Operation Napoleon

by Arnaldur Indridason

  Ratoff emerged from the tent with a thin spattering of blood on his face. He walked rapidly to the communications tent where he found two messages waiting for him. He would talk to Ripley first. Finding a cloth, he dried his face deliberately and thoughtfully, as if he had just washed.

  ‘A regrettable suicide?’ he asked when Ripley came on the line.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ Ripley replied. ‘The target escaped and we were forced to leave a body behind in her apartment.’

  There was nothing but static from Ratoff’s end of the line.

  ‘She had a visitor, sir, whilst we were with her. An unforeseen eventuality. Our orders were to move in directly and we had no time to prepare.’

  ‘So what now?’ Ratoff asked eventually.

  ‘We find her, sir.’

  ‘Do you need more men?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘And how do you propose to find her?’

  ‘Is her brother still alive?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘We need any available information, sir. Does she have a boyfriend, any friends – old or new – or family? Anything we could use. Did he manage to pass on anything?’

  ‘Only to his sister. She knows the glacier is swarming with armed soldiers, she knows there’s an airplane in the ice, she knows her brother’s disappeared and I’m reasonably sure she knows where Elvis is hiding. If you imbeciles hadn’t let her give you the run-around, we’d be in the clear.’ Throughout this speech, one of Ratoff’s longest in days, neither the tone nor the volume of his voice changed in the slightest.

  ‘We’ll find her, sir. We’ll track down her family. We have her credit and debit card numbers and can monitor any use of them. She’ll turn up and when she does, we’ll be waiting.’

  BUILDING 312, WASHINGTON DC,

  FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, AFTERNOON

  General Vytautas Carr was sitting in his office when a call came through on his private line. His thoughts had been wandering while he waited for Ratoff to make contact. Carr had parted from the defense secretary having given an assurance that no news about the plane in the ice would ever reach the public domain. The young Democrat had pronounced with great solemnity that the operation was to remain clandestine and that he did not want to know the details; in fact, he did not want to hear another word about it until it had been successfully concluded. Then, and only then, would he apprise the President of the essential facts. That way, if anything went wrong, the President would not have to tell any lies but could claim in all honesty that he had had no idea about any plane full of Jewish gold stolen by the US army. Nevertheless, the secretary could not restrain himself from asking for clarification of a few points.

  ‘What are you planning to do with the plane?’ he asked as they wrapped up the meeting.

  Carr was prepared for the question, as well as the inevitable follow-up.

  ‘We’ll remove it from the glacier along with any wreckage we find, including bodies and other contents, and bring it back to the States. That’s what the C-17’s for, Mr Secretary. It has unlimited weight-bearing capacity. It’ll depart from Keflavík and fly without refuelling stops to our facility at Roswell, where the Nazi plane will disappear permanently.’

  ‘Roswell?’ the secretary queried. ‘Isn’t that the alien town?’

  ‘I can’t think of any better hiding place. After all that alien nonsense anything reported about Roswell and what goes on there is dismissed as bullshit, except by a tiny minority of UFO nuts. If the news gets out that we’re hiding a Nazi plane at Roswell, it’ll raise an even bigger laugh.’

  ‘And the gold?’ the secretary asked.

  ‘No need to waste it. I imagine it’ll disappear into the Federal Reserve Bank, unless you have another suggestion.’

  They had parted on better terms than before. The defense secretary’s appreciation of the role of the secret service had improved dramatically, creating a new degree of understanding between them. Not that that mattered a damn to Carr, though he did derive a private satisfaction from having brought the secretary to heel. By the end of their meeting Carr could have ordered him to stand on one leg and stick out his tongue and he would have obeyed without hesitation.

  Carr had come a long way from his Lithuanian origins. His original surname had been Karilius but in an attempt to integrate into his adopted country he had shortened it to Carr. His parents had emigrated to the US in the 1920s and he was their only child; he was eleven years old when the US entered the Second World War and used to follow the news reports from the frontlines avidly. As soon as he was old enough, he joined the army and was rapidly promoted through the ranks, being appointed US army liaison officer to NATO. But desk work did not suit him and he had himself transferred to active duty when the Korean War broke out, going on to set up the covert operations service there, and undertaking numerous missions behind enemy lines. After Korea, he joined the army intelligence corps.

  Carr inherited the aircraft on Vatnajökull in the early seventies when he took over as chief of the organisation, and during the five years it took him to learn his role fully, his predecessor gradually filled him in on the background to the presence of a German plane in the ice. By the end of that time, Carr knew all about the plane and what it was carrying and how to act if the plane was ever found. What they were following now was a prearranged procedure that Carr reviewed every few years. Only a handful of individuals in the highest echelons of the army were aware of the plane’s existence or the procedure for dealing with it. For fifty-four years the knowledge had been kept strictly confidential, successfully limited to this tiny group, passed down from generation to generation, from one incumbent of office to the next. Even Carr did not know the whole story, though he knew enough. Enough not to want to imagine the fallout if news about what the plane was carrying ever got out.

  The phone on his desk purred and he picked up the receiver.

  ‘We’re on schedule, sir,’ Ratoff announced.

