Meltwater

by Michael Ridpath

  Besides, she didn’t have the time to do otherwise. They needed a Hebrew speaker, if not Zivah then someone else, and anyone else they found at short notice would be no less likely to be a spy.

  ‘All right,’ Erika said. ‘One last question: if it turns out the Israelis are on to us, are you willing to stick it out?’

  Zivah swallowed. Looked Erika straight in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe in this. I’ll stay.’

  Erika smiled. ‘Good. Now, back to work.’

  She returned to her computer on a makeshift table and typed a simple message to Dieter: zivah stays.

  She stared at her screen. Why had she brought up her own family? Her father she didn’t care about. A cosmetic surgeon at a prestigious Manhattan clinic, he had disapproved of almost all of Erika’s choices in life. Going to Rwanda as a student, returning with a husband, quitting med school to go to Darfur, divorcing the husband and finally publishing rumours and gossip on the Internet. He had given her all the opportunities she could possibly want and she had thrown them back in his face.

  Erika’s grandmother was of course very proud of her son, the doctor. But she was also proud of her granddaughter for standing up to him. She understood what Erika was doing and why she was doing it and Erika loved her for it.

  A widow, nearly ninety now, she had left Poland for the United States as a girl in the 1930s and had met Erika’s grandfather, a young émigré from Berlin, in Queens during the war. Her husband had worked hard and prospered; a passionate supporter of the state of Israel, he had been a regular giver to Zionist causes all his life.

  Since his death twenty years before, his widow would occasionally criticize the more extremist right-wing factions in Israel, but never the state itself. Her husband and her ancestors had given up too much, fought too hard for her to betray their dream.

  She would be dismayed at what Erika was doing. She might never forgive her. That would be difficult for Erika to bear.

  The doorbell rang. The house froze.

  ‘That’s not the police, is it?’ said Erika.

  ‘If it is, I’ll tell them to go away,’ said Viktor. ‘The agreement was they would leave us alone.’

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ said Ásta.

  She went to the door and opened it. Erika heard insistent questions asked in Icelandic and English. She recognized her own name.

  Ásta came back inside and closed the door. ‘It’s RÚV. Icelandic TV. They want to speak to you, Erika.’

  ‘Tell them to go away,’ said Viktor. ‘We have no comment.’

  ‘No,’ said Erika. She took a deep breath. Nico’s murder was a big deal in the Icelandic news. Of course the press would want to speak to her. It wasn’t surprising that they would find out where she was eventually. ‘No, I’ll talk to them. Otherwise they’ll never go away.’

  She took a moment to compose herself and then went to the door. A reporter was waiting for her – a young blonde woman who looked as if she was just out of high school – and a cameraman in a woolly hat. Behind them she could see a police car parked on the other side of the street, its occupant watching them with interest.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Erika said. ‘I am Erika Zinn. Can I help you?’

  ‘How are you feeling after the attack?’ the reporter asked.

  Erika answered as blandly as she could, and dealt similarly with a couple of follow-ups. The questions were hesitant; it was like talking to the cub reporter on the Chappaqua Journal. Erika was preparing an emotional appeal for people to come forward for information that might help the police when she was surprised by a new tack.

  ‘Do you think that the attack had anything to do with Freeflow?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Erika said, stalling.

  ‘You are the leader of Freeflow, aren’t you? The website that channels leaks? The organization that leaked details of Ódinsbanki’s loan book? We saw you here in Iceland last fall.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Erika admitted.

  ‘So do you believe that the murder of your colleague was related?’

  Erika’s instinctive response was to blame the CIA; that was usually a useful diversionary tactic. But she was afraid that would raise questions she didn’t want raised.

  ‘Freeflow has made a number of enemies over the years, so we cannot rule that out,’ she said.

  ‘Why have you come back to Iceland?’ The reporter was beginning to irritate Erika. She had suddenly developed an aggressive, blunt manner.

  ‘It has nothing to do with any Icelandic issues,’ Erika said.

