Plus he stuck out like a sore thumb. This country was so goddamned white. Not Caucasian, not creamy brown, but honest-to-goodness white. The people were so blonde their hair was almost white as well. No sign of a tan anywhere, and certainly not any brown skin.
Diego was used to blending in. If you thought about it, you would probably say he looked Hispanic, but he could have been Arabic or Turkish or even Italian with a tan, or a mixture of all of the above. In any American city he fit right in. Even when he had offed that stockbroker in the cute little town on Cape Cod, he hadn’t really turned heads. There were people that looked like him in every community in the US.
But not here.
Where were the goddamn Eskimos? They had black hair and brown faces. But they sure as hell didn’t live in this country.
This was stupid. He evaluated his options. He had called the police headquarters to ask if a Magnus Jonson worked there. He did, in the traffic department. But Diego was pretty sure that wasn’t the Jonson he was looking for.
So what was the next step? He could just walk in and ask if there was an American cop working at the station. He guessed that was the kind of thing that would have gotten around; if the guy he talked to didn’t know the answer he could probably find it out easily enough. Problem was, Jonson would hear someone had been asking about him. Diego didn’t want to tip off the target.
He could go back to the Lithuanians. He knew they had been paid well by Soto to help him out. He understood that in a small place like this they wanted to make sure that they weren’t associated with the hit, but surely they could put him in touch with a third party that could help him? A PI or a crooked lawyer. Someone who spoke Icelandic. Someone who was whitey-white.
He didn’t have much time. Jonson could be on a plane back to the States at any moment. Once there it would be easy for the Feds to keep him safe for the few days until the trial.
He was sitting in the coffee shop at the station, on his fifth or sixth cup, his eyes flicking between the two front entrances.
A big guy came out. A big guy with red hair.
That was him!
Diego left the half-empty cup of coffee and almost skipped out of the bus station.
To work.
Magnus headed up the hill towards the Grand Rokk. It was eight-thirty and he had the impression he wasn’t needed at the station any more that evening.
Baldur had been furious. Any positive thoughts he had held earlier about Magnus had been dispelled. Why hadn’t Magnus called Baldur as soon as he realized that Hákon was Tómas’s father? Why hadn’t he stayed with Hákon at Hruni and waited for reinforcements to arrest the pastor?
Why had he let Hákon get away?
While the rest of the Violent Crimes unit ran around like idiots, Magnus was left standing around with nothing to do. So he left.
The barman recognised him and poured him a large Thule. A couple of the regulars said hello. But he wasn’t in the mood for chat, however friendly. He took his beer to a stool in the corner of the bar and drank it.
Baldur had a point, of course. The reason that Magnus had waited until he returned to Reykjavík before telling him what Hákon had said was hardly noble. It was so that he and not Baldur would crack Tómas’s story.
Which he had done. He had solved the case. Discovered not only who had killed Agnar, but also what had happened to Ingileif’s father. The moment of victory had been sweet, but it had only lasted an hour.
There was a chance that Hákon had just driven out on an errand and he would be back in an hour or so. Or that he would be caught by the police. He was an easy guy to spot, it was a small country, or at least the inhabited parts of it were. Magnus wondered whether Hákon would hide in the backcountry, like the outlaws in the sagas, living on berries while he dodged the law.
A possibility.
There was no doubt about it, Magnus had screwed up.
At least that meant that the National Police Commissioner wouldn’t demand that he stay in Iceland for the full two years that he had originally expected. They would be glad to be rid of him next week.
And he would be glad to go.
Wouldn’t he?
It was true what he had said to Ingileif, the memories of his early life in Iceland were painful, made more so by the chance meeting with his cousin. And clearly things were not going well with Baldur. But there were things he liked about his brief time in Iceland. He did have an affinity with the country. More than that – it was a loyalty, a sense of duty. The pride that Icelanders felt for their homeland, their determination to work their butts off to make the place function, was infectious.
The Commissioner’s idea to recruit someone like Magnus wasn’t a bad one. The police officers he had met were smart, honest, hard working. They were good guys, even Baldur. They just lacked experience in big-city crime and that was something he knew he could help them with.
And then there was Ingileif.
He had no desire to go back to Colby, and he was quite sure that she had no desire to go back to him.
But Ingileif.
He had really screwed that up. She had a point, their relationship was more than a quick roll in the hay. How much more, Magnus didn’t know, and neither did she, but that didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have made it matter.
He ordered another beer.
He would try again. Say he was sorry. He wanted to see her again before he went home. She might just tell him to get lost, but it was worth the risk. There was nothing to lose.
He gulped down half his beer and left the bar.
Diego had found himself a good spot, in the smokers’ tent pitched outside in the front yard of the Grand Rokk. He had strolled in to get himself a beer at the bar, and had seen the big cop alone with his drink, absorbed in his own thoughts.
Perfect.
There was one problem; Diego’s car was still parked a couple of blocks from the bus station. He had followed Jonson on foot. There was no way that he was going to carry out the hit in daylight. He needed darkness to make good his escape.