  ‘No trouble locating it?’

  ‘It was buried but the coordinates were correct. We’ve already uncovered half the fuselage. I estimate that we’ll have it in Keflavík in three to four days at the outside.’

  ‘No hitches?’

  ‘Nothing significant. There’s a rescue team from Reykjavík conducting a training exercise on the glacier. It’s located some distance away but two of its members managed to stray into our area.’

  Carr tensed: ‘And?’

  ‘They lost their lives in an accident about thirty-five miles from here. Drove their snowmobiles into a deep crevasse. We’ll ensure they’re found quickly so the team doesn’t wander into our area looking for them.’

  ‘Were they young?’

  ‘Young? I don’t understand the relevance, sir. They were old enough to see us and the plane.’

  ‘So everything’s in hand then?’ Carr concluded

  ‘One of them had a sister in Reykjavík.’

  Carr’s disappointment was impossible to conceal.

  ‘He made contact with her by phone after he entered the area. We know who she is but she gave us the slip. We’re tracing her now.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Ripley and Bateman. The best available option in the circumstances.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Ratoff, try to control yourself. The Icelanders are our allies.’

  Carr put down the receiver, picked it up again immediately and started dialling. It was time to put phase two of the operation in motion. The defense secretary had been concerned about Ratoff’s involvement and now even Carr was beginning to have his doubts about his choice of mission director. Carr knew the alarming details of his army career better than anyone. Ratoff undeniably delivered results but he tended to be over-zealous.

  He had to wait a good while for his call to be answered, and spent the time mapping out his next moves. He would have to fly to Iceland. But first he would honour an old promise.

  ‘Miller?’ he said. ‘It’s Vytauta
s. The plane’s turned up. We need to meet.’

  REYKJAVÍK

  FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 1945 GMT

  Kristín ran blindly towards the coast road at Aegisída, then veered west, her instincts keeping her as far as possible to the dark gardens. Her only thought was to flee; she never once looked back.

  A succession of terrible images flashed through her mind. She saw the light going out in Runólfur’s eyes as the bullet entered his forehead, heard the whine of a second bullet and saw it thud into the door. Her ear hurt; it was bleeding. Her thoughts darted to her brother on the glacier: they had said he was dead. She remembered his last words: armed soldiers, a plane. A few minutes later two men had forced their way into her flat and tried to kill her. They had mentioned a name – Ratoff – and a conspiracy involving the Reykjavík police, the foreign ministry and the ministry of justice. It had seemed preposterous at first but any illusion had been dispelled as Runólfur crumpled to the floor in front of her.

  The cold soon began to make her bones ache. She psyched herself up to look over her shoulder as she ran but could see no sign of the two men. Dropping her pace, she took a better look around and finally slowed to a standstill. She was surrounded by apartment blocks. Noticing that the door to the basement of one building was ajar, she slipped inside, pulling the door to behind her. It was pitch black inside and she was met by a stench of refuse. She made her way to the back and crouched down in the dark like an animal.

  She lost track of time. Eventually, hearing no sound of movement, she crept forwards, cautiously pushed at the door and peered out through the crack, surveying her surroundings. There was nobody about; they had not followed her. Not far off was a small estate of terraced houses, their lights shining cosily through the icy darkness. What should she do? Knock at one of the doors and tell them everything? About the men and the body in her flat and the police complicity? But if the police were involved, who could she notify about the murder, about her brother on the glacier and the two killers? And what if the ministry she worked for was also implicated in the murder? She fumbled at her jacket, feeling for the wallet in her pocket.

  What if they had killed Elías the way they had killed Runólfur right in front of her eyes? she thought. What kind of men were they?

  Gradually anger got the better of her fear, allowing her to think more logically. She must find shelter somewhere; acquire clothes, information, maybe even go to the glacier herself and try to help her brother, if he was still alive. She did not dare contact the authorities; not as things stood, not until she knew more, until she was sure it was safe. But where was she to go? If they knew about her, surely they would know about her father too, in which case she could not go to him. The thought suddenly struck her: should she not warn him in case they paid him a visit next?

  She dashed out of the rubbish store and over to the terraced houses where she hammered on the door of the nearest and leaned on the doorbell. The man of the house answered quickly, his wife and two children hovering behind his shoulder. They had been watching television and had evidently sprung to their feet when they heard the banging and ringing. Kristín barged her way inside the moment the door opened.

  ‘I have to make a phone call,’ she cried. ‘Where’s the phone?’

  ‘Just a minute, miss,’ the man said, looking at her in horror. She was sweating in spite of the cold, her chest was heaving, her face a mask of terror, her clothes soaking wet and blood was oozing from one ear, caking the right side of her head.

  ‘I asked you, where’s the phone?’ she repeated as he staggered back before her into the little kitchen, where he pointed dumbly to the telephone. His family clustered around him.

  Three rings, six. He did not answer. She tried to think clearly: where could he be? His answering machine kicked in and she waited impatiently for the tone, then spoke hurriedly.

