66 Degrees North

by Michael Ridpath

  She thought about what she would tell the police. It would be good to give them the names of the next victim and the assassin. Björn had been reluctant to tell her: she would see what she could do about that.

  ‘So when you have dealt with the next name on your list, will you let me go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Björn. He looked as if he was pleased with the question. ‘It depends. On you.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Harpa let the silence hang there. She knew that Björn wanted to believe that she could be persuaded to agree to keep quiet for a few days. ‘And when will that be?’ she asked him.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Today? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week?’

  ‘This afternoon, possibly. Probably this evening. Almost definitely tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How will you know?’

  ‘A text.’

  ‘Which is why you need to go and make your phone calls?’

  ‘Once I have heard everything is ready, then all I will have to do is wait for the text.’

  ‘From?’

  Björn shook his head. ‘ I can’t tell you, Harpa.’

  ‘OK. At least tell me who the target is.’

  Björn shook his head. Harpa could see that his earlier pleasure in her talking to him was waning.

  ‘I don’t see why you won’t. After all there’s nothing I can do about it, is there? You may as well tell me now.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when it’s done.’ Björn’s voice was firm.

  Harpa didn’t want to push him any more in case he realized what she was planning. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said.

  They were silent for five, maybe ten minutes. Through the window, Harpa watched as the clouds swirled across the valley, bringing thick fog one moment and sunshine the next.

  Fog would be good for evading Björn. But it would make it very easy to get lost on the mountain. She would just have to seize her opportunity whenever it came.

  Björn checked his watch. ‘I’m going to go and check for that text.’

  Harpa grunted.

  Björn glanced at Harpa’s ankles and wrists and left the hut. A few seconds later Harpa heard the engine of his pickup starting up and the sound of the vehicle bumping down towards the track.

  She bent down and attacked the knot. It wasn’t coming, damn it! And she was sure she had nearly untied it.

  Slow down, Harpa. She stopped, took a couple of breaths, examined the knot, thought about it, tugged the rope here, pushed there.

  She was free!

  She scanned the room for her phone, or a knife, but couldn’t see either. No time to mess about. She pulled open the door with her bound hands and ran outside.

  Ísak saw Björn leave the hut. His heart rate quickened as he watched the pickup clatter its way down to the track, and then up the pass. A patch of cloud drifted down the valley, fingers of moisture stretching ahead of it as it clutched at the rocks and the boulders, silently hauling itself forward. The head of the pass was obscured. Excellent. He would wait until Björn’s pickup disappeared into the mist before making his move.

  The vehicle was swallowed up by the cloud. Ísak hesitated. Gripped the knife in his gloved hand and set off towards the hut. He had barely gone five metres when he heard the door open again, and a moment later he saw Harpa rushing down the knoll towards the stream at the floor of the valley.

  She was escaping! He broke into a run. She hadn’t seen him yet. He tried to run softly so as not to scare her. The closer he could get the better. Then one final sprint.

  But Harpa was running as fast as she could already. She tore down the side of the knoll, crossed the track and forded the stream, slipping once and falling in, uttering a small yelp as she did so. She clambered out, turned and saw Ísak.

  Ísak hesitated. Perhaps if he didn’t scare her she would mistake him for a rescuer. They had only met once, in January, and she might not recognize him from a distance.

  He slowed to a walk. ‘Are you all right?’ he shouted.

  Harpa hesitated. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I was hiking through the pass and I saw you run,’ Ísak called. ‘Are you OK?’

  Harpa approached him gingerly. Ísak was close to the stream now. He gripped the knife in the pocket of his coat.

  ‘Ísak! You’re Ísak aren’t you?’ Harpa shouted. She took a couple of steps back and then ran up the slope.

  Ísak leaped into the stream. The water was freezing and more powerful than he expected. He slipped on a rock and rolled over once, his head striking another stone. The shock of the cold water seemed to squeeze the air out of his lungs. For a moment he panicked. Fast flowing mountain streams in Iceland were much more dangerous than they appeared. He fought for air and grabbed a stone, pulling himself to his feet.

