‘That’s the house?’ she asked, peering at the long, low building where lights gleamed from two large windows.
‘That’s it.’
‘What happened?’
‘We went up the beach about four hundred metres to the south. Pino went to take a look. I stayed on the shore and we agreed that if anything went badly wrong, then I was to back out quick.’
Ana could hear the anger in his voice overcoming his cool manner, while the wind whipped at his words.
‘And?’
‘I watched through the scope, so I could see it happen. Someone came out of the house, one of the security people. He must have opened the door and stepped outside just as Pino was moving, because I heard the challenge. There were a couple of shots, two his, I think, and two or more of theirs. Pino dropped. That cop must have got lucky with a shot like that in the dark.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens. It’s part of the job. Come on, we’ve seen everything and we shouldn’t hang around here.’
Gunna swung open the door and the visitors trooped inside.
‘Welcome to the garage,’ she said, zipping her fleece up to her throat. ‘We’re in here for obvious reasons. Our guest is still asleep, but we don’t need him to appear in the middle of a conversation. There’s no heating in here, so we ought to keep it quick.’
The new arrival looked exhausted and slightly bewildered in the chill of the pre-dawn darkness, but shook first Ívar’s hand and then took Gunna’s, holding it for slightly longer than was comfortable.
‘Luc Kerkhoeve.’
‘Luc is from Brussels,’ Birna said, slipping seamlessly into English. ‘State Security Service. He got here last night and he’s interested in our guest.’
‘We’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while, almost three years; since he arrived in Brussels and set up this Sickle Foundation. Yet another foundation,’ he said with a shake of his head.
‘Can we share information freely?’ Ívar Laxdal asked quickly in Icelandic, glancing at Birna. ‘Is there anything that stays off limits?’
‘We don’t have any secrets to keep,’ Birna replied in soft English. ‘Anything Luc can help us with would be appreciated.’
‘Good. No hide-and-seek,’ Ívar Laxdal grunted. ‘Let’s keep it that way. Luc, Gunnhildur has been in charge of Osman’s security since he arrived in Iceland. I’m a senior officer at the city force and this operation is my responsibility, supposedly. Osman has been here for almost a week, at the invitation of the minister. In fact, he has an outing organized this afternoon, a visit to Parliament with her. His presence here was supposed to be kept under the radar, but the press is already sniffing around all this and there’s been an incursion on this building, with one fatality. I think that should put you in the picture.’
Luc looked up sharply.
‘Fatality?’
‘Just down there, between here and the shore. An intruder was seen, he was challenged, and instead of putting his hands up, he fired. There was an exchange of fire and the intruder was killed. No identification has been possible so far.’
‘Do you have a picture of the dead man?’ Luc asked.
Úlfur scrolled through his phone and passed it to him. Luc stared at the image.
‘Email it to me,’ he instructed, and reeled off an email address. ‘The face isn’t familiar, but I can leapfrog the official channels.’
He concentrated on his own phone, fingers flickering over the screen.
‘Got it,’ he muttered to himself as the photo arrived in his inbox. He plugged the earpiece in and made a call, speaking in staccato French, stabbing a finger at his phone’s screen as he spoke. Birna listened carefully and Gunna guessed that she was the only one present who understood Luc’s side of the conversation.
Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and ended the call.
‘My contact thinks he knows who this man is, or was. He’ll call me back when he has something. Now, you want to know about Osman and I want to know what he’s doing here.’
‘We dug out what information we could in the two days we had between the minister remembering to tell us Osman was coming and would we please look after him, and him arriving here,’ Birna said, sitting on a workbench set against the breezeblock wall of the garage. ‘So we don’t have much.’
Luc put a hand in the pocket of his jacket and took out a notebook and a sheaf of papers that he opened on a workbench next to Birna, who moved along to give him space.
‘He calls himself Ali Osman. In fact, his name appears to be Osman Deniz, according to the passport he managed to get courtesy of the Italian wife who left him a few years ago,’ Luc said and looked up. ‘At least, that’s the official story. We believe he’s originally a Turkish national with links to Syria. That part of the world is totally upside-down at the moment. Ankara doesn’t reply to many requests for information and you can imagine what it’s like trying to get information from Syria.’
‘I think he’s originally from Lebanon,’ Gunna said, and Ívar’s eyes widened.
‘Really? He told you that?’
‘I’ve no idea if he was telling the truth, but he said he had grown up during a civil war, and judging by his age, that could be Lebanon.’
‘Interesting . . .’ Luc said thoughtfully as Birna and Úlfur shared glances and raised eyebrows. ‘There are so many conflicting myths about this man that it’s hard to tell what’s lies and what isn’t. This is interesting background, but I’m not sure it changes our analysis.’
‘Which is?’
‘That as far as we can make out, he has been one of the key figures getting refugees into Europe.’
‘Which is the White Sickle Peace Foundation’s work? Assisting refugees from war zones?’ Birna asked and Luc shook his head.
‘No. You misunderstand me. The foundation he created does some work trying to make life easier for refugees once they reach Greece or Italy, with tents, water, that kind of thing. But we’re sure it’s a front for his real business. Forget all the humanitarian and political shit. Osman is all about the money.’
