Sun on Fire

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  “How did Eiríksson attract your attention?” Gunnar asked.

  “He was a frequent visitor to some kind of a ‘rest and relaxation’ hotel that has an extremely bad reputation. Very young children, boys and girls, are hired there for service jobs, but it seems that this includes some very serious sexual abuse. These children come from poor families of the lowest social orders of society, and it is very difficult to eradicate this business.”

  “I see,” Gunnar said. He glanced at a picture of the corpse. “This guy was a serious piece of shit. He probably won’t be missed.”

  “Probably not,” Fischer said. “And it was a brutal attack. Somebody paid him back with interest.”

  “What would the next stage of your investigation have involved?” Gunnar asked.

  “A thorough forensic investigation of the whole floor. Fingerprints, hair and biological specimens. If you’d like assistance, I can call our specialists in. Your forensic officer can oversee things and make sure the investigation is satisfactory. We can provide secure storage for any biological specimens. All this will certainly speed things up.”

  “Good idea and good offer,” Gunnar said. He took out his cell phone and called Birkir. After a short discussion he nodded.

  “Yes, please. My colleagues and the ambassador are grateful for your help.”

  Now it was Fischer’s turn to make a call. “They’ll be here shortly,” he said as he hung up. “The Foreign Ministry did ask us to assist you as much as possible.”

  Having finished his second bowl of soup, Gunnar was wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket when a man in his fifties approached their table.

  “Guten appetit,” the newcomer said. “I am Wolf. I’m a security guard, and I was on duty the night before last. Herr Ingason asked me to update you on the investigations we have carried out at the guard post.” He was dressed in a plain uniform with an ID card hanging around his neck. He carried a laptop under his arm.

  Gunnar and Fischer stood up and shook hands with Wolf as they introduced themselves. Gunnar called the waitress over and asked for more coffee and an extra cup.

  “We’ve checked all the security systems relevant to what happened over the weekend,” Wolf said. “We will make a detailed report, but I can tell you where we’re at so far.”

  “Thanks,” Gunnar said. “That’ll be very useful.”

  Wolf opened the laptop and switched it on. He fished some printed notes out of his pocket and placed them on the table. “According to the automatic computer log, the Icelandic embassy security system was switched on at five thirty last Friday afternoon, when the last staff member left the building at the end of the workday,” he read from a sheet of paper. “This is a comprehensive system with automatic door sensors at all entrances and several motion sensors on each floor. No signals were detected from any sensor until the ambassador opened the main door of the building Sunday at 18:10 and deactivated the system at the control board in the entrance lobby. The building was unquestionably empty at that point.”

  Wolf opened a program on his laptop to show footage from the security cameras, and Gunnar and Fischer saw an image of the plaza between the embassy buildings; a few people came into the picture, walking toward the Icelandic embassy.

  Wolf said, “We have footage from the cameras monitoring the plaza, and they show us seven individuals accompanying the ambassador into the embassy building. You’ll get copies of all these recordings on disc, by the way, along with our written report. Next thing we see is that at 19:40 the ambassador emerges and crosses to the main entrance of the Felleshus to accept his food delivery. At 22:55, a female arrived at the Felleshus entrance by cab and introduced herself as the Icelandic ambassador’s wife. She called her husband herself, and he came over to the reception desk and checked her in as a guest. At that time, the ambassador told the guard that the meeting would soon be over, but for whatever reason that didn’t turn out to be the case. At 02:25, the ambassador called the security guard and asked him to call three cabs. At 02:41, two men came out of the Icelandic building, walked across to the Felleshus, and exchanged their guest passes for their passports.”

  Wolf consulted his notes. “According to the guard’s log, these two were Herr Gíslason and Herr Mathieu. Ten minutes later, six people came out of the Icelandic building and crossed to the Felleshus. These were Ambassador Björnsson and his wife, Herr Sváfnisson, Herr Sigrídarson, Herr Kárason, and Herr Bjarnason.”

  A moving image appeared on the screen: One man supported the woman, who was barefoot and carrying one shoe in her hand; another, a tall man in his shirtsleeves, performed some clumsy dance steps and waved his arms about; a third man carried a jacket that probably belonged to the dancer he was trying to steer toward the exit; the fourth was obviously limping; and the fifth was bent over, clutching his stomach. The group moved across the plaza and disappeared out of camera range.

  “Herr Sváfnisson had lost his guest pass, and Ambassador Björnsson signed for the return of his passport on behalf of the embassy. The ambassador and his wife went straight to one of the waiting cabs and drove away. The other four men climbed into the second car. The guard kept an eye on them, as Herr Sváfnisson was somewhat restless and noisy. In the end, the cabdriver refused to drive them. He got out of the car and was about to call the police, at which point the security guard came out and settled matters—Herr Sváfnisson moved into the backseat and the other three undertook to keep him under control. Herr Kárason tipped the cab driver an extra one hundred euros, and he agreed to take them to their hotel. This disturbance was the reason the guard didn’t pick up on the fact that one of the visitors hadn’t presented himself to reclaim his passport. When he eventually noticed, he immediately called me—I was on call and asleep in the security-section bunk room. I got up at once, and we started searching the outside area. We didn’t find anybody, but we could see from our control desk that the ambassador hadn’t reactivated the security system in the Icelandic building. The regulations prevent us from entering any embassy unless the alarm system gives a signal or circumstances specifically demand it. That wasn’t the case, and I decided to call Herr Ingason, who lives nearby. He supervises all communications between the Icelandic embassy and the security guards, so that seemed the obvious thing to do. Herr Ingason arrived here at 03:27 by cab and proceeded alone into the Icelandic building.

