Operation Napoleon

by Arnaldur Indridason

  They gave me back my jacket, then held a long meeting at the aerodrome. I didn’t recognise anyone – they were all Nazi big shots, but the Swede was obviously an old acquaintance of theirs. There were German generals with him, two of them. And one from our side, as you said – I don’t know where he came from. I wasn’t allowed to attend the meeting – I’m just the driver. Some soldiers loaded two crates of gold bars on to the plane, and provisions of some kind. That was all. The plane is painted in our camouflage colors. A wonderful machine, the Junkers – powerful engines, tremendous weight-bearing capacity and range.

  The meeting overran – it took forever. That’s why we’re in this goddamn mess. Otherwise we’d have missed the storm and ice, I’m convinced of that. At one point our man marched out of the meeting but the Swede persuaded him to go back in. A long time later the two of them came back out and held a conversation by the plane, going on about the Russians and the Ardennes, and Argentina and God knows what else. Anyway, the meeting dragged on and on. I tried to talk to the German soldiers but they couldn’t understand a word of English. I gave them some cigarettes. They were only boys, not even twenty. They smiled at me.

  In the city there was a total blackout, like everywhere else, and it was strangely silent. They know it’s over. I don’t understand what they can be negotiating about. The end of the war? Are they going to end the war with a treaty? We know there’s not long left. Can they shorten it? It would save thousands of lives. The Russians will beat us to Berlin. Is that the problem? Why these secret talks?

  I’m almost sure I saw Guderian at the meeting – I recognized him from the newsreels.

  One of the lamps has gone out. I know you chose me because you trusted me to keep a secret and needed one of us to fly the plane across the Atlantic. I don’t blame you so don’t regret it. Never regret it.

  I think we’re disappearing into the ice. We’re being buried alive.

  Ratoff closed the book. The wind was dying down; the noise was not as shrill as before. Standing up, he opened the tent flap and peered outside. The night was pitch black but it was gusting and snowing less heavily now. The only illumination came from the floodlight on top of the communications tent. He realised it would take time to get things in motion since it would probably be necessary to dig the plane out again, but the longer the troops were on the glacier, the greater the risk they would attract attention. The sooner the wreckage and the Delta operators were back at base, the better. He considered calling out the Defense Force helicopters. This had been part of the back-up plan, but the drawback was that their activities tended to attract intense interest, not only from Icelandic air traffic control, who would ask endless questions, but also from the media, who scrutinised their every move. He had to make a decision: the storm had delayed the operation by at least a day and their presence on the glacier had now been discovered. There was an Icelandic rescue team in the area that had lost two members and was probably moving closer towards them every second.

  Ratoff went into the communications tent and asked to be put through to the admiral in Keflavík.

  SOUTH-EAST ICELAND,

  SATURDAY 30 JANUARY, EVENING

  ‘Is he dead?’

  She could hear nothing but static.

  ‘Is Elías dead?’ Kristín shouted into the phone. ‘Is he still with you?’

  The connection was very bad and only the odd word was audible; Júlíus – the leader of the rescue team – kept breaking up. She was standing out in Jón’s entrance hall, holding a heavy, old, black telephone receiver and pressing her forehead against her arm and the wall above the phone. She closed her eyes tightly, concentrating on trying to hear what Júlíus was saying. Jón and Steve were in the kitchen. Steve was on his feet.

  ‘Júlíus!’ Kristín shouted.

  ‘Heli . . . n’t . . . yet,’ she heard him say. ‘. . . s . . . dropping . . . doctor on the team. Elías . . . alive.’

  ‘Is he alive? Is Elías still alive?’

  ‘. . . hanging in . . . Coast Guard helicopter’s on its way. The storm . . . pretty much . . . down.’

  ‘Are you going to look for the soldiers?’

  ‘. . . es . . . find people . . .’

