Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘We need to find this man soon, Magnús,’ said Thorkell. ‘They’re excited today – they’ll be angry tomorrow.’

  ‘I know,’ said Magnus.

  Erika was afraid. She had worked almost all night on the video, hoping to push the fear out of her mind, but the more tired she got, the more it crept back.

  She had been in danger before, in the hellhole that was Rwanda, when she was much younger. Twice she had had the barrel of a Kalashnikov shoved into her face. Once a bunch of heavily armed Hutus had threatened to rape her. Somehow, Guillaume, the Rwandan doctor who later briefly became her husband, had talked them out of it. She had been scared, but at the age of twenty she had somehow always known she would come through alive.

  She was kidding herself then, of course – it was the illusion of invulnerability of youth – but she had believed it, and she had stayed in Rwanda for nine more months, returning to the States with a husband.

  She was older now and she knew she wasn’t invulnerable. If Nico could die, so could she.

  Of the many things she felt guilty about, at least she no longer felt guilty about betraying Israel. If the Israelis had killed Nico and were trying to kill her, they deserved all they got. If anything, it was the Israeli state who were betraying people like her grandmother, loyal Jews who believed in the Promised Land. It was up to Erika and Freeflow to expose that betrayal.

  It was always the same: the closer you looked at the secrets of a government, any government, the more filth you found.

  She wondered about protection. They could use a couple of guns. She glanced around the room. She would never trust Dieter with a firearm, but she knew how to operate a handgun. Franz seemed capable and she had read somewhere that the Swiss did military service. As did Israeli women. That was three of them.

  She would ask Magnus when she next saw him, which would no doubt be some time that morning.

  She swigged from a can of Red Bull and touched her cheek. The doctor had said there would be a small scar, but it would fade. Erika wasn’t too bothered. She had never been a classic beauty, and somehow she felt her allure to men would only be enhanced with a war wound.

  She was exhausted. She could work long hours without sleep. Her brain was a battleground, the forces of fatigue fighting the caffeine, adrenaline and pure determination. She knew she should rest, or her judgement would begin to go. And a misjudgement could blow the whole project.

  The corner of her screen flickered. A message. From Gareth.

  Gareth: bad news.

  Erika: please don’t tell me you’re not at heathrow.

  Gareth: i’m at heathrow. and so is my plane. but it’s not going anywhere, at least today. all flights are cancelled. uk airspace is closed.

  Erika: why?

  Gareth: because of your volcano. there is an ash cloud over the atlantic and all over britain.

  ‘Damn liar!’ Erika growled to herself. She stood up and went to the living-room window, flicking back the curtain. Grey clouds. Clear air. She stalked back to the computer.

  Erika: there’s no ash. get your ass over here!

  Gareth: hey, it’s not up to me. if they won’t let the planes fly there’s nothing i can do.

  Dieter: i just checked. he’s right. there’s a big cloud of ash blowing south from Iceland stopping flights into the uk.

  Erika glanced across at Dieter only a few feet away from her, cocooned in his headphones. He, of course, had drawn his observation from his computer screen and not the real world outside. He shrugged and shook his head.

  Erika: have they said when you can fly?

  Gareth: they say they will make another announcement at 3pm. it all depends on the wind apparently.

  Erika: okay, don’t leave the airport. get your ass on the first plane to reykjavik.

  Gareth: ok. i’ll let you know as soon as they tell me my flight’s leaving.

  Erika stared at the screen. The video editing was going well. Dieter and Apex had set up a complicated series of websites to host it. The big weakness was verification.

  Erika: apex, did you get that?

  Apex: yeah.

  Of course he did. It might be the middle of the night around the other side of the world, but Apex would be faithfully staring at his screen.

  Erika: are you still worried about the engine noise of the helicopter?’

  Apex: frankly, yes. gareth says it’s probably just the wind conditions at the time of the incident, or the pitch of the rotor blades, but i need him to check it out properly, which he hasn’t been able to do yet.

  Erika: maybe he’ll get out tonight. or tomorrow.

  Apex: he had better. but i do have some good news.

