or covert, is something for other crazy people and not for sober, sensible Icelanders.

They are so confident that no one can envy their country enough to seize it that they have no armed forces. After all, if the Icelanders with their thousand years of experience behind them still find it most difficult to scratch a living out of the country then who else in his right mind would want it?

A peaceful people with no first-hand knowledge of war. It was hardly surprising that Elin found the shenanigans in which I was involved distasteful and dirty. I didn’t feel too clean myself.

The track was bad.

It was bad right from where we had stopped and it got steadily worse after we had left the river and began to climb under Vatnajökull. I crunched down into low gear and went into four-wheel drive as the track snaked its way up the cliffs, doubling back on itself so often that I had a zany idea I might drive into my own rear. It was wide enough only for one vehicle and I crept around each corner hoping to God that no one was coming the other way.

Once there was a slide of rubble sideways and I felt the Land-Rover slip with rear wheels spinning towards the edge of a sheer drop. I poured on the juice and hoped for the best. The front wheels held their grip and hauled us to safety. Soon after that I stopped on a reasonably straight bit, and when I took my hands from the wheel they were wet with sweat.

I wiped them dry. ‘This is bloody tricky.’

‘Shall I drive for a while?’ asked Elin.

I shook my head. ‘Not with your bad shoulder. Besides, it’s not the driving – it’s the expectation of meeting someone around every corner.’ I looked over the edge of the cliff. ‘One of us would have to reverse out and that’s a flat impossibility.’ That was the best that could happen; the worst didn’t bear thinking about. No wonder this track was one way only.

‘I could walk ahead,’ Elin said. ‘I can check around the corners and guide you.’

‘That would take all day,’ I objected. ‘And we’ve a long way to go.’

She jerked her thumb downwards. ‘Better than going down there. Besides, we’re not moving at much more than a walking pace as it is. I can stand on the front bumper while we go on the straight runs and jump off at the corners.’

It was an idea that had its points but I didn’t like it much. ‘It won’t do your shoulder much good.’

‘I can use the other arm,’ she said impatiently, and opened the door to get out.

At one time in England there was a law to the effect that every mechanically propelled vehicle on the public highway must be preceded by a man on foot bearing a red flag to warn the unwary citizenry of the juggernaut bearing down upon them. I had never expected to be put in the same position, but that’s progress.

Elin would ride the bumper until we approached a corner and jump off as I slowed down. Slowing down was no trick at all, even going down hill; all I had to do was to take my foot off the accelerator. I had dropped into the lowest gear possible which, on a Land-Rover is something wondrous. That final drive ratio of about 40:1 gives a lot of traction and a lot of engine braking. Driven flat out when cranked as low as that the old girl would make all of nine miles an hour when delivering ninety-five horsepower – and a hell of a lot of traction was just what I needed on that Icelandic roller-coaster. But it was hell on fuel consumption.