by Zena Shapter
“The very one.”
A look of stunned sympathy washes over Ari’s face. His expression is nothing compared to the look he’ll have later, when I tell him what I know.
“Why not him?” I ask. “He’s been overly-attentive, tried to persuade me not to come up to Höfkállur. He’s power-hungry, has enough influence to make anything happen. He’s guarded about every word he says—yet why should he need to if everyone’s living by their hearts, so to speak?”
“He doesn’t even work here,” Ari points out. “And he’s got more than enough money.”
“He could be planning a retirement in Hawaii for all we know.” I eye Anna as I make my next statement. “And it’s always the ones you least expect. No one should be beyond suspicion. Plus,” I turn back to Ari, who’s popping open his door, “he wanted me to stay away from Höfkállur, and now he’s suddenly here on the day someone tries to kill me. Can you pass me my bag please?”
Shaking his head, Ari passes my bag over, helps Anna and I down from the Eroder, then asks for his phone. “I need to tell Director Úlfar we’re here,” he says with an impatient snap.
It doesn’t matter whether Ari believes me or not right now, so I don’t argue and simply pass the phone over.
He cradles it in his shoulder to make his call, helping Anna inside at the same time. It takes her forever to hobble up the Litrúm-Hús steps, but once we’re inside Ari’s voice echoes through the dark empty corridors with such clarity I worry Jón will get wind of the surprise heading his way.
I smell the air, checking for a sour post-cigarette odour—the odour I smelt last night when I fell asleep in the pink leather armchair.
But as we walk towards the Dómstólls, only silent corridors flank our progress and only shadows close in behind us.
Chapter 25
As soon as we enter the Dómstóll, Ólaf sees Anna and his face fills with dismay. From the sag in his heavy cheeks, he clearly can’t imagine a worse place for her to be. He rubs a hand over the short grey hair at the back of his head, brings it to rest on his bald patch, then tuts at her and glares at me.
I shrug at him, then look around the Dómstóll. Director Úlfar is nowhere to be seen. It’s then I realise stealth should have been the least of my concerns. If Jón didn’t suspect that Ari and I were still alive when Director Úlfar told him to remain at the Litrúm-Hús, his partner would have helped him figure that out by now. Of course they know what’s about to happen. My presence, or Ari’s, won’t be a surprise for anybody. All I can hope is they don’t realise: I know who they are.
We walk across beige carpet to where Ólaf has returned to adjusting the plasma membrane of the Sannlitró-Völva on its trolley, fingertips gripping the embossed Heimspeki symbols.
When the trolley wobbles, Ari rushes forward to help, only to face a tired hand waving at him to sit.
“I’ve got it.” Ólaf says, his mouth twitching. “I do this all the time without you, you know.”
Anna limps towards her cousin, supporting herself on the backs of pinewood benches. “Is there anything we can do to help, Ólaf?”
“Go home.” He holds out some cords.
She reaches for them.
“Don’t be silly, Anna.” I take the cords from her. “He’s passing them to me. Sit and rest your ankle. She’s hurt her ankle,” I tell Ólaf, hoping he won’t want to waste time asking why.
Thankfully, he’s too busy to do anything other than dip his chin. “Takk, Becky. Wind them up and put them under the trolley. Ari, seeing as you’re here too, plug this extension into the socket over there. Anna, my dear, go home.”
“If you want to help,” I tell Anna, winding a cord around my forearm, “turn your phone to translation for me.”
Anna takes a seat at the back of the room and fiddles with her phone.
Once Ari’s plugged in the machine, he asks Ólaf. “Anything else?”
“Nei. Unless you can persuade my cousin to—go—home.”
Ari smiles at Ólaf’s persistence until there’s movement in the corridor. He peeks out the doorway. “Sorry, Ólaf. Too late. They’re here.”
I abandon the cords and hurry to connect my earpiece to Anna’s phone.
She’s nervous, seesawing to straighten the gathered creases of her black bustle dress and drawing her rust-red ballet shoes under her. As the smoked glass doors swing to attention, we exchange a glance that scorns the wisdom of our presence here tonight. It makes me hope all the more that I know what I’m doing.
