Sun on Fire

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  Birkir nodded and said, “What bothers me most is the evidence that Anton hadn’t decided to visit the embassy until noon on Sunday. The murderer had a very short time window to find himself a weapon, which is totally inconsistent with the knife being hidden in that candlestick.”

  “How can we possibly make sense of that?” Gunnar asked.

  “I don’t think this was premeditated,” Birkir said. “My theory is that the knife was there for a different purpose, but it came in handy when the killer decided Anton’s time was up.”

  “You think the murderer had his sights on a different victim?” Gunnar asked.

  “Yes. Or maybe he mistook him for someone else.”

  “So who was the intended victim?”

  “The ambassador, perhaps.” Birkir said. “It all happened in his office—and he and Anton actually have similar builds.”

  “That means the ambassador could be in danger. What could the motive be?”

  “He is controversial. Maybe he knows something that’s bad for someone else. There was talk about him writing his autobiography.”

  “Shouldn’t we warn him, in that case?” Gunnar asked.

  Birkir replied, “I’ll call Sigmundur, the ministry official, tonight and suggest that Konrad stay in the residence until he leaves for Iceland.”

  Gunnar said, “If the knife was in the candlestick, then Helgi, the artist, is top of the list. Should we bring him in when we get back?”

  “No, let’s pretend that the candlestick didn’t attract our attention at all. I don’t think that Helgi will go into hiding, and if he needed to destroy evidence he must have done it already.”

  The waiter brought the drinks and put them on the table.

  Gunnar raised one of his beer glasses and said, “This working day is herewith officially over. Cheers—prosit.”

  After allowing himself a generous amount of time to enjoy breakfast in the hotel’s first-floor restaurant, Birkir took a taxi to the embassy.

  Arngrímur met him at the front desk of the Felleshus. “You on your own today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Gunnar working somewhere else in the city?”

  “He went to the zoo,” Birkir replied.

  Arngrímur smiled. “Good idea,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day, even if the weather’s getting chilly.”

  Birkir remained expressionless. “Yes, well,” he said. “We’re mostly finished here, anyway. We just need your help finding Jón Sváfnisson and his friend. We’re flying to Frankfurt later today to track them down. Then we head back to Iceland in the morning.”

  “The Sun Poet, right. Well, the Book Fair started this morning, and Jón shares a corner of booth H251 on the first floor of building number six. Our embassy representative is attending the fair today, and we heard from him this morning that Jón had arrived.”

  After noting down the details, Birkir said, “I would also appreciate it if you could show me a little more of the layout here. It helps to have a clear picture of the crime scene in our heads.”

  “Of course, and I’ll arrange for the embassy chauffeur to take you to the airport later,” Arngrímur said. He looked around, deciding where to begin. “So, this here is the common entrance for all the embassies, and also for the main functions of the Felleshus. Farther along on this south side there’s a separate entrance for the consuls of the five nations.”

  “So there’s no other way of getting to the embassies?”

  “Yes, through the underground parking lot, but access is very restricted, as you saw yesterday.”

  Arngrímur moved across to the door opposite the main entrance. “This is the largest room in the building,” he said, opening the way for Birkir to look in. It was an auditorium, with stadium seating and a high ceiling. The walls were clad in dark red panels, similar in shape to the green copper plates covering the outer wall of the whole complex, and the seats were upholstered in the same red color.

  “This must be where the Sun Poet held his reading,” Arngrímur said. “There’s seating here for just over a hundred—it’s ideal for concerts, readings, and conferences.”

  “Is the Sun Poet widely known here in Germany?” Birkir asked.

  Arngrímur hesitated. “Have you read his poems?”

  “Yes. Some of them are excellent.”

  “Yes, they are well written, and well known in Iceland. Especially those that have been set to music. But that doesn’t work here in Germany, which is a shame.”

  “But his anthology’s being published here.”

  “Yes, but not on the open market. A German eccentric, who has visited Iceland every year for twenty years to learn the language, decided to translate a selection of Jón’s poems. Not particularly well, to be honest, but Jón became obsessed with bringing out a book of them here in Germany, and started pestering the ambassador about it. Eventually, Konrad asked me to see about getting it taken care of. My only option was to approach a vanity publishing house. Jón is quite wealthy, and Konrad got the necessary money from him by calling it ‘commission’ or ‘promotion costs.’ Jón believes, or he likes to believe, that this is a proper publication.”

  “Is the book available in stores?”

  “There’s been some limited distribution to a few bookshops that the publishing company has a deal with, but hardly any sales. Actually, the reason I knew about the company is that I had compiled a booklet of short quotations about diplomats and their profession that I’d collected and translated into Icelandic over the years. It’s called Diplomacy. I hired these publishers to create the book, but it’s not for sale—I just use it for occasional gifts. I’d be happy if you’d be kind enough to accept a copy when we get to my office.”

  “Thank you very much,” Birkir said.

  They turned away from the auditorium, and Arngrímur closed the door.