  ‘Then what issues does it have to do with?’ the reporter asked.

  ‘As you may know, Freeflow has no headquarters,’ Erika replied with a smile. ‘But every now and then we need to get together. We admire Iceland’s Modern Media Initiative, so Reykjavík seemed a good place to choose. But we are not working on anything in particular.’

  ‘We have information that the leak you are working on is related to Israel.’

  Erika felt a spark of anger flash inside her. ‘What part of “we are not working on anything in particular” do you not understand?’ she said. ‘That’s all I have time for. Goodbye.’

  With that she turned on her heel and strode back into the house, ignoring the shouted questions following her.

  She clapped her hands. ‘OK, people, let’s get to it! Quit messing about. Let’s get this video downloaded.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘IDIOT MACHINE!’ ÁSTA swore. That wasn’t really good enough, so she switched to English. ‘Fucking thing!’

  It still didn’t fix her all-in-one printer and scanner. A blinking light demanded that the red cartridge be changed even though she was only scanning something in black and white. Why did the stupid machine care?

  She sat back at her desk in her tiny studio apartment and took a couple of breaths. She had scurried home after the Freeflow team had got down to work on the video. She had her own affairs to attend to. If her damned scanner would let her.

  She looked over towards the familiar church opposite. It was new, Iceland’s newest. It was named after Gudrídur the Wanderer, who not only had travelled to Iceland, Greenland, America and Rome in the eleventh century, but was also one of the earliest female Icelandic scholars. It was a rectangular block of concrete, and instead of a tower or spire at the eastern end, it had a walled garden with a reflective pond, visible through a glass wall behind the altar. Ásta loved it. Her ambition was one day to be its vicar.

  No chance of that in the foreseeable future. Like just about every other institution in Iceland, the Church was short of money, and finding a job if you didn’t already have one was hard. Very hard.

  It had been a long day, a mix of horror and excitement. She couldn’t get Nico’s cold pale face out of her mind, his eyes staring meaninglessly into the snow under frosted lashes. The image would never leave her, she knew. But she was impressed by the Freeflow team and their dedication to what they were doing. She was particularly impressed by Erika. Clearly Nico’s murder had hit her badly, but she was brave enough and strong enough to continue with Project Meltwater.

  Or was she just so driven by her own obsessions that she wouldn’t let anything knock her off her chosen path, even the death of a colleague?

  Perhaps both were true. Ásta was convinced that publishing the Gaza video was right, as Nico had been, she was sure. Did his death make it more or less right that Freeflow should go ahead?

  Her instinct was that Erika was doing the right thing. And she couldn’t deny that the danger and the secrecy made the whole experience exhilarating.

  Unlike the document she was scanning.

  It was a journal. She had read and reread it at least three times, and each time it made her sad and it made her angry. The handwriting was small and spiky. Ásta remembered the girl who had written it. Soffía was the daughter of a neighbour, several years older than Ásta, who used to babysit her sometimes. Ásta remembered her as a pious girl; Ásta herself had had
little interest in religion when she was a child. But it was Soffía’s mother, Berglind, who was a good friend of Ásta’s own mother, who had given Ásta the journal.

  Berglind had discovered it among Soffía’s things after Soffía had died. She thought its contents should be made public.

  Ásta agreed.

  She had probably scanned in about forty pages of the 120. Fortunately Soffía’s handwriting was in thick black ink and the pages scanned legibly. When it was all in her computer Ásta would figure out the best way to send it to Freeflow. An anonymous CD in the post as Erika had advised wasn’t strictly necessary. Once she read what the journal said, Erika would know it came from Ásta. Maybe the best thing was just to email it to the Freeflow website.

  Ásta knew she could trust Erika to treat her own leak carefully. It would make a big impact, in Iceland certainly, if not globally, and in Ásta’s own world. And once the scanned pages from Soffía’s journal were up there on the Freeflow website, no one could take them down.