  He could see Harpa scampering up the rocky side of the valley a few metres ahead, hurrying towards the base of the cloud.

  Then he heard the sound of a vehicle behind him.

  *

  Björn was thinking about Harpa as he drove up into the mist towards the head of the pass. Her calm unnerved him. He was used to her confused, panicky. This sense of purpose was new. It didn’t bode well for her changing her mind and keeping quiet once he let her go.

  In which case, what was he to do with her?

  He glanced down at his phone. A couple of bars flickered. Maybe he could get reception here without going all the way over the head of the pass. He stopped the car. He was right at the point where the road disappeared behind a boulder, but he couldn’t see back to the hut because of the fog. The two bars flickered and died. He stepped out and moved around the black volcanic dirt at the side of the track, trying to get reception, but there was nothing.

  He was surrounded on three sides by thick moisture, but above him, through a thin patina of white, he could see the blue of the sky.

  He trotted back to the truck.

  Then he saw it. A footprint in the dust, a couple of metres from where he had walked himself. He put his own feet by the print. Smaller, definitely not his.

  He followed the prints back into the mist. The dirt had been scuffed. There was part of a tyre mark.

  A small conical rock lay about twenty metres back from the track. He checked behind it: a car. The same car he had seen struggling up the pass earlier.

  Who the hell’s was it? A strange walker, who for an unknowable reason had wanted to hide his car before setting out? He doubted it.

  Could it be the police? The small Honda didn’t look like a police car, and he could see various bits of camping equipment in the back.

  It could be Ísak. After Harpa.

  Björn ran back to his truck, spun it around and hurtled down the hill to the valley.

  He burst through the cloud, and the valley floor opened before him. He noticed the door to the hut hanging open. He scanned the valley as he drove and saw a figure clambering out of the stream and up the hill on the other side. Ísak.

  Further up the hill he could see Harpa, only a few metres below the cloud base.

  He swerved off the track and drove down towards the stream. Within a few seconds the truck came to a halt as a front wheel slid into a hole with a clang. Björn flung open the door and leaped out. He saw Ísak turn towards him and then keep climbing.

  Björn bounded from stone to stone in the stream, and was soon on the other side. He could no longer see Harpa. And the cloud was descending further. In a moment it had swallowed up Ísak.

  Björn kept his eyes on where he had last seen Ísak and kept his legs pumping. He was a fit man, fitter than Ísak he would bet.

  He scrambled upwards past a rock. A snipe darted up to his right with a whirr of wings. He saw a flash of steel, and twisted, raising his arm to parry the blow. There was the sound of tearing as a knife ripped the upper arm of his jacket. He stepped backwards, ready to face his assailant, but one of his feet slipped from under him.

  Ísak was quick and surprisingly strong. As Björn fell backwards and hit the ground the blade o
f the knife penetrated his coat, his fleece, his shirt and his skin, and lodged between his ribs.

  Björn felt the blow, but no pain. He reached up and grabbed Ísak around the throat. Ísak’s eyes opened in surprise. He tried to wriggle free, but Björn would not let go. The two men rolled down the slope, Björn’s fingers clamped to the student’s throat. They came to a halt against a rock, Björn on top.

  He increased the pressure. Ísak made choking noises as he gasped for breath. Björn’s vision began to go. He forced himself to focus on Ísak, to keep those fingers tight just for a few seconds longer. But he could feel the strength flowing from his body, from his arms.

  Ísak saw it too. He bucked and Björn’s fingers came loose, another buck and Björn was tossed sideways. He lay panting on his back in the moss. Beside him Ísak gulped for breath in great choking spasms. But with each second that passed, Ísak was getting stronger and Björn weaker.

  Björn glanced downwards at the handle of the knife protruding from his chest. Strangely, it still didn’t hurt.

  Ísak bent over him and yanked it out.

  Björn yelled. That hurt. That hurt like hell. But the yell was little more than a croak.

  He tried to pull himself to his feet. He couldn’t do it.