  Erika: what?

  Apex: 15,000 euros just hit our account.

  ‘Yes!’ Erika punched the air. ‘See that, Dieter?’ she shouted across the room to her colleague, but he was still staring at his screen, earphones on, waiting for her to type something.

  Erika: yay!!! where did it come from?

  Apex: no idea. all donations are anonymized. you know that.

  Erika: yes, but can’t you get into the system and find out?

  Apex: i set it up so I couldn’t. we agreed it was better all round if we didn’t know where the money came from.

  Typical Apex, Erika thought. What a warped sense of integrity he had; she didn’t understand it. She wondered who the donor was. Viktor, perhaps? But why would he make it anonymously?

  Still, fifteen thousand euros was fifteen thousand euros. She wasn’t going to quibble.

  Erika: can you send it on to Sweden?

  Apex: it’s on its way. i contacted them and they confirmed as long as their bank gets the funds by friday, they’ll host our sites over the weekend.

  Erika: so we are all set. as long as gareth gets here tomorrow.

  Apex: what about alan? wasn’t he flying to london this morning?

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Erika.

  Erika: i’ll check.

  She picked out one of the phones Viktor and Dúddi had bought, and dialled a US cell-phone number.

  ‘Alan Traub.’

  ‘Hey, Alan, it’s Erika. Where are you?’

  ‘At the Hertz desk at Heathrow.’

  ‘Thank God. I thought your flight might have been cancelled. There’s an ash cloud from the volcano here heading for Britain.’

  ‘They didn’t tell us anything about that. But I’m definitely in England now.’

  ‘Are you going to see Samantha Wilton?’

  ‘Called her yesterday. She lives in Beaconsfield: it’s not far from the airport. I’ll probably be there in an hour or so. When can I say she can see the video?’

  ‘We’re aiming to have it finished noon Sunday. I’ll fly to London that afternoon and I’ll bring it with me. She can see it that evening. We’ll do the press conference on Monday and put it up on our website then. I warn you, she’s not going to like it.’

  ‘I’ll tell her that. But I know she’ll want to see it.’

  ‘And she’s happy with attending the press conference?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her about it this morning.’

  ‘OK, I won’t keep you. Give me a call when you’ve spoken to her.’

  Erika hung up. Things were coming together. She called across to Franz. ‘How are you doing with the end credits?’

  Ásta checked the bathroom door upstairs. It was still locked. Someone had been in there for at least ten minutes.

  She heard a sound from inside. She put her ear to the door. A sob. It was definitely a sob.

  ‘Zivah?’ It sounded like a woman and she knew Erika was downstairs. ‘Zivah? It’s Ásta. Do you want to talk?’

  Ásta heard sniffing, and then a voice, Zivah’s voice. ‘Do you need the bathroom?’

  ‘No, I’m OK. But are you?’

  The door opened. Zivah’s eyes were red, and her cheeks were stained with tears.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Ásta asked.

  ‘Oh, Ásta, I’m scared. I’m so s
cared.’

  Ásta opened her arms and enveloped Zivah. ‘Hey. Let’s go into your room and we’ll talk about it, eh?’

  Ásta led Zivah into the room she shared with Erika. Zivah avoided the bed, which was Erika’s, and flopped on to her sleeping bag neatly folded on the floor. Ásta sat herself down next to her. They both leaned back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘They’re going to kill Erika. They’ve tried twice and failed, but they’ll get her next time. And then they’ll kill me.’

  ‘No, they won’t,’ said Ásta. ‘You’ll be safe here. The police are outside.’

  ‘We’re talking about Mossad here!’ said Zivah. ‘If they want me dead, I’m dead. Believe me.’

  ‘But why would they want to kill you?’

  ‘Because I’ve betrayed my country. At least in their eyes.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. All you have done is translate the words that Israeli soldiers actually used. Erika’s right: you are helping Freeflow reveal the truth. If that looks bad for Israel, that’s Israel’s fault, not yours.’

