by Nick Petrie
“And you’re the second way?”
“No,” Hjálmar said. “I am the third way. I am hard as a stone. But still I hope. Will you disappoint me?”
Peter shouldered his pack and walked around the long table toward the other man. Peter was three inches taller, two decades younger, and outweighed the commissioner by at least twenty pounds.
Hjálmar stood almost formally, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back. “I have no baton or pepper spray,” he said. “If you leave now, I will not attempt to stop you. But the civilized path will no longer be possible. Only the barbarian’s path. I do not think you will like the barbarian’s path. Although perhaps you are familiar with it.”
“You checked up on me.”
“I run also Iceland’s Interpol office.” Hjálmar was slightly apologetic. “We have a good relationship with your FBI. They confirmed that you are not a suspect in a crime. The request to send you home did not come from them. They would tell me nothing else.”
“I live a simple life.” Peter stood six feet from the older man. “There’s nothing else to know.”
“So why, I wonder, does someone at your embassy want for you to leave Iceland?”
“If you tell me his name, I might be able to get an answer to that.”
“The name on his credentials was David Staple. When I called him at the embassy today to follow up, I was told they had nobody there by that name. When I spoke directly with the ambassador, she told me that she could not comment on State Department personnel.”
“Huh.” Peter considered the options. “So, the order to kick me out of Iceland. Where did that come from? The embassy, or Staple?”
“The ambassador would not comment on that, either, although she was very diplomatic about it. Either way, someone does not like you.”
“Can’t be. Everyone likes me. Even you.” In truth, Peter could come up with a long list of people he’d pissed off. “You have David Staple’s number in your phone from when he called you at the airport. You could call him back, set a meeting, ask him directly. Clear this whole thing up.”
“I do not work for you,” Hjálmar said kindly. “I am deporting you. Remember?”
“Right,” Peter said. “I forgot.”
“You understand that Staple himself does not matter. A request from your State Department, even an informal request, carries a great deal of weight.”
“What if I told you I came to Iceland to find a child. The American son of an Icelandic man who apparently killed his American wife, then fled to Iceland with his young son.”
“Ah.” Hjálmar nodded. “You are looking for Óskar Eiríksson. The boy’s backpack came ashore in the last storm. I know you are not law enforcement or you would have contacted me directly. You work for Mrs. Price, like the Norwegian before you.”
“You know about this case?”
“Of course,” Hjálmar said. “We are a small country. We do not have so many international fugitives that I cannot give them my full attention. Also, I spoke with Mrs. Price several days ago.”
“You spoke with her personally?”
“Of course. It is her grandson’s backpack. Her daughter who is dead. Who else would I ask to do this thing, my assistant?”
“Do you think the boy and his father are still in Iceland?”
“We continue to search but have not yet found him. We have spoken with Erik’s family members and friends many times. They invite us in for coffee and pastries. Most Icelanders are quite polite and well behaved. We also watch his finances, but he has not attempted to access his American or Icelandic bank accounts. He has not used a debit or credit card. He has not applied for legal employment or government support. He cannot rent an apartment without using his identity card. We believe someone shelters him, most likely a relative.”
“What can you tell me about his family?”
“We have what I think of as new Iceland and old Iceland,” Hjálmar said. “The new Iceland is tourism, technology, and work overseas. If you’ve seen Catherine’s investigator’s report, you know that some of the family has relocated abroad permanently, others work overseas for part of the year. For example, Erik’s mother, a vulcanologist, has been in Indonesia since May, studying the recent eruptions there. Erik’s brother owns an excursion business at Vatnajökull, and his cousin owns a guesthouse near Skaftafell, but they are also partners in a nightclub in Barcelona, so they spend much time there. In fact, they are there now. And Erik and Óskar are not.”
“How do you know?”
Hjálmar smiled. “The new Iceland branch of the family has become friendly with my officer stationed in Vik, who is their neighbor. He takes their dogs when they leave town. They have given him keys to their homes. Each time he visits, he finds no evidence of man or boy.”
