Dancing With Mortality

by Mark McKay

  Harry mounted his snowmobile and then, gingerly engaging the throttle, he followed Michael along a path to the road. They went away from the direction of the main road, into a forest of white firs, then they took another turn and the road became a track through the wilderness. After five minutes of this the track wound down a slight incline, till there were no more trees, just a vast flat expanse of snow ahead.

  ‘Frozen lake,’ explained Michael, as Harry pulled up level.

  ‘Wow.’ The day had arrived, with a grey, subdued twilight that divided the clear dark sky and the pristine white earth. Like something out of a fairy tale, he thought. If the Snow Queen should appear now, he’d be totally unfazed.

  Michael moved out on to the lake and picked up his speed, Harry doing likewise. The cold air brought tears to his eyes, but in his sheer exhilaration he hardly noticed. He could get used to this. After ten minutes of this high speed pursuit Michael slowed down and then came to a halt. Harry pulled up close by and they cut their engines. It was vast and very quiet, and for a minute so were they.

  ‘This is as private as it gets,’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Harry. ‘So, where do you want to start?’

  ‘First, do you accept that I’m not the person who planted the bomb that killed your wife?’

  ‘Yes. Who was it?’

  ‘We’ll get to that. I know from Sabine that you work for British Intelligence, though according to her there was a twenty-year gap in your employment. Is that true?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Till a few weeks ago. They wanted to use me to find you. No reason given.’ He was curious. ‘Why invite me here? I could have led them right to you.’

  Michael dismounted his snowmobile, and paced the snow while he thought. Then he turned to face Harry. ‘I’ve lived in Sweden for more than 15 years now. No one came looking for me. After Sabine called me, though, I began to worry. Soon after that I called my father in Ireland, the housekeeper answered. Dad had been arrested was all she could tell me, and I haven’t dared call back since. I hope they don’t keep him in too long, he’s past 80 now.’ He paused, clearly concerned about his father.

  ‘Does he know you’re here?’ asked Harry.

  ‘He knows I’m in Sweden, just not exactly where. It won’t be hard to intimidate a man of his age to reveal that much. And I called from the landline, so I expect that to be traceable. I got careless, Harry. Thought I was home free.’

  ‘But why do they want you now?’

  ‘I have a theory about that, which is why I asked you here. If my theory is right then your people will catch up with me sooner rather than later. But you and I have a common interest. The man responsible for Siobhan is the same man who ordered the bombing of your vehicle. And he wanted me out of the way too. I was labelled an informer, but over the years it’s become increasingly obvious to me that he was protecting himself. There’s no other explanation that makes sense.’

  Harry felt confused. ‘Yes, but that was all a long time ago. Why worry about it now?’

  ‘Good question. He’s in politics now, a Republican Sinn Fein man. Not exactly a friend of England you would think. He’s becoming influential though, and I think your friends in SIS would like me out of the way because my theory is correct. He’s working for the Brits.’

  It’s plausible, thought Harry. And not something Jack Hudson would want to tell him about either; they wanted him focused on Michael. Still, he wasn’t totally in agreement.

  ‘I don’t see why you should be such a threat even if you’re right about all this,’ he said.

  Michael remounted the snowmobile. ‘I could expose him for what he is. I have motive after all. It didn’t matter, though, until he got where he is today.’ He flexed his gloved hands. ‘That’s my theory. And I figure that if I’m not in a position to do anything about it in the near future, you might be.’

  They looked at each other for a long moment. ‘Christ,’ said Harry. ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘Let’s go back to the house, there’s something I want you to see.’

  They made their way back. Ingrid and Sabine were still out, and Harry was glad to get inside the house again. His feet were cold in spite of the boots and thermal socks. They went into the living room where it was reassuringly warm.

  He looked around. There were some photos on top of a bookcase against one wall, and he wandered over to take a look. A couple of Ingrid and Michael together, both wearing t-shirts. Obviously taken in the summer, though he couldn’t imagine this place having a summer if this was the winter. And another of a younger Ingrid, in a tracksuit bottom and a vest, standing facing the camera and holding what looked like a javelin. He picked it up for a closer look.

