Birkir Li was born in Vietnam toward the end of 1970—his first name at that time was simply Li. In Iceland’s National Register, however, his birth year was recorded as 1972 because people didn’t know any better, and his birth date was recorded as January 10, which was the date in 1979 when he’d arrived in Iceland with a refugee group from Malaysia. By that time, he had lost his whole birth family, and later he was left behind on his own by his Vietnamese adopted family when they disappeared to the United States. After that he was brought up by an old Icelandic couple, and he had taken his patronymic from his foster father, Hinrik.
“What were you doing the night before last?” Birkir asked yet again.
“OK, I’ll tell ya. I was watching your whore of a mom down at the harbor getting fucked by a bunch of Russian trawlermen with the clap.” The prisoner roared with laughter and smirked at Detective Gunnar Maríuson, who sat at the end of the table, cheek in hand, bored out of his mind; his bald patch shone pinkly under the ceiling light, and his thick double chin sagged onto his chest as he tipped his head to one side.
“Is it lunchtime yet?” Gunnar asked when Birkir seemed like he wouldn’t continue talking.
“It’s only ten thirty,” Birkir said.
Gunnar looked at the prisoner. “Shall we get this over with?” he asked, and straightened himself up in his chair, towering his large frame threateningly over the table.
In downtown Reykjavík, an international culture center had been broken into and set on fire, and a cashbox (which was, in fact, empty) removed. A security camera at an embassy right across the street had captured a good shot of a blond guy in a sleeveless leather jacket dropping the box twice before managing to stuff it into the back of an old station wagon of obscure make. In the background, flames could be seen through the building’s windows.
It had taken a day to investigate the scene and negotiate permission to access the security-camera footage, after which the case was cracked—they recognized the blond guy as a well-known psycho, and Gunnar had found him at home at six thirty that morning.
Looking at Birkir, the prisoner made monkey noises and scratched at his sides. Then he hooted with laughter.
Birkir examined the man’s face. Its proportions were odd, with eyes set far apart and the head cone shaped; the nose was thick, upturned, and protuberant with flared nostrils.
“Degeneration,” Birkir said.
The prisoner stopped laughing. “You what?” he screeched. “Does the half-caste know fancy words?”
“Inbreeding,” Birkir explained.
“Whaddya mean?”
“Are your parents brother and sister?” Gunnar asked.
The prisoner’s face contorted with fury, and he threw a punch at Gunnar’s head. But Gunnar had evidently been waiting for this. He dodged the blow, grabbed the arm and twisted it, and slammed the prisoner face down onto the table.
“Aargh!” the prisoner screamed as Gunnar pinned him down with his weight.
“This freak’s hair still smells like smoke,” Gunnar said. “It doesn’t even wash.”
“Let me go, or I’ll smash your face in,” the criminal whimpered.
“You already tried.”
“I’ll sure as hell get you later.”
The door opened and Detective Superintendent Magnús Magnússon, head of the violent crime unit, entered the room.
“Jesus, men,” he said, sizing up the situation. “What’s going on in here?”
Gunnar stood up carefully, maintaining his grip on the prisoner with one hand while taking handcuffs from his pocket with the other. “Assaulting an officer on duty,” he said formally, and cuffed him.
“Ouch!” the prisoner said. “That hurts!”
“We have the arrest warrant for this suspect,” said Magnús, “but it can wait for the time being. When you get back from taking him to lockup, come and see me. Something else has cropped up.”
11:45
“We have a problem,” Magnús said, his customarily sunny demeanor clouded with concern. Though close to sixty years old, he was—aside from a little thickening around the waist—in pretty good shape. The suntan he still had after his August vacation in Italy looked nice against his clean-cut gray hair and thick mustache, but today he was missing his usual crispness and seemed pale and unwell under his tan.
He closed the door to his office and looked gravely at Gunnar and Birkir for a moment before saying, “I need to send you on a quick trip to Berlin. There’s a direct flight early tomorrow morning.”
“To Germany?” Gunnar shook his head. “No way. I never go abroad.”
Magnús was dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not going abroad,” Gunnar repeated.
“You speak German—and you’ve been abroad, surely? You have a passport?”
“Yes and yes and no.”
“What do you mean?” Magnús asked again.
Birkir replied for Gunnar. “You know his mother is German. Of course he speaks German.”
“And he has been abroad?” Magnús looked questioningly at Birkir.
“He went to Majorca once—ate and drank too much and got indigestion. Since then he hasn’t wanted to go abroad. He doesn’t have a passport.”
Gunnar looked angrily at his partner. “I didn’t eat too much. I got salmonella poisoning. I had the runs for six weeks.”
“And you’re always looking at German websites,” Magnús continued.
“He only looks at football news and naked women,” Birkir said.
“And the news,” Gunnar said, bridling. “I got sunstroke, too.”
“Where?” Magnús asked.
“In Majorca.”
Magnús sighed wearily and said, “Berlin is hardly Majorca. You’re in no danger of getting sunstroke at this time of year, and if you eat in moderation you shouldn’t get diarrhea.”
