‘No! No. We can’t. Absolutely not.’ She shook her head, lips a bloodless narrow line, and closed her eyes as she took a deep breath and held it. ‘No, Carsten. We mustn’t.’
The camper van was parked off the road, overlooking a white-capped sea a few kilometres from Akureyri. They had spent three days travelling to this place that they had both wanted to visit, this time at their leisure instead of the hurried summer holiday trips they had taken before.
They’d hardly taken in any of their surroundings in the days they’d been driving since leaving the spot where the two men had found them, retrieved whatever it was that had been hidden in their van, and then disappeared.
‘They said so, Carsten. Not a word. Not a single word to anyone. That way nothing happens to anyone.’
‘They must be going to do someone harm. What else could they have forced us to carry? Drugs? Weapons? Who knows? Either way, these people are criminals of the worst kind. We have a moral duty to report this.’
‘No, Carsten!’ Hanne yelled. ‘Don’t you understand? They’re going to hurt someone we don’t know, someone who isn’t our daughter, or our son-in-law, or my mother. I don’t care who they hurt as long as it’s not one of our family.’
‘But . . .’
‘Fuck you, Carsten!’ Hanne yelled, her face inches from his, eyes wide and furious. ‘I can’t let you endanger our family!’
‘But it’s wrong! It’s totally, completely wrong. It’s against everything you and I have ever stood for.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ she snapped back, huddling deeper into the thick coat she had bundled herself into. A second later she fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a phone, found the number she wanted and waited as it rang.
‘Dorthe? Hi, it’s Mum. Yeah,’ she said. ‘Everything all right with you? Just wanted to check.’
Carsten sat numbly in the driver’s seat and listened to the conversation, imagining their daughter’s bemusement and hoping she wouldn’t be alarmed.
‘Yes, we’re in the north somewhere and it’s cold but beautiful. Yes, of course,’ Hanne chattered, mouthing ‘all OK’ to Carsten. ‘Yes, fine. No problem. Just check on your grandmother, would you? Bye, darling. Love to Inge.’
‘We’ll have to live with this. It’s going to stay with us for the rest of our lives, you realize?’
‘What will stay with me is that we had no choice,’ Hanne retorted.
Skúli’s fingers hovered over the keypad of the phone on his desk.
He wasn’t entirely happy with his article, so he’d kept it short. He had laid out what was known, dropped in a little speculation, hinted at a significant failure of judgement on Steinunn’s part, and ended with the blank statement that the ministry had been approached to verify aspects of Pulse’s report, but had declined to comment.
Now all he needed to do was make the last line of his article a reality.
Skúli punched in the numbers, listening to his heart thumping as the phone rang on her desk at the other end, and reflected that he actually liked Elinborg and hated to do this to her.
After a dozen rings an automated system kicked in and invited him to leave a message.
Skúli cursed and dialled her mobile number, again listening to it buzz.
‘Elinborg.’
‘Hi Ella, it’s Skúli here at Pulse. Do you have a couple of minutes?’
She didn’t respond immediately and he could feel the reluctance to speak to him through the hissing connection.
‘Sure, Skúli. I’m a little busy right now, so it’ll have to be quick.’
He took a deep breath before plunging in.
‘OK, Ella. I need a response to this,’ he said. ‘We have some copper-bottomed reports that Steinunn has a guest called Ali Osman Deniz staying in Iceland at her personal invitation. So obviously I’m looking for confirmation from the minister that this is the case, plus I have a few more questions on top of that.’
There was a wintry silence and the phone echoed.
‘Ella, you still there?’ Skúli asked, wondering if he could hear the wind through the phone or if it was Ella sighing in resignation.
‘No comment, Skúli,’ she said eventually.
‘Is the minister aware that there are serious allegations about Ali Osman Deniz, that he has been involved in trafficking fuel out of Syria and into Turkey, as well as shipping weapons into Syria?’
‘I . . .’