  ‘You know my brother is in the army?’ Zivah said. ‘He actually fought in Gaza last year. He had no choice, of course, but he wanted to go. We had massive rows about it; I told him I hated him. But the whole time I was scared sick that he would die.’

  ‘Did he come out of it OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zivah. ‘We don’t talk any more, but he was OK. But now it’s me who’s going to die, not him. And I’m going to be killed by an Israeli, not a Palestinian. I think I should just leave now. Go right to the airport. I’ve translated everything for them downstairs; they don’t need me any more.’

  ‘You can’t, I’m afraid,’ said Ásta. ‘All flights are cancelled. The volcano.’

  ‘No!’ Zivah brought her fist up to her mouth and bit it. ‘So I’m trapped here, with those killers. They’re going to get me. They will get me.’

  She leaned into Ásta and burst into tears. Ásta stroked her hair.

  ‘It’s not necessarily the Israelis who tried to kill Erika,’ Ásta said quietly.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Zivah. ‘Who else could it be? I know it must be them.’

  ‘And I know it isn’t.’

  Zivah sat up and looked at Ásta in puzzlement. ‘You know? How can you know?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Ásta. ‘I know.’ She looked Zivah straight in the eye. ‘Do you trust me?’

  Zivah’s eyes were wide. She nodded. ‘I trust you.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ásta. ‘Now, do you believe in God?’

  Zivah hesitated and then nodded again.

  ‘Perhaps we should pray?’ Ásta said. ‘Together.’

  ‘That won’t do any good,’ said Zivah.

  ‘I find it generally does,’ said Ásta.

  Ten minutes later they came down the stairs together. Zivah was still sniffing, but she seemed less desperate. Everyone was tapping away on their computers, apart from Franz, who had his head in the fridge. ‘Hey, Ásta, have we got any milk?’

  ‘No, we need some,’ said Ásta. ‘In fact, I’ve got a list of lots of stuff we need. Do you want to come to the shop with me, Franz? You can help carry.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Franz.

  Ásta checked her list, and added a couple of items. Zivah was sitting in front of her computer. Ásta gave her a smile of encouragement, which Zivah returned. She was going to be OK. Ásta couldn’t blame her for being scared. She was scared.

  She grabbed the list and she and Franz left the house and walked up the hill. Krambúd, the nearest convenience store, wasn’t far, just opposite the statue of Leifur Eiríksson at the top of the hill.

  Franz was chatting excitedly about the editing he was doing for the end credits, but Ásta wasn’t listening. She had too much on her mind.

  She glanced up at the spire of the Hallgrímskirkja, bold, clean and strong. She took a deep breath. She needed some of that strength.

  As she turned back towards Franz, she caught a glimpse of a man staring at her out of a parked car, a Suzuki four-wheel drive. As soon as he saw that she had noticed him, the man looked away and started up his engine.

  Ásta realized that she was still wearing her clerical collar, which always attracted attention. Perhaps that was what he was staring at. In any case, the Suzuki pulled out of its space and drove away.

  They went into the shop.

  ‘This is ridiculous! I spoke to you yesterday. Why you want to speak to me again?’

  Teresa Andreose was angry at being dragged from her hotel to the interview room in the heart of police headquarters. Somehow, Magnus had expected that. A swirl of expensive perfume had surrounded her as she swept into the room, as out of place there as its wearer.

  ‘This is a murder inquiry, Signora Andreose. We need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Well, you had better not take long. I have a flight booked this afternoon. I cannot stand another day in this horrible little country. Do you know what temperature it was in Milan when I left yesterday? Eh?’

  Magnus didn’t reply.

  ‘Twenty-two! Twenty-two degrees. And you know what temperature it is here? Two!’

  Magnus thought it was more like five or six, but he wasn’t going to argue. There were four of them in the room: Magnus, Teresa, Baldur and an interpreter.

  ‘Signora Andreose, the rules of interviewing in a foreign language in Iceland are a little cumbersome. I will ask the questions in Icelandic, you can answer in English and Helena here will translate.’

  ‘That’s stupid. I demand to answer in Italian.’

