Unless this other story held a clue.
Jóhannes looked up at the small black church, with the figures 1847 etched in iron under the cross on its roof, its churchyard surrounded by a turf-covered wall with a white wooden gate. All around was a breathtaking view: the fjord to the south, the lava field to the west, mountains to the east and north, and to the north-west, only a few kilometres away, floated the mystical glacier. The clouds had lifted to reveal the volcano, an almost perfect cone, snow covering the permanent ice at its summit. At the very peak was a hooked pinnacle of rock, a stone thorn piercing the ice cap.
He looked at the rows of gravestones and for a moment wished that he had buried his father here. The old man would have loved to spend eternity in this spot. As would he, for that matter.
He ran through Benedikt’s short story collection in his mind. They were much less well known than the novels, especially Moor and the Man, but Jóhannes had read them all many times.
‘The Slip’! That must be it. It was only a few pages long, but it described how a boy took revenge over the rape of his sister by pushing the rapist off a cliff. If that was the case, then who had been raped? And who had been pushed?
Jóhannes remembered the words from The Saga of Grettir the Strong: ‘A tale is half told when one man tells it.’ He had his own relatives he could speak to: his aunt Hildur was still alive and living in Stykkishólmur, the nearest town to Hraun. And there were cousins there as well. If there was a family feud buried somewhere, they might be able to give him a clue as to where or what it was. He liked his aunt and hadn’t seen her for a couple of years. Time to pay her a visit.
He checked his watch. It was not yet four. It would take less than an hour to get to Stykkishólmur, plenty of time to get back to Reykjavík that evening so that he could go in to school the following morning.
School! How he had loved that place. But not any more.
He surveyed the glacier, the lava field, the sea and the beach beyond the hotel. It was wonderful to be outside Reykjavík in the fresh air on a school day. It was at least five years since he had taken a day off sick. He remembered again how he had spent long days with his father and his brother and sister here, looking for the hidden people’s tunnel of jewels. There was the crater and ruined houses and holes in the cliffs where the waves rushed in and leaped up against rock walls. And further to the west was the farm where Gudrídur the Wanderer had been brought up: the extraordinary woman who had been born in Iceland, married in Greenland, had a child in America, returned to Iceland and then gone on a pilgrimage to Rome.
All kinds of wonders.
He struck out across the rock and moss towards the crater in the centre of the lava field. He would treat himself to a night at the Hotel Búdir and see his relatives in Stykkishólmur tomorrow. And sod school.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MAN HAD been sitting in the car for hours, but he wasn’t tired.
His vehicle was parked in the car park to the side of the great church, facing west. Ahead of him was a statue of a Viking staring off towards the Atlantic, behind which was a hotel, the Leifur Eiríksson. Just to the left of the hotel a small road ran downhill. Thórsgata.
He had followed the tortuous one-way system through the warren of streets that tangled themselves around the slope of the hill down towards the Parliament Square and the lake in the centre of the city. It was odd: these must be some of the most expensive properties in town, but they had corrugated metal roofs. And where there wasn’t metal there was concrete. No wood. No brick.
The trouble was Thórsgata was just a little too quiet. He couldn’t park in the street itself in sight of the house that Freeflow had taken over without attracting attention. There was a marked police car opposite the building, and the officer inside was looking around.
Which posed a problem. Someone leaving the house could either turn left uphill, in which case they would pass in sight of him parked outside the big church, or else they could turn right, downhill, in which case he would never spot them.
He couldn’t see a way around this. He would just have to take the fifty-fifty chance of missing them. He glanced at his phone resting on the passenger’s seat next to him. That would help.
Many cars had passed up Thórsgata that afternoon: police, marked and unmarked; press; TV; and no doubt some legitimate inhabitants of the street, wondering what the hell was going on.
The man had brought a magazine, but he was too wired to read it. He kept his eyes on the entrance to Thórsgata and waited.
The moment the last policemen was out of the door, Freeflow got down to work, which for most of the team meant powering up their computers. It was pretty clear that the police had not found anything of value, although they had taken the clothes everyone was wearing the night before for analysis. After some discussion, Erika and Viktor had agreed to allow the team to give DNA swabs, and the others had complied. The police had been considerate: they had left the place in more or less the same mess it had been in when they arrived.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ Dieter said, interrupting the activity. ‘Everyone turn off their computers. Now.’
‘Why?’ Erika asked, but as soon as she uttered the question she knew the answer.
‘We don’t know what little bugs they’ve planted in them.’
‘They’re not allowed to do that,’ said Viktor.
‘Governments do a lot of things they are not allowed to,’ said Erika. ‘That’s why Freeflow exists. Can’t you check them out?’
‘It would take far too long,’ said Dieter. ‘And even then, I might miss something. We are going to need brand-new machines.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Erika. ‘That’s going to delay us some more.’
‘And cost money,’ said Dieter.
‘How much?’ asked Viktor.
‘I don’t know. A few thousand dollars. We can get by mostly with netbooks,’ said Dieter. ‘I’ll need a more powerful laptop. All the software we need is stored remotely.’
