Operation Napoleon

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘I didn’t know where else to turn,’ Kristín said, trying to choke back the tears that, despite herself, threatened to come.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, sensing her agitation and putting down the bundle of papers.

  ‘I didn’t know where else to turn,’ Kristín repeated. ‘You have to help me. Something terrible has happened to my brother.’

  ‘Your brother? Elías? What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Two men just tried to kill me in my apartment. Americans.’

  ‘Kill you? No . . .’

  ‘They killed Runólfur.’

  ‘Runólfur?’ Steve had difficulty pronouncing the name but even more in understanding Kristín. ‘What are you talking about? What’s going on?’

  ‘I didn’t know where else to turn,’ Kristín said a third time, as if stuck on repeat. She was pale. Her chin trembled and she chewed at her fingernails as she tried to control herself.

  Perplexed but troubled by her distress, Steve went slowly over, put a tentative arm around her and led her into the living room.

  ‘They were going to kill me,’ she choked. ‘I don’t know why. They claimed the police and ministry were involved. Elías phoned from the glacier saying he’d seen soldiers and a plane, then we were cut off. I was just trying to get hold of the rescue service when these men turned up. They said I was going to commit suicide, then Runólfur knocked on the door and they shot him. I managed to get away. They said Elías was dead.’

  Steve took care not to interrupt her. Clearly something traumatic had happened but he could make little of this incoherent monologue. He had never expected to see Kristín again, so her appearance now was inexplicable. Had she gone mad in the meantime? He wondered how long it would take for a doctor from the base to get to his flat.

  ‘Elías saw some soldiers on the glacier,’ Kristín tried again. ‘They must have been American soldiers. That was the last thing he said before we were cut off. Do you know what American troops could be doing on the glacier?’

  ‘The glacier?’

  ‘Vatnajökull. I can tell you think I’m talking nonsense. I keep thinking I’m dreaming, that this is a nightmare and I’ll wake up. But I’m not going to wake up. I’m never going to find that everything’s all right. It’s all true.’

  He searched her face, as if it would give a clue to what chaos raged in her mind.

  ‘And then there are the Russians,’ she added hesitantly.

  ‘The Russians?’

  ‘The man they killed in my flat was doing business with Russia. The Americans shot him in the head. When he came to the ministry he was ranting about a conspiracy against him. His killers mentioned a conspiracy too. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve got to find out what happened to Elías. I tried to phone the rescue service but they didn’t answer and then these Jehovah’s Witnesses turned up.’

  ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

  ‘The men who tried to kill me. There were two of them, dressed like Jehovah’s Witnesses – you know, dark suits and ties, neat hair, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses who go from door to door with pamphlets. That’s why I opened the door. I thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’m such a fool!’

  ‘Okay, it’s okay,’ Steve said soothingly, aware that none of this was okay. ‘What the hell have you been doing at the ministry that could lead to this?’

  ‘Nothing. Just my job. I haven’t done anything. It’s not my fault. I’ve done nothing to cause any of this. Nor has Elías.’

  ‘No, of course not. But it sounds like two completely unrelated matters. American soldiers on Vatnajökull on the one hand, and a conspiracy linked to doing business with Russia on the other.’

  Kristín took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara. ‘I know. I can’t make any sense of it.’

  She was calmer now. Steve was glad to have dispelled the tension inside her by accepting what she said without casting doubt on her bizarre story. Whatever her real state of mind, she was at her wits’ end and it would be wrong to argue with anything she said. Her sobs gradually subsided and she was able to speak with more composure.

  ‘Can you check this stuff about soldiers on the glacier for me? Ask around? Talk to people?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Steve replied. ‘What exactly did your brother say?’

  ‘That there was a plane in the ice and soldiers on the glacier.’

  ‘Did he say “in the ice”? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘As if it was buried in the ice. Is that what he said?’

  ‘In the ice, on the ice – what the hell’s the difference? He mentioned a plane and soldiers.’

