Arndís sat back.
‘Shit, where did you get that from?’
‘The lead came from a friend who works for a human rights NGO. He’s been following this guy and he’s dug up all kinds of shit about him. The question is, Why is he here at all? Why is it such a big secret? And does the delightful Steinunn know what kind of person she’s got herself mixed up with? The answer to that last question is undoubtedly no.’
‘And when do you want to run this?’ Arndís asked quickly.
‘Tomorrow at nine. Lars is making his information available at the same time, and a website in France has its story timed for then too. So it’s a triple whammy. If it’s published abroad as well, then Steinunn can hardly go for an injunction.’
‘She could, but I’m not sure she’d get it,’ Agnar said. ‘Not if the story’s already out there.’
‘That clashes with the McCombie interview,’ Arndís broke in. ‘We have to run with that as well before it’s cold.’
‘We can do both, can’t we?’ Skúli asked, reluctant to offend Arndís but determined to push his own work forward.
‘But . . .’ Arndís instantly protested before Agnar put his hands up.
‘Children . . . Please,’ he said. ‘How about we run your story this evening, Arndís?’
‘We always run with a strong morning story.’
‘I know, and we have two that we need to run, so we have to make them both hit hard,’ Agnar agreed. ‘Listen, we run Arndís’s interview now, an hour ahead of this rally McCombie’s holding tonight. It’s outside our usual schedule, so that adds weight to it. Then we run all the social media shit first thing so it hits people checking their iPads over breakfast, followed by the report on the public meeting so it goes out before eight. Then we run Skúli’s story at nine; if it’s important it goes live at the same time as the European versions, then the usual digest at ten. How’s that?’
Skúli glanced at Arndís and caught her eye as she chewed her lip.
‘I’m happy with that,’ he said. ‘And you?’
She thought for a few seconds, nodded and snapped her fingers.
‘Yep. Let’s do it. We can come back later in the day with something on the fallout from the rally, assuming it’s as crazy as I expect.’
‘Excellent,’ Agnar said with satisfaction. ‘That way we have several loads of shit hitting the fan in quick succession. That’s what I like to see, plenty of cats among the pigeons.’
Chapter Three
Steingrímur gave a thumbs-up from the door and Gunna nodded to Osman, who was sitting casually in the back seat of the ministry’s Patrol with its tinted windows.
‘All clear. But please don’t forget that we must stay in the bar area away from the window,’ she told him. ‘These people you’re meeting will already be there, so you go straight over to them. I’ll be right behind you and will stay in the bar, but the three of you will be away from anyone else so you can talk without being overheard. If anyone tries to come close, I’ll head them off. If anything gets awkward, then the boys are there as well. Clear?’
‘Very clear, Gunnhildur,’ Osman said, a shadow of a smile crossing his face in the darkness.
‘When you’re finished, let me know and we’ll leave the same way we came in. OK?’
‘Of course. And I’m not a naughty child,’ he retorted, the smile still on his face as he opened the car door.
He strolled towards the hotel’s main entrance and slipped through the door that Steingrímur held open for him, nodding his acknowledgement. Gunna glanced from side to side as she followed, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that the Glock under her arm seemed five times as heavy as usual.
‘Let’s hope he behaves,’ she muttered to Steingrímur.
The bar was far from full. Gunna picked out the two men Osman was there to meet before he did, and took his arm.
‘By the wall, under the picture,’ she instructed. ‘Go over to them and I’ll have one of the staff come over to you in a moment to get your order. All right?’
‘Got you, Gunnhildur.’
‘I’ll be watching from the bar.’
Osman leaned in towards her. ‘It’s not me you need to watch, Gunnhildur,’ he whispered. ‘It’s everyone else.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a humourless smile. ‘They’re being watched as well. They just don’t know it.’
Osman walked over to the two men sitting under the landscape painting that adorned one wall. One had a weatherbeaten look about him, tall and with eyes that pierced, whose face lit into a bright smile as he greeted Osman and hugged him, while the other appeared to be a younger version, even down to the same style of high-buttoned dark suit. Only the cowboy boots both wore indicated they weren’t a pair of missionaries. Moments later they were deep in conversation.
Gunna hoisted herself onto a barstool in the far corner, where she had a view over the whole room, then beckoned to the barman, who hurried over.
‘I’ll have a cup of coffee, but you see those three over there by the wall?’
‘You’re Gunnhildur?’
‘I am, and I guess you’re Kristján. I’m minding those men by the wall, and I’d like you to go and get their order first.’
As the barman approached them, Gunna scanned the room. Half a dozen of the tables had people around them. Once one of the city’s classiest places to enjoy a drink, the hotel remained exclusive but was now forced to compete with a host of similarly upmarket hotels and a city centre bursting with bars and restaurants of every description. The hotel’s position outside the city centre had left it off the beaten track, and the bar’s clientele made Gunna feel young. Couples past middle age occupied some of the tables, while the majority of drinkers appeared to be there alone; she assumed they were guests. Three young men in the far corner by the window speaking loud English to two Asian men, and a woman with an open book and a glass of red on the table in front of her hardly seemed suspicious, as none of them seemed to be paying the slightest attention to Osman, Kyle McCombie and his sidekick.