‘Probably a good idea to get some prepaid cell phones as well,’ said Erika. ‘I’ve got a couple, but they could be compromised.’
‘OK,’ said Viktor. ‘Give me a list, and I’ll go with Dúddi to buy whatever you need right away.’
‘We should discuss nothing related to Project Meltwater aloud,’ Dieter said. ‘Only by chat. They could have planted listening devices in the house.’
‘No. Dieter, that’s ridiculous,’ Erika said. ‘It will be impossible to get any meaningful work done that way. The whole reason we came to this godforsaken country in the first place was so we could talk face to face.’
‘My country might be godforsaken,’ Viktor said, ‘but it isn’t a police state. I know the judge who granted the search warrants. Bugs like that would need a warrant from him, and if he had granted one I would know about it. And the Police Commissioner is a smart guy: he wouldn’t want to risk getting caught planting unauthorized listening devices. In fact, I doubt very much they have bugged the computers.’
‘No way are we using those computers now that the police have been all over them,’ Dieter said.
‘OK,’ Erika said. ‘We get new computers. But we have to assume the house itself isn’t bugged. And, Viktor, thank you so much for buying the new machines. This is an important thing you are doing here. It will make a difference.’
Erika wondered why Viktor had dug into his pocket this time. Perhaps it was the urgency of the situation, or maybe just the smaller amount that was required. Either way she was grateful. She smiled at him, giving it the full force of her conviction. Viktor was clearly touched. They always were, in the end. He was a handsome man, much smoother than her normal type. He probably had a beautiful blonde wife at home, but then he might like a change. Many men did.
But Freeflow still needed fifteen thousand euros for the Swedish ISP. Perhaps she’d leave it for a bit and try him again the next day. Never give up, that was the rule she lived by. Something would turn up; it always did; if it d
idn’t come from Viktor it would from someone else.
Dúddi and Viktor were quick. In less than an hour and a half they had returned with the computers and four prepaid phones and a handful of SIM cards. While Dieter supervised setting the machines up and downloading the backed-up software, Erika dialled Washington on one of the new phones.
‘Alan? It’s Erika.’
‘Hey, what’s up? Where are you? I don’t recognize the country code on your phone number, not that that means anything.’
‘Iceland,’ Erika said. In the past she had used elaborate means to disguise which country she was in, but at that moment there was no point. ‘What are you doing this week?’
Alan Traub was a freelance journalist in his fifties. He had been a staff reporter for the Washington Post for twenty years, but had parted company after one blazing row too many with the editor. He was a passionate believer in freedom of information and a great supporter of most of what Freeflow did. But he kept his distance, firmly maintaining his journalistic integrity. Which was fine with Erika. She trusted him and, by and large, he trusted her. And no, she had never slept with him.
‘Something on US military aid to Pakistan.’
‘Dull. How about a trip to London? Tonight.’
‘And why would I want to go to London?’
‘To speak with Samantha Wilton.’
‘The sister of that woman who was killed in Gaza?’ Alan said without hesitation. News seemed to go into Alan’s brain and never come out.
‘The very same.’
‘What have you got? Something on her sister’s death?’
‘Yeah. Something she’s gonna want to see.’
‘Can you give me the details?’
‘Not yet.’ Erika waited for Alan’s decision. But they both knew he wasn’t going to say no.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I get first crack at the story?’
‘Yeah. If your old buddies at the Post will still talk to you. Don’t worry, Alan, this one is going to be big.’ Despite his past disagreements with the paper, Alan Traub was a good entrée into the Washington Post. And this way the Post would pick up his expenses eventually. ‘We’re aiming for a press conference on Monday in London. I’ll be there, and your job is to get Samantha Wilton there as well. The Post will get the story first that morning with the Guardian in London. Probably Der Spiegel in Germany. I’d like you to fix up the press conference.’
‘I can do that.’
‘We also need someone to check out the Gaza angle. On the ground.’
‘On the ground? That’s going to be difficult, I’d say impossible in the time. I went there a couple of years ago. You need a permit from the Israeli government and that takes weeks.’
‘What about the other side? The Egyptian border?’
‘Rafah? I’m pretty sure that crossing is still closed. You’re going to have to use someone already there. And that means either a local journalist or someone at the UN. What exactly is it you need to check?’
‘I can’t be specific,’ Erika said. ‘Yet. But we have photographs of the incident. We need witnesses to corroborate them.’
‘I’ve got a buddy at Reuters who has been there plenty of times. I know he has good local sources. But then you’d have to cut Reuters in.’
Erika took a deep breath, thinking it over. The Washington Post wouldn’t like Reuters’ involvement. Nor would the Guardian.
Tough.
‘OK – give him a call. But from now on we do everything on Jabber. You remember the password you used last time?’
‘Got it.’
‘So can you get on a plane tonight?’
‘Sorry, Erika, not even for you. There’s some stuff I need to do here. But I can go tomorrow. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get to London.’
Erika hung up. She was pleased: she trusted Alan to get things done.
Things were moving.