Seconds later, Jón strides into the Dómstóll, freezing the room into silence. Director Úlfar is at his heel, waddling like a penguin against Jón’s bearlike height, panting as he attempts to keep up. Neither man notices Anna and I shrinking at the back of the room.
Jón doesn’t even react when he sees Ari. He merely runs a hand through his shiny shoulder-length hair and brings his other hand around to tie it into a sleek black ponytail. “Right, let’s get on with this, Ari,” he mutters, massaging the weathered bronze skin of his forehead. Anna’s phone translates everything. “It’s late, I’m sick and want to get home. What’s this security breach all about?”
“Take a seat, Jón,” Ólaf says, his eyes locked on the controls before him, “this won’t take long.” He scrunches up his nose to reposition his glasses.
“Where’s the offender?” Jón turns to check behind him, sees us for the first time. His annoyed expression lifts into astonishment, then concern. He’s a good actor. “Anna sweetheart, what are you doing here?”
“I had to do this Jón, please understand. I’m so sorry. It’s for your own good.”
“Understand what? Do what?” Jón moves towards us, squinting as if spying an arctic fox hidden amid snow dunes.
I squint back at him. This is the man who killed my brother.
He ignores me and focuses on Anna. “Sweetheart,” he coos, his intense eyes, which yesterday shone with a charm that reminded me of Mark, narrowing into slits. “What have you done?”
Anna grabs my hand as he closes the gap. I feel only calmness. Right now all I need do is sit back and let events unfold naturally.
“Take a seat Jón.” Ólaf’s unusually stentorian tone commandeers Jón’s attention. “But not there,” he adds, reaching around the back of his head and settling on the nape of his neck where a certain crenation of flesh protrudes. “Behind the Sannlitró-Völva please.”
Jón turns, chafing the thin black hair of his goatee. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I will.” Director Úlfar glides close. “First I’ll take that.” He pinches Jón’s gun from his holster only to dangle the piece of metal before him like a soiled nappy. “Now sit.” He bats the air with his empty hand, gesturing towards the Sannlitró-Völva.
“I’ll take that for you, Director.” Ólaf relieves Director Úlfar of the shiny weapon with the stealth of a submarine.
As he does, Anna releases her grip on my hand.
“Almáttugur,” Jón swears under his breath, folding his arms. Anna’s phone just catches it: God almighty. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“It’s a matter of national security of course.” Director Úlfar smirks, nervous. “What else would require my presence?” He taps his chest.
“Jón,” Ari explains, his voice confident in his natural tongue, “we’ve evidence that proves you’re selling the properties of innocent offenders while they’re in the Reformation Cooperative and taking the money. We don’t need to get into details tonight; Reykjavík will do that later. For now we only want to know who you’re working with here at the Litrúm-Hús, so please take a seat and behave.”
Jón blinks and waits for someone to contradict Ari. No one does. “Are you telling me there’s no offender waiting downstairs?”
“Take a seat Jón.” Ólaf’s head is awry with impatience. “Let’s
get things moving.”
Jón scans the room. “And you all know what you’re doing?” He waits until he’s received a nod or two in reply before moving. “All of you? Anna? Ari? Ólaf?”
“Ólaf?” Director Úlfar’s eyes flash from Ari to Ólaf and back again. “Are you Ólaf Stefánson? When Ari said he’d phoned his best technician for this, I should have known he meant you.”
Ólaf stretches over the Sannlitró-Völva to shake the director’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”
Director Úlfar hesitates before taking it. “Not since you developed the scan booths, I think. Amazing work, truly amazing.”
“Thank you.” Ólaf glances at me, buttoning up the immaculate navy suit he still wears from this morning. “You always seem to do a review when I’m out of town.”
“Do I? How funny. Well, I’m glad Ari picked you for this. Ari, I just remembered something. The people I arranged to meet here tonight don’t know where we are. I need to go find them. Remember what I told you about them?”
Ari nods. He means Sigmar and Haraldur.