Skúli picked up his laptop as the Skype icon began to wink at him. He hit the reply button.
‘Hi, Sophie,’ he said, standing up with the laptop held in front of him. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Hello, Skúli. Of course I can hear you. I can see you as well. What are you doing, running a marathon?’
‘Just taking this to the boardroom,’ he said, meaning the tiny side office that was kept for when anyone had a confidential call to make, needed a secluded place for a discreet interview or simply needed an hour’s solitude.
‘Have you finished messing about?’ Sophie asked, her face filling the screen as Skúli sat down in front of the laptop.
‘Yes. I’m all yours now.’
‘You’re keeping bad company, that’s all I can say.’
‘Go on.’
He saw Sophie draw back from the screen and flip through notes.
‘It’s a can of worms,’ she said. ‘The White Sickle Peace Foundation was set up three years ago, a small but smart office on the rue de la Loi, right next to all the pressure groups.’
‘Go on,’ Skúli repeated.
‘The charity itself is based in Panama, so any info on its finances looks pretty murky; there’s no way of telling what’s real or where the cash comes from. Its activities are lobbying for peace, goodwill, understanding, tolerance and all that shit, but as far as I can make out, it’s a money pit.’
‘And Ali Osman?’ Skúli asked, trying not to sound too excited.
‘He really is a mystery man. People either don’t want to talk about him or else they just don’t know.’
‘No gossip?’
‘Plenty of hearsay,’ Sophie said with a scowl. ‘But precious few facts.’
‘Hit me with the gossip, then.’
Sophie took a deep breath and he watched the grainy image of her frowning as she flicked through scribbled notes.
‘He’s been seen in Syria, Lebanon, Turkey and Rus
sia, according to the gossip that nobody wants to be quoted on. He was involved in shifting oil through the top end of Syria and into Turkey at some point, but had to back out of that when some bigger operators wanted that business.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Someone higher up the pecking order wanted the business and he wasn’t given much of a choice.’
‘An offer he couldn’t refuse?’
‘An offer it would certainly have been fatal to refuse. For a while he was based in Cyprus, supposedly shipping what’s referred to as essential equipment from somewhere in Cyprus to quiet beaches on the Syrian coast, and returning with passengers – anyone who had five thousand dollars in cash. They would get dropped off within sight of somewhere they could paddle or swim ashore to. That means arms one way and people the other.’
‘That’s the north of Cyprus? The Turkish side?’ Skúli asked.
‘Of course. He did his business in the north of Cyprus and his banking in the south, or so the rumours say, until Panama became a less transparent option.’
‘And he’s still involved in this?’
Skúli watched Sophie dissolve as the pixels on his screen couldn’t keep up with her shoulders lifting in a shrug. ‘Who knows? Nobody seems to know if he’s still involved, but at any rate, he made a pile of money and a lot of enemies out of it before he decamped to Brussels.’
‘The enemies being the reason he’s now re-invented himself as a man of peace and reconciliation living in Brussels?’
‘Exactly, Skúli. What was the expression you used the other day? Hiding in plain sight, and hoping nobody reminds him of what he used to do. Now he claims his life is in danger and that he can’t return to the Middle East. Fortunately for him he has a dual nationality, thanks to a former wife, and has an Italian passport, so it’s not as if he’s likely to be sent back anywhere. Tell me, do you think your minister has any idea what sort of character she’s got herself mixed up with?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Skúli said with a dry laugh. ‘She’s not the sort who takes advice willingly and I gather she invited him to Iceland on the spur of the moment and on her own initiative.’
Sophie shrugged again and Skúli could hear her giggle.
‘Is this going to cause maximum embarrassment?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Sounds good to me, as long as we’re both sure of our ground.’
‘As sure as we can be, I guess,’ Skúli said. ‘At the moment I think I have this to myself, but it won’t be long before someone else smells a rat. So far I’m the only one here who knows about Ali Osman, and that’s only because Lars tipped me off.’
‘It’s being kept secret?’
‘I guess so. It’s obviously being kept discreet, but we’ll find out when I start asking awkward questions.’
‘And when are you going to do that?’
‘About five minutes after we finish this conversation.’
She picked out the man with the broad shoulders and dark hair that fell in an untidy fringe before he spotted her.
‘Ready?’ she asked, taking off and folding into her pocket the faded baseball cap with the Real Madrid emblem that he’d been looking for. ‘You have a car?’
They walked from the bus station out to the hired Rav in the car park without a word.
‘Real name?’ she asked as soon as the door had shut.
‘Michel. My mate’s Pino. And you?’
‘Ana will do. What’s the situation?’
‘We’re watching the place at the moment. Pino’s watching right now. I’ll take over later.’
‘Any movements?’
‘The target’s there. It looks like two security taking turns. They haven’t been there long enough for us to identify a routine.’
‘You’re certain it’s him?’
‘If it’s the guy in the photo, then yes. Pretty sure, but I need a closer look to be certain.’
