Erla drew a deep breath. ‘Four fatalities.’
‘Four?’
‘It’s what she said, Nick. No details. And I couldn’t ask for any, could I?’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘Christ. What happened here?’
‘Not a clue. Not sure the police have yet. But four people are dead. How they died? Who they were? Whether one of them was a middle-aged Japanese woman? There’s no way we’re going to find out today.’
‘I thought we were going to find Wada – and all the answers.’
‘So did I.’
‘Instead …’
‘Everything’s fucked.’
Nick looked at the policewoman who’d spoken to Erla. She’d turned and was eyeing them. ‘We’re going to have to leave, Erla,’ he said glumly.
‘And then? What are we going to do?’
‘At the moment … I have no idea.’
There was nothing for it but to drive back to Reykjavík. Initially, they were too shocked to say much. And when they did speak there was nothing good to say.
The route took them past Þingvellir. Coachloads of tourists were milling about and swarming over the rocks at the top of the walk down through the rift valley. Nick and Erla huddled over coffees in the visitor centre café and looked solemnly at each other.
‘We don’t know Wada is one of the four fatalities,’ Nick reasoned half-heartedly.
‘She asked for help,’ said Erla. ‘She said she was in serious trouble and had to get away from Stóri-Asgarbær. She didn’t get away. And the serious trouble arrived before we did. Are you going to tell me I’m wrong about that?’
‘No. Just that you can’t be … certain.’
‘The phone she called me on isn’t working any more. Nor’s the phone she used in Reykjavík. Why? Because they were both destroyed in the fire. Along with …’ Erla took a moment to compose herself. ‘I need a cigarette. Can we go outside?’
They stood in the car park, Erla smoking her way through one cigarette, then another. She was shivering, though it wasn’t particularly cold. Nick felt a little unsteady himself. The fire – and the reported fatalities – had forced him to acknowledge that the stakes were far higher than he’d ever supposed. Violent deaths forty years ago were one thing. But these deaths were in the present – the here and now.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t go to the Emergence thing this evening,’ said Erla.
‘Chicken out, you mean?’
‘It’s too late to help Wada. As for Kristjan, the police will release him eventually. He might have to do a few months in prison. But he’ll be OK. And we can all get on with our lives. I’ll settle for that.’
Thinking seriously about dropping his pursuit of the man who was his father and the secrets he harboured made Nick realize how important the truth had become for him. He’d come too far in his search to turn back now. Go home, tell Kate Caldwell hadn’t shown up and he’d got nowhere, then sit down to Easter lunch with her parents and make small talk about nothing very much? There was simply no way he could do it.
‘I know Driscoll’s your father, Nick, but you’ve lived this long without knowing him. Maybe that’s how it should stay.’
‘No.’ He shook his head and looked Erla in the eye. ‘I’m going on.’
Nick dropped Erla at Stúdentagarđar, then drove back to his hotel for a shower and a change of clothes. He was aiming for a sophisticated look, his best guess as to what would help him blend in at the auction. He didn’t feel sophisticated. There was a knot of tension in his stomach that only tightened as he made his way to the Never Before Gallery, arriving a little after the event’s scheduled start time.
The evening was soft and windless, a stark contrast with the snow and slush of two days before. Invitees were arriving: middle-aged men in dark suits and open-neck shirts with expensive tans and chunky wristwatches – and a few middle-aged women, also dressed in dark clothes and favouring luxury brand handbags. The gallery itself was closed. Those entering were directed upstairs, after their credentials had been verified. Nick saw cards like the one Miranda had given him being discreetly scanned and returned with a smile – and an iPad.
His own card survived scrutiny. The tablet he was given was evidently something more specific than a standard iPad. ‘For your use this evening, sir,’ he was told, which sounded both enticing and limiting at the same time.
He went up the curving stairs into a long, softly lit room, where glamorous young waiters and waitresses were circulating with champagne and canapés. There were almost as many of them as there were guests. There was no crush, no deafening clamour. The air was cool, the mood restrained but expectant. Above the melange of expensive perfumes and colognes there was some strange energizing quality in the atmosphere.
The first-floor windows overlooking the street were curtained off. The walls had become giant screens, displaying pictures that split and split again into a carousel of images: mountains, streams, forests, moors; open skies, wide horizons. When Nick activated his tablet, it established interactivity with the nearest screened image, which he could toggle round to different perspectives. The tablet then informed him that he was seeing a future-enhanced representation of local conditions for a particular lot number. It seemed that what was for sale at this auction really was the land that Erla and Kristjan believed should never be for sale.
‘You look like a discerning man.’ The words were spoken by a tall, dark-skinned, good-looking fellow guest who’d appeared at Nick’s elbow. ‘Independent too, I would say.’ There was an accent Nick would have guessed was Middle Eastern. ‘Perhaps not a proxy.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Nick replied, smiling coolly.
‘Very good,’ said his new friend with a flash of dazzlingly white teeth. ‘Perhaps not. So, discreet as well as discerning.’
‘Are you a proxy?’
‘Of course. The kind of people who can play this game are also the kind of people who can send someone else to make the actual moves. This you know, though.’
