The Chill Factor

by Richard Falkirk

  ‘It was just the same with you,’ I said. ‘Just the same and worse.’

  ‘Please go,’ she said. ‘I won’t run away. Come back tomorrow.’

  Sandie Shaw progressed on to Long Live Love. Still too loud. I turned down the volume. Gudrun blinked some more tears from her eyes. Her housecoat fell open giving me a glimpse of her breasts. She covered them with a listless movement. Outside a shower of rain crossed the bay, heading out to sea.

  I said: ‘I suppose you know someone tried to kill me shortly after we met?’

  ‘Yesh,’ she said. The lisp or whatever it was had lost some of its appeal.

  ‘Did you arrange that?’

  ‘No – they knew you were coming anyway.’

  ‘But that didn’t stop you, did it?’ There really wasn’t much she could say to encourage forgiveness.

  ‘I only found out about the shooting today. I didn’t know they had tried to kill you. They wouldn’t have wanted me to know. They didn’t tell me any of the bad things. I thought it was just a question of …’

  ‘Ideology?’

  ‘Yesh,’ she said. ‘Ideology like the students have. But they forget it so soon after they have finished their studies.’

  I walked over to the window. Ideology. The cause of as much dishonesty, suffering and deceit as original sin. The sky was clear again, paling for the dusk-dawn. The mountains had advanced in the rain-washed clarity encircling the scattered roofs of Reykjavik. Beyond, the glaciers and volcanoes on the thin crust of the earth. Ideology!

  In the street below a minibus packed with young people headed towards the base.

  At the best Gudrun was stupid. At the best. But she had never appeared particularly stupid. Single-minded, unsubtle, hungry and healthy; but not stupid.

  I looked at my watch. It was 11.30. In half an hour Shirey would be handed over. I could vaguely smell a familiar scent, but I couldn’t place it.

  I sat down again and gripped her wrist. ‘Look, do you know anything that can save this boy out at the base?’

  She shook her head, scattering a couple of tears on to the polished table-top.

  I tightened my grip. ‘You must know something. You were being used as a courier after all. A courier is a very important member of an organisation. What was in that envelope that you handed over to the Russian in a London pub yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She was trembling and dabbing distractedly at the tears. ‘I told you – I knew nothing. I didn’t read the report.’

  ‘Just in it for the ideology? Come on, Gudrun.’ I let go of her wrist. ‘In half an hour your country will be celebrating the day it was granted home rule by the Danes. Freedom in other words. You know what you’re doing, Gudrun? You’re helping people who want to end that freedom.’

  She shrugged helplessly.

  ‘What’s that bruise on your lip?’

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘we’ll tackle it from another angle. I want to know the names of the people in Iceland for whom you were working. And for God’s sake don’t say you don’t know who they were.’

  ‘I cannot tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please tell me, Gudrun. If you don’t then I shall have to hand you over to someone who will make you talk It’s not very difficult, you know.’

  ‘Then you must hand me over: I cannot tell you.’

  Miss Shaw changed to a number called I’ve Heard About Him as if she were following our dialogue.

  I said: ‘If you won’t tell me then I will give you some names.’

  Fear animated her expression. She said urgently: ‘No, you mustn’t. Please.’

  ‘Olav Magnusson,’ I said.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Valdimar Laxdal,’ I said.

  Valdimar Laxdal said: ‘I can confirm that, Mr Conran.’

  He was standing at the bedroom doorway, gun in hand held with love and familiarity. Now I identified the scent: it was Laxdal’s aftershave.

  ‘So this is Johann,’ I said to Gudrun. I moved one hand in the general direction of my Smith & Wesson.

  Laxdal jerked his gun. A Beretta: it would be – flash name like its owner. ‘Hands firmly clasped behind your neck, please.’

  ‘Did you kill the girl?’ I asked.

  ‘Let us say she died. No one killed her.’

  ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘Whoever fixed that date with Shirey killed her. Whoever filled her up with booze killed her. Whoever persuaded her that she was doing it for Iceland killed her. You killed her, Laxdal. You and whoever helped you.’ I looked at Gudrun.