  Eighty more pages to scan. Ásta sighed and began looking for a spare red cartridge.

  Magnus got into the rhythm as he powered up and down the open-air swimming pool at Laugardalur. He had twenty minutes before closing time at nine o’clock but it was still light. A thin layer of mist hovered over the geothermally heated pool. Even though he had barely slept the night before, he needed to swim to unwind.

  The interview with Franz had been helpful. Vigdís had called a journalist contact of hers at RÚV and given her the tip about Israel. Erika’s reactions on the evening news had more or less confirmed that Franz had been right. Of course it didn’t mean that the Israelis were definitely behind the attack, but the police were trying to track down every Israeli in the country. There couldn’t be that many of them.

  There were more Italians. That angle couldn’t be ignored.

  However, what they really needed was to find the snowmobilers. The couple in the other jeep by the volcano had come forward, but they hadn’t seen anything. They lived in Reykjavík, the husband was retired and the wife had recently lost her job at a store in the Kringlan Mall. They had never heard of Freeflow. As for the snowmobilers, the Hvolsvöllur police were out asking about them, but no one had seen anything. The murder was all over the news, but no sign of them.

  The snowmobilers were definitely at the top of the list of suspects for Nico’s murder.

  Refreshed, Magnus jumped out of the pool – no time for a hot tub – showered, changed and drove home. He parked on Njálsgata outside the small cream-coloured house with its lime-green corrugated metal roof where he lived, and pulled out his key. It was getting dark: the lights illuminating the spire of the Hallgrímskirkja at the top of the hill had just been switched on.

  He heard light footsteps just behind him. Felt a hand on his ass. A squeeze.

  He turned in surprise.

  Before he could say anything, familiar lips met his. A familiar kiss.

  ‘Ingileif!’

  ‘Hi.’ She smiled. Her blond bangs hung over her eyes; he searched out and found the little nick above her left eyebrow. ‘Are you pleased to see me?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am.’

  ‘Good, in that case let me in.’

  Magnus unlocked the door. ‘So what are you doing here? Why didn’t you call? I didn’t know you were coming back to Iceland.’

  Ingileif put a finger on his lips. ‘Too many questions, Mr Detective.’ She laughed, taking his hand and leading him up the stairs to his room. ‘We’ve got some catching up to do.’

  They lay naked on the bed, Ingileif snuggled into Magnus’s chest where she felt most comfortable. Where he felt most comfortable. Where she ought to be.

  ‘So how’s Hamburg?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘It’s great. I really like it. There’s a lot going on there. And the gallery is doing really well.’

  ‘But what about the credit crunch?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to apply in Germany. Or rather it did, but they seem to be getting out of it already. They still love Scandinavian design. And the Icelandic stuff gives them something more exotic to put with their blond wood and white walls.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Magnus. Of course he didn’t mean it. What he had really wanted her to say was that Germany was a disaster and she wanted to leave at the first opportunity.

  She hauled herself up on to an elbow and kissed him quickly. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  Magnus was about to ask her what she was sorry about, but of course she knew what he was thinking, how disappointed he was.

  ‘What is all that stuff on your wall?’

  She was staring at the yellow Post-its, the photographs and the notes.

  ‘That’s my father’s murder,’ Magnus said sheepishly.

  ‘Magnús, that is seriously weird. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that.’

  ‘It helps, I think.’

  ‘Does it help? Or does it just feed your obsession?’

  ‘Hey, you were the one who kept on telling me to face up to my past.’

  ‘Weirdo, weirdo, weirdo,’ she giggled.

  Magnus untangled himself from Ingileif and sat up, looking at the wall. ‘Ollie’s coming over from the States tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I want to talk about all this with him. Get him to let me investigate it more.’

  ‘Will I get to meet him finally?’

  ‘I guess so. Don’t worry, he’ll like you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Ollie likes gorgeous women. Even if they are totally insensitive.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of guy.’ Ingileif leaned over and kissed Magnus on the cheek. ‘Sorry about the weirdo comment. I always knew you were a little strange. But why do you let your brother dictate what you do?’

