The door flap was wrenched open from outside, causing the tent to belly out, the canvas stretching so taut that the seams creaked as if they were going to split. Bateman was on the line again in the communications tent. Ratoff stood up, zipped the tent flap firmly behind him and followed the man. They could barely keep their footing in the relentless blizzard even over the few short yards between the tents.
‘Tell me you have dealt with the inconvenience,’ Ratoff shouted, trying to make himself heard above the wind.
‘Negative, sir,’ Bateman said. ‘Ripley’s unconscious in hospital. The woman escaped with her friend. He’s one of us…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An American. I think they’re on their way to you. There’s a retired pilot on the base who’s been asking questions about the brothers who farm near the glacier. It didn’t take him long to admit why he wanted the information. He said they’d come to him for help. Said they were heading for the glacier.’
‘Then good luck to them. It’s hell on earth up here,’ Ratoff yelled. ‘Has our mission been compromised?’
‘They don’t seem to have talked to anyone except the pilot. And as yet the embassy hasn’t received any official reaction from the government or any other institution in Reykjavik. The girl’s so busy evading us that she hasn’t had much chance to warn anyone about what’s going on. Anyway, I think we’ve managed to frame her for murder, which is a bonus.’
Ratoff set the receiver back in its cradle and heaved a contemptuous sigh. They were pathetic; outmanoeuvred and now hospitalised by a woman. By a civil servant, for Christ’s sake, and an Icelandic one at that.
Chapter 23
CENTRAL REYKJAVIK,
SATURDAY 30 JANUARY, 1800 GMT
The two detectives who had inspected Kristin’s flat only the previous evening were now standing at the bar of the Irish pub. The area around the building was cordoned off with police tape; a crowd of curious bystanders had gathered in the darkness on the other side of the street, floodlights had been set up both inside and out, reporters and photographers were circling, desperate for a quote, and the premises were surrounded by police cars with flashing lights. Ripley and one of the fishermen had been admitted to hospital. Delicate, intricate flakes of snow were falling lazily, only to melt as they landed on the floodlights. The older detective removed his hat and scratched his head.
‘Like a spaghetti western,’ he remarked.
‘You were right about Kristin. She was here,’ the younger detective replied. ‘The witness statements match the picture we have of her.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve quite grasped this yet. There are at least four people with Kristin at the scene, three men and one woman. One of them, who the fishermen claim was American, is lying on the steps outside after being beaten to a pulp by our jolly jack tars. The other woman makes herself scarce. Another man, after trying to come to the aid of his companion, runs down Tryggvagata taking pot shots at Kristin and a third man. The gunman is American too, if the fishermen are to be believed. Kristin and her companion get into a jeep and drive away. The American on the steps has no ID. His car is parked outside and has plates registered to the Defense Force in Keflavik. What’s going on? You studied in America. You know the people. I’ve only seen the films.’
‘I can’t make head or tail of it, any more than you. Perhaps we’ll get some answers from the embassy.’
‘Inspired. The embassy will solve it. We’ll just talk to the embassy and they’ll clarify everything and then we can go home to bed.’
‘Is your indigestion troubling you again?’
The older police officer turned to look at his partner. His expression was oddly sad, despite the glint of mockery in his eyes under their red brows. His hair was red too; his face intelligent, stubborn, determined.
‘What? Am I not jolly enough for you?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘When were you ever?’
On arrival at the US embassy on Laufasvegur, they were informed that neither the ambassador nor the attache was in the country. The chief press officer was indisposed but they could speak to a General Wesson from the Keflavik base. He was the highest-ranking officer at the embassy in the ambassador’s absence. The detectives shrugged. The general kept them waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes in a small anteroom outside the ambassador’s office. Finally the door opened and they were greeted by an overweight man of about fifty, with thinning hair, a broad face and strong, rather protuberant teeth. He led them into the office and invited them to take a seat. The younger detective took care of the questions since his partner had a poor command of English.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ the general asked. With him was a thin young man who introduced himself as Smith and took up position at a carefully calculated distance behind the general.
The detective cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard but there was a shooting incident in the city centre earlier today involving a vehicle registered to the Defense Force. An American citizen was injured and is now in hospital.’
‘I’ve been made aware of events, Inspector, and I find it shocking that those men should have set on him like that. Have you discovered any motive for this outrage? I hear it was a brawl between fishermen and our man got caught in the middle. Naturally we will be demanding a thorough investigation.’
‘Well, General, the fishermen claim that he not only started the brawl but that his companion, who also sounded like an American, entered the pub waving a gun and subsequently started firing in the street.’
‘That’s preposterous. Are you trying to pin this on our man?’
‘I am merely reporting how witnesses described the incident.’
‘But it’s ludicrous. I hear the fishermen were blind drunk. Do you mean to blame an American citizen for their barbaric behaviour?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind, sir. But reports indicate that the man’s companion pursued an Icelandic woman, firing shots at her. His vehicle is registered to the Defense Force. Can you enlighten us as to what might have been happening?’
‘No, I’m afraid I cannot. I haven’t had any contact with the Defense Force about the matter yet. If it transpires that the man came to the aid of his companion in the pub by pulling out a gun, it would of course be reprehensible, but perhaps understandable in the circumstances.’
‘Ask him if he knows the identity of the man in hospital,’ the elder detective interrupted in Icelandic. He had until now been sitting quietly, surveying the room with an air of supreme indifference.
The general listened to the question but did not reply.
‘What do you mean when you say “our man”?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You said “our man”, as if he came from the embassy.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Ask him if it’s normal practice for a three-star general to take over the embassy when the ambassador is on
