Oblivion

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘All the same,’ said Marion and turned to Erlendur. ‘We need to find someone with a grain of sense around here.’

  The Americans conferred, then announced they would contact headquarters. The one who spoke for both repeated, defiantly, that the Icelandic police shouldn’t assume they would be granted permission to interrogate American nationals on US territory, unless the circumstances were exceptional. On the other hand, he made no objection to the Corolla being removed from the scene. The lorry, which had arrived in the interim, reversed up to the car and the driver attached a hook under the bumper, then winched the car into the trailer and secured it. Then he got behind the wheel again and the lorry moved off, under police escort.

  15

  WHILE THEY WERE awaiting a green light from the base authorities for the Icelandic police to question Defense Force personnel, Marion and Erlendur drove over to the Icelandair premises where Kristvin had worked as a mechanic. These were located inside the military zone, like everything relating to international civil aviation in Iceland. Plans had long been afoot to move the international airport, by constructing a smart new passenger terminal outside the perimeter to the west of the base, but little progress had been made so far. The old terminal building was no longer fit for purpose and it was hardly appropriate that every time Icelanders wanted to travel abroad they had to pass through a US military checkpoint. It was yet another bone of contention in the bitter controversy over the American presence in the country that had been raging ever since the Defence Agreement was signed with the United States after the Second World War. Opposition came principally from those on the Left, who wanted not only to throw out the Defense Force but for Iceland to leave NATO as well and declare itself neutral. Support for the military presence tended to come from the Right, who believed that cooperation on defence was essential in these uncertain times and that neutrality in the war between East and West was unthinkable. Others were motivated by profit. They wanted to charge the Americans for the lease of the site on Midnesheidi, but this was countered with the argument that the army was already pumping a vast amount of cash into the Icelandic economy in the form of contracts. Then there were those who took a more moderate line, not necessarily in favour of the army’s presence but regarding it as a necessary evil in light of the Cold War, and feeling that, after the horrors of the last war, the Icelanders ought to do their bit for the Western defensive alliance by remaining a member of NATO. If, at some point in the future, the situation changed, the army would no longer be required. But that time did not appear to be close.

  Erlendur reflected on the long-standing dispute about the army that was still simmering in the country as he drove with Marion through the military zone, past the Andrews Movie Theater and the Post Exchange store. Andrews showed the latest Hollywood films long before they reached the cinemas in Reykjavík. The PX store sold everything from stereos to household appliances at a far better price than could be had outside the wire. The car crawled past a large supermarket selling exclusively American goods, various fast-food outlets and clubs like Top of the Rock and Midnight Sun. Erlendur had the odd impression that he was driving through a small American town, sleepy and unprepossessing; the only discordant elements were the dreary weather and the strong-looking fences criss-crossing the area, with conspicuous warning notices banning entry to non-military personnel. Large barracks were under construction in preparation for the arrival of yet more consignments of troops. And new hangars were rising to house the air force’s F-16 fighter jets. On a stretch of open ground a group of armed, camouflage-clad marines were taking part in an exercise. The traffic in the streets, which had names like Air Force Avenue and West Lane, consisted of yellow school buses, grey army trucks, coaches with passengers on their way to the civilian air terminal and utility vehicles belonging to the Icelandic contractors. In the midst of all the asphalt and concrete there were glimpses of the inhospitable Icelandic landscape – windswept gravel plains and hardy vegetation – reminders of what Midnesheidi Moor had looked like before it was occupied by the superpower.

  To Erlendur’s mind, everything that passed before his eyes was simultaneously Icelandic yet bizarrely alien. Marion apparently read his thoughts.

  ‘Weird place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Erlendur. ‘Very weird.’

  ‘Why are you opposed to the army?’

  ‘How can you be anything else?’ said Erlendur, looking north to where a control tower loomed against the sky. Beyond, in the distance, he could see the mountains, Esja and Skardsheidi, which only enhanced the air of unreality.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Marion.

  ‘Because it doesn’t belong here.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were political.’

  ‘Political?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re against the army.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with politics,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘Really? Isn’t it all a question of Right versus Left, Yanks versus Russians, the Cold War? The Keflavík protest marches? Isn’t that political?’

  ‘I loathe politics.’

  Icelandair handled all the international civilian air traffic that passed through Keflavík and had facilities for their planes in a large hangar that stood just to the north of the terminal building. Here, checks and maintenance were carried out on the fleet, and the company also serviced any planes belonging to overseas operators that landed in Keflavík and required inspection or other assistance.

  Kristvin’s boss, who had been expecting a visit from the police, invited Marion and Erlendur into his office which was overflowing with all kinds of books and instruction manuals on the most obscure details of aircraft engineering. The two phones on his desk were practically buried. The walls were lined with grey filing cabinets, covered with yet more piles of papers. A window faced the hangar, where an Icelandair Boeing 727 passenger plane was parked. One of its engines had been opened up and men were swarming around the fuselage.