  He leaned against the doorway. His pose was lazy, his grip on the gun firm. ‘Does it matter? She was only a little tart.’ He was speaking in English.

  ‘Do you matter? You’re only a little ponce.’

  The actor’s smile hardened fractionally. ‘Gudrun, take Mr Conran’s gun. It’s inside his jacket.’ To me he said: ‘Don’t try anything now because it will not bother me in the slightest if I shoot our mutual mistress as well as you.’

  Gudrun stood the distance from me that her bosom required. The tears had stopped. She didn’t look at me. She took the gun from the holster and said: ‘I tried to warn you. I told you not to tell me any names.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  Laxdal said: ‘Put the gun on the table.’ The dimple in his smooth chin looked very deep tonight. He was wearing blue slacks, light blue button-down shirt with a dark blue neckerchief and a casual suede jacket, expensive, probably French. The clothes were all a little too young for him. He looked freshly tanned, freshly combed, freshly exercised.

  She put the Smith & Wesson on the table and sat down. Sandie Shaw sang I’d Be Far Better Off Without You.

  ‘My arms are getting very tired,’ I said. ‘Very soon I shall have to let them drop. Then you will shoot me. I don’t want that.’

  ‘I shall have to kill you anyway,’ Laxdal said. ‘But not here. Not in this beautiful apartment where you found so much happiness with Gudrun.’

  ‘Jealous?’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t be. After all, it was you who ordered her to pick me up. You or Magnusson. To pick my brains, I suppose. She didn’t produce many pickings, did she, Laxdal?’

  ‘She would have done.’ He wasn’t enjoying this particular reality. ‘She would have started tonight. In the post-coital sadness – isn’t that when men are supposed to give up their secrets?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been very sad after coitus.’ Nor, I thought, have you – you’ve just read that somewhere.

  Laxdal said: ‘All right, sit down in that chair.’ He pointed to a Swedish easy-chair, white and shallow and uncomfortable. ‘Keep your hands on the arms. Don’t try anything because I am a very good shot and very fast.’

  ‘And very proud of it,’ I said. He gestured with the gun, a bad-tempered jerk. I sat down.

  ‘There are some details I should like to know,’ he said.

  ‘And me. When did you come to Iceland, Laxdal? Are you Russian or are you just an Icelandic traitor?’

  Gudrun said: ‘He is a murderer.’ She was sitting at the table feeling the bruise on her lip.

  ‘And who’s the boss,’ I said. ‘You or Magnusson?’ I knew he would answer that one.

  ‘I am.’ He sat down opposite me, one hand instinctively tugging at his trousers to preserve the crease. ‘What interests me is your interest in Hafstein.’

  ‘He was a suspect. Just like you and Magnusson. He doesn’t matter very much now, does he?’

  ‘He matters,’ Laxdal said. ‘He matters because he wasn’t working for me and he wasn’t working for you. Who was he working for and what sort of set-up did he have? I need to know that, Conran. I need to know it very badly. And I need to know it before you die. As you just observed to Gudrun, a man or a woman can always be made to talk. There is no such thing any longer as resistance to persuasion.’

  ‘You can persuade all you wish but yo
u won’t get anything from me because I don’t know the answer to your question.’

  Laxdal lit a Gauloise very carefully and the gun-barrel didn’t waver. ‘Why did you suspect him?’

  ‘Because of your agent who was shot dead at Egilsstathir.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He had a scrap of paper in his pocket with Hafstein’s name on it.’

  Laxdal considered this and detached a shred of black tobacco from his tongue.

  ‘You don’t like that, do you, Laxdal? It smells of a plot within a plot, doesn’t it? A Russian agent with instructions to report to someone other than yourself. You know what I think? I think that your days here in charge of operations were numbered. I think Hafstein was working for your Kremlin masters without your knowledge. He may even have been senior to you. Perhaps you’ve been indiscreet, Laxdal. Men of your age and conceit are given to boasts that are inclined to be indiscreet. In any case you’re not the type the Soviet system warms to: they don’t like ageing playboys. They use them – as they used Philby for instance – then discard them or put them out to graze. Philby was lucky – if you call being a prisoner in Moscow lucky. But you aren’t as important or as well-known as Philby. They wouldn’t even bother to discard you, Laxdal – they would dispose of you. Perhaps that was the mission of the unfortunate agent who got himself shot by a wandering policeman. Perhaps even now another agent has been landed, without your knowledge, to dispose of you.’