She nodded and gazed through the windscreen into the grey drizzle.
‘That ties in with my info.’
‘You have some inside information?’
Ana half closed one eye and tilted her head as she looked at him.
‘What do you think? I’m not going into this completely blind, but it’s an indirect contact, so no details. You have the gear?’
‘Yep. Retrieved, checked and safely stowed away.’
‘And an approach plan, if that’s the way we decide to go?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I think so. There’s a second security detail in a house about half a kilometre away. They’re trying to be discreet, but not succeeding very well. A bunch of big guys who are rotating shifts. They look like muscle rather than brains, but who knows?’
‘Can you bypass them?’
‘Sure. We’ll do a recce to see how it looks close up. Will you know by then what the brief is?’
She cracked her knuckles and smiled briefly.
‘I need to weigh up the options. One is a take-out, which isn’t going to be easy, although we might be able to work around the extraction side of it. The other is a straightforward elimination, plus we have an additional target for surveillance.’
‘No real obstacles if you just want the guy dead,’ Michel said with a thin smile. ‘We’ve done it plenty of times before.’
‘Yeah, but not in this weird place, and we all want to get away in one piece to enjoy our bonus.’
‘Hello, there.’
A man in a suit, his tie loosened, lifted himself onto the barstool next to her and raised a finger to summon the barman.
‘Hello,’ Gunna said with a frown, not wanting to be rude to the man, but hoping that he would take himself off as soon as possible.
‘Drink?’ he asked in English.
‘I speak pretty good Icelandic,’ Gunna replied coldly. ‘And thanks but no thanks.’
‘Ach, come on. You’re not staying here, are you?’
‘No.’
The barman appeared silently.
‘I’ll have a vodka and Coke, and give this lady whatever she wants,’ he said. ‘Make mine a double. Make hers a double. Charge it to nine-oh-six,’ he added. ‘I like a room high up. Great view over the city, y’know.’
Kristján delivered the man’s double vodka and Coke and pointed to Gunna’s coffee cup.
‘Same again?’
‘Just half a cup.’
‘Coffee?’ the man asked in disbelief and laughed. ‘Who comes here to drink coffee?’
‘I do. And some of us have to drive.’
‘That’s fair enough, I suppose. I guess you’re not here for an afternoon off, then?’
‘Not exactly,’ Gunna said, peering past him for a view of Osman, which the man mistook for an expression of interest.
‘My name’s Sigurjón, by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘And you are . . . ?’
‘Gunnhildur.’
He took a long pull on his drink, smacked his lips and dug a finger under his collar to loosen his already adrift tie a little further.
Gunna kept her eyes fixed on Osman as the man pushed his chair back, wondering if he was ready to make a move. Instead, he stretched his long legs out, turned and beckoned to the barman again for a couple more drinks.
‘And what brings you here?’ he asked.
Gunna glared.
‘Work.’
‘You work at the hotel?’
‘Sort of.’
He looked at her quizzically.
‘Go on, tell me. What sort of work do you do here?’
‘Just making sure nobody has any trouble.’
‘There’s never any trouble here,’ Sigurjón declared. ‘I’ve been coming here for years. I live in Oslo, you see. I have to come home to the old country every few weeks for business. Always stay here.’
‘All right.’
‘This place has been good to me over the years. The company’s paying, obviously. But I always like to come back to this place when I can. Had my weddi
ng reception here,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘But that was a couple of wives back . . . Are you married, Gunnhildur?’
‘As good as.’
‘Children?’
‘And grandchildren, if you really want to know.’
‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘you must have started early to be such a glamorous young grandmother.’
Gunna wondered how black trousers, boots and a fleece made her in any way glamorous, but she let it pass. She listened to Sigurjón talk about his first two wives, the one who had run off with his best friend and the present one he had taken with him to Oslo, and how different their social life in Norway was to Iceland where they had so many friends.
‘Why don’t you bring your wife with you, then?’
‘I would, but Solla works as well – she’s in insurance – and then there’s the dogs,’ he said, and she both regretted having started him off on a new tack and welcomed the conversation that made her less conspicuous as a lone woman in a bar.
She started when his hand crept along the bar to rest on hers.
‘You’re a good-looking woman,’ he said, his voice dropping.
Gunna retrieved her hand.
‘Is that so?’
‘And you like to play hard to get.’ Sigurjón laughed. ‘I like that.’
Gunna sighed inwardly.
‘I’m sure you’re a lovely guy, Sigurjón. But I’m just not interested,’ she said firmly.
She straightened and looked over his shoulder as Osman craned his neck to look around the room, his gaze finally alighting on her. He lifted two fingers and nodded once when she caught his eye.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ Sigurjón said, putting his glass down on the bar harder than he had meant to, just as the loud group by the window got to their feet. Osman stood up and shook his friend’s hand, while the woman on her own drained her glass and closed her book.
With everything happening at once, Gunna slipped off the barstool, and Sigurjón’s words dried up as he caught sight of the Glock in its holster as her fleece flapped open.
‘Hanne, we have to report this. We should.’
The force of her swift anger took him by surprise.
Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7) Page 6