‘Here you are.’ Dieter handed Erika a brand-new netbook computer. ‘I’ve downloaded the software. You’ll need to restore your files yourself using your own passwords.’
‘That was quick.’
‘There’s a lot to do,’ said Dieter.
Erika sat down and tapped in her password: ‘janjaweedare_ murd_eringBASTARDs’. She had found that mangling up a memorable line in this manner was the easiest way to create complex passwords. Dieter and Apex insisted on them being changed regularly. Soon her machine was chugging away, and within a couple of minutes her familiar screen settings were up.
There was a message already from Dieter: what about zivah? could she be a mole from mossad? maybe she alerted them? i’m worried about her. should we send her back?
Erika glanced up at Dieter, who was tapping furiously on his own laptop, headphones firmly clamped to his head, streaming music directly into his brain. Dieter always used chat when he could, rather than speaking face to face. It frustrated her, but she could hardly change his habits now.
‘Zivah!’ she called across to the Israeli student, who was typing on her own new netbook. ‘Can I have a minute?’
Erika led her into their bedroom and shut the door. She sat on the bed, and Zivah took one of the chairs. Zivah managed to project a mixture of earnestness and innocence that Erika found appealing. She had short light brown hair and a thin, intelligent face. She looked nervous.
‘Sorry to be so direct, Zivah, but I need to know. Can you think of any way that the Israeli government could have found out what we are up to?’
Zivah shook her head. ‘Not from me, if that is what you are asking. I have no idea about the rest of the team, I don’t know them at all.’
‘Didn’t you do military service?’
‘Yes, everyone does it, but I had nothing to do with the security services,’ Zivah said. ‘Do you think it was Mossad who killed Nico?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Erika. ‘But it could be. We are messing with the Israeli government and that’s always a dangerous thing to do.’
Zivah nodded and swallowed. ‘I was thinking that.’
‘Nico brought you on board here, right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Zivah. ‘I’ve been following Freeflow almost since you started – putting posts up on your message boards. Six months ago, Nico asked me to translate some stuff he’d been sent in Hebrew by an Israeli civil servant. It was about Israeli plans to attack Iranian nuclear facilities, but it wasn’t really concrete enough to be interesting. And then he contacted me on Friday night about the video.’
‘So you’d never met him before Sunday?’
‘No,’ said Zivah. ‘Not in person. But I’ve been commenting online for years.’
‘Yes, I recognize your name,’ Erika frowned. Volunteers were managed by Dieter or Nico, depending on their role. Usually they were set unimportant tasks over a period of months, and then if they performed these well they were given more sensitive duties. In Zivah’s case Nico had hardly done a thorough background check, but then he hadn’t had time. If she was a plant the Israeli government would have had to have been very forward thinking to have tried to infiltrate Freeflow that early on.
‘Are you studying?’
‘I’m doing my masters in International Relations at Tel Aviv University.’
‘Did you tell any of your friends where you were going?’ Erika asked.
‘No. I said I was doing something for Amnesty International in London and I would be out of contact for a few days. I said it was secret and I couldn’t talk about it. Everyone knows I am heavily involved with Amnesty, so I think they believed me. And I did fly to Reykjavík via London.’
‘You know that this video will seriously undermine your country’s standing in the world?’ Erika asked.
‘I know that,’ said Zivah.
‘Yet you are happy to be a part of promoting it?’ Erika allowed a hint of contempt in her voice to change the question into an accusation.
‘I am,’ Zivah said, her voice gaining in strength. ‘I believe in my country passionately. I believe tha
t Israel has a future, but only if we can live in peace with the Palestinians. And I believe that we of all people should recognize basic human rights. By and large I think we do. My brother is in the army; lots of my friends are. They are decent people who have shown great restraint in really difficult situations. They have told me about the fighting in Gaza, about how they didn’t shoot back when they were attacked from schools or hospitals, about how they warned civilians before bombing buildings. A lot of these guys are now members of Combatants for Peace.’
‘That’s not what we saw in the video,’ said Erika.
‘Precisely!’ said Zivah. Her cheeks were flushed now. ‘And that’s what the Israeli government needs to understand. We should be rooting out that kind of behaviour ourselves. And if the government won’t do it, then I will. What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Aren’t you Jewish?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Erika. ‘And my family are passionate supporters of the state of Israel. I guess I agree with them: Israel should exist as a homeland for the Jews. I think that there are a lot of unscrupulous Arab terrorists who would like to destroy it. Releasing this video might help those terrorists.’
‘So why didn’t you bury it?’ Zivah asked.
Erika took a deep breath. ‘I believe that transparency of information is more important than my views or your views or the views of anyone out there. If governments are transparent, the bad stuff will come to light and a lot less of it will happen in the first place. And this video is bad stuff.’
‘Very bad stuff.’
Erika stared hard at Zivah. She saw a lot of herself in the Israeli student; she didn’t believe she was a Mossad agent. Erika’s instinct was to trust her. And in Rwanda, in Darfur, during the frequent crises that beset Freeflow, Erika had learned to trust her own instincts. She was just smarter than other people; her intuition was more reliable.
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