‘What’s happening, Steve? What the hell’s going on?’ Monica asked the moment she saw them. The words came tumbling out; she was agitated and tiny pearls of sweat beaded her upper lip.
‘I don’t know,’ Steve said. ‘I swear I don’t know.’
They described the events of the previous evening and night for her and she listened, tense and restless, rubbing her hands together as if she was finding it hard to concentrate. Steve noticed her continually looking over his shoulder as he was speaking. While they were waiting outside in the jeep, Steve had explained to Kristín that he and Monica used to work together when she lived on the base, before she got her job with the Fulbright Commission.
‘Did you find anything out?’ Steve asked, when he had finished his story.
‘No one will say a word,’ Monica answered, running her hand through her hair. ‘The embassy is in a state of siege. I’ve never seen guns in there before but now everyone is armed. They’re special forces, I think. It’s like living in a time-bomb that could go off any minute. Most of the embassy staff have been forced to take leave. When I asked what was going on, I was sent to see some officer who said that the situation would be sorted out in a few days and that everything would then go back to normal. He asked me to be patient. He was very polite but I got the impression he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me given half a chance.’
‘In a few days?’ Kristín repeated. ‘They’ll have left the glacier by then and presumably the country too.’
‘What about this Ratoff?’ Steve asked. ‘Did you find anything on him?’
‘Nothing. Not that I’ve had much chance to look. Obviously, if he works for the secret services, it won’t be easy to track him down. I don’t even know if it’s a Christian name or a family name, or even his real name at all.’
‘Nor do we,’ Kristín interjected impatiently. ‘It’s just something I overheard. So what do you know about troop movements on the glacier?’
‘I spoke to a friend on the base, Eastman. He’s one of the guys in charge of the hangars and he told me the situation there is very mysterious. The word is that special forces troops arrived on a C-17 transport plane that’s now waiting on standby on one of the runways. It’s almost unheard of: no one’s allowed near the plane – they have their own guards. The troops who arrived on it must be the men your brother saw on the glacier. Eastman didn’t know where they were heading. The whole thing’s shrouded in the utmost secrecy.’
‘What about the two men who tried to kill Kristín?’ Steve asked.
‘The embassy’s crawling with dubious characters. For all I know, any one of them could be a paid assassin.’
‘Are they tapping the phones?’
‘Yes, Steve. They’re tapping the phones.’
‘So they know who makes calls, both to and from the embassy?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’
‘What do you mean, trying to tell us? Jesus Christ, so they know about you and me, about us! Have you sold us down the river, Monica?’ Steve said slowly in disbelief. ‘Is this a trap?’ He was on his feet now, tugging at Kristín, who had not yet absorbed the implications of what Monica was telling them. Following the line of Monica’s gaze Steve glanced around to see Ripley entering the pub, dressed in a padded, white ski-suit. He strolled unhurriedly over to their corner. Steve looked back at Monica.
‘They threatened my boys,’ Monica said desperately; she too was on her feet.
Kristín could not believe what she was seeing when she looked over at the door and spotted Ripley making his way towards them, and out of the corner of her eye glimpsed Bateman coming down the stairs. He was dressed like Ripley; they no longer looked like religious salesmen; now they might have been tourists. She could see no way out of the trap – she and Steve were in a back corner of the pub, in the place chosen by Monica. There was no escape route.
‘Third time lucky,’ Ripley said, pushing Kristín down into her seat again. She stared at him, her knees buckled and she fell rather than sat. Ripley took a seat beside Monica, and Bateman pulled up a chair and joined them, indicating to Steve to return to his chair.
‘Well, isn’t this cosy?’ Ripley said, beaming. ‘Is the beer good here? Before you try anything silly, I should point out that we’re both armed and won’t hesitate to shoot, so perhaps we can do this in a civilised way.’
‘We have a car outside and we’re going to invite you – not you, Monica – to come for a drive,’ Bateman added.