But it was still light. He checked his watch. It was nearly nine-thirty. What was with this country? It was still only April, back home it would have gotten dark hours ago.
So he would follow Jonson. If he was still on the streets when darkness eventually fell he would do it then, otherwise he would follow him home and break in in the small hours of the morning.
Then he saw the big cop walk purposefully out of the bar, past the tent and out on to the street.
Diego followed.
Finally, it was getting dark, or at least dusk. Not quite dark enough. But if Jonson had a long walk before he got home, there might be a chance to do something. Diego would rather pump a couple of shots into Jonson’s head on a quiet street than lumber around in a strange house, with God knows who else there.
Magnus made his way to Ingileif’s house. There was a light on upstairs in her apartment. He hesitated. Would she listen to him?
There was only one way to find out.
He rang the bell at the side entrance of the house, which was where the stairs led up to her flat.
She answered the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry,’ Magnus said. ‘I acted like a jerk.’
‘You did.’ Ingileif’s face was cool, almost expressionless. Not hostile, but certainly not pleased to see him.
‘May I come in?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Ingileif. ‘You did act like a jerk. But your basic point was correct. You are leaving Iceland in a couple of days. It doesn’t make sense for us to get more emotionally involved with each other.’
Magnus blinked. ‘I understand that. It was what I told you, after all, but much less tactfully. But …?’
Ingileif raised her eyebrows. ‘But?’
Magnus wanted to tell her that he really liked her, that he wanted to get to know her better, that it might not make sense but that it was the right thing to do, he knew it was the right thing to
do. But her grey eyes were cold. No, they said. No.
He sighed. ‘I’m very glad I met you, Ingileif,’ he said. He bent down, kissed her quickly on the cheek and turned into the gathering gloom.
Árni sat in his car, parked illegally just outside Eymundsson’s Bookshop in Austurstraeti, and called the station. Magnus had left for the evening. Then he called Magnus’s mobile number. No reply – the phone was switched off. So then he called his sister’s house.
‘Oh, hi Árni,’ Katrín said.
‘Have you seen Magnús?’
‘Not this evening. But he might be in. Let me check.’ Árni tapped his fingers on the dashboard while his sister looked in Magnus’s room. ‘No, he’s not here.’
‘Any idea where he might be?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ Katrín protested.
‘Please, Katrín. Where does he go in the evening, do you know?’
‘Not really. Wait, I think he goes to the Grand Rokk sometimes.’
‘Thanks.’ Árni hung up and drove rapidly up to the Grand Rokk. He was there in two minutes.
He had to speak to Magnus. He had checked. He had made a mistake. He knew who had killed Agnar.
He stopped the car in the street right outside the bar and ran in. He flashed his badge at the barman and asked if he had seen Magnus. He had. The big man had left fifteen minutes before.
Árni jumped back into his car and headed up the hill towards the Hallgrímskirkja. He stopped at a junction. A man crossed in front of him wearing a baggy hooded sweatshirt. The man was fairly tall, slim, with brown skin, walking determinedly. Árni knew him from somewhere.
He was the guy in the arrivals hall at Keflavík Airport. The American who had been met by the Lithuanian drug dealer.
It was a quiet road. The Hispanic guy had increased his pace to a brisk walk. He lifted up his hood.
As Árni crossed the junction heading uphill, he glimpsed Magnus shambling slowly further along the street, head down, deep in thought. Árni was tired. It took him a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. He braked, slammed the car into reverse, and sped backwards down the hill. He crashed into a parked car, threw open the door and jumped out.
‘Magnús!’ he shouted.
Magnus spun around when he heard the sound of smashing metal. So did the Hispanic guy.
The guy was only twenty metres away, maximum. He was gripping something in the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
Árni charged.
He saw the Hispanic’s eyes widen. He saw him pull the gun out of his pocket. Raise it.
Árni launched himself into mid air just as the gun went off.
Magnus saw Árni leap out of his vehicle, heard him shout, saw him run towards the tall figure in the grey hoodie.
He rushed forward just as Árni bowled the man over. He heard the sound of a gunshot, muffled by Árni’s body. The man rolled away from Árni, and turned towards Magnus. Raised his gun from a prone position.
Magnus was about twenty feet away. No chance of reaching the man before he pulled the trigger.
There was a gap between two houses on his left. He jinked and dived through. Another gunshot and a ricochet of a bullet off metal siding.
Magnus found himself in a back yard, other back yards ahead and to one side. He turned right and leapt at a six-foot-high fence. Swung his body over just as another shot rang out.
But Magnus didn’t want to run away from this guy.
He wanted to nail him.
A floodlight burst into life, dazzling Magnus. This yard backed on to a more prosperous looking house. Magnus searched for somewhere to hide.
Before it had erupted, Magnus had noticed that the floodlight was a couple of feet forward from the fence bordering the next yard along. He ran directly towards it, reached the fence and crouched down. He was in deep shadow. No chance of the man seeing him through the dazzling light.
The man appeared on top of the fence and dropped down. He paused to listen. Silence.
