66° North (43 page)

Björn kept his eyes on where he had last seen Ísak and kept his legs pumping. He was a fit man, fitter than Ísak he would bet.

He scrambled upwards past a rock. A snipe darted up to his right with a whirr of wings. He saw a flash of steel, and twisted, raising his arm to parry the blow. There was the sound of tearing as a knife ripped the upper arm of his jacket. He stepped backwards, ready to face his assailant, but one of his feet slipped from under him.

Ísak was quick and surprisingly strong. As Björn fell backwards and hit the ground the blade of the knife penetrated his coat, his fleece, his shirt and his skin, and lodged between his ribs.

Björn felt the blow, but no pain. He reached up and grabbed Ísak around the throat. Ísak’s eyes opened in surprise. He tried to wriggle free, but Björn would not let go. The two men rolled down the slope, Björn’s fingers clamped to the student’s throat. They came to a halt against a rock, Björn on top.

He increased the pressure. Ísak made choking noises as he gasped for breath. Björn’s vision began to go. He forced himself to focus on Ísak, to keep those fingers tight just for a few seconds longer. But he could feel the strength flowing from his body, from his arms.

Ísak saw it too. He bucked and Björn’s fingers came loose, another buck and Björn was tossed sideways. He lay panting on his back in the moss. Beside him Ísak gulped for breath in great
choking spasms. But with each second that passed, Ísak was getting stronger and Björn weaker.

Björn glanced downwards at the handle of the knife protruding from his chest. Strangely, it still didn’t hurt.

Ísak bent over him and yanked it out.

Björn yelled. That hurt. That hurt like hell. But the yell was little more than a croak.

He tried to pull himself to his feet. He couldn’t do it.

He moved his lips, tried to force air through his vocal cords. ‘Come here, you bastard!’ But it was just a whisper.

Sindri wished they would offer him a cigarette. It would be easier to zone out with a cigarette. There was a red no-smoking sign on the wall of the interview room, but there was also a cigarette butt in a white plastic cup on the window sill. The bastards could give him a cigarette if they wanted to. But he wasn’t going to ask.

Since they had brought him in, he hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked for a lawyer, he didn’t need anyone to tell him not to say anything. It wasn’t long now, only a few hours, and then he could talk. But it should be easy to keep quiet until then.

The black one was talking now. The bald one was staring at him. He tried not to focus on what she was saying, but couldn’t avoid hearing the words ‘Ingólfur Arnarson’. If they were smart, they would have figured out who that was by now. If Sindri had been smart, he would have chosen an irrelevant codename. The others thought the whole notion of a codename was ridiculous, but it had turned out to be a good idea. He wondered how the police had got hold of the name. Someone wrote it down somewhere, perhaps? Or they were overheard.

Sindri knew he was going to jail. But the more he thought about it, the more he grew to like the idea. Litla Hraun could hardly be worse than his squat. There would be company, they would probably allow him to write, and he would be famous. Finally people would notice him.

That morning, despite the hangover, he had posted his manifesto on his blog. It had come out surprisingly well. It was both a call to arms and the distillation of ten years of his ideas. And once he went on trial, people would read it all over the world.

He had been bitterly disappointed at the Icesave meeting the day before. That was why he had got so drunk. It was clear that Ísak was right, the Icelandic people were just too nice, too polite to take to the streets to fight. At least Ingileif had listened to him. She was gorgeous. And smart. He had really thought he was going to get lucky there, but it had turned out that it was his mind she was impressed with, not his body. Perhaps, in time. When she heard about his trial on national TV.

That was one problem with prison. No sex. Who was he kidding? It was at least a year since he had last had sex. And he used to find it so easy.

Maybe Ingileif?

No. He would have to reconcile himself to several years in jail. But he would be a hero to some people. And over time the number of people who believed in his cause would grow, he was sure of it. He’d be a kind of Icelandic Nelson Mandela.

‘What’s so funny?’ the bald one snapped.

Sindri didn’t answer, but let the smile fade from his lips. No need to provoke them.

‘Where’s Harpa?’

Not telling you, buddy.

‘And Ísak?’ asked the black woman. ‘Where is Ísak? Are they together?’

Not telling you that either.

