‘You know this has to be a window visit,’ Ewa said apologetically, opening the door to the inner reception area. She asked Agla to wait a moment while she fetched a handheld scanner to check her. As the door closed behind Ewa, the door to the visiting area swung open and out came another prison officer, Sigurgeir, with a woman behind him.
For a moment time stood still as Agla watched the woman follow Sigurgeir the few steps from the door to the outer reception. Her hair was darker and she was taller than Agla remembered, but her quick movements and attractive face were at the same time both intimately familiar and strange. There was a scar on her chin that hadn’t been there before. Agla stared at it as if it could in some way explain all the missing years.
‘Sonja.’
She said no more, but it was enough to make Sonja glance up and stare at her in return.
‘Hæ,’ Sonja said, and there was an element of wonder in her voice.
Agla found herself unable to say another word, and even if her life had depended on it, she could not have defined the emotion that swelled inside her as she looked Sonja over. She wanted to go over and throw her arms around her, but the time that had been lost between them put that out of the question. They were no longer close and had become strangers.
She also longed to punch her.
‘How are you?’ Sonja asked, as if they were no more than casual acquaintances who met a couple of times a year to drink coffee and exchange superficial gossip. There was nothing in her answer that gave any inkling of why she had walked out and disappeared so soon after declaring her delight with the new house and with Agla.
Having whispered her love so often into Agla’s ear, it now came down to ‘how are you?’
Agla had no answer to her question. She turned away and knocked on the warders’ door to hurry Ewa along, and when she turned back, Sigurgeir was locking the outer door behind Sonja.
‘You know each other?’ Sigurgeir asked.
Agla shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really.’
Ewa appeared with what she referred to as her magic wand, ran it over Agla’s body and read off the numbers.
‘She’s as clean as a whistle,’ she pronounced, smiling like a proud parent, and Sigurgeir opened the door to the visitors’ corridor, pointing her towards room number two.
Agla entered the room in a daze. But as she approached the glass she was wrenched from her thoughts, as if the earth’s gravity had hauled her back to the ground. Elísa was sitting hunched in a chair behind the window, weeping.
‘Shh, don’t cry,’ Agla said as she picked up the handset on her side. ‘I’m not angry with you, sweetheart.’
She had no intention of adding to Elísa’s guilt for having messed up her probation. She knew precisely how women felt when they were brought back to prison for the third or fourth time. They could dish out their own servings of self-reproach.
‘I’m just deep in the shit,’ Elísa said. ‘The Boss gave me a massive bollocking just before you got here.’
‘The Boss? The Boss came here? You mean the drugs Boss?’
‘She said horrible things about what she would do if I opened my mouth. If I was going to grass, then I would have done it by now. I don’t need a visit like that every time I get locked up.’
‘She? You said “she”? Is the Boss a woman?’
Elísa stared into her lap and wiped her face with her sleeve.
‘Just when was this Boss here?’
Elísa raised her head, a look of surprise on her tearful face, and Agla realised how sharp her voice had been.
‘Just now,’ Elísa said. ‘She’s just left. Didn’t you see her?’
Black dots danced before Agla’s eyes. She sat down hard in the chair, and for a moment she felt as if the blood had drained from her head and she was about to faint.
‘Elísa,’ she said, her words heavy with emphasis. ‘Is Sonja the Boss?’
93
Anton listened to Radio Edda while he fixed up the cardboard box that surrounded the toolbox containing the bomb. The subject for discussion was the welfare system, and several callers were adamant that immigrants moving to Iceland and living on benefits were spongers. Karl, who was a frequent caller and who described himself as having ‘a master’s degree in life’, came on the line, and at first there was a light-hearted discussion with the presenter. After all, he had called in so often that they knew each other well.
‘What we can say is that Icelanders are buying their own terror threat by letting all these Muslims into the country and supporting them through the welfare system while they could be preparing terror attacks!’
Anton closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. This kind of talk filled him with trepidation; but at the same time it was good to hear as it reminded him of why he was preparing this bomb. It was to make Iceland safer for Júlía; to make the world a safer place for her. He had promised her father that he would look after her, and judging by what he heard on Radio Edda, it was time for action. This kind of thing couldn’t be allowed to continue unchecked.
He folded the box shut, not intending to tape it closed until he had put it in place and activated the bomb. He eased it onto the sack truck that had been Gunnar’s final contribution; as he had completely forgotten that his family were all going to Spain as soon as school broke up, so instead of being there to help Anton carry the bomb, he had brought him the sack truck. As much as Gunnar was obsessed with explosions and always wanted to make as much noise as he could, Anton had the feeling that he was actually relieved that the forgotten summer holiday had come up.
‘I’ll be watching the news from Spain, my man!’ he had said as Anton gritted his teeth and swore to himself. The only thing that would be more difficult to do without Gunnar’s help was place the bomb where it was needed; but it wasn’t impossible. He had decided that he would need to borrow his father’s car.