So much for the snowball throwers and camera stompers. “What about the old Iceland part of the family?”
Hjálmar shook his head. “Very different,” he said. “And a very old family, from the time of settlement in the north. Prosperous in the old way, with fish and sheep and hay. Rich in land, not krónur, and a long history of lawless, violent behavior.”
“The Norwegian found their criminal records. It looks like small-time stuff.”
“We know much that is not official. Iceland’s history is filled with centuries of brutal poverty and famine. To survive, northerners had to be strong and hard. We believe two brothers who own a small fishing business are actually smugglers, using Iceland’s location between Europe and America. We suspect them in several murders, although officially the victims are merely missing because we have not found the bodies.”
That wasn’t so small-time. “But the family wouldn’t have the money or connections to influence David Staple.”
“I do not believe so. And it is not their way. They are more, ah, direct. But that is not the question I ask.” Hjálmar scratched his chin. “Who knew you were on your way to Iceland to find Óskar?”
Peter was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. When the backpack was found, Hjálmar had called Catherine Price. Had Hjálmar called someone else? Had Catherine?
He changed the subject. “What if I told you Erik and Óskar were dead. Murdered, their killers never found.”
Hjálmar looked at him without expression. “I would ask for the source of this information.”
“His cousin Bjarni.”
“Ah.” Hjálmar permitted himself a modest smile. “This is a better explanation for your bruises. Do you believe Bjarni Bergsson?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ll keep looking, and learn the truth either way.”
Hjálmar regarded Peter for a moment. “Bjarni is just a pup. The smugglers, Eiríkur’s uncles, are quite dangerous. If you find Óskar, what will you do? You are one man.”
“I have your cell number,” Peter said. “I guess I’ll call you.”
“If that is the case, perhaps we should have a coffee.” Hjálmar extended a hand at the table. “Surely you have other questions?”
Peter smiled. He wasn’t going to sit. The commissioner was stalling for time. But Peter had one last question. “If you had to guess, where do you think he might be?”
Hjálmar frowned. “I do not wish to guess. However, the farm in Nordhurland Vestra is a possibility. It is a large holding. He would have work and shelter and family. But we have been there many times, looking for Eiríkur and the boy, and have not found either one. There is risk for the family, too, because if they are harboring a fugitive, there would be a penalty. It is possible they would lose the farm. For these reasons, I think Seydisfjordur, to the east, is more likely. Eiríkur’s uncles own a fishing boat and a small processing facility there, and we are told that Eiríkur is close with them.” He shrugged. “When the boat leaves the pier, we cannot follow. They may have already taken Eiríkur and Óskar to Europ
e.”
Outside, the sound of the wind rose and fell. Peter was running out of time. He adjusted the pack on his shoulders. “It’s been nice talking with you,” he said. “But I’ve got to go.”
“Please,” Hjálmar said. “I ask you again, come with me. As my guest.”
“I can’t.” Peter took a backward step toward the door. “I’m sorry, Hjálmar. You’ve been very civilized.”
Hjálmar put out his hand, palm up. “Perhaps you would care to surrender your passport, as a gesture of good faith?”
“No,” Peter said. “I wouldn’t.” He turned away.
“This is an island,” Hjálmar called after him. “You are now in the computer system. Every person, on every airplane and every ship, departs Iceland only with the permission of the customs police. Unless you are a very strong swimmer, you will not leave.”
When Peter walked outside, he heard sirens on the wind, coming closer.
The pack thumped on his back as he ran for the car.
21
He drove the Mitsubishi too fast, the big engine wound up, fat tires slipping on the snowy pavement even in four-wheel drive. There was only one road in and out of the harborfront. He was certain that Hjálmar had already told the dispatcher what Peter was driving, including the plate number.