Magnus was breathing hard. He swallowed, trying to control it, to make sure he didn’t make a sound.
The man stood stock still, peering around the garden. Magnus had realized he had made a mistake. The guy had heard the silence. Heard the lack of running footsteps.
He knew Magnus was in the yard.
Magnus’s plan had been to catch the guy as he ran through the yard, grabbing him from behind. That plan wasn’t going to work.
For a second the man looked straight at Magnus. Magnus stayed motionless, praying that his theory about the light would hold. It did.
Cautiously the man examined a shrub. Then another. Then he stood still again, listening.
The floodlight was motion-activated. No motion, no light. It went out.
Magnus knew he had a second or two before the man’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He also knew that if he ran straight, the man would shoot at the sound and he would take a bullet. So he ran a couple of paces forward and jinked to the left, a fullback slicing through the defence.
A shot rang out, the flame from the barrel illuminating the man’s face for a fraction of a second.
The man moved his gun to the right, pointed it straight at Magnus, aiming high.
So Magnus dived low, a football tackle directly at the man’s knees. Another shot, just a little too high, and the man went down.
Magnus wriggled and lunged for the hand holding the gun. He grabbed the barrel, and twisted it up and towards the man. Another shot and the sound of broken glass from the house. A satisfying snap and a cry as a thumb broke, jammed in the trigger guard. The man’s free hand reached over Magnus’s face grappling for his eyes. Magnus bucked and wrenched the gun away, rolling back and on to his feet.
He jabbed the gun into the man’s face.
He wanted to pull the trigger; he wanted so badly to pull the trigger. But he knew it would lead to all kinds of problems.
‘Get up!’ he shouted in English. ‘Stand up, or I’ll blow your head off!’
The man slowly raised himself to his feet, his eyes on Magnus, breathing heavily.
‘Get your hands up! Move over here!’
Magnus could hear shouting in the house. ‘Call the police,’ he yelled in Icelandic.
He pushed the man along the side of the house and out on to the street, and shoved him against the wall, his face pressed against the corrugated metal. Now he had a problem. He wanted to tend to Árni, but he couldn’t risk leaving the man uncovered.
He considered once again blowing the guy’s brains out. He was tempted.
Bad idea.
‘Turn around,’ he said, and as the guy turned towards him, he transferred the gun to his left hand and whacked the man with a blow to the jaw with his right.
The pain shot through Magnus’s hand, but the man crumpled. Out cold.
Magnus knelt down beside Árni. He was still alive, his eyelids were fluttering and his breath was coming in short gasps. There was a hole in his chest, there was blood. But there wasn’t that horrible wheezing sound of a sucking chest wound.
‘It’s OK, Árni. You’ll be fine. Hang in there, buddy. You’re not hit too bad.’
Árni’s lips began to move.
‘Shh,’ said Magnus. ‘Quiet now. We’ll get an ambulance here in no time.’
Someone had called the police, he could hear the sirens coming closer.
But Árni’s lips continued to move. ‘Magnus. Listen,’ he whispered, in English.
Magnus moved his head close to Árni’s face, but he couldn’t quite make out what Árni was trying to say, just the last word, which was something like ‘Bye’.
‘Hey, no need to say goodbye now, Árni, you’re gonna make it, you’re the Terminator, remember?’
Árni moved his head from side to side and tried to speak again. It was too much for him. The eyes closed. The lips stopped moving.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MAGNUS JUMPED INTO the police car that led the ambulance to the National Hospital, lights fl
ashing, sirens blaring. It took less than five minutes. He was elbowed away by paramedics pushing Árni through corridors and double hospital doors. The last Magnus saw of his partner was his feet speeding towards the operating room at the stern of the gurney.
He was shown into a small waiting room and began pacing, a television mumbling in the background. Uniformed police officers bustled about.
A woman with a clipboard asked him about next of kin. He wrote down Katrín’s name and address. Then he called her.
‘Oh, hi, Magnus, did Árni find you?’ she asked in English.
‘Yeah, he found me.’
Katrín could tell from the tone of his voice that something was wrong. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m at the hospital. Árni’s been shot.’
‘Shot? He can’t have been shot. This is Iceland.’
‘Well, he was. In the chest.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘He’s not OK, no. But he is alive. I don’t know yet how bad it is. He’s in surgery now.’
‘Did it have something to do with you?’
‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘Yes, it did have something to do with me.’
As he ended the call, he thought about exactly what it had had to do with him. It was his fault that Árni had been nearly killed. It was he who had led a Dominican hit man to Iceland, armed with a gun and primed to fire it.
It should have been him in there on the operating table.
‘Damn, Árni!’ He smashed his fist against the wall. A flash of pain ran through his hand, still sensitive from where it had connected with the punk’s jaw. OK, Árni wasn’t used to being around criminals with guns, but a Boston cop would never have done what he had done. There were lots of options. Drive the car straight at the guy. Drive up to Magnus and put the car between him and the punk. Just honk the horn, roll down the window and yell. All of those would have worked better than sprinting full speed at an armed man.
Where the Shadows Lie Page 27