But Sindri answered the question in his own head. Ísak was looking for Harpa with the intention of killing her.

That didn’t fit into Sindri’s self-image of a hero of the people. He should have stopped Ísak somehow, called Björn and warned him. Harpa’s death would be a waste. And Björn was right, she was entirely innocent.

Sindri could look anyone in the eye and tell him he was proud
of what they had done to Óskar Gunnarsson, or Julian Lister, or what they would do to Ingólfur Arnarson. Even Gabríel Örn’s death could be justified.

But not Harpa. Killing Harpa would be wrong. And he would be implicated in that as well, with some justice. It wasn’t the law that worried him, he knew he was a murderer anyway according to the law, but it was the people. He couldn’t justify Harpa’s death to the people. Or to himself.

‘What is it, Sindri?’ the bald one said. ‘You look worried. We know Björn is with Harpa. Is Ísak with them? Or is he somewhere else?’

Sindri took a deep breath.

‘Tell us,’ said the bald one, gently. He and the woman leaned back, patiently.

Sindri thought about it. Then thought about it some more. Then he spoke.

Páll could drive fast, Magnus would give him that. He had the lights flashing, although there were only a few sheep and a couple of horses to admire them. They seemed interested, though.

There was a good chance they would be the first to the Kerlingin Pass. The small complement of police based at Stykkishólmur were spread far and wide, some of them manning roadblocks into and out of the peninsula.

Páll belted through the Berserkjahraun, past the new road up over to Borgarnes, and turned right up the old Kerlingin Pass track. Over to their left towards Helgafell on the way to Stykkishólmur Magnus could see the flashing blue light of another police car on its way.

‘I don’t suppose you happen to have a rifle in the back of this car?’ Magnus asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Páll said. ‘You know Icelandic policemen don’t carry guns.’

‘What if Björn is armed?’

‘Why should he be? He’s only a fisherman. And I know for a fact he doesn’t have a gun licence.’

‘These guys had guns in London. And Normandy.’

‘He won’t have a gun.’

‘But he could have a knife,’ Magnus said.

Páll didn’t answer for a moment. ‘He will probably have a knife,’ he admitted.

‘Oh, great.’ The car was bucking like a demented stallion as it leapt over the potholes in the track.

‘What do you use for shooting the polar bears, then?’ Magnus asked. Three times in the previous couple of years polar bears had made the long journey to Iceland on drifting icebergs, only to be blasted as soon as they hit dry land by trigger-happy policemen.

‘That’s different,’ said the constable. ‘Jesus!’ He fought to retain control as his car nearly went spinning over the edge.

Magnus decided to let Páll concentrate on the road.

His phone rang.

‘Magnús, it’s Baldur. Have you found Ísak yet?’

‘We’re on our way to the pass.’

‘Sindri just talked. He says Ísak is planning to kill Harpa. Keep her quiet.’

‘Does Björn know about that?’

‘No. And Sindri says he won’t like that idea at all.’

‘Interesting. Did he say who Ingólfur Arnarson is? Or the assassin?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Did you get hold of Björn’s brother?’

‘Yeah, we brought him in to the station as well. He just looked surprised. And he’s been painting the shop on Laugavegur since eight this morning. Not exactly preparing an assassination attempt.’

The car plunged into fog. Baldur was beginning to break up as the reception deteriorated. ‘Tell me when you locate Ísak,’ he said and rang off.

The car followed the track around bare volcanic rock and soon they were descending. It was impossible to make out the Kerlingin troll, although Magnus knew it was above them somewhere.

Suddenly the cloud seemed to lift and they were in a valley of rock and moss. There, on the left, was the hut, its door wide open. And on the right was a pickup truck, its nose pointing down towards the stream, one of its front wheels wedged in a hole, and one of its back wheels raised off the ground. The driver’s door was hanging open.

‘Slow down! You take the hut, I’ll take the truck!’ said Magnus. He jumped out of the car before it had come to a halt, ran to the truck and looked inside. Nothing. He scanned the hill. A short distance up the far wall of the valley he saw a body splayed out on the ground.

He forded the freezing stream and ran uphill. It was Björn. Stab wound to the chest. It didn’t look good unless they could get rapid medical attention.