“You stay here and get things started. There’s also a matter of,” he clears his throat, “that thing I’m waiting for from Doctor Emil and I seem to have left my phone in Jón’s office. Excuse me, will you everyone?” Smiling thinly, he teeters on his heels and shrinks out the door faster than a slinky on an escalator.
Looking at Ari’s face, I expect to see an expression that reflects the oddness of Director Úlfar’s sudden departure. Couldn’t someone simply call Haraldur and Sigmar? But Ari’s too busy looking through Anna’s evidence to realise.
Luckily, Anna isn’t. “Ari,” her words are urgent, “someone should go with Director Úlfar, to make sure he returns. Someone fast on their feet.” She stares at him until he realises she means him.
But she can’t possibly mean him. I told her at The Himinn that nothing would happen to us as long as Ari was with us.
Ari sees the surprise on my face and misinterprets it.
He mumbles something to Ólaf, points at what I assume is the safety lock on Jón’s gun and moves towards the door. “If,” he says to Ólaf, gesturing at Jón, “if he so much as breathes in the wrong direction, shoot. If he goes near them,” he motions towards us, “shoot. If he comes at you, shoot. Okay?”
Ólaf wrinkles his nose to reposition his glasses. “You can trust me, Ari.”
Jón whips around at Ólaf’s statement, and stares at Ari and Ólaf as if to ask them what the hell they’re doing. I agree. Ari shouldn’t leave. I need to stop him. I also can’t blurt out my theory yet. No one will believe me. Ari should stay here.
“Ari,” I call to him as he reaches the door, “can’t you phone Director Úlfar?” Phone. My online notes application is still open on Ari’s phone. “Actually, you still have my file open on your phone. Have a look at it before you go, will you? Just the first page, make sure I haven’t missed something.” It’s the only way I can think to let him know what I know. Events are not unfolding the way I want anymore so it’s time I played a card.
“What document’s that, Ari?” Ólaf shuffles through the shoebox on the flip-up table of his workstation. “Isn’t all of Anna’s evidence here?”
“Ari,” I call out. He’s already opening the door. “Have a look now, please, before you go?”
“I’ll read it on the way,” he throws over his shoulder. “Ólaf, you’re in charge. Start with the basics. I want to be here for the rest. And remember,” he snaps with a venom that hints at the betrayal he’s feeling, “shoot him, if you need to.”
Then the door is swinging shut and I’m gnawing at the insides of my cheek again.
Shit.
This isn’t what I planned.
Chapter 26
Ólaf taps two final buttons on the Sannlitró-Völva controls, then leans back in his seat to count how many seconds it takes the machine to charge. The whole time I struggle to decide what to do. My instincts urge me to go after Ari and confront him with the truth. Yet going after him will leave Anna alone with Ólaf and Jón. And now Ólaf has a gun.
Ólaf has thought this through better than I could ever have anticipated. He probably wouldn’t let me hobble after Ari now even if I tried. He’d know the only reason I’d chase after Ari is if I were scared of being alone with Ólaf and Jón—and the only reason I’d be scared of that, is if I knew Ólaf was Jón’s partner.
And I do.
He’s the only senior Sannlitró-Völva technician the Litrúm-Hús has ever seen. He developed the scan pods, has access to Litrúm Maps and is a highly trained software developer. He handles the results of every examination, requests not-guilty cases from Reykjavík, and is the only one who ‘performs’ not-guilty examinations because he’s the best at what he does. I don’t know what’s motivating him, but he’s at the top of my list because everything about him tells me to put him there, and today I’m trusting my gut. He’s the only one with the opportunity, the technology, the intelligence, evident acting skills…
And now we’re alone with him.
And he has a gun.
He catches me looking at it. His eyes blur. He can see right through me. Seconds later, he knows that I know. He presses his lips together as his eyes refocus, resigning himself to whatever Plan B he’s plotted. He rests the gun on the machine’s controls but says nothing to me, letting his silence menace instead.
Jón’s outline appears on the Sannlitró-Völva’s screen.
