make her laugh. They had met in an official capacity and eventually he had willed himself to ask her out to dinner.
On their first couple of dates at restaurants in Reykjavik, he had told her all about himself and his family. His people had always been in retailing but, having not the slightest interest in business, he had broken the mould by studying politics at university, followed by a stint working for the US defense department. But his real love was travelling, so when the opportunity to work in Iceland came up, he seized it.
For their third date he had invited her to the officers’ mess at the base, followed by a drink at his place. Once they got back to his apartment he had been considerate but her confidence had evaporated without warning and she had panicked, unable to face the prospect of getting into bed with an American on the base. The stories about Icelandic women and GIs were ugly: ‘Yankee whores’ they called them. The public had always taken a harsh view of Icelandic women who got involved with American servicemen, a throwback to the Second World War when the girls had welcomed the first foreign soldiers to arrive on these shores, seeing them as an escape route to a brighter future, a new life overseas, or else admiring their uniforms and foreign manners, so familiar from the movies, and seeing them as providers of cigarettes, nylons and good times. ‘The situation’, as it was known, was a source of shame in Iceland and women who slept with the army were branded as sluts, an attitude Kristin felt had changed little over the years.
When she tried to explain, however, he was hurt that she saw him in those terms, so she left and after that they gradually saw less and less of each other until their relationship simply petered out. It was a senseless, silent drawing away from each other; they had not spoken for six months but had never really ended it definitively.
‘Why don’t we start by calling the rescue service?’ he suggested in an attempt to placate her. ‘Find out about your brother.’
He stood up, found the number and rang it. No one answered. He tried another number; no answer there either. He tried the third number, then beckoned her over to take the phone: someone had answered at last. She sprang up.
‘My name’s Kristin,’ she said, ‘is that the Reykjavik Air Ground Rescue Team?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can I get hold of your team on Vatnajokull?’
‘We have several contact numbers for mobile phones and walkie-talkies. Can I help at all?’
‘Has there been an accident on the glacier? Is anyone missing?’
‘May I ask who you are?’
‘Kristin. My brother’s with the team. Elias.’
‘I’ll put you through to the leader of the team on Vatnajokull. Please hold the line.’
Kristin waited. She watched Steve pacing back and forth in his small living room; stared unseeingly at James Dean in the New York rain, at the face of revolution.
‘Hello,’ she heard a voice say at the other end. ‘Is that Kristin? This is Julius. I’m in charge of the team here on Vatnajokull. Can you hear me okay?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Kristin said hurriedly. ‘Is Elias with you? Is he all right?’
‘I’m afraid Elias is missing.’
‘He’s missing? How come? Where is he?’
‘He and Johann left camp about seven hours ago and haven’t returned yet. But we’ve traced a signal from Elias’s phone and expect to find them as soon as it gets light. They may have got lost – it’s very dark here. But I can’t rule out the possibility that they’ve had an accident. Elias has plenty of experience on glaciers though, so there’s no need to panic.’
‘Have you noticed any soldiers in the area?’ Kristin asked.
‘Soldiers? No. What do you mean, soldiers?’
‘Elias phoned me from the glacier and said there were soldiers coming towards him.’
‘When did Elias call you?’
‘It must have been about three or four hours ago. We were cut off seconds after he saw the soldiers.’
‘No, we haven’t noticed any movements up here. The boys were test-driving our new snowmobiles and could have covered quite a distance in that time, but there’s no one around except us.’
‘Didn’t they give you any idea of where they were going? Do you think Elias could be in danger?’
‘They didn’t, and I can’t imagine so, not unless he’s travelling in the dark. There’s a large belt of crevasses several hours to the west of us, but he’s careful, and so’s Johann. I expect they’ve stopped somewhere and their phone’s out of range. If they stay where they are, we’ll find them quickly once it gets light. What on earth made you call about Elias? Did you have some kind of premonition?’
‘I was informed that Elias was dead,’ Kristin said, ‘and that it was connected somehow to the soldiers he saw on the glacier.’
‘Elias isn’t dead. He’s missing but he’s alive.’
‘Kristin.’ Steve was looking out of the living room window, the curtain pushed to one side. He was staring down at the car park in front of the building.
‘Can I get hold of you on this number later?’ Kristin asked, ignoring Steve.
‘Who told you Elias was dead? Who would do a thing like that?’
‘It’s too complicated to explain now. I’ll talk to you later.’
She took down his number and rang off. Julius had a manner of natural authority that in any other context would have been reassuring, she thought; he spoke confidently and precisely. But the conversation had done nothing to allay her fears.
‘How did you get here?’ Steve asked.
‘By taxi.’
‘Did anyone else know you were coming here?’
‘No, no one.’
‘Did you pay using cash?’
‘No, by debit card.’
‘Those men, did they have fair hair?’ Steve asked in a level voice.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Actually, it can’t be, these guys aren’t wearing jackets and ties, they’re in ski-suits and boots.’
‘Steve, what the hell are you on about?’
‘There are two men standing outside, staring up at my window.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kristin said, the colour draining from her face.
She ran to the window, peered down at the car park and gasped in horror.
‘Jesus, it’s them. How the hell did they find me here?’
Steve leapt back from the window as if he had been struck. ‘They’ve seen us. Come on!’
Kristin was still wearing her coat. Steve yanked on boots and a thick down jacket; seconds later they were outside on the landing. Peering down the stairwell, they saw Ripley and Bateman entering the hall below and running towards the stairs.
‘Shit,’ muttered Steve.
‘Have you got a gun?’ Kristin asked.
‘Why would I have a gun?’
‘Just my luck to meet the only bloody American who doesn’t carry a gun,’ she swore in Icelandic.
‘Come on,’ he cried, running back into the apartment and locking the door behind them. They dashed out on to the little balcony. It was a six-metre drop to the ground – too high. Nor could they swing down to the balcony below, but there was a chance they could jump on to the one next door. From the front door to the apartment came the sound of hammering. Steve helped Kristin climb on to the rail and, grasping the ice-cold metal, she pushed herself up, almost succumbing to vertigo when she looked down, convinced for a moment that she was going to fall. Large lumps of snow slithered off the balcony, vanishing into the darkness below. Conquering her dizziness and ignoring the pain from her hands as the cold bit into them, she jumped over to the next balcony, dropping to the cement floor with a thud and a gasp. Steve followed just as the door to his apartment burst open.
He snatched up a heavy plant pot from the floor of his neighbour’s balcony and used it to smash the glass of the veranda door, before opening it from the inside. They hurried in, straight through the apartment, kicking children’s toys out of the way and almost falling over a vacuum cleaner, and out on to the landing, then raced down