Gunnar replied peevishly, “I also get claustrophobic on airplanes. The seats are so cramped.”
“Right,” said Magnús, “but I’m not asking you to go. This is an order.”
Gunnar’s face turned bright red. “I haven’t seen anything in my job description that says I have to do police work in other countries,” he said. “Why the hell do you need to send people to Berlin to do stuff for you?”
Magnús hesitated before replying, “A murder was committed in the Icelandic embassy last night. I got called in to a meeting at the Foreign Ministry this morning.”
Gunnar shook his head and said, “That’s not our problem. Just let the Berlin Kripo deal with it.”
Magnús said quietly, “We can’t do that. This is a sensitive matter for the ambassador and for the ministry. We can’t just leave it to the Kriminalpolizei.”
Birkir asked, “How the hell are we supposed to solve a murder in Berlin?”
Magnús replied, “Assess the situation, question witnesses, and write a report. After that, we’ll see. Anna will go with you to take charge of CSI—I’ve already spoken to her. I need my most trustworthy people on this job—people who can do the work and keep their mouths shut. Nothing can get out to the media except through the ministry.”
“I’m not going,” Gunnar said.
“That’s what you think.” Magnús was angry. He threw open a desk drawer and grabbed the sheet of paper that lay on top. He thumped it onto the table and said, “If you want to discuss job descriptions and such formalities, let’s not leave anything out. I received this complaint from a law office in Kópavogur last Friday. They say you made a nuisance of yourself, poking your nose into a deceased person’s estate they’d been hired to settle.”
“Is this about that lawyer that was shot out west? The goose hunter?” Gunnar asked.
“Yes. Anything else I should know about?”
“It was about the farm. I promised the folks there that I’d arrange for them to buy back the buildings and the farmland. They’ve been treated really badly in this situation.”
Magnús banged the table with his hand. “The attorn
eys tell me you made a threatening phone call to people who were about to make an offer for the farm.”
Gunnar screwed up his nose and said quietly, “I just told those vultures that the place was haunted by evil spirits.”
“The attorneys say they had to sell the farm at half price.”
“That sounds good enough, given the economic situation in Iceland. The farmer and his daughter had to take out a large loan to pay for it. That’s not so easy these days.”
“OK, but does your job description say that you should discourage people from going about their everyday business by scaring them off with some mumbo jumbo about ghosts?”
“My job description says to do what’s right and proper wherever it applies.”
Magnús shook his head. “The normal response to a complaint like this is to send you on unpaid leave while the matter is under investigation. If it turns out to be true, you will probably be dismissed from the squad. If the law office doesn’t press charges, you might be allowed to return to uniformed police work.”
Gunnar was about to reply, but Birkir gestured him to silence and asked, “Is there another way?”
Magnús said, “I have certain connections with these attorneys. I’m very reluctant to pull those strings—but if you agree to go to Berlin immediately, I can try to straighten things out.”
Birkir said to Gunnar, “Sounds like a good deal for you.”
Gunnar thought for a good while. “OK, then,” he eventually replied, “I’ll go, but only this one time.”
“Beat it, then, and go get yourself a passport,” Magnús said, picking up his phone. “I’ll tell the head of the agency you need it expedited for travel on official business.”
It was pitch black and pouring with rain. A cold wind blew from the east. Old snow, thawing in the wet, spattered from beneath the wheels of the few cars driving around Reykjavík so early in the morning—or late at night, depending on how you looked at it. Winter had arrived on October 1, with a sharp frost followed by a strong northerly wind bringing snow to the whole country. Now a new low-pressure area hung to the west of Iceland, dragging in warmer air from the south and raising the temperature above freezing, though the forecast predicted that it would soon track eastward across the country, deepen, and bring more icy weather from the north.
As scheduled the previous evening, Birkir and Gunnar met at the bus terminal and were joined by Anna Thórdardóttir, a forensic officer at the detective division. In the present economic situation, the police force had to cut their expenditures, so there was no available money for a taxi to the airport. The bus would have to do.
After the usual good mornings they had no further need to converse. They were all shivering and were missing their sleep. Birkir went and bought the tickets for them all, asking for a receipt.
In the meantime, Gunnar got himself a couple of buns and a coffee from the cafeteria.
Anna went outside to smoke. This was going to be a long day for her. On a normal day she went through three packs of cigarettes, but now she had to endure a smokeless bus ride to the international airport at Keflavík followed by a flight to Berlin. Her habit had left its mark: Her face was thin and drawn, and though her ID revealed that she wasn’t even fifty-five, she looked at least seventy.
“What did Magnús have on you?” Gunnar asked when Anna came back inside. He couldn’t imagine that anybody would agree to go on this trip unless forced to.
“Three reprimands for smoking indoors in official buildings,” she replied and coughed. Her voice was deep and hoarse. “He promised to withdraw them if I agreed to go with you. What did he have on you?”
“Some rude phone calls to lawyers.”
“Rude calls?”
“Yeah, well, maybe not exactly. More like advice on how to deal with a certain case.”
“Is that against the rules?”
Gunnar shrugged. “I didn’t think so, but it seems nowadays everything is banned unless it’s authorized by some regulation and a certificate.”