“Okay.” Ólaf begins, cool and calm. “So, for the record, are you Jón Ásmundsson?”
“What are you doing?” Jón hisses. “That thing’s recording!”
I press my earpiece in deeper. If I tell Anna now, will she believe me? No. I still have no reason for why Ólaf would partner with Jón. Until I can guess that, no one will believe me. He’s good old Ólaf, the one Anna and Ari would never suspect.
Is it money, power, self-preservation?
Is it a secret no one knows or wants to face?
There’s something buried deep in him—I recognise it because I have something buried deep in me. People like us can recognise each other. But Anna will never see it unless I can guide her there.
“We’re recording only the basics for now,” says Ólaf, “like Ari said. Trust me, Jón, I know what I’m doing.”
“This isn’t what we agreed,” Jón adds a qualifier, “with Ari.”
“Ari and Director Úlfar have gone to fetch witnesses. I didn’t realise there were any witnesses, so it’s better this way.”
“Witnesses change nothing.”
“You’re wrong. Now for the record are you, Jón Ásmundsson who works at Höfkállur Litrúm-Hús, guilty of appropriating property from innocent offenders in the Reformation Cooperative? And did you do this by faking examination results, then telling offenders they could only equalise their energy and one day leave the Cooperative, by giving to charity—your charity?”
Anna frowns a little, but Ólaf’s sudden excess of knowledge about Jón’s bribery doesn’t make her twig.
“Okay, Ólaf. You’ve made your point.” Jón grins, though his face is as unfunny as a clown in a horror movie. “Now turn it off!”
“Pastel blue with gold indicates a truth. Takk Jón. Now,” Ólaf says quickly, “did you throw the body of Mark Dales in the Skepnasá River? And did you today try to kill Rebecca Dales and Ari Halldórsson? And did you kill Gunnar Eyjólfsson?”
“You bastard!”
“Pastel blue with gold. All true. Takk Jón. And you’ve killed before this too, haven’t you?”
“Reset that thing or I’ll…”
Ólaf picks up the gun and aims it at Jón’s head. His arm is as solid as a marble statue. He glances at the screen, scrunching up his nose to reposition his glasses. “Pastel blue with gold. Gott. Now shall we expand a little on that last truth, about wha
t happened before, or shall we leave it there for today?” He pauses, smirking.
Jón rolls his head from side to side, boring a warning into Ólaf.
Ólaf shrugs, moves a finger to tap a command into the machine. “I think we’ll leave it.”
“No Ólaf,” Anna calls out, stopping him, “you haven’t asked him about his partner!”
“She’s right.” Jón unbuttons his ruffle-necked shirt until his chest is free of restrictive tailoring. He leans back in his seat and flicks his ponytail. “If I’ve been working with someone, I should tell her who it is.”
“Navy blue with electric blue,” Ólaf reads the colours on the screen, “indicates you’re about to lie.”
“Of course it does. Because you’re controlling what it indicates.”
I taste blood in my mouth. I’m gnawing on my cheek too hard. Ari needs to hurry back. This is not going to end well.
“I’m not controlling it,” Ólaf waggles his head in innocent amusement, “but someone must have been controlling it for you to send innocent offenders to the Cooperative all this time. Who is it Jón? Is it someone here at the Litrúm-Hús tonight?”
“Oh, this is perfect.” Jón throws his hands up. “Now you start the script.”
“Pastel blue with gold. Is it Director Úlfar?”
“Let me see now, what was I supposed to say? Ah yes,” he switches to a tone so insincere it has its own rhythm, “you know I’d never work with someone like Director Úlfar, people would get the wrong idea.”
“Electric blue. Not Director Úlfar then. Is it Ari?”
Anna edges forward, grips onto the hardwood rim of the bench.
A surge of dread swells in my stomach, making me nauseous.
“Sure. Why not Ari? Quick, quick, everyone! The golden boy has been found out, you’d better run after him. There probably aren’t any security guards on duty for the next ten minutes, conveniently—for him!” He resumes his usual voice. “How fucking ridiculous.”