‘And if we refuse to go with you?’ Steve said, still searching Monica’s face.
‘Ah, you’re the knight in shining armour that she found on the base, aren’t you?’ Ripley said, smiling to reveal a row of improbably even white teeth.
‘What a charming couple,’ Bateman continued, looking at Kristín. ‘Do you make a habit of screwing Americans from the base or is Steve here the exception?’ He reached out a hand as if to caress her cheek.
Kristín jerked her head back. Steve sat stock still. Monica lowered her eyes in shame.
‘Well, it’s been delightful but regrettably we’d better get moving,’ Bateman said. ‘Monica, here, who’s ready to betray her friends at the drop of a hat, will leave first and make herself scarce. I’ll go next and escort our political scientist. We’re going to stand up very slowly and walk out of here very calmly. Ripley and Kristín will follow, and that’ll be that. It couldn’t be simpler.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ Steve asked.
‘We’ll find some nice quiet spot,’ Bateman said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’
‘What’s in the plane on the glacier?’ Kristín asked.
‘Now that’s the kind of curiosity that we find so stimulating,’ Bateman said. ‘But don’t you think it would be better if you let us get on with what we have to do?’
Bateman stood up to let Monica pass. She bustled away from the table, keeping her eyes on the ground as she passed them and hurried across the pub to the exit, looking neither left nor right. Opening the door, she vanished into the winter dusk.
‘Right, Stevie, on your feet,’ Bateman said, standing up himself and taking hold of Steve’s shoulder and tugging at him. Steve stood up, looking helplessly at Kristín as Bateman turned him round and pushed him along in front of him. He did nothing roughly as he did not want to attract any attention.
‘Now you,’ Ripley said. Neither the fishermen at the bar nor any of the other customers seemed to notice. Kristín rose slowly and they set off. She felt sick, her legs weak as if they did not belong to her; the whole situation seemed unreal, as if it was happening to someone else, as if time had slowed down. When they reached the bar, one of the trawlermen inadvertently blocked her way, forcing her to stop in her tracks. Ripley tried to move him aside but he would not budge or give Ripley so much as a glance. Kristín saw Steve climbing into the white Ford Explorer outside the pub. So this is how it would end: abducted from a busy pub, without so much as putting up a fight, for a lonely, unpleasant finale.
‘He called you a faggot,’ Kristín said in Icelandic, before the fisherman could say a word. She had noticed him staring at her while she sat with Steve and Monica but had tried not to catch his eye. She knew all about men who stared from a distance: they were trouble.
‘Oh, yeah? Who said that?’ the fisherman demanded, instantly squaring up.
‘Faggot. He called you a fucking faggot,’ Kristín said, pointing at Ripley.
‘Don’t say a word more,’ Ripley ordered, pulling at Kristín. ‘Your boyfriend will get shot if anything goes wrong in here.’
‘He said you were all fucking fairies,’ Kristín yelled at the bar, tearing herself away from Ripley. They now had the fishermen’s undivided attention. If Ripley meant to pull the gun out of his ski-suit, he did not manage it. She saw the barrel of a revolver glint in his hand, then watched as the fisherman who had showed an interest in her punched him hard in the face.
‘I’ll show you who’s the faggot,’ he said.
Ripley collapsed on the floor and as the trawlermen surrounded him, Kristín edged slowly out of the crowd. She glanced outside at the Explorer. Steve was in the back, Bateman behind the wheel, inevitably beginning to wonder what had delayed his partner. He craned his neck to peer into the pub but Kristín was not sure what he could see.
Noticing a door behind the bar, she vaulted over the counter and fled into what transpired to be the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ripley trying to fend off two fishermen before he was overpowered; the Icelanders were raining down blows on his body and head. Kristín sprinted through the kitchen and out of a door that opened into a small backyard which was connected to the street via a narrow alley. Running along it then pressing her back against the wall to peer into the street, she saw that the white Explorer had not moved. Inside she could just make out Bateman and Steve.