She had already checked the dining room, watched as he ate breakfast, drank a second cup of coffee and headed for the lift.
Ana took the stairs, watching for the cleaning staff, and found them on the third floor, where trolleys loaded with cleaning materials waited in a line. With nobody to be seen, she lifted a pile of towels from the end trolley and stepped back through the door to the stairs that nobody used when the lift was so much easier.
On the sixth floor she folded her coat under a fire extinguisher, pulled on a pair of blue rubber gloves, held the towels in her arms and knocked on James Kearney’s door.
‘Housekeeping.’
The door swung open and he looked at her quizzically, failing to recognize the woman who had spent part of an evening watching him in the bar from behind a book and a glass of white wine.
‘Excuse me. I bring towels,’ she said, giving herself a guttural accent.
‘I don’t need towels.’
‘Excuse me. Supervisor say, towels to rooms.’
‘Look, I don’t need towels. Leave it, OK?’
Ana looked confused, peering at him over the pile of white towels in her arms.
‘She tell me, towels to this room, next room.’
‘All right, if you need to,’ he said grudgingly and stepped aside.
She watched him go back to his chair in front of the TV and went into the bathroom, placed the towels on a high shelf that she had to stretch to reach and half-closed the door. She took one of the two tooth glasses, stood behind the door, and hurled the glass at the floor, enjoying the crash as it shattered and giving a passable impression of a squeal of pain.
‘What . . . ?’
A moment later he was in the doorway, feet crunching on shards as he looked at the floor beneath the washbasin where the glass had smashed.
‘What happened? Where are you?’
As he swung open the shower cubicle to look for her, Ana stepped from behind
the door, hands already crossed. She slipped the loop of twine over his head, smartly uncrossed her hands and felt it tighten.
Unable to shout, he gurgled, his hands clawing frantically at his throat as she maintained the tension, waiting for him to stop thrashing as his life ebbed away. It felt like an age before he sank to his knees in a widening pool of urine. Ana grunted with the effort as she steered his bulk towards the bathtub, toppling it in and lifting his legs, one after the other, neatly making it look as if he had curled up there.
She quickly looked around, stepped out into the passage and pulled the door shut behind her, hooking onto it the cheerful door hanger declining room service, which she hoped would mean the room remained undisturbed for at least another twenty-four hours.
A moment later she had retrieved her coat, made her way down the stairs and dropped the blue gloves in a bin by the door as she walked away from the hotel.
Skúli felt his shoulders ache. The slush was more than his shoes were made to cope with and now he would have damp feet for the rest of the day. Much as he loved his work at Pulse, family life had made him appreciate closing his laptop and pushing the rough-and-tumble of news to the back of his mind for a few hours every day. Evenings with Dagga and Markús had become the part of the day he looked forward to from the moment he closed the door behind him each morning to catch the bus into town.
It had been a few years since the tell-tale lethargy had last stalked him, creeping up on him quietly while his attention was elsewhere. A week ago, under the hot water of the shower, the thought had come unbidden to mind that something wasn’t right, and he had searched his mind for what it might be. Old failings and embarrassments sprang to mind with increasing regularity, making him quail as he roughly took his thoughts by the scruff of the neck and sent them packing.
It was the moments of quiet that he dreaded, the times when his mind would wander unerringly to places he would prefer to leave unvisited. The minutes falling asleep with the welcome warm pressure of Dagga’s back nestled against his, or the silent mornings, waking to find their legs tangled together, were the difficult ones; seeking or emerging from sleep had become a familiar gauntlet to run, with unwelcome dark thoughts unexpectedly popping up before he was ready for them.
During the day he could keep the gathering darkness at bay, smothering it with bustle and activity so that only occasionally something would sneak through the gaps in his armour, reminding him that the black dog was waiting, panting with its red tongue lolling out between white teeth, and it could wait far more patiently than he ever could.
Skúli shivered. The wind was a chill one from the north with snow on its breath, just when it looked like spring should be about to make an overdue appearance. He wondered if winter and the weeks of low daylight were what caused his problems, and reminded himself that in the past these assaults on his peace of mind had not respected the seasons, appearing at various times of the year, taking him by surprise throughout his teens until he had come to recognize the signs.
Was it time to go back to the doctor? He worked his chin into the comforting insulation his woollen scarf offered while the wind whipped at his hair. No, not the doctor. Not again. Last time the tablets had lasted for months, and when he finally stopped taking them he felt such a surge of relief that he had promised never to go down that route again.
Laugavegur was practically deserted. On a weekday afternoon there were no revellers either setting out on their night’s epic journey around Reykjavík’s nightspots or making their weary, hungover way home after a heavy night out. There were also no tourists, and half of the shops catering to Iceland’s new status as a fashionable travel destination were closed, waiting for the weekend.
Skúli turned down Klapparstígur, contemplated for a moment whether or not to spend half an hour browsing through the unpredictable shelves of his preferred second-hand book shop, and decided against it. His bedside table was already groaning under the weight of books waiting to be read, plus he knew he should get back to his desk. The wind hit him square in the face as he turned onto Hverfisgata and walked up the slope to the shabby building where Pulse’s office was located.