Anna nodded and popped a nicotine gum into her mouth.
“How are you going to survive the flight?” Gunnar asked. He had once been a longtime smoker and was familiar with the craving.
“Sleeping pill and gum,” Anna replied.
Birkir motioned for them to follow him out.
“I think I may have forgotten to bring an extra pair of pants,” Gunnar said, patting the old sports bag that was all the luggage he had.
“You’ll just have to buy yourself another pair in Berlin—if you decide you need them,” Birkir said. “I’ll help you choose.”
Birkir was immaculately dressed in neatly pressed gray trousers and a jacket. He wheeled a new-looking black suitcase; a shoulder bag housed his laptop. Anna had two pieces—a small suitcase and a sturdy tool case made of rigid plastic.
“I don’t have any money,” Gunnar said after a short deliberation.
“I’ll lend you some if you need new pants,” Birkir said. He knew that Gunnar had cut up his credit card and only carried cash. When he had any, that is.
They watched their bags get loaded into the luggage hold, and Anna lit a cigarette. Gunnar and Birkir climbed aboard while Anna smoked outside.
“I wonder if you can smoke in the embassy?” Gunnar asked with sympathy.
“I don’t know,” Birkir replied. “They’re sending a driver to meet us. We can ask him.”
“Jawohl,” said Gunnar, leaning back in the seat. He promptly nodded off and slept all the way to Keflavík.
On arrival at the airport, they were retrieving their bags from the bus when a taxicab stopped behind it and a young man in a black suit got out. He came straight over to them and asked, “Are you the police team going to Berlin?”
“Yes,” Birkir replied.
“Great,” the other one said. “I was told I could recognize you by your . . . well . . . that someone in the group looked . . . uh—”
“That one of us looked Chinese?” Gunnar finished the sentence for him.
“Uh, yeah. I’m from the Foreign Ministry. We’ll be going together. I’ll handle the legal aspects and relations with the German Foreign Ministry. Good morning to you all—I’m Sigmundur.” He shook hands with the three of them.
“This is a very difficult case,” he went on. “The minister and the chief secretary are eager for it to be dealt with in a professional manner. That’s why they chose me to manage it.”
“So maybe we don’t need to go?” Gunnar asked, his voice full of hope.
“Well, yes, you do. The chief secretary wants the Icelandic police to investigate the case. You’re the one that speaks German, right? Hopefully we’ll solve the matter quickly.”
“Do you have any experience with investigations like this?” Gunnar asked.
“No, not with murders, but we have had to deal with a number of very difficult cases at the ministry. I’ve had many dealings with police authorities in Europe.”
“I feel better already,” Gunnar said, stomping off into the check-in area.
07:45
They walked down the Jetway to board the plane and a stewardess greeted them.
The ministry official turned to the police team and smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways. I’ve got enough air miles that I was able to upgrade my ticket to Saga Class.” He nodded toward the front of the plane. “I’ll see you in Berlin.”
He turned left and disappeared into the forward seating area. The other three continued to the right, along the aisle to row 23. Anna, leading, immediately slipped into the window seat, fastened her seat belt, and popped a nicotine gum.
Birkir asked Gunnar if he wanted the aisle seat.
Gunnar looked with horror at the seat that was meant to accommodate his huge frame, and then at Anna, who, despite being small and slim, seemed to fully occupy the space allocated to her.
“Am I supposed to sit here?” he asked Birkir, pointing at seat 23C with a stubby finger.
“That�
�s the only option,” Birkir replied and shrugged. He sat down in the middle seat. He was also slim and smaller than average, but even so there wasn’t much space left.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Gunnar said, and turned around. He inched back toward the front of the plane, pushing his way past all the people going the opposite direction. He barked “Afsakid, excuse me, entschuldigen bitte, sorry” as he went.
When he reached the stewardess standing at the entrance to Saga Class, he flashed a broad grin and pushed past, ignoring her confusion and saying, “Sorry, I just need to have a word with my colleague.”
Sigmundur’s seat was much more spacious than the one assigned to Gunnar. He was talking to the passenger next to him, a young woman Gunnar recognized from pictures in glossy magazines. He couldn’t remember what she was famous for.
Gunnar tapped Sigmundur’s shoulder, saying, “Hey, buddy.” The ministry official looked up in surprise.
“We need to fix a problem.”
“Indeed?”
“I get claustrophobic in those tight coach seats.” Gunnar pointed toward the back of the plane.
“Claustrophobic?”
“Yeah. It makes me lose control, and I make these peculiar animal noises. Can’t help myself.” He demonstrated with a quiet “Moooohhh.”
Sigmundur looked around quickly.
Gunnar continued, “I’m afraid that the captain will kick me off the plane before we can take off.”
“What?”
“That wouldn’t be good. You know the chief secretary was adamant I should be on this case. I speak German, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?”
“You want me to speak to the captain?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Change seats with me.”
“What?”
Gunnar made another quiet mooing noise and flashed a smile that made the gap between his front teeth particularly prominent. The young woman sitting in the inner seat stared at him in terror.
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