She began to creep towards the car, then saw Bateman gesticulating at Steve and yelling something at him. Next minute he jumped out of the Explorer, slamming the door behind him, and ran into the pub. Without a moment’s hesitation she raced to the rear door on the street side and tried to open it but discovered it was locked. Noticing her, Steve banged on the window. He could not open the door on his side either; he was locked in the car.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Kristín panted. Looking round frantically she saw a small warning sign that had been erected in front of some nearby roadworks. Dragging it towards the car, she heaved it as hard as she could against Steve’s window. The glass shattered, small splinters showering the interior and the road. Immediately the car alarm went off and inside the pub she saw Ripley’s head jerk round. Bateman was supporting him. The fishermen were standing in a huddle by the bar. Bateman shouted something as Steve squeezed out of the window, ripping his jacket on the jagged edges of the glass.
‘Our car!’ Kristín screamed as she tore ahead of Steve past the restaurant. She did not dare to look back. Steve was following hard on her heels; she could hear him breathing heavily just behind her.
Bateman emerged from the pub supporting Ripley and laid him on the steps. He had his gun in his hand and, scanning his surroundings, caught sight of Kristín and Steve jumping into the jeep parked in front of the florist.
‘It’s the Special Squad!’ exclaimed a teenage boy clutching a skateboard and pointing at Bateman. Bateman ignored him. He did not notice that people all round him had stopped and were watching him sprint along the street, gun in hand. He ran hunched over, like a hunter after his prey, his arms held straight down by his sides so the gun almost brushed the tarmac.
Kristín got behind the wheel of the Pajero and turned the key in the ignition and stamped on the accelerator simultaneously. The engine screamed into life. Shoving the automatic into reverse, she backed out of the parking space and down the street with wheels spinning, the tyres smoking on the wet tarmac. With a quiet popping sound, a small hole appeared in the windscreen just to the right of her head and another directly below it: Bateman was shooting as he ran. Kristín backed across the road, clipping a car approaching from the opposite direction, which made the Pajero spin forty-five degrees. She slammed the automatic into drive and screeched off down the road. They heard a low hiss as shots penetrated the chassis and Kristín ducked in the hope that this would protect her. Steve lay in the footwell on the passenger side, eyes wide with anguish.
Behind them, Bateman tore around the corner into the street in pursuit but he soon gave up the chase and shrank ever smaller in the rearview mirror before disappearing from sight.
SOUTH ICELAND,
SATURDAY 30 JANUARY, 1800 GMT
They stopped twice to fill up with petrol on their journey east. Kristín drove the whole way. According to the weather forecast, there was a severe storm affecting the east and north-east of the country but down on the southern lowlands through which they were now driving conditions were fine apart from some drifting snow. It was very dark; there was little traffic on the Sudurland highway and the further east they drove, the fewer vehicles they encountered. Soon only the occasional pair of headlights lit up the Pajero before disappearing just as suddenly, plunging Kristín and Steve into darkness again.
They were each wrapped up in their own thoughts and spoke little, except when the radio news reported the shooting incident in the city centre and Kristín interpreted for Steve. A man believed to be associated with the gunman had been admitted to hospital with injuries. Eight fishermen had been arrested but could not be interviewed at present because they were still under the influence of alcohol. The police were investigating possible links between the shooting and the murder of Runólfur Zóphaníasson, and were calling for witnesses to both incidents to come forward. It also emerged that a lawyer employed by the foreign ministry, who was wanted for questioning in connection with Runólfur’s murder, had still not been traced. Sources confirmed that she was a suspect in the murder of Runólfur, who had been involved in unspecified business with the ministry, and that she may also have been present at the shooting in the city centre. No details were given about the gunman. The incident was almost unheard of in Reykjavík where gun crimes were extremely rare.