  A black and white ship edged into the picture framed by the window. Five miles away, perhaps, but you could still pick out the national flag – red cross bordered with white on a dark blue background. There were flags everywhere. In twenty minutes Shirey would be handed over.

  Laxdal inhaled the smell of France deeply. His gun was still steady but his face had creased up a bit. Valdimar Laxdal did not enjoy being belittled in front of a woman. ‘You can keep your theories,’ he said. ‘All I want to know is what you found out about Hafstein.’

  ‘I told you – nothing. He was an enthusiastic and competent ornithologist and a lover of Icelandic churches. He was particularly fond’ – I watched Laxdal’s reactions closely – ‘of a certain German church.’

  The reactions were non-existent. Laxdal said: ‘You are wasting time.’

  I shrugged. One brief phone call to Martz and Shirey would be saved. The demonstrators would be assembled now outside the base. Young and eager, finding strength and hatred in their numbers. Taking their lessons from the students of Paris, London, Tokyo, New York. The trouble in Iceland was that there was little to protest about. So you picked on the Americans. And if your protest succeeded and the Americans went and the Russians arrived then no one would ever be allowed to protest again …

  The Smith & Wesson lay on the table about five feet away. Laxdal intercepted my thoughts. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Stay alive for a little while. Now tell me about Hafstein. The truth.’ His aftershave smelled stronger now as if suppressed emotion were releasing it.

  Gudrun said: ‘May I go and lie down?’

  Laxdal said: ‘No.’ He squashed the Gauloise butt on the carpet with his foot. ‘Why did Hafstein make a run for it? You must have discovered something or else he would not have tried to escape.’

  ‘Your guess,’ I said, ‘is as good as mine.’

  ‘No guesses, Mr Conran. Just facts, please. Why did he make a break for it?’

  ‘Perhaps he was “regrouping”. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that he should flee to the Westman Islands where Magnusson had a house? Isn’t it possible that Magnusson and he were about to execute a coup within the Russian espionage network in Iceland?’ I managed the bantering sort of smile that you’re supposed to manage in such circumstances. ‘Are you so sure, Laxdal, that Magnusson was really your subordinate? He doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would willingly be subordinate to anyone.’

  It was good thinking material and Laxdal thought about it.

  I pushed on with my luck. ‘Did you know that Magnusson was at Keflavik airport when I went out there to meet Gudrun?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothing – except that I think he went to meet three Russians there. They were standing around looking like spare parts at a wedding pretending they were meeting someone off the plane. But they didn’t meet anyone. I’m pretty sure they had arranged a meeting with Magnusson. But when Magnusson saw me he didn’t go through with it.’

  ‘Why the hell would they choose Keflavik airport for a secret meeting?’

  Why the hell would they? ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But from your point of view, Laxdal, it’s worth pursuing. Especially as Magnusson doesn’t seem to have told you that he met me there.’

  A crease made itself known between Laxdal’s nose and the corner of his mouth. He rippled his blond hair with his free hand.

  He said: ‘Are you going to tell me the truth about Hafstein?’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know. But as you won’t believe me you’d better get on with whatever you’re going to do. Incidentally,’ I added, ‘why did you hit Gudrun?’

  ‘She asked for it. Just as you are asking for it.’

  Gudrun said: ‘I found out the truth about the girl. And I said I couldn’t get any information from you.’

  Which was hardly surprising because she hadn’t really tried – apart from asking me if Hekla was my only reason for being in Iceland. But she had known the answer to that anyway.

  Laxdal said: ‘So you’re not going to tell me?’

  I said I wasn’t.