‘I don’t have anyone to send to something like this.’
‘That must make your life … full.’
Nick smiled. ‘I guess so.’
‘Yet you have found time to be here. Why?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘Ah. I see. You are a spectator. Perhaps an official observer.’
‘Definitely not official.’
‘How did you obtain an invitation?’
‘By knowing the right people.’
The man nodded. ‘The true division of mankind. Not male and female. Not black and white. Not even rich and poor. But the right people … and the wrong people.’
‘Will you be bidding this evening?’
‘That is what I have been sent here to do. And you?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Are you limitlessly wealthy?’
‘Is anyone?’
‘Surprisingly, yes. More than you might imagine. Many of them are represented here. Because this is a unique opportunity: to buy something that properly speaking cannot be bought.’
‘Which is?’
The man looked at the image of a sparkling waterfall on the screen nearest to them. ‘The future,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing less.’
Further conversations of a more humdrum nature ensued as Nick wandered through the gathering. Everyone was polite but guarded. No one was really willing to tell him anything, about themselves, about the people who’d sent them, about what exactly they thought they were buying. Champagne was sipped, canapés were nibbled, tablets consulted. The screens continued to display their seductive visions of idyllic landscapes, in ever greater abundance as more and more of the guests manipulated their particular favourites. The atmosphere in the room seemed to absorb the freshness and clarity of the images on the screens. Suspicious as he was of everything and everyone there, Nick nevertheless felt a strange elation growing within him.
An hour had passed with deceptive speed when the tablets informed their holders that bidding would be
gin in five minutes. No auctioneer appeared. This clearly wasn’t going to be an auction on traditional lines. To this point no one had stepped forward to identify themselves as a spokesperson for Quartizon. No one had taken charge of the event. It was obvious to Nick the other guests knew something he didn’t. There’d been preliminaries to the event he hadn’t been party to.
‘Feel excited?’ asked the man he’d had the elliptical conversation with earlier, reappearing next to him.
‘Yes, I do.’ And it was true. Nick did feel excited – and apprehensive.
‘That will be the extra-oxygenated atmosphere.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Oh yes. Nothing has been left to chance. Even though no one who really matters is physically present here this evening.’ He cast a glance round the room. ‘I know. It is hard to believe we are all so … inconsequential.’
The five minutes were up. Silence descended. Lot numbers began to spring up on Nick’s tablet, followed almost instantly by notifications of bids that appeared and disappeared with bewildering rapidity. Nick caught tantalizing glimpses of numbers accompanied by the repeated message subject to standard multiplier. The process was almost subliminal in its speed. He wasn’t sure what currency was being used in the bids. He had no idea what the multiplier was. He wondered if individuals were actually doing the bidding or if computers were handling the whole process algorithmically.
Then, on his tablet, the numbers suddenly faded to grey, overlaid by a message. Authorization fault. Please contact a member of staff immediately.
Nick looked around, wondering if anyone else had received such a message. There was no obvious sign they had. They appeared rapt in their concentration on their tablets.
Except for the man moving between them and heading in Nick’s direction. He was short and rotund, of Asian appearance, Indian maybe, aged sixty or seventy, with steely grey hair and sad, spaniel-like eyes behind gold-framed glasses. His dark suit wasn’t quite as elegantly cut as those of most of the other men in the room and, unusually in this gathering, he was wearing a tie. He looked slightly out of place. But he also looked as if that didn’t bother him.
He smiled as he reached Nick. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said quietly, almost deferentially.
Nick tried hard to look blasé. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘My name is Vardekar.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yours, I think, is Miller.’
‘Have we met?’
‘Not until now.’
‘Look, Mr Vardekar, I …’
‘Would you mind accompanying me to an adjoining room? We need to discuss a delicate issue. And we need a little privacy to do it in.’
‘I prefer to stay out here.’
‘That would be unwise. We do have security personnel here, though they masquerade as waiters very effectively. Technically speaking, Baroness Cushing failed to register you as her proxy. Removing you forcibly would be within our rights as set out in the terms and conditions of participation.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Well, that’s one view of the small print in our contracts. But, legally speaking, we are in the right, so I’d advise compliance with my request.’ He gave Nick an avuncular grin. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Nick was far from sure he believed him. The two waiters threading a path towards them looked to be carrying a lot of muscle under their well-cut shirts and their expressions suggested they took their duties – whatever they were – quite seriously.
‘Nobody here will spring to your defence, Nick. They’re not the kind of people who do that, as I’m sure you realize. So, just come with me. And we can have a quiet word together. That’s all I’m asking you to do.’
‘I have a lot of questions, Mr Vardekar.’
‘I’ll try to answer them.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Really. Shall we go?’ He gestured with his hand. ‘This way please.’
The close company of the two muscular waiters persuaded Nick he had little choice but to go. A curtain was drawn back near the entrance to the room, revealing a door through which Vardekar led the way into a long, comfortably furnished lounge. One wall of the room comprised the reverse sides of the screens, which functioned like two-way mirrors. Nick could see Emergence’s guests flicking at their tablets as the auction proceeded, overlaid by the ghostly, transparent images of the pictures projected on the screens, drained of colour.