  ‘We’d have to find an Italian interpreter,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Parlo italiano,’ said Helena. The other people in the room looked at the young interpreter in surprise. Magnus knew she was doing a PhD in languages at the University of Iceland and that she spoke English and Danish. Italian was a good addition.

  ‘No,’ said Teresa. ‘I can speak English.’

  ‘Good,’ said Magnus. He leaned over and pressed a couple of keys on a computer. The interview rooms had video, not just audio tape. Switching to Icelandic he said: ‘Interview with Teresa Andreose, 9:24, 15 April, 2010. Present: Teresa Andreose, Sergeant Magnús Ragnarsson, Inspector Baldur Jakobsson and Helena Gudrúnsdóttir interpreting.’ Helena translated.

  He looked up at Teresa. ‘Can you confirm your name for me please?’

  ‘Teresa Andreose.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Can you give me your passport then?’ Magnus asked.

  Teresa dug it out of her bag and tossed it to him. He read out the details for the record.

  ‘Now, Teresa, would you say you were angry with your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he cheated on me. He slept with a slut.’

  ‘How angry would you say you were?’

  ‘Very angry.’ Then she frowned. ‘You’re not going to say that I killed him, are you?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Hah! I thought so. That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course it is! I was in Milan when he was killed.’

  ‘You could have paid someone else to do it.’

  ‘That’s absurd!’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Magnus said calmly. ‘It’s perfectly possible. Milan is a big city. There are bound to be killers for hire there. You could have found one, paid him to fly to Iceland to kill your husband and his lover. Couldn’t you?’

  Teresa shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess I could have done. But I didn’t.’

  ‘Who else might have killed him?’ Magnus asked. ‘Apart from you.’

  Teresa shrugged again. ‘Erika. I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Magnus said. ‘Who else?’

  Teresa was silent. Magnus waited. She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps some people Freeflow had exposed.’

  ‘Like wh
o?’

  ‘I don’t know! That’s your job to find out. You are the policeman.’

  Then Baldur spoke for the first time. Softly. ‘What is it you are not telling us, Teresa?’

  It took a moment for the interpreter to translate the question, during which Teresa focused on Baldur for the first time. Magnus noticed hesitation as she heard the question.

  ‘Why do you think he was killed?’ she asked Baldur.

  ‘If you can’t give us a good suggestion, then we will have to assume that you paid people to murder your husband,’ said Baldur. ‘It’s always the wife. Or the husband. That’s the rule.’

  ‘And if I don’t tell you, what are you going to do? Put me in an igloo and throw away the key?’

  ‘Iceland doesn’t have igloos,’ said Magnus.

  ‘And igloos don’t have keys,’ Baldur said. And then Magnus saw Baldur do something extraordinary. He smiled.

  So did Teresa, briefly. She took a deep breath. ‘OK. I tell you. But I need a cigarette.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Baldur, and he passed a plastic cup to her to use as an ashtray. No one took any notice of the large No Smoking sign.

  She reached into her bag and pulled one out. Lit it. Took time to gather her thoughts.

  ‘I met Nico at graduate school in Rome. We were studying geology. We both went on to join oil companies and then he went to work for a big commodity trader based in London, trading oil derivatives. He was a good geologist, but a lousy trader. I realized it, but he never did. And he was such a charmer that it took a while for the people he worked for to realize it too.

  ‘He was paid well; we got married; I stopped working and started having children; we all lived in London. He lost money, quit his job before he was fired and joined a hedge fund, still in London. Then the crash came in 2008 and he lost money again. He was out of there. I insisted we go back to Milan – I knew he would never cut it in London. And he spent a year looking for a job.’

  She took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Then one day he said he was going to see an old friend of his from college, Giovanni Panunzi. Now, Giovanni works for Roberto Tretto, the minister involved in the Gruppo Cavour scandal. Right after that meeting Nico took a sudden interest in Freeflow. He claimed he had suddenly discovered a passion for freedom of information. I went along with this for a little bit, but when he began to spend more and more time on Freeflow I called him on it. Said he was doing stuff for Tretto. He denied it. I just let it drop.’