  He moved his lips, tried to force air through his vocal cords. ‘Come here, you bastard!’ But it was just a whisper.

  Sindri wished they would offer him a cigarette. It would be easier to zone out with a cigarette. There was a red no-smoking sign on the wall of the interview room, but there was also a cigarette butt in a white plastic cup on the window sill. The bastards could give him a cigarette if they wanted to. But he wasn’t going to ask.

  Since they had brought him in, he hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked for a lawyer, he didn’t need anyone to tell him not to say anything. It wasn’t long now, only a few hours, and then he could talk. But it should be easy to keep quiet until then.

  The black one was talking now. The bald one was staring at him. He tried not to focus on what she was saying, but couldn’t avoid hearing the words ‘Ingólfur Arnarson’. If they were smart, they would have figured out who that was by now. If Sindri had been smart, he would have chosen an irrelevant codename. The others thought the whole notion of a codename was ridiculous, but it had turned out to be a good idea. He wondered how the police had got hold of the name. Someone wrote it down somewhere, perhaps? Or they were overheard.

  Sindri knew he was going to jail. But the more he thought about it, the more he grew to like the idea. Litla Hraun could hardly be worse than his squat. There would be company, they would probably allow him to write, and he would be famous. Finally people would notice him.

  That morning, despite the hangover, he had posted his manifesto on his blog. It had come out surprisingly well. It was both a call to arms and the distillation of ten years of his ideas. And once he went on trial, people would read it all over the world.

  He had been bitterly disappointed at the Icesave meeting the day before. That was why he had got so drunk. It was clear that Ísak was right, the Icelandic people were just too nice, too polite to take to the streets to fight. At least Ingileif had listened to him. She was gorgeous. And smart. He had really thought he was going to get lucky there, but it had turned out that it was his mind she was impressed with, not his body. Perhaps, in time. When she heard about his trial on national TV.

  That was one problem with prison. No sex. Who was he kidding? It was at least a year since he had last had sex. And he used to find it so easy.

  Maybe Ingileif?

  No. He would have to reconcile himself to several years in jail. But he would be a hero to some people. And over time the number of people who believed in his cause would grow, he was sure of it. He’d be a kind of Icelandic Nelson Mandela.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ the bald one snapped.

  Sindri didn’t answer, but let the smile fade from his lips. No need to provoke them.

  ‘Where’s Harpa?’

  Not telling you, buddy.

  ‘And Ísak?’ asked the black woman. ‘Where is Ísak? Are they together?’

  Not telling you that either.

  But Sindri answered the question in his own head. Ísak was looking for Harpa with the intention of killing her.

  That didn’t fit into Sindri’s self-image of a hero of the people. He should have stopped Ísak somehow, called Björn and warned him. Harpa’s death would be a waste. And Björn was right, she was entirely innocent.

  Sindri could look anyone in the eye and tell him he was proud of what they had done to Óskar Gunnarsson, or Julian Lister, or what they would do to Ingólfur Arnarson. Even Gabríel Örn’s death could be justified.

  But not Harpa. Killing Harpa would be wrong. And he would be implicated in that as well, with some justice. It wasn’t the law that worried him, he knew he was a murderer anyway according to the law, but it was the people. He couldn’t justify Harpa’s death to the people. Or to himself.

  ‘What is it, Sindri?’ the bald one said. ‘You look worried. We know Björn is with Harpa. Is Ísak with them? Or is he somewhere else?’

  Sindri took a deep breath.

  ‘Tell us,’ said the bald one, gently. He and the woman leaned back, patiently.

  Sindri thought about it. Then thought about it some more. Then he spoke.

  Páll could drive fast, Magnus would give him that. He had the lights flashing, although there were only a few sheep and a couple of horses to admire them. They seemed interested, though.

  There was a good chance they would be the first to the Kerlingin Pass. The small complement of police based at Stykkishólmur were spread far and wide, some of them manning roadblocks into and out of the peninsula.