  “At 03:43, he returned to our guard post and said he’d found the visitor dead. I asked if he was sure the man was dead, or if we should call an ambulance. Herr Ingason said he was very sure that he was dead. I then asked if he had any instructions for us. He said he needed to consult with the Icelandic authorities immediately and that he would do this by telephone from the embassy. He asked me to reserve a conference room in the Felleshus and direct the Icelandic embassy staffers there as they showed up for work. The only thing to add is that we examined the CCTV footage monitoring the entrance to the embassy from the basement parking area, but it shows no movement from Friday until the body was removed after lunch yesterday. This tallies with the door sensor, which logged no openings during the period.”

  Gunnar asked, “Is the sensor active when the alarm system is off?”

  “Yes. It logs the time whenever the door is opened but gives no alarm signal if the security system is not activated. There is no such entry in the log.”

  “Would a professional be able to open the door without the sensor picking it up?”

  Wolf shook his head. “I’m almost sure that’s impossible. The manufacturer says it can’t be done.”

  “How about the other embassy buildings? Were they empty that evening?”

  “There were some comings and goings during the evening, but nobody approached the entrance to the Icelandic building. It’s set away from the other buildings. We’ve got recordings from two cameras covering the entrance, and only the people I’ve mentioned were spotted there.”

  Gunnar said, “The murder weapon is a large knife.” He passed the box to th
e guard. “Don’t you have measures to prevent this kind of weapon from being taken into the embassies?”

  Wolf replied, “The weapons-inspection levels vary in severity. There are three degrees of alert status. The highest is activated when there is political tension and threats have been issued, as when some Scandinavian newspaper published a cartoon of the prophet Mohamed. At that level, we have recourse to a Berlin-based security firm for backup, and all our security measures are augmented—the search for weapons is as rigorous as in airport security. But most of the time the alert status is low, which it was on Sunday. There’s a metal detector in the double entrance door from the Felleshus into the plaza. Coins or cell phones in people’s pockets don’t trigger it, but larger objects—which would include guns and large knives—do. If it gives a signal, the inner door won’t open and the person in question is asked to step back. The security guard will then carry out a regular body search. I assume a knife like that would activate the alarm, but we can test it later.”

  “We’ll do that,” Gunnar said. “But everything seems to indicate that the killer was one of the eight in the party.”

  “Yes,” Wolf said. “Anything else is very unlikely.”

  Gunnar turned to Fischer. “If you had been instructed to investigate the case, you would’ve brought all eight of them in for interviews yesterday morning. And you’d have isolated them and questioned them individually—correct?”

  “Yes,” Fischer replied. “It might have taken a while getting qualified interpreters to assist us, but we would have tried to get a good handle on the course of events right away.”

  “Exactly,” Gunnar said. “But instead the witnesses scatter in all directions and get plenty of time to synchronize their stories. The killer is at large and capable of doing anything.”

  “That’s right,” Fischer said, nodding.

  16:00

  Birkir and Anna were eating their sandwiches in an office on the second floor when Konrad arrived at the embassy. The ambassador was a shortish, stout man with thin, gray hair, combed straight back and smoothed down with gel. He had a slight limp, taking noticeably shorter steps with his right foot.

  “Guten appetit,” he said, and waved Birkir away when the latter started to put down his sandwich in order to greet him. “Don’t let me interrupt your meal,” he said with a weary smile and sat down in an unoccupied chair.

  While he finished his snack, Birkir studied the ambassador. He’d seen his type before. Here was a man suffering the consequences of excessive alcohol the night before, who was so used to this malaise that it was more or less natural to him. His face was puffed and etched with deep wrinkles. Though his eyes were clear and awake, they were bloodshot, with bags under them.

  Birkir’s cell phone rang. It was Gunnar, telling him about the commissar’s offer to help with the forensics. Anna was hugely relieved to hear this. She had been anticipating many days’ work alone in the building. When Birkir explained to him that otherwise the office would be closed for several days, the ambassador also voiced his approval.

  Anna put down her half-eaten sandwich and went out for a cigarette. Birkir took a recorder from his pocket and looked at the ambassador. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation on this?” he asked. “It’s important for me to get all the details straight.”

  “Of course that’s OK,” the ambassador said.

  “Tell me about Sunday,” Birkir said, after dictating the usual preliminaries about place, time, and persons present.

  “Where should I start?”

  “When did you arrive at the embassy that day? What was the occasion?”