  ‘I can hardly hear you so I’m going to tell you this, then hang up. The American soldiers are probably no more than about ten to fifteen kilometres from the edge of the glacier, directly above the farm of Brennigerdi. They’re armed, so be careful. They’re digging a German plane out of the ice. It’s up to you what you do but these men may be extremely dangerous. We’re at the foot of the glacier now and we’re going to climb up from this side. Hopefully we’ll meet you up there.’

  Again, the line filled with the hiss and crackle of empty space, so she put down the receiver and rejoined Jón and Steve in the kitchen.

  ‘I think he’s still alive,’ she said, heaving a sigh.

  The news had given her a renewed spark of hope, a new burst of strength to carry on. The relief was indescribable; she knew she could not have borne it had he died. Admittedly, the connection had been very poor but she would allow herself no doubts; she was convinced that Júlíus had managed to save her brother’s life.

  ‘I think they’re planning to pay the soldiers a visit. We’ll try to rendezvous with them up there.’

  ‘Good,’ Jón said. ‘I can give you detailed directions. It’s not hard from here.’

  ‘Kristín, can I have a word?’ Steve said, and asked Jón to excuse them. They went into the sitting room. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?’ Steve said. ‘The rescue team will sort things out. They’ll inform Reykjavík what’s going on. Won’t you wait and see what happens? Going up there ourselves could mean taking an unnecessary risk. There’s nothing more we can do.’

  ‘I want to see them with my own eyes, Steve. I want to see what kind of people they are. And I want to make sure they don’t get away with what they’ve done. I have to be on the spot to be certain of that.’

  Steve was about to object when she went on.

  ‘You lot can’t be allowed to play your war games wherever you feel like it.’

  ‘What do you mean “you lot”?’

  ‘You saw those men at the pub. You know what they’ve done on the glacier. What kind of people would sanction that sort of brutality?’

  ‘You came to me, Kristín, don’t you forget that.’

  ‘I came to you for information.’

  ‘And help. That’s the point. You just can’t stand the fact.’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’

  ‘No. I know that attitude. We’re the invaders. We’re the military power. We fight in wars. We’re the bad guys. But as soon as anything goes wrong, we’re expected to save the day. We’re welcome to pump billions into your banana republic, yet you regard us as no better than thugs, fit only to be kept behind a wire fence. We’re welcome to intervene in world wars started by Europe and keep an eye on the Russians and hold down the Arabs but the shit hits the fan the moment . . .’

  ‘Fuck you, Steve. Don’t be so sanctimonious. You’re the guys who are forever seeing Reds under the bed, who drove Chaplin and all the rest out of the country.’

  Steve looked at her in her borrowed clothes, the black shadows of strain and exhaustion beneath her eyes, her implacable expression. He knew he would not be able to dissuade her from going up to the glacier whatever he said. She had come too far to stop now.

  ‘I am going up to the glacier.’

  ‘You’ll be taking on armed soldiers, Kristín.’

  ‘The rescue team will help. They can hardly massacre all of us. Anyway, Júlíus has alerted Reykjavík. They won’t be able to hide what they’re up to for much longer.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Jón, appearing at the sitting room door. The old man had largely kept to himself since they returned from the stable and Kristín had wondered if he was suffering from a conflict of loyalty towards Miller. Maybe he felt guilty for having assisted the Americans and kept quie
t about the fact.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Kristín reassured him. ‘What about you? Is everything all right with you?’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Jón asked. ‘I don’t have much time left.’ He said this without any sense of regret, as if it were just another fact of life he had resigned himself to.

  ‘But are . . .’

  Jón interrupted; he did not want to talk about himself.

  ‘If you mean to go up to the glacier you should rest for an hour or two,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome to lie down in Karl’s room.’

  Kristín nodded reluctantly. She did not feel tired, despite not being able to remember when she last slept, but it made sense to rest a little now. Jón escorted them upstairs to a room off the landing with a large mattress and a desk; there was yellow linoleum on the floor and the walls were lined with books. It felt cool compared to the overpowering heat downstairs.