At least he was conscious. His eyes flickered up at Magnus.

Magnus asked the key question. ‘Who did this?’

Björn tried to speak, but was finding it difficult. Magnus lowered his ear towards Björn’s mouth. He heard one word. ‘Ísak.’

‘Where’s Harpa?’ he asked.

Björn couldn’t answer, but he flicked his eyes upwards.

‘She’s gone up the hill?’ Magnus asked.

Björn nodded, just a brief downward movement of the chin.

‘And Ísak’s after her?’

Another nod.

Magnus tried for one more question. ‘And who is Ingólfur Arnarson?’

Björn closed his eyes and moved his head to the side.

Magnus waved at Páll who was trotting heavily towards the stream. ‘Get an ambulance!’ he shouted.

Páll raised an arm in acknowledgement and ran back to his car and the radio.

Magnus turned and looked up the hill. The cloud seemed to be lifting, moving off to his left down the valley. But he couldn’t see
either Ísak or Harpa. He closed his eyes and listened. He could hear running water, the croak of a raven, Björn’s laboured breathing, and somewhere above, the clatter of falling stones.

He set off up the hill into the fog.

H
ARPA RAN AS
fast as she could, which wasn’t nearly fast enough. Her wrists were a real problem; because they were tied together she couldn’t use her arms to help her balance. And she was wearing the wrong shoes, they kept slipping on the scree, sending torrents of stones falling down behind her. She fell every few seconds, it would only be a matter of time before she twisted something. Her heart felt like it was going to explode.

The fog was dense around her. Above the crescendo of the blood in her ears and her own panting, she could hear the rattle of stones below as Ísak caught up on her.

Then suddenly the mist lifted. Above her was blue sky. To her left and right was rock. And behind and in front was a thick carpet of grey. She was at the top, on the ridge between one valley and the next.

She stopped for a second. She could hear Ísak close behind. Summoning up a renewed burst of energy she sprinted downhill towards the cloud. She slipped and fell, twisting one knee and grazing the other. She couldn’t stop herself emitting a cry of pain. The fog was only a few metres away. She limped towards it.

She felt an enormous sense of relief as once again she was enveloped by the blanket of moisture. Although the slope was broadly downhill, her knee was giving out.

The fog was thick now. She spotted a cluster of boulders to the left. If she just lay down there and kept quiet, Ísak would never find her.

She changed direction and headed for the rocks.

Suddenly she heard the regular thump of Ísak’s feet hitting the ground. She couldn’t see him, but it sounded as if they were going to collide. She took the decision to keep going for the rocks.

She threw herself at them and lay still, huddled between two boulders. Except she wasn’t exactly still, her chest was heaving and her heart pounding.

Seconds later she heard Ísak lope past. She could see his legs. He was barely five metres away from her as he stopped to listen. She tried to hold her breath, but she could only do it for a few seconds. Her lungs needed the air. The sound as she exhaled seemed loud to her, but Ísak appeared not to notice. He walked cautiously forward into the mist.

She stood up, and made her way as quietly as she could laterally along the slope of the hill, putting distance between her and Ísak.

But then the fog rolled away, revealing a valley glistening in the pale sunshine.

Ísak was a hundred metres away to the left, slightly below her. He stopped, scanned the hillside below, to his right. He turned towards her.

She ran downhill as fast as her jellied knee would let her.

Magnus plunged into the fog. The slope was tricky, rocks that were sharp in places, slick in others, moss, dirt and the odd patches of grass. Occasionally he would pause to listen out for the sounds of dislodged stones. He couldn’t hear any.

The fog was good. Provided Harpa kept quiet it would be impossible for Ísak to find her. In fact, if she had any sense, she would just lie low and wait.

Magnus’s situation was different. He was a big lumbering target making a lot of noise, whose adversary had a knife and had just used it. And he was unarmed. If only he had a firearm. According to the manual he should hold off and wait for back-up.

Screw that. Apart from anything else the back-up wouldn’t be armed either.

He pressed on.

His heart pounding, he found himself in a shallow dip between two wind-eroded rocks. He had the impression that he was on the ridge between the two valleys.

He heard the sound of someone falling and a cry. It sounded as if it was coming from ahead and to the right but lower down, not too far away.