  ‘Then I shall have to persuade you. To tell the truth I would prefer to beat the facts out of you. And make no mistake – I would succeed. But you are an experienced agent, quite tough in your own strange way.’ If bird watchers can be tough, he implied. ‘You would last quite a time. With a drug I will have the truth in five minutes. You know that, Mr Conran. Why not save us both the trouble?’

  ‘If I could I would,’ I said.

  ‘Stand up,’ he said. I stood up. ‘Turn round.’ I turned round.

  ‘I shall knock you out now,’ he said. ‘Scientifically. It will hardly hurt and you will be unconscious for about five minutes. When you regain consciousness you will be strapped down on the bed and I shall give you an injection.’

  No point in ducking or swivelling or back-kicking. Not with a man like Laxdal. I waited for the blow that would paralyse the nerves.

  The blast was hot and loud, astonishing the senses. For a fraction of a moment I thought it was the blow. But I was still standing and the black and white ship had moved into the centre of the picture.

  I turned round. Laxdal was folding up, one hand still holding the Beretta, the other feeling for the mess of blood and splintered bone that had been his face.

  Gudrun’s finger was still tight round the trigger of the Smith & Wesson and Sandie Shaw was singing I’ll Stop at Nothing.

  I picked up the phone and dialled 24324. They took a hell of a long time finding Martz – about thirty seconds, probably. It was 11.55.

  He said: ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Conran.’

  He said: ‘Sorry Bill, old buddy. No dice.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘There is dice. We’ve got the man responsible for the girl’s death.’

  It took me another minute to persuade him not to hand Shirey over.

  In the apartment the needle ran off the track of The Golden Hits of Sandie Shaw.

  17

  Gudrun

  The sky was ice-blue and the lake took its colour from it. The plain was grey and mauve and the sedge at the shores of the lake took its colour from the plain. White mountains hovered on the perimeter of the plain and one cone was reflected in the still water. Somewhere in the lava field I could hear water flowing.

  Thingvellir. The plain where the forerunner of the Icelandic Parliament was first established in 930. Virtually nothing remains of the original buildings; but, as the guidebook says, it is ‘t
he natural setting that is most impressive’. Which is as it should be in Iceland.

  An hotel and a church; the largest lake in Iceland with two volcanic islands and its own brand of trout called the murta; a few dwarf trees, glaciers in the distance, steam rising from a hillside, heather in the autumn, an extinct shield volcano to the north-east. All in colours of ash and sky. Even the river which flows from the southern end of the lake has a bleak name. It is called the Sog.

  ‘Leave her to me just for a little while,’ I had said. ‘I can find out more than you will in a week of interrogation.’

  ‘You’re very Goddamn sure of yourself,’ Charlie Martz said.

  Sigurdson said: ‘I think Mr Conran has a way with stewardesses.’ He winked to remind me that we had a date before I left to go drinking and find the girls.

  ‘Okay,’ Martz said. ‘I sure hope you know what you’re doing. Jesus Christ’ – he explored his cranial stubble – ‘she practically blew that poor bastard’s head off.’

  ‘She did it for us,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Yeah. Like she’s been taking messages to London for Christ knows how long and getting this whole Soviet thing set up here.’

  Sigurdson shook his head, with admiration almost, and his fringe of pale hair fell across his forehead. ‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘that we are no nearer the truth. First we had one dead Russian agent – now we have two.’

  ‘We’ve saved an innocent man from being pilloried,’ I said.

  Sigurdson didn’t reply. I couldn’t tell whether he was ruminating on the meaning of pilloried or silently regretting that an American had not been responsible for the girl’s death.

  I said: ‘In any case I don’t agree that we’re no nearer the truth. Laxdal was the boss – he won’t operate any more. You can take his house and office to pieces and you can take Magnusson into custody – meanwhile I’ll see what I can get out of the girl.’

  ‘My,’ Charlie Martz said, ‘you sure pick the tough assignments for yourself.’

  So I took Gudrun to Thingvellir, fifty kilometres from Reykjavik, because I had never seen the place and my professional mind thought that the setting and its associations might encourage Gudrun to talk.