  He led Birkir up an open steel staircase in the building’s central atrium. When they arrived at the next floor Arngrímur said, “This exhibition space is where Helgi Kárason will be showing his artwork. At the moment there is a display of glass art from Finland. There’s a similar space on the next floor above us.”

  “Is this where the ambassador offered refreshments after the poetry reading?” Birkir asked.

  “Yes, it’s an ideal area for a cocktail party. Guests can look at the artwork while they relax.”

  “Are you aware of the ambassador having any enemies who might want to harm him?”

  Birkir’s sudden change of tack surprised Arngrímur. “Do you mean hurt him or . . .?”

  “Possibly.”

  Arngrímur shook his head. “No. I think that both his political allies and his opponents were relieved when he withdrew from politics. After that he was harmless.”

  “But what about his present job?”

  “He is carefully monitored to make sure he doesn’t cause problems.”

  “But he jumped directly into the office of ambassador. That surely must have roiled some people. What about you?”

  “In this business we’re used to ex-politicians moving straight into ambassadorial posts. They usually bring experience and vision that make them excellent diplomats.”

  “Is that the case with Konrad?”

  “He has certain assets that have been valuable in this post. Anything he lacks is easily covered by an efficient embassy staff.”

  “He’s writing his autobiography. Could he expose something that would be to someone’s disadvantage?”

  “Hardly,” Arngrímur said. “I have no doubt that Konrad knows some secrets, but betraying his previous comrades would reflect very badly on him. He has a sense for things like that. I also think that the progress on this autobiography of his is somewhat exaggerated. He sometimes sits and reminisces into a Dictaphone, but he will surely need a great deal of help if it’s ever to become a book.”

  They continued up the stairs, past the next floor, and up to the top.

  “This is our cafeteria,” Arngrímur said.

 
Birkir saw a bright room with around twenty tables, three of them occupied.

  Arngrímur continued, “There are also rooms up here that small groups can reserve ahead of time for private lunch meetings. Would you like some coffee or anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” Birkir said, “I had a good breakfast. When did you start using this building?”

  “In 1999. With the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and the subsequent reunification of the German state, the government decided to move the capital city from Bonn back to Berlin, which meant that other countries had to establish new embassies here. It’s all a remarkable piece of history.”

  They returned to the ground floor, and at the front desk Birkir exchanged his passport for a guest pass. They walked through the double doors and out into the plaza between the embassy buildings.

  Arngrímur said, “The governments of the Nordic nations decided to work together on this project. They held a competition for the design of the complex, and the winning entry featured this copper-faced wall, which encloses the area and curves around the five embassy buildings. It’s unique here in the city and considered very successful. Berliners are very happy with the result, as far as I know.”

  He added with a smile, “The sightseeing buses that take tourists around the city pass by here and I’ve heard that some guides call us the IKEA embassies.”

  Birkir scanned the copper wall. “Could somebody have scaled the wall to get in?” he asked.

  “Not a chance. It’s fifteen meters tall, and the security system here is very sensitive—I understand it picks up every single bird that flies in.”

  They continued walking and came to an enormous block of stone that formed the end wall of the next building.

  “This is the Norwegian embassy,” said Arngrímur. “The granite rock was transported here in one piece from a mine in Norway. It weighs around a hundred twenty tons, so it was a huge project to get it here.”

  Birkir approached the wall and gazed up at the huge stone.

  “Had he been here before?” he asked suddenly.

  “Who?”

  “Anton, the victim.”

  “Oh, him. No, I don’t think he’s ever been here before. Konrad told me yesterday that Anton had visited him a few times at the residence. He was eager to come and have a look at the embassy building when the opportunity presented itself on Sunday.”

  “So you hadn’t met him before?”

  “No. I never saw him alive.”

  They met a shortish older man and another, younger one coming from the direction of the Icelandic building. Arngrímur bowed, and the others returned the greeting as they passed.

  “That was the Argentinean ambassador. He’s the doyen at the moment,” Arngrímur said when the men had disappeared into the Felleshus.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s the longest-serving of all the ambassadors here in Berlin and is their spokesman or representative vis-à-vis the German government. He came by to offer Konrad his condolences on account of this tragedy we’ve just suffered.”

  “Is it an important position, being doyen?”

  “It can be. Seniority is very important since it determines the ambassadors’ positions in the hierarchy that governs the protocol for all ceremonial occasions.”

  “Does there have to be a hierarchy?”

  “Oh, yes. Before that was established, seating arrangements were a major problem affecting diplomatic relations for centuries—ambassadors argued endlessly about their arrival order at official functions.”

  “Couldn’t they go alphabetically?”

  “Absolutely not. This was a major issue. Pope Julius II tried to establish a permanent hierarchy of states in 1504, headed by the Holy Roman Empire. This was pretty much the system for the next three hundred years, but at the Congress of Vienna, which was held to sort out the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars in Europe, fighting broke out among the ambassadors’ coach drivers over what they saw as their rightful order of precedence. That’s when everyone agreed to place the ambassadors in the hierarchy according to their length of service. So the ambassador who has been at his post for the longest time becomes the spokesman for all the delegations in the city in question.”