‘And there are also some well-supported allegations that he’s involved in people smuggling, mainly by sea from southern Turkey to Greece, and involved in trafficking people from Libya to Italy?’
‘I . . .’ Elinborg said and dissolved into a round of coughing. ‘What sources do you have for these allegations?’
‘Come on, Ella, you know I can’t tell you that.’
‘I’m not asking who they are, Skúli. I’m just asking how reliable these sources are before I talk to Steinunn.’
‘Reliable. More than one source. So I’m looking for confirmation that Ali Osman Deniz is in Iceland right now and that he’s here at Steinunn’s invitation.’
‘Fuck . . . Skúli. You really know how to screw up a quiet day, don’t you?’
‘All part of the job. Can you confirm this guy’s here in Iceland right now?’
‘I can’t confirm or deny it.’
‘You reckon Steinunn will want to respond, or just pretend it hasn’t happened?’
He heard her sigh again.
‘I don’t know. Look, you know that I work for the ministry. What the minister does in a private capacity is beyond my remit.’
‘But a prominent government figure entertaining someone who could be an international criminal has a real bearing on the ministry’s credibility, surely?’
‘Sure . . .’ Elinborg said. ‘Listen, Skúli. How long can you sit on this?’
‘I’ve been sitting on it a while already, so the answer is, not long. You’re not asking me to spike this, are you?’
‘Of course not!’ Elinborg replied immediately. ‘But you know Steinunn is . . . Let’s say she isn’t the easiest of people to handle, and as you and I have known each other for a long time, I know I can trust you to keep that comment off the record.’
‘Is the Prime Minister aware of this situation?’
‘That’s a question for his office,’ Elinborg said quickly. ‘So no comment.’
‘How long is he staying in Iceland?’
‘Again, no comment. And that’s all I have to say. That’s all I can say.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve asked and didn’t get an answer. But I guess the PM will know when this story goes live.’
‘Skúli, she’ll burn you. Steinunn will never speak to Pulse again.’
‘Why should I be worried? She won’t talk to us anyway.’
Elinborg ended the call without another word and Skúli sat back in his chair. Arndís glanced at him, a questioning look on her face.
‘She didn’t take it well?’
‘Nope. But we all know what a handful Steinunn can be and I don’t think she’ll react well.’
*
‘What?’ Sigurjón muttered and opened his mouth, one hand in the air.
Furious with herself, Gunna put a finger to her lips.
‘Listen, Sigurjón. I’m sure you’re a delightful guy who loves his wife and would never try and pick up a lady on her own in a bar. Like I told you, I’m not here for the fun of it. This is a police operation, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll sit over there in the corner and keep out of the way until the fun and games are all over, all right?’
He nodded dumbly, took what was left of his drink, and tottered unsteadily to a table as far from Gunna and the bar as he could find.
She clicked her communicator and muttered into it.
‘Steingrímur, we’ll be out in a few minutes. All clear?’
‘Ready when you are. All clear out here,’ came the crisp reply as she went towards the group.
Kyle
McCombie towered over Osman as the two shook hands, and with a moment’s hesitation embraced, while the younger version of McCombie stood back, hands clasped in front of him.
Gunna zipped up her fleece, determined not to let the Glock be seen a second time.
‘Gunnhildur, are we ready?’ Osman asked.
‘We are.’
‘This is Kyle McCombie, who has flown from America to meet me,’ Osman said with a touch of pride in his voice.
‘Good evening,’ Gunna said, and shook the spade-like hand extended towards her, which gripped hers like a clamp.
‘Pleased to meet you. I hope you’re taking good care of this guy,’ he said with an accent that immediately put her in mind of childhood and Saturday afternoon cowboy films.
‘We do our best,’ Gunna replied, trying to reconcile the friendliness of the man’s blue eyes with what she had seen in the newspapers about his views and the reports of his public meetings.
Kyle McCombie’s face creased into a warm smile, displaying gaps between his teeth.