  The boss’s name was Engilbert. His rather short, muscular body was clad in blue overalls and he had a bush of black hair combed back off his forehead. He offered them coffee that had been sitting in the jug all morning. They declined. Marion lit a cigarette. Engilbert poured himself a coffee, took a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray, lit it and blew out a stream of smoke.

  ‘It’s a shocker about poor old Kristvin,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s all about or what actually happened to him?’

  ‘No, not as yet,’ said Marion. ‘Are you aware of any problems he’d been having lately? Did he fall out with anyone at work? Get into a fight?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Far as I know everything was fine,’ said Engilbert.

  ‘He hadn’t missed work or anything like that?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘No, he was always very punctual, a good worker. Was a bit of a loner but got on fine with the rest of the crew here. Studied in the States. They’re the best, the guys who train over there.’

  ‘No problems with drink or drugs then?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Nope, none that I know of.’

  ‘He drove back to Reykjavík after work, didn’t he?’ said Erlendur. ‘Your men don’t stay on site?’

  ‘No, that’s right, he commuted every day. All the men do.’

  ‘Did he work in this hangar?’

  ‘Yes, mostly. Maybe you should talk to Venni – I reckon he knew him best out of all the mechanics. Full name’s Vernhardur – a good kid. I think they were mates.’

  ‘Do you know if Kristvin had any friends here on the base? Among the American servicemen, I mean?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t know, but Venni might. I don’t think he had much contact with them, but it’s possible. After all, he lived in the States for a while. I didn’t get to know him that well.’

  ‘He’d parked his car by one of the barracks,’ said Marion. ‘Any idea what business he might have had with the residents?’

 
‘No, none.’

  ‘Know if he used to take cigarettes or vodka back to town with him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Engilbert.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, lots of them do it, but it’s not like they’re involved in large-scale smuggling,’ said Engilbert awkwardly. ‘They just buy for their own use, you know.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’ asked Erlendur, noticing Engilbert’s discomfort.

  ‘Well, I have done, yes, I’m prepared to admit that. I hope I’m not confessing to a major crime here. I use the cigarette vending machines and so on, like you do; maybe take home a few cans of beer for my mates.’

  ‘What did you mean when you said Kristvin mostly worked in here?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Do you have facilities on another site?’

  Engilbert stubbed out his cigar and nodded, relieved by the change of subject.

  ‘When we’ve got a rush on, we’re allowed to use the air-force facilities,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘When the planes are piling up, we’re given a bay in … Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Engilbert stood up and went out into the hangar, with Erlendur and Marion on his heels. He walked through the massive doors that opened to the south, rounded a corner and pointed across the broad expanse of the runway to a colossal, box-like building plonked down in the middle of the featureless landscape.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Only one of the biggest buildings in the country,’ said Engilbert grandly. ‘Hangar 885, the pride of NAS Keflavík. You could fit two or three football pitches in there, apparently.’

  ‘Hangar 885,’ repeated Erlendur.

  ‘And Kristvin worked in there?’ said Marion.

  ‘Yes, now and then,’ said Engilbert. ‘We need extra space at peak times when the jobs are stacking up, and Kristvin would work there along with the rest of the crew. Part of the hangar’s closed for building work at the moment, but it’s due to finish soon, so –’

  ‘I meant, had he been working there recently?’ asked Marion. ‘Before he died?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said Engilbert, scratching his head. ‘We had a bit of a problem with an inbound plane from America. Didn’t have room for it ourselves so they let us service it in the big hangar.’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Faulty landing gear. Kristvin worked on that. In fact, it was probably the last job he did for us before he died.’

  ‘What plane was this?’ asked Marion.

  ‘A transport. C-130 Hercules. The biggest there is.’

  ‘Isn’t it fairly standard for planes like that to land here?’ said Erlendur. ‘Hercules, I mean.’

  ‘Sure, yeah,’ said Engilbert. ‘Except …’

  ‘What?’ prompted Marion.

  ‘Oh, it’s just that some guys from Reykjavík air traffic control were out here the other day about another matter and happened to mention the operator,’ said Engilbert. ‘Its status was a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘Which operator?’

  ‘NCT.’

  ‘NCT?’

  ‘The aircraft’s registered under a civilian operator, a commercial airline calling itself Northern Cargo Transport. They stop over in Keflavík quite regularly but air traffic control has no information about their movements – you follow? They found it a bit odd. The guys at air traffic control.’

  ‘No, I don’t follow. What do you mean?’ asked Marion. ‘Why doesn’t air traffic control have any information about their movements?’

  ‘There can only be one explanation,’ said Engilbert. ‘They come in under the air-force call sign. Like the military aircraft from the base. The military aircraft aren’t differentiated but all come in under the same call sign.’

  ‘I still don’t quite follow. You’re saying Northern Cargo Transport’s a commercial outfit?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But lands here under cover of the air force?’

  ‘You could put it like that,’ said Engilbert. ‘They’re a civilian operator but use the same call sign as the US air force when they enter Icelandic airspace.’