The hard part was lifting the bomb into the boot, but it wasn’t so heavy that he couldn’t manage it – it just required a little effort. The drawback was that he would be longer getting the bomb in and out of the car. But there was no point sulking about Gunnar any longer. It had been Anton’s own idea and, in truth, it was better for him to be alone at the finish. The responsibility for the explosion would be solely his.
It was as well that his father had an electric car, because it made no sound as he switched it on. He had lain in bed for forty minutes after he had heard his father turn in, waiting until he was certain that he was asleep. He had gone to bed later than Anton had hoped he would, but things were still on schedule.
He set off slowly, carefully looking about as he did so. Being picked up by the police for driving without a licence and with a big bomb in the boot would be no fun at all. But by keeping clear of main roads as much as possible and by threading his way along side streets through the Thingholt district and up into Norðurmýri, he was able to park the car safely in a gateway on Brautarholt where it was out of sight. He had printed out a false set of numbers on two large stickers and had stuck them onto the plates; from a distance they looked pretty convincing, so long as it didn’t rain. If that happened, the ink would run and the stickers would turn to mush.
This was one of the security features in his grand plan. The false numbers were in fact those for an identical car, so if he were seen on a security camera somewhere, that would be the vehicle the police would start searching for.
The other security measure was to park in the next street but one. This was a cramped, quiet residential street where there were no companies with CCTV cameras. He put on his hat, then pulled up his hood, tugging it forwards over his forehead, and retrieved the sack truck from the back seat. It was harder to get the box containing the bomb from the boot, but he managed it eventually, placed it on the sack truck and tied it down with a couple of bungee cords he had taken from the garage at home.
There was no wind and the light was wonderfully blue, as it always was at night at this
time of year. He wheeled the sack truck silently along the street. There was nobody about, although to be sure he stopped at the corner to listen out for any traffic. All he could hear was the distant whine of a motorcycle up on Laugavegur, so he hurried across the street and into the car park. He could feel a stab of anticipation and terror in his stomach, which only passed when he pushed the sack truck up past the building and around the back. There was a window there that he had planned to smash using the monkey wrench that was in the box, but there was no need for it. The window hadn’t been properly hooked shut. He slid a hand through the gap to open it and a moment later he was inside.
He carefully opened the door into the corridor, peeping through the gap to be sure, but the place was dark and silent. He went to the back door and opened it, putting the doormat in the opening to stop it closing behind him while he fetched the sack truck with the bomb and rolled it inside and along the corridor.
Gunnar wouldn’t be happy that he had left the sack truck behind, but he could buy him another one to replace the one he had borrowed from his cousin. It was old and battered and would be destroyed in the explosion, so it wouldn’t be traceable, and it was safer not to have to take it back to the car. That reduced the likelihood of any passers-by paying him any attention.
Anton stopped the sack truck in the middle of the corridor, opened the box and the toolbox inside, and activated the bomb. Then he closed the hasp of the toolbox’s lid and jogged out into the corridor.
He hurried away as soon as he was outside, not that there was any danger yet. It wasn’t time for the explosion. He still had to go home and erase any traces left from when he’d put the bomb together. In the morning he would be back here, and he’d have the remote control with him.
94
The Spotlight team were interested and had struck a deal with María on the basis that the TV programme’s editor agreed to buy her Meteorite story. They had sat into the night listening to every minor detail of the story, making notes and then calling the editor, waking him up in the process. He responded by saying that he was fully booked the following day but suggested a meeting at seven, before usual working hours, to go over the matter and finalise a contract.
María had told them the whole story, not omitting Agla’s role in it. She was still angry, although maybe not as livid with Agla as she was with herself. She should have known that Agla would never have become involved in investigating someone else’s misdeeds unless there was something in it for her. What María had failed to appreciate was how dearly it would cost her personally to take on this assignment on Agla’s behalf. She thought over the whole investigation – the revolver’s muzzle pressed hard against her cheek, the truck driver with his fist bunched around her wrist, the days in the dark cell, Marteinn’s death. She had told the Spotlight team that she expected the payment for her work to reflect the effort that had gone into this. But payment wasn’t the chief issue. She knew that she could go to Agla and get more from her for not using the story than the state broadcaster would pay for it. But if the TV bought the story and ran it, then foreign media would also latch on to it – an international conspiracy story always made great headlines – and that would give María the recognition she was looking for; the recognition that The Squirrel was a medium for genuine investigative journalism. On top of that, perhaps Icelanders would also wake up to the reality of what was happening to their natural resources.
She hadn’t slept, instead spending the night lying awake and staring at the ceiling. Finally she got up, made herself some coffee and made her way to The Squirrel’s office to collect all the paperwork connected to the story and the computer containing her own narrative, which she would hand over to the Spotlight team as soon as they had signed a contract. It was half past five; she didn’t have to be at the state TV’s offices until seven, so she still had plenty of time to tweak her story before she had to leave.