‘Let me tell you, this is a good guy,’ he said. ‘A real ally.’
‘Thank you, Kyle,’ Osman broke in. ‘It’s been great to see you, and my Brussels people will be in touch shortly to make the arrangements.’
‘Good. Speak soon. James, we’d best get ready. We have a big evening ahead of us.’
The younger man led the way, Osman and Kyle talking in undertones as they walked out into the lobby, while Gunna scanned the people around them and noticed that the woman who had been reading a book in the bar was close behind them.
Gunna dropped back a couple of steps and drew down the zip of her fleece, nervous that the woman was close to Osman. She felt a buzz of adrenaline run through her as she watched for sudden movements.
When Kyle and his companion said a final farewell, and he had pressed a button to summon the lift, Gunna felt the tension relax as the woman stood next to the two men, relieved that she was only trying to get to her room. She watched as the two men stood back with exaggerated courtesy to let the woman enter the lift first. Once the steel door had shut and the light above it flickered upwards, her attention returned to Osman.
She glanced from side to side as they left the building, shepherding Osman towards the Patrol parked a few yards from the door, its engine running and Steingrímur at the wheel.
‘All present and correct?’ she asked as Osman clicked his seat belt and Steingrímur drove away fast. ‘Back to the ranch, my good man.’
Skúli was at his happiest at the kitchen table, surrounded by the chaotic paraphernalia of cooking and the needs of a young child. There was space for a laptop, and he only needed to close the lid and move it to one side at mealtimes.
He found himself revelling in working as Dagga bustled around him, sometimes with Markús balanced on one hip, at other times with the boy sitting in a high chair at the same table, gnawing a crust as his teeth were beginning to appear.
The old-fashioned radio on top of the fridge muttered in the background, and occasionally he would stretch over to turn up the volume for a news bulletin or an interview that sounded interesting.
It was so different from the house he had been brought up in, where the kitchen had been his mother’s spotless domain, and he and his father and brothers had been shooed out whenever they edged past the door. Food had belonged in the dining room, not the kitchen, and his mother had stayed out of the room when his father brought acquaintances to the house for dinner.
These had never been friends. He wondered if his father had anyone he could call a friend, or if they were all just people who were somehow useful to him? Anyone who wasn’t useful in some way, or who lacked the potential to one day be influential, was of no consequence and deserved no attention.
He thought ruefully that those principles even seemed to extend to family. His brothers were in the same investment business as his father; they comfortably wore tailored suits and had acquired smart wives who looked and acted the part. He, on the other hand, was the youngest of the brood – he suspected he had been a mistake, an unintended child seven years after the family had reached its optimum size, meaning he had grown up almost as an only child.
‘You want some tea, Skúli?’ Dagga asked, squeezing past him to click the kettle into life.
‘Please.’
‘What are you working on?’
‘The minister’s special guest, the one I told you about.’
‘Making yourself unpopular again?’
Skúli smiled. ‘I hope so. This goes live tomorrow and it’s going to make a few people uncomfortable.’
‘As long as Steinunn’s one of them, then you’re probably doing the right thing.’
It was the wrong time of year for tourists, but there was still a trickle of them to be seen, Illugi Gunnarsson reminded himself as he took out his earphones and shrugged on his thick quilted jacket. He pulled on a hat emblazoned with the fuel company’s logo and tucked his earrings under it as he stepped outside, shivering as the wind snatched at him.
An unwieldy camper van had pulled up at the pumps and a plump, grey-haired man stepped out, stretching as he did so.
‘Diesel?’ Illugi asked, glancing at the plates to see the driver’s nationality. ‘Gas oil?’ he added.
‘Gas oil,’ the man confirmed with a nod and Illugi yawned as he began pumping fuel into the camper van’s capacious tank.
A thin woman with a lined face joined the plump man and Illugi didn’t try to listen as they had a tense conversation behind him, the woman’s voice loaded with concern.