  Kristín lay down on the bed. Realising that Steve intended to lie on the floor, she shifted to make room for him. He stretched out beside her. She could not relax. When she closed her eyes she could feel the fatigue creeping up her legs like an anaesthetic and spreading through her body.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Steve,’ she murmured.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he replied.

  She opened her eyes and turned to him.

  ‘It is. You didn’t have to help me. You could have sent me packing, forgotten the whole thing. I don’t deserve any favours from you.’

  ‘What, a damsel in distress?’

  She laughed quietly. ‘Yes, and that makes you the knight in shining armour.’

  ‘I’m no knight. I’m just a Yank from the base.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re just a Yank from the base.’

  Something in her voice had changed. He looked at her, their faces almost touching. In spite of everything that had happened to her, the chase and the danger, her anxiety for Elías, her fears for her own life, her anger; in spite of it all she had never felt so alive, so confident, so perfectly in control. It was as if her ordeal had given her a new lease of life, stripping away the veils of mist and forcing her to get a grip on herself, take control of her life, acknowledge her feelings – and find an outlet for them.

  ‘You remember when I ran out on you?’ she said.

  ‘The peace protester turned Yankee whore? How could I forget it? I understand a little better now but still . . .’

  He trailed off. He could not help admiring her for the unfailing courage and loyalty she had shown her brother, for the way she refused to be cowed by the superior forces ranged against her but managed to elude her would-be assassins and was now undertaking a difficult, dangerous journey, the outcome of which remained uncertain. She seemed to have discovered some hidden well of strength that had just been waiting to be plumbed. He had had an intimation of this potential, this suppressed life-force, the first time they met, and when he looked at her now, knowing her courage and what she was capable of, he felt himself falling even further under her spell.

  ‘Why did you let things go as far as they did?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t have any doubts about you until that evening on the base. Maybe it was the time and place. I must have needed more time to get used to the idea. Suddenly it was all too much and I couldn’t go through with it. It wasn’t your fault. Anything but your fault. It was all that crap to do with the military. Isn’t that idiotic? I can’t believe how stupid I was.’

  Neither spoke.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose the last twenty-four hours will have done anything to improve your opinion of Americans.’

  Kristín sighed.

  ‘I don’t hate Americans. It’s just that there’s an army on Icelandic soil and I’m opposed to its presence. That’s all there is to it.’ She was anxious not to put him off. Steve had come to her aid voluntarily and she owed him. She had seen all that was good about him over the past twenty-four hours: his stoicism, his courage, his unlimited capacity for understanding.

  ‘Let’s change the subject. We should try to get some rest,’ he said now.

  ‘I’m glad I came to you,’ Kristín said. ‘I don’t know how I would have coped without you. Thank you, Steve.’

  ‘It was a good thing you did. I always hoped we could somehow . . . I’d have approached things very differently if I’d known . . .’

  He broke off.

  ‘When this is over,’ Kristín said, ‘when all this is over, let’s try again and see what happens. Would you be up for that?’

  Steve nodded slowly. She kissed him.

  ‘What was that all about?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea. The friendship between our two great nations, perhaps,’ she murmured, kissing him again, this time on the mouth as she started tugging at the zips of his winter clothes. Women in wartime, her conscience reminded her, but she was past listening.

  LAKE THINGVALLAVATN,

  SATURDAY 30 JANUARY, 2100 GMT

  The second meeting between the Icelandic government and the American military authorities was also conducted in secrecy. This time it was held at the prime minister’s holiday retreat on Lake Thingvallavatn, a four-bedroom house equipped with all mod cons, including a sauna and hot tub, and commanding a panoramic view of the lake. The minister for justice had joined the Icelandic contingent, and facing them across the table once again were the admiral, representing the American Defense Force at Keflavík, and at his side Immanuel Wesson, provisional head of the US embassy in Reykjavík.