He made it past the Saga Museum and through the roundabout without meeting a police car, although he saw their blue and white lights flashing off the high pale fronts of the buildings to his left. At the next roundabout, he swung left back into the old city. Time to get rid of the big 4x4.
He drove with the heater up high and the windows down in an effort to keep the static from overwhelming him. It didn’t help. He was getting outflanked on every turn. This whole thing was getting away from him. He was no closer to finding Óskar. If he ended up in a holding cell, he’d have succeeded only in making negative progress.
He steered through the tight maze of streets, small apartment buildings, and commercial blocks built right up against the narrow buckled sidewalks. He passed groups dressed for the clubs, talking and laughing despite the snow and cold and wind. Almost eleven and they were just getting started.
Bjarni’s dented little Skoda sat at a snowy curb, right where Peter had left it.
It was a narrow, one-way road with parking only on the left and no legal spots. Peter bumped the Mitsubishi up the opposite curb. The walk was so skinny that the truck was tight to the wall of the building yet half in the road. He shouldered his heavy pack and duffel, his day pack hanging from one hand. He still had Bjarni’s keys.
A dirty mountain bike leaned against the Skoda’s back end. A square-shouldered man in a red coat pulled open the driver’s door and folded himself awkwardly into the small seat.
Peter didn’t have time for this shit. He dropped his gear and grabbed the man’s arm to pull him from the car. Through the coat, he felt the hardness of the cast. Bjarni turned, mouth open to speak, until he saw Peter’s face and froze in place. Seeing something there that Peter didn’t want to think about.
Peter said, “You rode your bike here? With all this wind, on these icy streets? With a broken arm?”
“Taxis are expensive.” Bjarni was indignant. “And I did not want a parking ticket.” He jutted his chin at Peter. “You said you would leave my things at Snorri’s, but you did not. I am glad I brought my extra keys.”
Peter held out his hand. “Give them here.” He could not believe this fucking Viking.
Bjarni shrank back and turned away, trying to protect his cast. “No.”
Peter couldn’t bring himself to hit anyone else that night. He grabbed Bjarni’s ear and pulled. “Keys. Now.”
“Ow, okay.” Reluctantly, Bjarni held out the keys. “Where is my phone?”
“Get out.”
Peter heard sirens again. The big Mitsubishi would grab the eye, parked with two wheels on the walkway on the wrong side of the road. Time to go.
Bjarni pulled away and rubbed his ear. “Why do you want my car? You have one already.”
“You can have it.” Peter held out the 4x4 keys. “Think of it as an upgrade. Take it.”
Bjarni scowled. “It is a tourist rental. Impossible to park, and not yours to give. I want my own car. I like this car.”
Peter didn’t have time to debate the merits of the shit-brown Skoda. The sirens were getting louder. He needed to keep moving if he wanted to stay outside. If he wanted to stay in Iceland. If he wanted to find Óskar.
But if he left square-shouldered Bjarni behind, he was likely to tell the police what Peter was driving. Hjálmar could add car theft to Peter’s growing list of offenses.
“Fine, you can give me a lift. But I’m driving.” He pushed Bjarni’s thick shoulder, shoving him across the transmission hump.
Peter threw his gear into the back, then popped the hatch and jammed the mountain bike into the cargo bay for good measure. The tire hung over the bumper and the hatch wouldn’t close. It didn’t matter. He climbed into the driver’s seat and got the hell out of there.
He found his way to the Saebraut, the shortest path out of town. He used his turn signals and kept to the speed limit. The cold winter wind swirled through the open rear hatch. Snow began to collect on the dashboard. Peter could barely feel his fingers. He might as well have been riding on the roof.
Bjarni looked concerned. “Where are we going?”
Peter saw a bus station coming up at the end of a monolithic strip mall. “Right here.” He turned left at the light and pulled into the parking area.
“Buses will not run in this weather,” Bjarni said. “Already three are off the road. It was on the news.”