  “Does that work well?”

  “Yes, for the most part, though it can lead to bizarre situations, like when the ambassador of that awful Somoza government in Nicaragua was doyen in Washington for several years. But still, it’s better than sword fights between the chauffeurs.”

  “Sword fights might be interesting.” Birkir smiled, then asked, “Did you know any others among Konrad’s guests that evening?”

  “I assisted David Mathieu here in Berlin once. And Lúdvík was introduced to me when he held an exhibition in the Felleshus a few years back. The others I haven’t met as far as I remember.”

  “Do you think that David could have killed Anton?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “It looks like we imported some stone, too, just like the Norwegians,” Birkir said, turning toward the Icelandic embassy on their left. “What is this?” he asked, pointing at its pale-brown masonry.

  “Rhyolite, from Hamarsfjördur.”

  “So you don’t know Starkadur, David’s partner?” Birkir asked, switching the subject again.

  “Maybe I’ve been introduced to him, but I don’t remember it.”

  “You don’t know anything else about him?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  They approached the entrance to the Icelandic embassy.

  Birkir said, “The Icelandic building is noticeably plainer in style than the others.”

  “Yes, I think it works very well. As you see, there is a contrast between the access and stairwell structure, which has this corrugated concrete texture, and the part containing the actual offices, with its rhyolite accent.”

  At the entrance, Arngrímur let them in with a pass card.

  Birkir asked, “You don’t know Jón the Sun Poet personally?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “Not as far as I remember.”

  “I see,” Birkir said thoughtfully. “It’s a small building, isn’t it? What’s the floor area?”

  “Five hundred square meters in total, with office space of around eighty square meters on each story. The site itself is somewhat small and impractical, and the service area, stairs, and elevator take up a large part of the structure. But that’s how it is. Just eight of us work here, so we’re reasonably comfortable.”

  “Was this the best solution?” Birkir asked.

  “Yes, all things considered. One idea that came up at the planning stage was to have the Icelandic embassy on the top floor above the Norwegian one. I’m very glad that didn’t happen, and I think our embassy looks very good among the others, even if it’s not very prominent.”

  “Have you ever met Helgi, the ceramic artist?”

  It didn’t seem to bother Arngrímur that Birkir kept on changing the subject, asking questions about the ambassador’s guests. He replied without a pause, “We were going to have a meeting to discuss his exhibition, but I was called away. He spoke with the ambassador about it instead, so no, I’ve never met him.”

  “When was your meeting supposed to be?”

  “On Sunday.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Yes, but Helgi wasn’t able to make it any other day. Apparently he has a very tight schedule. At the embassy we do sometimes have to attend meetings on weekends. That’s not a problem.”

  “Lúdvík was here to manage Helgi’s exhibition. You’d met him before, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes, very briefly, as I said, when he organized an exhibition in the Felleshus. He is highly professional and efficient, and they didn’t need my help with that project, but I chatted with him at the exhibition’s opening.”

  “And I guess he’s no more prone to violence than the others?”

  “No, there’s nothing about him to sug
gest that.”

  “Fabían, the Sun Poet’s companion. He’s the last name on the ambassador’s guest list. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  They walked up the stairs. On the second floor, the sound of voices could be heard through the open office doors. The work of the embassy seemed to have returned to normal.

  They arrived at the fourth floor, and Arngrímur opened his office with a key.

  He said, “I hope you’ll let us know if we can be of any further assistance? We’ll also need instructions on what to do with Anton’s body.”

  “If no relatives come forward, it’ll be up to the authorities to arrange some sort of funeral,” Birkir replied. “I assume his estate can cover the expenses.”

  “In that case I suggest that the body be cremated here in Berlin,” Arngrímur said. “The ashes can be sent to Iceland and quietly interred. That’s standard procedure when an Icelandic citizen passes away on foreign ground and no relatives come forward.”

  Arngrímur took a small book from a shelf and handed it to Birkir.

  “This is the booklet of quotations about the diplomatic profession I promised you.”

  Birkir took the slim paperback volume and read the Gothic lettering on its cover:

  Diplomacy

  Collected and translated by Arngrímur Ingason

  “Thank you,” Birkir said, and flipped through the first pages. He noticed mostly short excerpts, followed by author’s name or other source in small lettering. The preface bore the dictionary definition: “Diplomacy n. 1) Foreign service, especially the functions of embassies; 2) discretion, tact.”

  Birkir picked out a few entries as he skimmed:

  Time was when diplomats negotiated serious agreements on war and peace and royal marriage arrangements. These days it’s mainly about free trade agreement quotas and sizes of shoe boxes.

  —The Diplomat

  The diplomat’s first duty is not to be surprised by anything.

  —Heinrich von Bülow

  A diplomat is someone who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you look forward to the journey.