  ‘Is it possible that there’s a plane in the ice?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Steve, I can’t remember if he said in the ice or on the ice. It doesn’t matter. I just need to know what’s happening up there.’

  Steve nodded. He had been stationed on the base for three years, employed by the press office to liaise with those Icelandic government ministries that dealt with the US military, chiefly the foreign ministry. He lived alone; he and his wife had divorced back in America. Of Irish extraction, he was dark, with an unruly mane of black hair. Although a few years older than Kristín at thirty-five, he was about her height, lean and strongly built. He used to make her laugh. They had met in an official capacity and eventually he had willed himself to ask her out to dinner.

  On their first couple of dates at restaurants in Reykjavík, he had told her all about himself and his family. His people had always been in retailing but, having not the slightest interest in business, he had broken the mould by studying politics at university, followed by a stint working for the US defense department. But his real love was travelling, so when the opportunity to work in Iceland came up, he seized it.

  For their third date he had invited her to the officers’ mess at the base, followed by a drink at his place. Once they got back to his apartment he had been considerate but her confidence had evaporated without warning and she had panicked, unable to face the prospect of getting into bed with an American on the base. The stories about Icelandic women and GIs were ugly: ‘Yankee whores’ they called them. The public had always taken a harsh view of Icelandic women who got involved with American servicemen, a throwback to the Second World War when the girls had welcomed the first foreign soldiers to arrive on these shores, seeing them as an escape route to a brighter future, a new life overseas, or else admiring their uniforms and foreign manners, so familiar from the movies, and seeing them as providers of cigarettes, nylons and good times. ‘The situation’, as it was known, was a source of shame in Iceland and women who slept with the army were branded as sluts, an attitude Kristín felt had changed little over the years.

  When she tried to explain, however, he was hurt that she saw him in those terms, so she left and after that they gradually saw less and less of each other until their relationship simply petered out. It was a senseless, silent drawing away from each other; they had not spoken for six months but had never really ended it definitively.

  ‘Why don’t we start by calling the rescue service?’ he suggested in an attempt to placate her. ‘Find out about your brother.’

  He stood up, found the number and rang it. No one answered. He tried another number; no answer there either. He tried the third number, then beckoned her over to take the phone: someone had answered at last. She sprang up.

  ‘My name’s Kristín,’ she said, ‘is that the Reykjavík Air Ground Rescue Team?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can I get hold of your team on Vatnajökull?’

  ‘We have several contact numbers for mobile phones and walkie-talkies. Can I help at all?’

  ‘Has there been an accident on the glacier? Is anyone missing?’

  ‘May I ask who you are?’

  ‘Kristín. My brother’s with the team. Elías.’

  ‘I’ll put you through to the leader of t
he team on Vatnajökull. Please hold the line.’

  Kristín waited. She watched Steve pacing back and forth in his small living room; stared unseeingly at James Dean in the New York rain, at the face of revolution.

  ‘Hello,’ she heard a voice say at the other end. ‘Is that Kristín? This is Júlíus. I’m in charge of the team here on Vatnajökull. Can you hear me okay?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ Kristín said hurriedly. ‘Is Elías with you? Is he all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid Elías is missing.’

  ‘He’s missing? How come? Where is he?’

  ‘He and Jóhann left camp about seven hours ago and haven’t returned yet. But we’ve traced a signal from Elías’s phone and expect to find them as soon as it gets light. They may have got lost – it’s very dark here. But I can’t rule out the possibility that they’ve had an accident. Elías has plenty of experience on glaciers though, so there’s no need to panic.’

  ‘Have you noticed any soldiers in the area?’ Kristín asked.

  ‘Soldiers? No. What do you mean, soldiers?’

  ‘Elías phoned me from the glacier and said there were soldiers coming towards him.’

  ‘When did Elías call you?’

  ‘It must have been about three or four hours ago. We were cut off seconds after he saw the soldiers.’

