wholesale suppliers who the big guys in drugs in Iceland were, and to make an introduction. They were Lithuanians, which was some kind of country in Russia, and they would help him.
He looked out over the black wasteland. No snow. Certainly no igloos. And not even a goddamned tree. The place already gave him the creeps.
After half an hour or so of driving, they pulled up in the parking lot of a Taco Bell. Sweet. Diego insisted on getting himself a burrito, even though it was early. When he returned to the car, there was another man waiting for him in the back seat. Thirties, also short-cropped hair, small blue eyes.
‘My name is Lukas,’ he said, by way of introduction, in a strong accent that wasn’t quite the Russian that Diego knew from Boston.
‘Joe,’ said Diego, shaking the proffered hand.
‘Welcome to Iceland.’
‘Have you got the piece?’
Lukas hesitated and then pulled a Walther PPK out of a black shoulder bag. Diego examined it. It looked like a PPK/S but it had a blue-steel finish. Some European model, perhaps. It was in good condition. Serial number filed off. Not a revolver, but this job would be bang bang and outta there.
‘Be careful with this,’ the Lithuanian said. ‘There are no handguns in Iceland. This one was bought in Amsterdam and smuggled in.’
‘Other than the cops. They got guns, surely?’
‘Cops don’t have guns either. Except at airport.’
Diego smiled. ‘Man, that’s cool. And the ammo?’
Lukas handed it to him.
‘How about the getaway?’
Lukas reached into his bag and took out a mobile phone. ‘Take this. The first name on the address list is “Karl”. Call that when you want to get out. If you are for real, say “Can I speak to Oskar?” Got that? Otherwise we think cops have you and you are on your own.’
‘What happens then?’
‘We’ll meet your car. Get you out of Iceland.’
‘Will it be quick?’
‘It will be very quick. Trust me, we don’t want you caught. And if you do get caught, don’t tell them we help you. We don’t want start war with police.’
‘I get it,’ said Diego. ‘So where do I find Magnus Jonson?’
‘You know what he looks like?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Then I suggest you hang around outside police headquarters until you see him.’
‘Oh, great. Can you ask some questions for me, man? Find out where he lives?’
‘No,’ said Lukas. ‘If you shoot policeman on the streets of Reykjavik it will be big deal. Very big deal. If they learn we have been asking questions about cop there will be big trouble for us. You understand?’
‘I guess so,’ said Diego.
‘Good. Now we take you to hotel and then you go to small airport in centre of city to hire car. There is bus station opposite police headquarters. I suggest you go there to watch.’
Arni was exhausted. It was amazing how sitting in one place for so long could be so tiring. He was very glad to be back in Iceland, although his body clock was completely confused.
He had been really looking forward to interviewing Isildur. He had planned all kinds of clever strategies to prompt him to finger Steve Jubb as the murderer. And he had hoped to see a bit of California – the drive to Trinity County had promised to be spectacular. He might even have got to see some giant redwoods. As it was he hadn’t even made it in to San Francisco, spending the night at an airport Holiday Inn and the following morning organizing the flight back, via Toronto.
He had never been to Canada before. Not impressed.
The only good thing was that he was whipping through The Lord of the Rings. He was on page 657 and going strong. It was a great book. And all the more interesting for having read Gaukur’s Saga.
Keflavik Airport was crowded – all the flights from North America arrived back in Iceland at the same time. Arni ignored his compatriots stocking up at the duty free shop and went straight through immigration and customs. As he came through the door into the main concourse, he spotted a man he recognized, Andrius Juska, stocky with short hair, a foot soldier in one of the Lithuanian gangs that sold amphetamines in Reykjavik. Arni only recognized him because he had tailed him for three days a couple of months before, while he was helping out the Narcotics Squad.
The ‘yellow press’, as Iceland called its popular newspapers, had whipped itself into a bit of a frenzy over Lithuanian drug dealers, seeing them on every street corner. The truth was that the majority of drugs in Iceland were sold by Icelanders. But the Police Commissioner in particular was concerned about the possible future spread of foreign drugs gangs, the main candidates being Scandinavian motorcycle gangs, and the Lithuanians. There was as yet no sign of Latino gangs, or Russians, but the police were all on the lookout for them.
Juska was holding up a welcome sign for a Mr Roberts. Arni slowed his pace to a saunter. As he did so a slim man with light brown skin approached the Lithuanian. From the reticence with which they greeted each other, it was clear that they had never met before.
Arni let his bag slip from his fingers, and then knelt down to pick it up. The two men were speaking English, the Lithuanian’s accent was heavy, the other man’s was American. Not educated American, street American. Arni took a good look. The man was about thirty, wearing a black leather jacket, and he looked as if he could handle himself. He most certainly did not look like your typical American tourist in Iceland.
Interesting.
‘Battle of Evermore’ rang out through the study as Hakon sat in his chair, eyes shut. The ring was on his finger as Led Zeppelin’s music washed over him.
He was excited. The more he thought about it, the clearer he understood his role in the plans of the ring. Sadly, he was not to be the one through which the ring would unleash its power on the world. But he had been chosen as the catalyst by which the ring would escape from a thousand years in the Icelandic wilderness and make its way back into the centre of the world of men.
An important role indeed.
The murder of Agnar, the arrest of Tomas, these were not everyday events. The police were getting closer, but now that did not worry the pastor unduly. It was preordained.
He listened to the haunting mandolin: ‘Waiting for the angels of Avalon’. His thoughts returned to who it was who would be chosen to bear the ring after him. Tomas perhaps? Unlikely, the more he thought of it. Ingileif? No. Although she had always been a strong-willed girl, she was the last person he could imagine being corrupted. The big red-haired detective? Possible. He had an American accent and he exuded an aura of power and capability.
For a moment Hakon wondered whether he should just give the detective the ring. But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
The phone rang. The pastor turned down the music and answered. The conversation didn’t take long.
When he had finished, he glanced again at the ring. Should he replace it in the altar, or should he take it with him?
Events were picking up pace.
He turned off the stereo, grabbed his coat and went out to the garage, the ring still firmly on his finger.
A few kilometres south of Fludir, Magnus and Ingileif came to the mighty Thjorsa. This was the longest river in Iceland, carrying cold green-white water in a torrent from the glaciers in the centre of the country south towards the Atlantic Ocean. They turned left, following the road up the valley towards Gaukur’s old farm of Stong.
The river glistened in the sunlight. On the left, scattered farms and the occasional church nestled in the lee of the crags, many of them still covered in snow. Ahead, to the right, loomed Hekla. That morning the summit was draped with cloud, darker than the white puffs which smattered the rest of the pale sky.
At Ingileif’s direction, Magnus turned off the road and along a dirt track, winding up through the hills and into a small valley. His police-issued Skoda strained to maintain traction: the road was in poor condition and in places very steep. After a bone-rattling eight kilometres they finally came across a small white farm with a red roof nestling in the hillside at the head of its own little valley. Beneath the farm the obligatory lush green home meadow