  ‘I went over to Boston a few months ago. Began asking around in Duxbury where my father was killed. But Ollie was unhappy about it, very unhappy. He asked me to lay off.’

  ‘And you did? Why?’

  ‘I’ve told you what a tough time we had as kids at Bjarnarhöfn. What my grandfather used to do to him. Since then I feel like I have to look after him, watch out for him. Especially after Dad was killed. If he says he can’t handle me digging into the past, I believe him.’

  ‘So it’s his weird obsession against yours?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Sounds like you should talk to him tomorrow. Where’s he staying?’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘My bag’s at María’s house. You remember her?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ingileif had loads of friends in Reykjavík, none of whom Magnus had got to know. They were beautiful people, beautifully dressed, with beautiful taste, who had all gone to school together. Magnus wasn’t beautiful. They were nice to him, but he didn’t fit in, and he didn’t try. Ingileif didn’t seem to mind. ‘Your bag? What about you?’

  ‘Well … I thought I could sleep here. If that’s OK with you.’ She stroked his thigh.

  ‘That’s fine with me. How long are you here for?’

  ‘Just three days. I’ve got to see a load of people tomorrow, but can we meet for lunch?’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult,’ said Magnus. ‘There’s a big homicide investigation on at the moment.’

  ‘How exciting! Then we should definitely meet for lunch. You can give me your clues and I can solve it for you just like I solved your last case.’

  ‘Getting the chief suspect drunk and making him brag about what he’s done is not a recommended technique for the modern detective.’

  ‘Why not? It should be.’

  ‘Besides, we are lacking even a chief suspect at the moment.’

  ‘Well, you can find one in the morning and we can discuss him at lunch. Or her.’

  ‘I’ll call you if I can make it,’ said Magnus.

  ‘What about Ollie?’ She kissed him. ‘Where is he going to sleep tomorrow night?’

  ‘Katrín has a spare room downstairs. He can sleep there.’

  ‘Go
od.’

  She kissed him again. And moved her hand a bit higher up his thigh.

  The man wasn’t used to it getting dark this late in April – after nine o’clock. Spotlights sprang to life, illuminating the church next to him and its phallic spire thrusting up into the night sky. He had the hunting knife he had bought the day he had arrived in Iceland. He had his torch. He would wait.

  The traffic died away. Peace settled on the church and the statue. The odd tourist wobbled into the hotel. All seemed to be quiet down in Thórsgata.

  At eleven, he pulled on his red jacket and strolled down the street running parallel to Thórsgata, Lokastígur. Back to the car and another couple of hours’ wait.

  At a few minutes past one, he put on his gloves, pulled the knife out from under his seat and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. He walked the long way round, along Baldursgata and then up Lokastígur. The street was dead. It was reasonably well lit by the streetlamps, but there was barely a light on in any of the houses. He paused outside the property he had calculated earlier backed on to the Freeflow house – cream concrete walls, red-painted corrugated metal roof – and slipped into a shadow.

  He crept around the side of the house, stepping over a kid’s bike. It was much darker here, and he paused to let his eyes adjust. The rustle of his clothes and the rasp of his breathing were uncomfortably loud in his ears.

  The back garden was small, less than ten metres across. There was a fence at the back, about one-sixty high. He crossed the garden and hauled himself over, landing with a gentle thump in the back garden of the yellow Freeflow house.

  He looked up. The lights were on in just about every room.

  Damn.

  The curtains were all drawn. The ground floor was slightly raised, so the window sills were at eye level. His fingers closed around the handle of the knife in his pocket. He crouched down and approached the widest window. There was a tiny gap in the curtains.

  Through it he could see the staff of Freeflow hard at work, laptops open, a couple of them wearing headphones. And in the middle of them all was Erika Zinn, staring intently at the black-and-white images on her own computer.