  ‘No, we haven’t noticed any movements up here. The boys were test-driving our new snowmobiles and could have covered quite a distance in that time, but there’s no one around except us.’

  ‘Didn’t they give you any idea of where they were going? Do you think Elías could be in danger?’

  ‘They didn’t, and I can’t imagine so, not unless he’s travelling in the dark. There’s a large belt of crevasses several hours to the west of us, but he’s careful, and so’s Jóhann. I expect they’ve stopped somewhere and their phone’s out of range. If they stay where they are, we’ll find them quickly once it gets light. What on earth made you call about Elías? Did you have some kind of premonition?’

  ‘I was informed that Elías was dead,’ Kristín said, ‘and that it was connected somehow to the soldiers he saw on the glacier.’

  ‘Elías isn’t dead. He’s missing but he’s alive.’

  ‘Kristín.’ Steve was looking out of the living room window, the curtain pushed to one side. He was staring down at the car park in front of the building.

  ‘Can I get hold of you on this number later?’ Kristín asked, ignoring Steve.

  ‘Who told you Elías was dead? Who would do a thing like that?’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain now. I’ll talk to you later.’

  She took down his number and rang off. Júlíus had a manner of natural authority that in any other context would have been reassuring, she thought; he spoke confidently and precisely. But the conversation had done nothing to allay her fears.

  ‘How did you get here?’ Steve asked.

  ‘By taxi.’

  ‘Did anyone else know you were coming here?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘Did you pay using cash?’

  ‘No, by debit card.’

  ‘Those men, did they have fair hair?’ Steve asked in a level voice.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Actually, it can’t be, these guys aren’t wearing jackets and ties, they’re in ski-suits and boots.’

  ‘Steve, what the hell are you on about?’

  ‘There are two men standing outside, staring up at my window.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kristín said, the colour draining from her face.

  She ran to the window, peered down at the car park and gasped in horror.

  ‘Jesus, it’s them. How the hell did they find me here?’

  Steve leapt back from the window as if he had been struck. ‘They’ve seen us. Come on!’

  Kristín was still wearing her coat. Steve yanked on boots and a thick down jacket; seconds later they were outside on the landing. Peering down the stairwell, they saw Ripley and Bateman entering the hall below and running towards the stairs.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Steve.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’ Kristín asked.

  ‘Why would I have a gun?’

  ‘Just my luck to meet the only bloody American who doesn’t carry a gun,’ she swore in Icelandic.

  ‘Come on,’ he cried, running back into the apartment and locking the door behind them. They dashed out on to the little balcony. It was a six-metre drop to the ground – too high. Nor could they swing down to the balcony below, but there was a chance they could jump on to the one next door. From the front door to the apartment came the sound of hammering. Steve helped Kristín climb on to the rail and, grasping the ice-cold metal, she pushed herself up, almost succumbing to vertigo when she looked down, convinced for a moment that she was going to fall. Large lumps of snow slithered off the balcony, vanishing into the darkness below. Conquering her dizziness and ignoring the pain from her hands as the cold bit into them, she jumped over to the next balcony, dropping to the cement floor with a thud and a gasp. Steve followed just as the door to his apartment burst open.

  He snatched up a heavy plant pot from the floor of his neighbour’s balcony and used it to smash the glass of the veranda door, before opening it from the inside. They hurried in, straight through the apartment, kicking children’s toys out of the way and almost falling over a vacuum cleaner, and out on to the landing, then raced down the stairs.

  Ripley and Bateman ran through Steve’s apartment and, hearing the sound of smashing glass, out on to the balcony where they saw that the veranda door of the neighbouring apartment was open. Spinning round, they rushed back through the apartment, only to spot Steve and Kristín vanishing into the stairwell. A fat man wearing nothing but his underpants emerged from the neighbouring flat and walked straight into Ripley and Bateman’s path. They collided with him, knocking him to the ground where Ripley tripped over him.