  ‘Are they operating on behalf of the American air force then?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Don’t know. Looks like it.’

  ‘Why do you suppose they do that?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Search me, mate.’

  ‘And Kristvin was working on this plane?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s a socking great building,’ commented Erlendur, his eyes on the hangar.

  ‘I imagine the ceiling must be very high inside?’ said Marion.

  ‘Yeah, unbelievably,’ said Engilbert. ‘You could fit a block of flats in there. And they’re working up in the rafters, the plumbers, installing a fire-extinguisher system. Not a job for the faint-hearted.’

  ‘Are these Icelandic contractors?’

  ‘Yes. They have massive work platforms that reach up to the ceiling. I wouldn’t want to take a tumble off one of those, I can tell you.’

  16

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON CID received authorisation from the US commander’s office to question base personnel and their families about Kristvin and the car that had been found by the barracks. This was only granted on condition that Marion and Erlendur were accompanied by a special military police liaison officer. Marion objected, assuming the liaison officer was being foisted on them purely in order to spy and report back to the army about what they uncovered. Not only that but the presence of a military representative might make people reluctant to speak to the Icelandic police. But the authorities wouldn’t back down: if the Icelandic police wanted to interview American nationals on US territory, it would have to be done in consultation with the Defense Force and in the presence of its representative. Furthermore, it was pointed out that this was an exceptional case and should not be taken as a guarantee of further cooperation.

  While they were awaiting approval, Erlendur and Marion had made a quick trip into the neighbouring town of Keflavík to talk to the men installing the sprinkler system in Hangar 885. They were employed by a local plumbing firm and, when asked, said that none of them knew Kristvin. Their boss explained that work on the system had been on hold for the last two weeks because they had been busy with other projects, but that it was more or less finished and all that remained was to tidy up and dismantle the scaffolding, which was not their job anyway.

  When Erlendur and Marion returned to the base, the liaison officer was waiting for them by the barracks where the Corolla had been found. Like Marion, Erlendur had been expecting the obstructive young sergeant they had already encountered. But the officer turned out to be a slim black woman of around thirty, with short, jet-black hair under her cap, and a decisive manner. She was in uniform with an MP armband and had a pistol in a holster on her belt. She introduced herself as Sergeant Caroline Murphy and explained that she would be present during the interviews. She came straight to the point.

  ‘I hear you object to this arrangement,’ she said as she shook hands, ‘but I can’t do anything about that. The sooner we get it over with the better, so I suggest we make a start.’

  ‘Fine by us,’ said Marion.

  ‘What grounds do you have for believing that this Kris … this man was killed on the base?’ she asked.

  ‘His car was found here,’ said Erlendur. His English was self-taught but serviceable. ‘That’s all we know.’

  ‘We’d like to establish if that’s what happened,’ said Marion. ‘Have you been here long? In Iceland, I mean.’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘There aren’t many women in the army, are there?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Our numbers are growing,’ said Caroline, ‘though we’re not allowed to take part in combat. Yet. Do you have many female detectives in Iceland?’

  ‘No, sadly not,’ said Marion. ‘Not enough. Did you know that the Icelandic government used to ban black soldiers from being stationed here?’

  ‘Y
es, I heard about that,’ said Caroline. ‘Real nice of them.’

  ‘Ignorant bigots,’ said Marion.

  ‘Times have changed, I guess,’ said Caroline, displaying rather more tolerance than Marion.

  ‘Ignorant bigots all the same.’

  ‘Shall we start here?’ asked Caroline, indicating the nearest block. ‘I assume you have a photograph of the man?’

  ‘Yes, let’s get down to business,’ said Marion.

  They went from flat to flat, asking the residents if they knew Kristvin, showing them the photograph and enquiring whether they had seen the grey Corolla or knew what it was doing there. People were mostly very helpful, if surprised by their visit, and inquisitive about the incident. Apparently no one recognised Kristvin from the photo or had noticed the Corolla parked outside, let alone witnessed the tyres being slashed.

  The same went for the occupants of the other barracks. Some had noticed the grey car because the tyres were flat, but no one had seen it arrive or knew who owned it or who had vandalised it. No one recalled seeing it in the area before. Occasionally they were invited inside, but mostly they were left standing out in the corridor. Erlendur and Marion kept steering the questions round to cigarettes, vodka and marijuana, and some people took offence while others laughed and said they were well aware of the Icelanders’ interest in these items but denied any personal involvement in dealing. Few of the personnel had any contact with the locals. A couple of them said they had seen Icelanders down by the vending machines in the lobby, stocking up on cigarettes and beer. Sometimes they emptied the machines, much to the disgust of the residents.

  They only encountered three instances of unpleasantness, with people refusing to answer any questions put to them by the Icelandic police. At this point Caroline intervened and politely requested that they cooperate. When they didn’t, she told them that they were welcome to refuse but they would be hauled in for questioning at military police headquarters instead. If that’s what they would prefer, it could easily be arranged, she informed them crisply. It never came to that. The individuals in question backed down and answered with curt resentment.