The walk had helped and his mind was made up, which immediately made him feel better.
He shook off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair. He took a deep breath, spent a minute searching online for a phone number, punched it into his desk phone and listened to it ring.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hello. My name’s Skúli Thór Snædal and I’m a journalist at Pulse. I was wondering if we could talk?’
Gunna told herself that cabin fever was setting in as she watched CCTV of airline passengers waiting for their luggage. The morning’s visitors had departed, Kerkhoeve with Birna and Úlfur, and Ívar Laxdal on some mysterious errand of his own, and now Gunna was chafing at the isolation. Regardless of how often she had craved solitude in the past, she’d had enough, and found herself longing for normality – even a mundane walk to the local Co-op would be welcome right now.
Hundreds of faces had passed by on her computer screen already, and only a dozen had needed a closer look to compare them with the starkly lit photograph of the dead man.
She paused the CCTV replay again to give herself a break and found herself staring at the dead man’s face, his pale hair in a rough crewcut, a week’s worth of stubble and a hint of blue peering from half-closed dead eyes as the man lay on the slab.
The house was silent. The door to Osman’s room was open and Gunna could hear the mutter of his laptop keys. She stood up and set the percolator to make another pot of coffee, telling herself she needed the caffeine jolt to keep concentrating on the faces on the screen.
She couldn’t help thinking about the dead man, whether or not he had a family expecting him to return home, or elderly parents who might be wondering where he was. She reflected that she hadn’t seen the man’s face in life, or heard his voice, just seen the shadow in the darkness; she’d been taken aback by the swiftness of his shots as soon as he had heard her call out. There had been no hesitation, as one shot had gone into the dark while the other had smacked into the wall. She still hadn’t summoned up the courage to go outside and check by how much it had missed her.
Gunna found her mouth dry and her heart pumping fast as she put both hands on the kitchen worktop, the percolator rumbling and spitting in front of her as she thought of what could have happened; she could be the one on the slab at the National Hospital. Ívar Laxdal would have had to make the trip out to Hvalvík in his best uniform to give Steini and Laufey the bad news. Gísli’s ship would have to be called and he would have to endure the hours before docking wondering what had happened to her. Then there were the boys, Ari and Kjartan, Gísli’s two sons by two different mothers. They would have had to grow up with nothing but the haziest memories of their grandmother.
‘Is everything all right, Gunna?’
Osman’s voice was soft, concerned and understanding. A hand settled lightly on her shoulder. Gunna stayed still, her breaths returning gradually to normal.
Dry-eyed, she turned towards him. The hand remained on her shoulder.
‘Fine, thanks. It feels like it’s been a long day already.’
Osman looked down at her.
‘It gets to you, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Killing someone,’ he said in the same soft voice. ‘It’s an emotional business the first time.’
She felt the pressure of his hand increase, pulling her towards him, gently but insistently. Gunna hesitated, surprised that she was even tempted to move closer, and allowed herself to be folded into his embrace. She clasped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest and feeling his chin against the top of her head as he held her tight.
She felt a warm glow of comfort for a few moments, took a deep breath, let go of him and stepped back, folding her arms as a barrier between them.
‘It gets easier, you mean?’
&nbs
p; ‘Of course.’
Gunna stopped herself from asking how many people Osman had killed.
‘It’s not something I plan to make a habit of doing.’ She poured coffee into two mugs and handed him one. ‘It’ll be a while before there’s a meal. I asked Ívar to bring us a takeaway. I’m afraid the kitchen isn’t my natural habitat.’
‘You are busy? Working?’
‘I am. And I need to get back to it,’ she said, nodding towards the laptop open on the dining table. ‘I have a lot to get through before our lunch arrives.’
*
Ana started the engine and waited for the car to warm up. The walk along the causeway and out on to the rocky promontory of Geldinganes had left her chilled through. The icy wind had found every gap in the layers of clothing she had put on, despite her care to be as windproof as possible.
It had been a worthwhile few hours. The place was almost an island. A narrow causeway emerged from the grey sand to curve out to Geldinganes, its surface too uneven for wheels, and Ana picked her way across. Once out there, she had walked in a circle around the promontory, binoculars in hand, making a passable imitation of someone there to spot birds and seals as she examined the long, low building at Einholt.
For a while she sat in the lee of the island and watched people coming and going. Some of them she had seen before, such as the man and woman in their practically identical suits; she guessed they were with the police.
Ana unzipped an inside pocket of her thick coat and extracted a smartphone of exactly the kind she had forbidden Michel and Pino to carry, and powered it up.
It had taken her a day or two, and a conversation with one of their technical consultants, to figure out why Osman’s phone had failed to appear, when they had realized that Einholt was either in a dead zone out of phone coverage, or else a jamming system was in operation. The previous day, when he’d left the house with the minister, she had been quietly jubilant when the tracker that had been hacked into Osman’s phone suddenly appeared again. Now she could be more confident that her target was safely where she wanted him, and that she would know if he were to make a move.
Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7) Page 21