  Steve and Kristín made the most of their head-start, hurtling out of the front door of the building as the two men regained their feet. Steve ran to his car, Kristín following close behind. It was unlocked and Steve got behind the wheel, Kristín jumping in beside him.

  ‘Keys . . . keys!’ Steve shouted, slapping his jeans frantically, then digging his hand into a pocket.

  ‘Where are the keys?’ Kristín shouted back.

  ‘Got them!’ Steve replied, extracting a bunch from his pocket and shoving the correct key in the ignition. He pressed the accelerator to the floor as he turned the key. Nothing happened. The ignition hissed but the engine failed to catch.

  ‘Jesus!’ Steve swore between clenched teeth.

  He tried again, thumping the steering wheel, stamping his foot down and switching on the ignition. The engine coughed for a few long seconds, then roared into life. He rammed it into drive and the car took a bound, hurling Kristín back in her seat. The stench of petrol filled her nose as the wheels spun in the snow, the engine screeching as the tyres tried to get a purchase, the back of the car skidding sideways, but just as the two men raced out of the building the wheels caught, the car jumped forwards and they were away.

  Looking back, Kristín saw them chase the car briefly before giving up and standing at a loss, watching the vehicle disappear from view.

  Steve turned his eyes from the road to look at Kristín. ‘I thought you were crazy when you arrived at my place. Out of your mind.’

  ‘Thanks, I noticed.’

  ‘I don’t think so any more. Sorry.’

  He drove on, checking the mirrors every few seconds. Kristín noticed that he was gripping the steering wheel hard to stop his hands from shaking.

  ‘There’s only one way they could know about you,’ Kristín said after a minute’s silence.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Elías. They’re connected to what’s happening on the glacier. They’ve got your name from Elías. That has to be it. They must think he’s told me something; that he’s told me about them. And about th
e plane, whatever it’s doing up there. The men are in contact with the soldiers and they got my phone number from Elías’s mobile. That’s how they knew. They know I’m his sister. And they think I know something; that Elías told me something. That’s why they’re after me.’

  ‘But who are they? Who are they working for?’

  ‘I almost forgot. One of them mentioned a name when they attacked me. I wasn’t supposed to have heard. Something about “Ratoff”. Do you recognise the name?’

  ‘Ratoff? Never heard of him.’

  ‘Oh God, Elías!’ Kristín sighed. She slumped deep into the passenger seat, raking her hand through her hair. ‘What’s happened to him? They said he was dead.’

  Steve drove grimly on, marvelling at the extraordinary turn the evening had taken. To think that he had come to this frozen island for a quiet life.

  ‘Kristín, I’m going to make a few calls and try to find out what’s going on. Do they actually know who you are?’

  ‘They knew where I lived. They knew about Elías. They seem to know everything I do before I do it. Yes, Steve, I’d say they know who I am.’

  Kristín looked at him, then out of the rear window again. She thought about Elías, and about her father who must have gone abroad; he was forever travelling – not that they had ever had foreign holidays as children – and did not always bother to mention when it was for short trips. They did not have much contact; a phone call every month or two, a stilted conversation and some bland expression of hope that all was well. Kristín felt sad that she could never go to her father about anything, that she always had to cope on her own. And the worst of it was that he would probably blame her for what had happened to her brother. He always had done.

  NEAR WASHINGTON DC,

  FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 1700 EST

  Miller answered the door himself and invited Carr inside. He lived in a two-storey wooden house with a tidy garden, situated in quiet, forested countryside now covered with a light dusting of snow, not far from Washington DC. Miller shuffled along in his worn-down felt slippers; he was around eighty now with a pronounced stoop, his remaining wisps of hair completely white, his face dotted with liver spots. His wife had died twenty years earlier and though they had never had any children he was well looked after, receiving home help three times a week and meals on wheels at lunchtime and in the evenings. On the face of it, Miller was nothing but a useless old husk waiting to die, his many years of service behind him, but the fragile, elderly exterior disguised a mind as lively and resourceful as ever.