  The clock on the wall showed 9 p.m. exactly. At suppertime the prime minister had been notified by the police and air traffic authorities that a rescue team, currently on Vatnajökull, had passed on the message that armed US soldiers had been sighted on the glacier. Two members of the team who had apparently come into contact with them had subsequently been found – one dead, the other badly injured and not expected to live.

  ‘The survivor’s name is Elías,’ an aide had told the prime minister, handing him a dossier. ‘He’s believed to be the brother of the woman Kristín who vanished from her home, leaving behind the body of a man called Runólfur Zóphaníasson.’

  ‘Are the two cases connected?’ the prime minister asked.

  ‘It appears they are,’ the aide confirmed. ‘A wanted notice has been put out for her in the national media. This Kristín is also believed to be connected to a shooting incident in the city centre earlier today.’

  ‘Do we have anything on that?’

  ‘Not much as yet. It’s believed that two or more Americans were involved in the incident. One of them is lying badly injured in hospital, the other fled on foot and we don’t know where he is. Kristín’s whereabouts are also unknown.’

  Shortly afterwards, a report had reached the prime minister that two of the Defense Force helicopters were airborne and heading east. No flightpath or destination had been submitted, nor had air traffic control received any request for permission to fly through Icelandic airspace, as protocol demanded. Furthermore, the prime minister had been informed that an Icelandic Coast Guard helicopter was on its way to airlift the two rescue team members who had been found on the glacier, after the Defense Force’s unprecedented failure to respond to an earlier mayday from the team. The violent storm that had been raging on the glacier was now dying down and members of the rescue team were heading towards the area where the troops had been reported. News of the events on Vatnajökull was spreading fast: the evening radio bulletin had carried a short but accurate summary and promised listeners that updates would be broadcast soon.

  The prime minister’s immediate reaction on learning of these developments was to summon the admiral from Keflavík to a meeting, but the admiral beat him to it. He phoned the prime minister, requesting an urgent meeting to be held in secret outside Reykjavík, adding that the US defense secretary was prepared to address them by telephone if necessary. The prime minister was audibly taken aback. He understood from the previous encounter that the operation on the glacier was a sensitive issue
for the Americans, but surely there was no chance of suppressing it now?

  He introduced the minister for justice, explaining that he had been briefed, before relaying the information that he had received about the latest events on the glacier and in Reykjavík. The Americans listened in silence.

  There had been few pleasantries when the Americans arrived. The admiral seemed on edge, the general impassive. Unlike the admiral, he was in uniform, while the Icelanders in contrast were casually dressed in jumpers and jeans.

  ‘Is it true that there are armed American troops on Vatnajökull?’ the prime minister asked, once he had outlined the situation.

  ‘You know why we have troops on the glacier,’ the admiral answered, ‘and I thought we had come to an agreement at our last meeting. It’s what’s known in military parlance as a simulation exercise, involving visiting NATO forces from the Netherlands and Belgium and revolving around a staged plane crash. There are approximately one hundred and fifty personnel involved. The troops are carrying blank rounds which are not under any circumstances lethal.’

  ‘Why weren’t we informed about the weapons?’ the prime minister asked. ‘At our previous meeting you only mentioned transporting that damn plane off the glacier and across the Atlantic. It was supposed to happen without anyone being any the wiser. Now a man has died. We were led to believe that it was a scientific expedition, not a war game. How do you explain this behaviour? This gross violation of our treaty? This insult? Your disgraceful conduct has put a severe strain on relations between our countries. A severe strain.’

  ‘We are in no way responsible for what happened to the member of the rescue team,’ the admiral responded. ‘Furthermore, the exercise will be completed before noon tomorrow and our personnel will be gone from the glacier, leaving no trace of their presence. It’s really not a major issue. I would like to think that we can stick to the explanation we agreed on: a two-day exercise, nothing more.’

  ‘The rescue team has reported that your men are armed. The leader moreover suspects that the two Icelanders they found in the crevasse had in some way disturbed your activities. Is that possible?’ asked the minister for justice, a bearded man in his early forties, with small, perpetually anxious eyes.