Glancing behind him, he saw that the two waiters hadn’t come into the room with them. It was just him and Vardekar – plus comfortable couches and an extensive drinks cabinet.
‘Would you like something stronger than champagne, Nick?’ Vardekar asked with a smile. ‘Whisky? Brandy?’
‘Just those answers you promised.’
Vardekar poured himself a whisky. ‘Sure you won’t keep me company?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘So …’ Vardekar sat down and gestured for Nick to sit down too, but he remained standing. He didn’t want there to be anything remotely cosy about their conversation. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What is Emergence?’
‘A commercial initiative of Quartizon, acting in partnership with the Nishizaki Corporation.’
‘But what is it – exactly?’
‘The confidentiality Quartizon guarantees its clients means I can’t be specific.’
‘So much for answering my questions.’
‘I only said I’d try.’ Vardekar’s smile was becoming annoying.
‘Where is Peter Driscoll?’
‘Detained elsewhere, to his regret.’
‘But you represent him?’
‘In a personal rather than a commercial capacity, yes.’
‘What are you – his lawyer?’
‘No. I’m an accountant by profession. Did I tell you my name is Vardekar?’
‘Yes, you did.’ Nick’s impatience was growing.
‘Well, it’s not, actually. It’s Hardekar. Vinod Hardekar.’
Vinod Hardekar. The Indian student from the house in Exeter. Forgotten by his former friends – except one. ‘You’re … Hardekar?’
‘Yes. Why don’t you sit down, Nick? You look as if you’ve had a shock.’
Nick lowered himself slowly on to the couch and stared at Hardekar, not even trying to disguise his astonishment. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
‘Two things I’ve been tasked with keeping apart. Emergence, currently proceeding with well-oiled efficiency. And your search for your natural father, Peter Ellery, now known as Peter Driscoll, chairman and chief executive of Quartizon.’
‘How long have you known he didn’t die in 1977?’
‘That’s really unimportant. I’m afraid we don’t have infinite amounts of time to play with. I needn’t tell you Marty Caldwell’s recent dealings with you and Mimori Takenaga have caused a great deal of trouble, beginning with Kazuto Kodaka’s enquiries – and those of his assistant, Umiko Wada – on behalf of Mrs Takenaga regarding her father Shitaro Masafumi’s death forty-two years ago. This persuaded Mr Nishizaki that drastic action had to be taken to cover his tracks in the matter – and in other matters concerning his business activities and practices. This action has culminated in a …’ Hardekar looked upset for a moment. He raised a hand in apology and took a sip of whisky. ‘I’m sorry. The news that reached us today … has rather knocked me.’
‘What news?’
‘You accompanied Erla Torfadóttir to Stóri-Asgarbær earlier today. What you found … is the news I refer to.’
‘How do you know I went there?’
‘That hardly matters.’
‘Who died at Stóri-Asgarbær?’
‘The police are still trying to determine the identities of the deceased. But it’s certain Marty Caldwell was one of them.’
‘Martin? What was he doing there?’
‘Hiding, with Peter’s help, from Nishizaki’s wrath. Sadly, Wada managed to lead Nishizaki’s
agents straight to him.’
‘Was Wada also killed?’
Hardekar nodded. ‘So I’ve been informed.’
‘And the other two? Who were they?’
‘An irrelevant question at this stage. Peter’s concern – and mine – is to avoid any more deaths. Especially … yours.’
Nick couldn’t quite credit the directness of the threat to his life that Hardekar was suggesting. ‘Why should Nishizaki want to kill me?’
‘Because your attempts to discover the truth of your paternity threaten to expose some of his secrets. And because his traditional response to any kind of threat is to neutralize it.’
‘Does he … know I’m in Iceland?’
‘Does he personally know? I’m not presently sure. But we need to ensure you stop doing anything that could be construed as interference in his affairs.’
‘Including trying to contact my father?’
‘Indeed.’ Hardekar sighed. ‘I am sorry. Peter is clear this is how it has to be. It’s in your own best interests, which he’s naturally anxious to safeguard. Nishizaki will leave you alone if you leave him – and those associated with him – alone. It really is as simple as that. And the death toll at Stóri-Asgarbær should tell you how foolish it would be to go up against him. That was Kodaka’s mistake. And Wada’s. And Marty’s too, though he never knew that was what his actions amounted to. Peter wants to protect you, Nick. As a father would.’
‘But he won’t see me?’
‘It’s too big a risk. At present. But …’
‘But what?’
‘We’ve booked you on the first Icelandair flight to London tomorrow morning. Be on it. Go home. Enjoy Easter. Relax. Forget all this … unpleasantness. Let a little time pass. Then … Peter will contact you. He’s asked me to give you his word on that. He will be in touch. You will meet your father.’
‘When?’
‘When it’s safe. For you. And for him.’
‘Which could be … months from now?’
‘Nothing like so long, I’m sure. But haste, at this stage, could be fatal.’
‘How do I know he’s not just fobbing me off?’
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 23