She parked behind the building. The spot was empty and although it was intended for deliveries, including to the grocery store next door, she often parked there when she was in a hurry. She fumbled in her bag for the keys as she walked towards the building, but when she got there she saw that the door was open and a doormat had been placed in the doorway. She checked her watch in surprise. It was early, but it looked like she wasn’t the only one who was out and about at this hour. She hoped it wasn’t Radio Edda’s station manager as she had no time to spare to talk to him, but she could hardly be brusque with him after he had come to her aid when she had found Marteinn hanging in her office. She went inside, and looked quickly around but saw nothing untoward – only that someone must have been making a delivery to Radio Edda, as there was a sack truck with a box on it in the corridor.
95
Anton’s heart felt as if it was about to burst as he jogged breathlessly over Skothús Bridge and turned along the path that ran along the lake and curved up towards Tjarnargata. He was dressed in tracksuit trousers and a windcheater, with the headphones of his iPod dangling around his neck, so it looked as if he was genuinely out for a run for the sake of his health.
He had run straight back through Norðurmýri and across Skólavörðuholt as soon as he had been able to make himself move. For a moment it had been as if the explosion had rooted him to the spot with terror, and while the pall of smoke dissipated and tongues of flame took hold of the sides of the building, he could no longer feel his own feet.
When he’d heard the wailing sirens he’d realised it was time to go. The fire brigade used cameras to film any bystanders at house fires, and he had no wish to be on their footage. He could hardly tear himself away, though. It was like trying to run in a swimming pool, and even the resistance of the air was a barrier to break through. He had walked with difficulty up the slope and when he was on Skipholt he remembered that he needed to get rid of the remote control, so he dropped it on the ground and stamped on it a few times until all that was left was a pile of plastic fragments and a tangle of wires. He picked up the plastic rubbish and stuffed it in his pocket, then suddenly felt his energy return as he began to run, not slowing down until he was on Fríkirkjuvegur, where he stuffed the remnants of the remote in a bin and jogged on in the direction of the bridge.
When he reached his house, he gingerly opened the door. His whole plan had been delayed. He hadn’t managed to clear up the bomb-making stuff in the basement, and was later getting home than he had intended. All the same, he had managed to set the bomb off before seven, before anyone who worked there had arrived. He listened carefully and heard nothing that indicated his father was up, so he slipped off his shoes and tiptoed upstairs to his room. He lay in bed wearing his sweaty running gear and switched on his computer. The news simply stated that the Reykjavík fire service had been called out to attend a large explosion.
Although he was already hot, when he heard his father moving about he pulled the duvet up to his throat. In fact, since school had broken up he had stopped coming in to wake him in the mornings, but to be safe, Anton decided to pretend to be asleep, just in case his father should look in. But he heard him go down the stairs and run through his usual routine. First he heard the snap of the letterbox as his father took the newspaper, and then heard water running, followed by the coffee machine at work. A moment later there were footsteps on the stairs and he heard the shower running in the guest bathroom.
He scrolled through a few websites; some of them already had pictures. He peered at one, looking hard at the scarred building. It seemed to be holding itself up by force of habit alone: a large portion of the lower wall looked to have disintegrated. When he had stood nearby with the remote in his hand, he had shut his eyes, expecting to hear a bang. He had anticipated quite a loud explosion but hadn’t been ready for the ground to shake under his feet and for windows in the surrounding buildings to be shattered by the blast. He had never imagined just how powerful the explosion was going to be.
96
The glint in her eye had gone, replaced by a kind of hardnes
s that Agla hadn’t seen before. Kent had easily been able to get hold of Sonja’s phone number, and to Agla’s surprise, she had agreed to meet for coffee. Now they sat in worn armchairs by the window in Iða Zimsen’s coffee shop and awkwardly looked each other over.
‘The town’s going crazy today,’ Sonja said.
It took Agla a moment to realise that she meant the explosion. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything since they had run into each other at the prison the day before, so today’s lurid headlines had passed her by.
‘Coffee? Latte or espresso, or something?’ Agla asked and was about to stand up when Sonja stopped her.
‘Agla, I owe you an explanation,’ she said, leaning forwards in her chair. The steely look in her eye gave way to a softness that at one time would have melted Agla’s heart. ‘When I left it wasn’t because I wanted to; there were circumstances beyond my control. I was forced to go to London, and although it might not be easy to accept, it was better for you that we broke off all contact.’
‘You don’t need to sugar-coat anything. I know you’re the Boss.’
Agla was taken by surprise – it seemed her longstanding need for an explanation had vanished. Now that she sat opposite Sonja, she no longer wanted to hear her side of the story.
‘Oh.’ Sonja looked disappointed and frowned sadly. Agla was familiar enough with her mannerisms to know that she was searching for the right words. ‘If you know that,’ she said, haltingly, ‘then you’ll be aware that the business I got caught up in isn’t exactly easy. I wasn’t making the decisions and would never have left you if I hadn’t been forced to—’
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