  “I arrived at the Felleshus around two thirty. The reading of works by my friend Jón—the Sun Poet—was scheduled for three o’clock in the main auditorium. A translation of his poetry anthology was recently published in Germany, and he’s here to promote it.”

  “Was this event only for an invited audience?”

  “No, not at all. The reading was open to the public, and had been promoted in the cultural sections of some of the local newspapers. Also in a group mail to Icelanders living in Berlin, and a number of German Icelandophiles. Then I specifically invited a few visiting Icelanders I know, and some folks also accompanied Jón, or were invited by him. Around sixty people in total. It began with a half-hour reading of the translations by a German actor. Then, after a short intermission, Jón himself read the Icelandic originals for another half hour or so.” Konrad grimaced. “A terribly tedious program, to be honest, but there are things you have to endure in this job. We diplomats need a strong bladder and high boredom threshold to survive.”

  The ambassador briefly grinned, until he saw that Birkir was not amused. “During the intermission, I mingled with those I know among the group, and invited them to drinks after the readings. About thirty people, I guess. They waited with me outside the auditorium while the Sun Poet signed books, and then we went upstairs to the second floor, where there were light refreshments. Gradually people began to leave, and there were just eight of us left by six o’clock, which marked the end of the Felleshus caterers’ scheduled time. I still had some personal things to discuss with some of the group, so I invited them over to the embassy building. You have the guest list, don’t you?”

  Birkir nodded.

  “Soon folks got hungry, so I ordered delivery from a Chinese restaurant, and we ate in the conference room.”

  “Why didn’t you invite them over to your residence?”

  Konrad smiled weakly. “Under normal circumstances I would have, but my in-laws are visiting me right now. I hate to say it, but they are so insufferably fussy that I couldn’t inflict them on my guests.”

  “That bad?”

  “It’s mainly that they don’t like being around folks who are drinking alcohol,” Konrad admitted. “And I can’t just send them to bed when we have guests.”

  Birkir frowned. “But couldn’t you go to a restaurant?”

  The ambassador patiently replied, “That would have been a good idea if it hadn’t been for my friend, the Sun Poet Jón Sváfnisson. He insists on reciting poetry to everybody, and often gets up on a chair or even a table to do so. I’ve twice been asked to leave a restaurant when dining with that fellow. No, it was a logical decision to use this room in the embassy for our dinner. All it should have involved was cleaning a single conference room afterward. We have people to take care of that sort of thing.”

  “But you didn’t just stick to that part of the building, did you?”

  “No. As I told you, I needed to meet privately with certain individuals in the group, which I did in my office on the fourth floor. I also went up to the third floor to fetch utensils and glasses from the kitchenette. And some people went to the restrooms on the upper floors when they found the nearest one occupied.”

  “What were these meetings that you needed to have?”

  “First of all there was Helgi Kárason, the pottery artist—and his exhibition manager, Lúdvík Bjarnason. They have booked some weeks in the Felleshus’s main gallery in the new year, and were checking it out. Our meeting was just a confirmation of the embassy participation in the exhibition, as my staff will be dealing with the practical issues. Counselor Arngrímur is in charge of that, and he should have attended this meeting, but, because of other duties, he was unable to.”

  “Why was this meeting held on a Sunday?”

  “It was a convenient arrangement, as they’d planned to attend the reading anyway. We scheduled our meeting some time in advance.”

  “What about the other meetings? Were they also planned ahead?”

  “No. They were really just chats after the reception. I spoke with Jón and his companion about the Frankfurt Book Fair. They wanted me to go there and attend a reception to celebrate his anthology’s publication. They were probably hoping I’d offer to pay for the refreshments, too. And finally there was a brief meeting for me to introduce Anton to David, the fashion designer. Anton had some extremely good connections
in Asia that have been very useful for our clothing manufacturers. He sources good quality and very cheap producers, which is valuable at this time, when capital is scarce everywhere. Starkadur, David’s partner, was also at our meeting.”

  “Did Anton stay in your office?”

  “I left the three of them there so they could exchange information, but they all came back downstairs shortly afterward. Anton ate with us. I don’t know when he went back upstairs—he asked me two or three times if he could use my office phone, and may have gone up more times than that. A new workday had started in the part of the world where he’s got projects, I guess. The last time he went was probably a little while before we left the building.”

  “So you don’t know who would have been the last person with him in your office?”

  “No, damn it. I’ve gone over it again and again over the past twenty-four hours, but the picture doesn’t get any clearer.”

  “How come you didn’t notice Anton was still in the building when you left the embassy?”

  “One really shouldn’t speak ill of one’s wife, but—in confidence—my dear Hulda kind of made herself the center of attention when she joined us. She sometimes gets goddamned cranky with me for wanting to enjoy myself in good company. When it was time for the guests to leave, I had security call three taxis. I thought Anton went in the first cab, and I wasn’t aware of anything unusual when my wife and I left the embassy—we were the last ones to go. I have a feeling somebody said that Anton had left, but I can’t remember who. Four of the guests were with us when Hulda and I checked out of the Felleshus.”