  ‘Dad? You’ve got to hide. The moment you hear this, disappear. I don’t know what’s going on but they’ve killed a man and tried to kill me, and they’ll almost certainly come after you. Elías may be dead. There are two of them, dressed like Jehovah’s Witnesses. I know this sounds insane but please do as I say and go into hiding. Don’t worry about me, just hide! And don’t try to make contact with me.’

  The little family were gaping at her. The man exchanged alarmed glances with his wife and both looked down at the children, huddling closer together, their eyes fixed on this wild woman as she ended her message. When Kristín put down the receiver and turned to face them, they all stepped back simultaneously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, seeing the terror on the children’s faces. ‘It’s all true, I swear to God. They were going to kill me. Can you lend me some clothes? But please don’t ring the police – they may be involved. Try to forget this happened.’ She shivered involuntarily as the adrenalin began to ebb from her body, her teeth chattering together. ‘Do you have any clothes you could lend me? God, I’m so cold. Do you have any shoes and socks?’

  ‘If we give you some clothes,’ the woman said, speaking as calmly as she could, ‘will you leave?’

  ‘I’ll leave right away,’ Kristín assured her. ‘Just please don’t call the police.’

  A few minutes later she emerged from the house dressed in an outfit belonging to the woman: a pair of jeans, a thick jumper and winter boots. Under normal circumstances she would have found it odd and uncomfortable to be wearing someone else’s clothes which smelt of a strange, alien perfume, but there was no time for such thoughts now. The door slammed behind her. They had given her a plaster for her ear as well. As she walked slowly out of the cul-de-sac and on to the main road, the occasional car drove past cautiously in the snow. Kristín loathed snow; it reminded her of nothing more than Icelandic winters and the inner darkness they brought with them. She walked along the pavement, wondering what to do, before eventually deciding to head back in the direction of Tómasarhagi, looking round warily all the while. She had come up with a plan of sorts, though she doubted that she was in any fit state to think rationally or to work out the simplest solution.

  She would handle this alone, at least to begin with. She did not dare to go to her friends or family for fear that her pursuers or their henchmen would be waiting. Only a few minutes had elapsed between her conversation with her brother and their appearance on her doorstep. Perhaps they were tapping her phone. But why? Did it have something to do with Runólfur? They had killed him, after all, and he had been raging about a conspiracy; about the Russian mafia.

  She knew only one man who could tell her about soldiers.

  Taking care to keep out of sight, she peered over at her own house. There was no sign of the police or anyone else; everything looked quiet, domestic, unremarkable. When she reached the main road she hailed a taxi, one which fortunately accepted cards.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘Keflavík Airport,’ she replied, casting a nervous glance out of the rear window.

  VATNAJÖKULL GLACIER,

  FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 2100 GMT

  Ratoff did not see them land but heard the thuds as they collided with the ice on their headlong descent into the crevasse. It was pitch dark on the glacier, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, the only light emanating from the headlamps on Ratoff’s tracked vehicle and the snowmobiles. By the time they had reached the crevasse, one of the young men was unconscious, the other dead. Ratoff ordered his soldiers to push their snowmobiles into the chasm on top of them, after which his men set to work obliterating their tracks. Once this was done, Ratoff dropped Elías’s phone into the crevasse after him.

  In the end he had forced Elías to give up the salient facts about Kristín, information which he duly passed on to Ripley and Bateman. Elías had held out for a long time but Ratoff was good at his job. The boy had surrendered everything about his sister’s friends and colleagues, where their father lived and how he often made long trips abroad, and about Kristín’s ex-boyfriends, the lawyer and his circle; even about their mother’s death a few y
ears earlier in a car crash. He revealed how his sister had taken a postgraduate degree in California and how, despite sometimes visiting friends abroad, she hated travelling in Iceland and that trips into the interior were her idea of hell. Elías had told Ratoff everything he wanted to know, before finally begging for mercy. But by then his friend Jóhann was dead. The last thing Elías heard before he lost consciousness was Ratoff whispering the news in his ear that his sister was dead too.

  Ratoff’s men laboured away at clearing the ice from the German aircraft, working in four-hour shifts, sixty men to a shift. They were well on schedule; more and more of the fuselage had been uncovered until they could now see into the passenger cabin through the first of the side windows. When Ratoff returned to camp, he walked over to the German plane and spent a long time peering through the window. He could dimly make out shapes on the floor that might have been bodies. He was summoned to the communications tent and straightened up. Ripley was on the line.

  ‘She used her debit card to pay for a taxi to Keflavík, sir,’ Ripley informed him. ‘Did her brother say anything about Keflavík?’

  ‘Why the hell is she going to Keflavík?’ Ratoff asked. ‘What happened at her place? How much does she know? Surely the logical move would be to go to the Reykjavík police?’

  There was a short pause on the line.

  ‘She knows there’s a strong possibility that her brother’s dead,’ Ripley admitted hesitantly. ‘She may also be under the impression that someone’s trying to murder her because of a conspiracy involving the Reykjavík police, the Icelandic foreign ministry and the ministry of justice.’

  ‘Are you out of your goddamn minds?’

  ‘We underestimated the job, sir. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Won’t happen again?’ Ratoff hissed. ‘It should never have happened in the first place!’