  Páll belted through the Berserkjahraun, past the new road up over to Borgarnes, and turned right up the old Kerlingin Pass track. Over to their left towards Helgafell on the way to Stykkishólmur Magnus could see the flashing blue light of another police car on its way.

  ‘I don’t suppose you happen to have a rifle in the back of this car?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Páll said. ‘You know Icelandic policemen don’t carry guns.’

  ‘What if Björn is armed?’

  ‘Why should he be? He’s only a fisherman. And I know for a fact he doesn’t have a gun licence.’

  ‘These guys had guns in London. And Normandy.’

  ‘He won’t have a gun.’

  ‘But he could have a knife,’ Magnus said.

  Páll didn’t answer for a moment. ‘He will probably have a knife,’ he admitted.

  ‘Oh, great.’ The car was bucking like a demented stallion as it leapt over the potholes in the track.

  ‘What do you use for shooting the polar bears, then?’ Magnus asked. Three times in the previous couple of years polar bears had made the long journey to Iceland on drifting icebergs, only to be blasted as soon as they hit dry land by trigger-happy policemen.

  ‘That’s different,’ said the constable. ‘Jesus!’ He fought to retain control as his car nearly went spinning over the edge.

  Magnus decided to let Páll concentrate on the road.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Magnús, it’s Baldur. Have you found Ísak yet?’

  ‘We’re on our way to the pass.’

  ‘Sindri just talked. He says Ísak is planning to kill Harpa. Keep her quiet.’

  ‘Does Björn know about that?’

  ‘No. And Sindri says he won’t like that idea at all.’

  ‘Interesting. Did he say who Ingólfur Arnarson is? Or the assassin?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Did you get hold of Björn’s brother?’

  ‘Yeah, we brought him in to the station as well. He just looked surprised. And he’s been painting the shop on Laugavegur since eight this morning. Not exactly preparing an assassination attempt.’

  The car plunged into fog. Baldur was beginning to break up as the reception deteriorated. ‘Tell me when you loca
te Ísak,’ he said and rang off.

  The car followed the track around bare volcanic rock and soon they were descending. It was impossible to make out the Kerlingin troll, although Magnus knew it was above them somewhere.

  Suddenly the cloud seemed to lift and they were in a valley of rock and moss. There, on the left, was the hut, its door wide open. And on the right was a pickup truck, its nose pointing down towards the stream, one of its front wheels wedged in a hole, and one of its back wheels raised off the ground. The driver’s door was hanging open.

  ‘Slow down! You take the hut, I’ll take the truck!’ said Magnus. He jumped out of the car before it had come to a halt, ran to the truck and looked inside. Nothing. He scanned the hill. A short distance up the far wall of the valley he saw a body splayed out on the ground.

  He forded the freezing stream and ran uphill. It was Björn. Stab wound to the chest. It didn’t look good unless they could get rapid medical attention.

  At least he was conscious. His eyes flickered up at Magnus.

  Magnus asked the key question. ‘Who did this?’

  Björn tried to speak, but was finding it difficult. Magnus lowered his ear towards Björn’s mouth. He heard one word. ‘Ísak.’

  ‘Where’s Harpa?’ he asked.

  Björn couldn’t answer, but he flicked his eyes upwards.

  ‘She’s gone up the hill?’ Magnus asked.

  Björn nodded, just a brief downward movement of the chin.

  ‘And Ísak’s after her?’

  Another nod.

  Magnus tried for one more question. ‘And who is Ingólfur Arnarson?’

  Björn closed his eyes and moved his head to the side.

  Magnus waved at Páll who was trotting heavily towards the stream. ‘Get an ambulance!’ he shouted.

  Páll raised an arm in acknowledgement and ran back to his car and the radio.

  Magnus turned and looked up the hill. The cloud seemed to be lifting, moving off to his left down the valley. But he couldn’t see either Ísak or Harpa. He closed his eyes and listened. He could hear running water, the croak of a raven, Björn’s laboured breathing, and somewhere above, the clatter of falling stones.

  He set off up the hill into the fog.