Steve rang Michael Thompson from the car-phone. In the interim Thompson had dug out the details of the farmer who lived at the foot of the glacier and was able to tell them the name of his farm. Having obtained the phone number from directory enquiries, Kristín called Jón to make sure he was home. He said they were welcome to visit, though he did not know how he could help them.
They sat for a while without saying a word.
‘Have you thought about me at all since?’ Steve asked eventually, squinting in the glare of a pair of headlights that shot past, leaving them in darkness again. He had been sitting mostly in silence, eyes fixed on the monotony of the white road ahead, ever since they left Reykjavík.
‘From time to time,’ Kristín said. ‘I did try to explain.’
‘Sure. You didn’t want to be a GI whore.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘I don’t suppose it is.’
‘I’m so sorry to drag you into this stupid mess.’
‘What, that little game of cowboys and Indians?’ There was no humour in his voice, only weariness.
Kristín was lost in thought for several minutes.
‘It’s partly political. I oppose the presence of the American army on Midnesheidi. I could understand its strategic significance during the Cold War, but that didn’t mean I agreed with its presence. I’ve always regarded it as a blot on the landscape. It’s as simple as that. The Icelanders shouldn’t have an army and they certainly shouldn’t get into bed with one. Far too many people have prostituted themselves to the Defense Force already – businessmen, particularly. I should never have allowed things to go so far between us but . . .’
She groped for the right words.
‘You’re against the army. So what?’ Steve said.
‘It’s not that simple,’ Kristín repeated. ‘I’m opposed to the NATO base. Not as a member of an organisation or anything like that, but in my heart; I just can’t stand the thought of an army on Icelandic soil, whether it’s American, British, French, Russian or Chinese. Never, over my dead body, will I accept its presence here. And the more the debate has come to revolve around money, unemployment, redundancies and the economy, the stronger I’ve felt about it. It should never have come to this. It’s unthinkable that we should be financially dependent on an army. What does that make us? What have we become?’
‘But . . .’
‘War profiteers. No better than war profiteers. The whole damn Icelandic nation.’
‘Aren’t you just a Commie bastard?’ Steve asked, with a wry smile.
‘I should be of course but I’m not. I’m . . .’
‘A nationalist?’
‘An opponent of the army.’
‘But the base’s activities have been massively scaled down. They may close it any day now.’
‘I think you
’re here to stay. For a thousand years. Don’t you see? For eternity. And you can’t imagine how horrific I find that prospect.’
They raced along the road, a beam of light piercing the darkness at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour.
‘I’m not the American army on Midnesheidi,’ Steve pointed out at last.
‘No, I know. Perhaps we took things too fast. Perhaps we should have got to know each other better.’
‘Let me tell you who I am, so there’s no doubt about it,’ Steve said. ‘I’m a New Yorker. No, that’s not quite right, I’m from Albany, New York, and you’d know what I’m talking about if you’d read any William Kennedy.’
‘Ironweed,’ Kristín chipped in.
‘Did you see the movie?’
‘I did.’
‘The book’s better but I don’t really see how else they could have filmed it. Anyway, Albany’s full of Irish like me. Plenty of Quinns. The salt of the earth. My great-grandparents emigrated at the turn of the century to escape the poverty. They settled with their family in Albany and led a hand-to-mouth existence but left their children better off. Granddad went into the wholesale business, importing goods from Ireland, and made a decent living from it, and Dad took over from him. You couldn’t call it a business empire but he does okay. The Albany Irish fought and died in the wars the US fought in Europe, Japan, Korea and Vietnam. They were no soldiers but they joined the army because they believed their country needed them. As for me, I chose to study political science because I wanted to understand what led the US to establish bases in places like this, to understand what turned us into the world’s police force. I know all about people’s hostility here but what about them getting their snouts in the trough? The truth is I’ve hardly gotten to know this place at all. Still, someone once told me you’re all descended from the Irish, so perhaps you’re safe sharing a car with me after all.’
Operation Napoleon Page 15