‘We pay inside?’ the man asked as Illugi replaced the fuel tank cap.
‘Yes. Inside,’ he said. For a moment he thought of trying out his rudimentary Danish, but decided to stick to English after all.
Behind the till he took the man’s credit card and swiped it without bothering to check the name on it. This guy wasn’t the type to steal credit cards, he decided.
He replaced his earphones and leaned on the counter, idly looking out of the window. The Danish couple seemed to be having a discreet argument on the forecourt, the man nodding and the woman’s hands emphasizing her every word. They got back into the huge camper van, and a moment later it lumbered off the forecourt and into the distance.
Illugi watched it make its sedate progress until it disappeared into the distance. He wondered how long it would be before another car appeared in this remote spot, and turned up the volume on his iPod as he played a magnificent flourish on an imaginary set of drums on the counter.
The wind whistled and rattled the steel shutter over the window. Gunna realized that it was later than she had thought and that they had already talked for more than an hour since returning to Einholt.
‘You don’t check the building outside tonight?’
‘No. The boys are doing that.’
‘You mean the men in the black uniforms?’
‘That’s them. We decided they’d keep the area covered while it’s dark.’
Osman’s eyes gleamed.
‘Are you uncomfortable, Gunnhildur?’ he asked, and she wondered if she could hear a stifled laugh behind his words.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But I’ll admit this is something of a new experience for me. Why do you ask? Are you nervous?’
‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘Although I am used to this. Moving from house to house, always checking who is following, wondering who is behind me, who is around the next corner.’ He emptied the wine bottle into his glass and sighed as he sipped. ‘It’s always a concern, not knowing if people around you are what they seem to be, or if they have been bought. Trust is not easy.’
‘Are you going to tell me why your life is so dangerous?’
Osman swirled the wine in his glass, leaned back and lifted his feet onto another chair. He looked at the ceiling and then his eyes snapped back to meet Gunna’s gaze.
‘When you do things that threaten powerful people, when you stand up for wh
at you believe is right but which might not be popular, then you will make enemies. Here in the north if you make an enemy, then someone might say something hurtful about you on Facebook. You told me yourself that the men who plundered your country’s banks are free to walk the streets and nobody will harm them,’ he said, his voice low but earnest. ‘Where I come from, each one of them would be dead, somewhere on a hillside with a bullet through the back of the head, or else a bomb in his car, or a fire in his house. That is to say, if they had stayed. We have these people as well, of course. But they don’t stay. They live in places that are safer for them, maybe a western city or a resort overlooking the sea, or a villa surrounded by men with Kalashnikovs, paid handsomely to keep them undisturbed and alive.’
He shrugged and held Gunna’s eyes, as if daring her to challenge him.
‘And what has made you these people’s enemy?’ she asked, her voice as low as his. ‘What did you do?’
This time he laughed and twirled the stem of the wine glass in his fingers.
‘There are so many things that I can hardly count them.’
‘You said before that your family has enemies. But you also said they wouldn’t follow you all the way to Iceland.’
‘That’s right. Old feuds like that stay where they were born and wait for people to reappear. However, there are others, whose reach is so much longer.’
‘Who don’t forgive?’
‘They don’t forget, and they never forgive,’ Osman said, a shiver passing through him like a ripple as he dropped his feet to the floor and leaned his elbows on the table, holding his glass containing an inch of wine in front of his face. ‘I made mistakes, Gunnhildur. I made some mistakes in business, which is easily done, and for the right amount of money such errors can be put right. But we are talking very large amounts of money. Maybe enough to buy this whole island,’ he said, putting the glass down. ‘But I also embarrassed people, I made them angry and damaged their pride. That’s not something you can fix with a handful of dollars.’
‘All right. Tell me what it is that was so bad it put a price on your head?’
‘Plans?’ Ana asked.
There was no food in the apartment, so they were in a dimly lit Indian restaurant a few doors along the street.
Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7) Page 7
