contusions.'
'Yet you now appear to be fully mobile.'
'The accident occurred almost a year ago. I still suffer from limb stiffness and some psychological effects, particularly when forced to spend long hours in a small, crowded space such as an aircraft. Fortunately I had contacts at Alitalia who were able to ensure that I was not inconvenienced any more than was strictly necessary.'
The female officer made lengthy notes. She was stunningly beautiful, Zen thought abstractly, and would certainly have cut a wide swathe through the herds of ragazzi on any Italian street. But somehow her beauty remained purely theoretical. He didn't feel remotely interested or excited by her.
'Do you have your boarding pass, please?' Borunn Sigurdardottir asked.
Zen found it in his wallet and handed it over.
This identifies your seat number as 24A,' the woman said.
'Yes.'
'But I understand from the crew members I interviewed that you were in fact seated in 25F.'
'That's right. There was someone sitting in the next seat to mine, and he didn't really seem the sort of person I wanted to be beside for ten hours unless I had to. The plane wasn't full, and I spotted an empty seat on the other side of the cabin, so once we were airborne I moved over there.'
'And the passenger who had been sitting next to you then took your original seat, is that correct?'
'It is. May I ask why any of this is of the slightest significance?'
The uniformed woman spoke rapidly in her incomprehensible tongue. It didn't sound to Zen's ears much like English – it was probably some regional American dialect, he supposed – but he had no difficulty in understanding the tone of voice. This was confirmed when the consul translated.
'Signora Sigurdardottir has indicated that she wishes you to confine yourself to answering her questions.'
Zen beamed ingratiatingly.
'Please assure la signora ispettrice of my willingness to cooperate to the full with her enquiry, whatever it may concern.'
Snaebjbrn Gudmundsson duly translated, or at least said something to the woman, who had been eyeing Zen sharply. She nodded, then asked another question.
'What is the purpose of your journey to the United States?'
'Business.'
'What kind of business?'
Here Zen paused for the first time, at a loss how to answer. On me one hand, this woman was an accredited member of an American law-enforcement body, and therefore entitled to the truth. On the other, she had accepted Zen's passport in his cover name at its face value, and therefore evidently wasn't of a sufficiently high status to have been briefed about the real purpose of his trip. As usual, the safest option seemed to be a lie. He justified the pause with a laugh.
'I was just wondering how best to describe it, but actually if s very similar to that of the consul here, except that I deal in much less well-known names. High-quality olive oils, cheeses, dried mushrooms, honeys and preserves from small organic producers. It's a low-volume, high mark-up business. If the restaurants and boutique stores want the best, they have to come to me, but equally I have to come over every so often to…'
Borunn Sigurdardottir held up her hand and Zen turned off the flow.
'Do you have any commercial competitors?' 'Virtually none. As I said, this is very much a niche market, and I've just about cornered it.' 'What about personal enemies?' 'None that I know of.'
The woman made more notes whose length seemed out of all proportion to Zen's replies. Then she raised her startling blue eyes to Snaebjorn Gudmundsson and spoke at some length.
The consul stood up and looked at Zen.
'Let's go,' he said.
'What about my passport?'
'She needs to keep it for now. I'll explain outside.'
Zen assumed that this meant outside in the corridor, or at best back in the packed lounge with the other waiting passengers, but to his surprise Gudmundsson led the way through a set of double doors into the fresh air.
And fresh it was, too! Tangy, salted gusts swept across the car park in front of them with such boisterous energy that they almost knocked the two men over. The consul pointed to the left and strode off towards a small red Fiat which he unlocked. Zen stowed his cabin bag in the boot and got in to the car.
'Now then, I think it's time I explained the situation,' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson said when they were sheltered from the wind.
'It’s time someone did,' Zen replied pointedly.
'Feel free to smoke,' Gudmundsson remarked. 'I can smell it on
your clothing. A very pleasant odour which brings back happy memories of my misspent youth. No thanks, I've given up myself, but I remain a child of the Sixties. E proibito proibire and all that. So please go ahead.'
Zen lit a cigarette and rolled down the window slightly, creating an instant gale inside the car. The consul closed Zen's window and opened his own, on the leeward side.
'As you know,' he said, 'your flight was diverted here due to technical causes of a routine nature. Normally it would just have been a question of a few hours' delay at most for the necessary maintenance work to take place. But at the point when the passengers were being disembarked to facilitate this work – unblocking toilets can be a very smelly business – one of them failed to respond to the directions of the cabin crew. A doctor was summoned and subsequently pronounced him dead.'
'The one who was sitting in my place,' said Zen.
'Exactly. A certain Angelo Porri. This has placed the authorities here in a very difficult position. They of course have no wish to delay anyone's journey any longer than is necessary, but in the unlikely event that the cause of death turns out not to have been natural, everyone who was on board the plane will naturally become an important witness if not a potential suspect.'
'Yes, I see.'
'The corpse has been taken to a hospital in the city, where it will shortly undergo a post-mortem. Once that is concluded, you and your fellow passengers will most likely be free to leave.'
'And in the meantime?'
'For the time being, the rest of the passengers will remain in the holding area. They will be told that the repairs are taking longer than had been anticipated.'
Zen braved the wind long enough to throw his butt out of the window.
'So I'm being singled out for special treatment. Why?'
Snaebjorn Gudmundsson started the engine.
'This afternoon I received two telephone calls relating to my position as Italian consul. This in itself was highly unusual. I have to say that the position is an honorary one which I fill partly because it gives me a certain cachet in business and government circles here that is useful to my job with the Gruppo Campari. Even that is largely a part-time activity. My real work is quite different.' 'And what’s that?' 'I'm an artist.'
They drove out of the car park on to a dual-carriageway road.
'The first call was from the police here at the airport’ Snaebjorn Gudmundsson went on. 'They explained that an Alitalia flight had been diverted…'
'That’s the second time you've used that word’ Zen pointed out. 'Diverted from where?'
'From its flight in mid-Atlantic, of course’
Zen laughed.
'So what is this, Atlantis?'
'This is Iceland’
'I don't see any ice.'
'No, Greenland's the icy one. Some people say the original settlers deliberately named them like that, so as to send potential invaders to the wrong address. At any rate, as I was saying, the first call I received was from the airport authorities. They simply asked me to be prepared to come out to Keflavik in case any of the Italian