“I’ll spend the night in the station, where it’s warm.” Peter opened his door. “You’ve only got one good arm. Let me help get your bike inside the car. It’s too cold to drive with that hatch open.”
“Thank you, but I have it.” Bjarni climbed out and walked around to the back. He pulled a lever and the rear seatback flopped forward, making more room. He shoved the bike inside one-handed. “See? All is good.” He closed the hatch with a thud.
Peter hadn’t left his seat. He popped the clutch, hit the gas, and the little car jumped forward, the movement slamming his door shut.
In the rearview, he saw Bjarni standing flat-footed on the asphalt with his mouth open, coat blown wide by the wind, watching him go.
Peter really wished he didn’t feel sorry for the guy.
* * *
—
He drove until he saw an ocean of cars and trucks surrounding a big white building, part tow operation, part auto shop, part junkyard. The shit-brown Skoda would look right at home. He parked out of sight from the street and sorted through his gear, trying to ditch the duffel and fit the essentials into his heavy pack. He wanted his hands free. How much crap did one man need?
Then he dropped the keys on the floor, hauled the bike out of the Skoda’s cargo bay, shouldered into the sixty-pound ruck, and pedaled away.
In the time it took him to ride two kilometers, the wind knocked him over four times.
He left the bike behind the glass-fronted Land Rover dealership and found a secluded spot in the lee of a slope under a copse of evergreens, where he used Bjarni’s folding shovel to dig himself a shelter in the frozen snow. The exertion warmed him. The dealership opened in nine hours.
He lay in his sleeping bag, rolled into his ground cloth like a burrito, wide awake in the middle of the night. His head throbbed.
Maybe he was becoming nocturnal. Like a vampire or some other predator. It was better than sleeping, he thought. Better than the dreams.
He dug into his pack for his headlamp and the photo of Óskar in his father’s arms. Erik’s bearded face with its indecipherable expression. Óskar ready to escape at any minute. But it wasn’t enough to remind Peter of what he was doing there, dug into
the snow while the wind tried to blow him into the North Atlantic.
He took out his dying phone and pulled up the video Catherine Price had given him. Óskar reeling off random numbers in his mother’s arms. Óskar dropping his Lego backpack to run across the grass and climb the flame-orange maple. Óskar stuck in the tree. His father calling, “You are a Viking. Be strong.” His mother climbing up to save him, then vanishing into the leaves.
It was different now, wondering if Erik and Óskar were dead. But still Peter watched again and again. Trying to lock Óskar into his memory, so he’d know the boy’s face, his voice, the way he ran and walked and moved his hands.
By the third time through, Peter thought to wonder about Óskar’s numbers in the beginning of the video. By the fifth time through, Peter was pretty sure Óskar was reciting the first twenty-seven digits of pi.
He looked at the time. Four hours earlier on the East Coast. His phone battery was almost drained. He called Catherine Price. She picked up on the second ring.
“Have you found Óskar?” Her voice was filled with hope.
“Not yet,” Peter said. “The national police are pretty enthusiastic about putting me on a plane home. Although I did get a name on the embassy guy, David Staple. Has your husband made any progress with the State Department?”
Her voice dropped from the weight of her disappointment. “He’s still waiting to hear from his contacts there,” she said. “I’ll text him the name, maybe that will help.”
He didn’t want to tell her that Óskar might be dead. She already carried that fear. Instead, he asked about Óskar’s numbers.
She said, “Óskar has a photographic memory, just like his grandfather—like his genetic grandfather, my first husband, I mean. And he’s in love with pi. Do you know pi?”
“I do.” Pi was the mathematical constant that described the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. As far as mathematicians had determined, pi went on forever without repeating or demonstrating a pattern, making it both an irrational number and a transcendent number. In the seventh grade, in a pimply, ill-conceived attempt to impress a girl, Peter had memorized the first hundred digits. He’d since lost all but the first six, 3.14159, until Óskar’s voice brought them back.