  ‘She was a javelin thrower when I met her,’ said Michael. ‘Even had a trial for the Swedish Olympic team. She still throws sometimes, not competitively though.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry replaced the photo. Explains those wide shoulders, he thought.

  Michael was kneeling in front of the TV. There was a VHS player next to it, and he inserted a video. ‘Sit down and watch this,’ he said.

  The picture flickered for a few seconds and then they were looking at what Harry supposed was a church hall, the pews filled with people listening to a speaker on a raised platform at the front. It was shot from the back of the hall, and the camera zoomed in towards the speaker, giving a clear shot of his face.

  ‘His name is Colin Fitzpatrick,’ said Michael, ‘and this is a Republican Sinn Fein rally from about five years ago now.’

  Harry watched closely. Fitzpatrick was a slim, middle-aged man with a full head of swept-back grey hair and a ruddy-complexioned, weather-beaten face. He was saying something about the continued need to work for a re-unified Ireland and to support his party in making that a reality.

  ‘He’s ex-IRA,’ Michael explained, ‘my Battalion Commander in 1981. This is the man I’m talking about, Harry. Seen him before?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘No, means nothing to me.’ There was a pause in the speech now, and Fitzpatrick was taking questions. He had a strong Belfast accent and a resonant tone that Harry thought would easily fill a large public space. A useful attribute if you were an up-and-coming politician. ‘Never seen him.’

  Michael reached for the remote and paused the tape. ‘Remember that face. He’s the man responsible for killing my sister and your wife. I’m certain of it.’

  Harry stared at the still image on the screen. Something was tugging at his memory.

  ‘Run it on,’ he said.

  He watched and listened for a little longer, then he had it.

  ‘I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard him. That’s Sean O’Riordan.’

  Ingrid did Reindeer steak for the evening meal. Sabine helped her in the kitchen, and it was clear the two women liked each other. They had developed an easy rapport, and the conversation drifting through to the living room was punctuated by quiet laughter. The two men, who were still digesting the implications of Harry’s earlier revelation, were muted by comparison.

  ‘I suppose I should be pleased I got it right,’ said Michael, looking anything but.

  ‘They knew all along,’ Harry muttered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hudson and Litchfield, my SIS colleagues in Dublin. That O’Riordan and Fitzpatrick were one and the same person. And they must have known your relationship with him. Yet still we were targeted by your people. Why?’

  Michael’s expression darkened. ‘Fitzpatrick would need to be seen to be doing something after we lost all those guns. They knew the vehicle they wanted to target, but not who would be in it. Unless...’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Perhaps they did know.’

  Harry waved a dismissive hand. ‘Meaning I was to be the sacrificial lamb? That’s ridiculous.’

  Michael smiled without mirth. ‘You think so?’

  Dinner was served. Sabine did most of the talking, describing their visit to the Ice Hotel, and the ice sculptures she’d
seen.

  ‘There’s a lovely ice chandelier, and they have a wedding chapel. And an Ice Bar. You really should go and take a look, Harry.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ he said, his mind elsewhere.

  She caught his mood and decided not to distract him.

  The meal was conducted mostly in silence, then Ingrid suggested they go back to the Ice Bar after dinner for a couple of quick drinks.

  ‘Actually, that’s a good idea,’ said Harry, snapping out of his reverie. ‘Let’s do that.’

  The Ice Bar was a welcome diversion, with its hewn columns of pale blue ice supporting the ceiling, and semicircular sculpted booths with reindeer skins covering the ice seats. The glasses were ice tumblers, and the drink of choice was vodka, served by barmen in fur hats and padded jackets and thick gloves. The place maintained a constant -5 degree temperature, which while tolerable wasn’t conducive to a long stay no matter how well you insulated yourself. Harry thought that after a couple of drinks the novelty might lose out to hypothermia, or maybe after sufficient vodka he wouldn’t notice.

  ‘Why don’t you take a look around now you’re here,’ said Sabine. ‘It’s a lovely place.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Michael.

  They made their way down the arched corridors, pausing to peek inside bedrooms as yet unoccupied. The basic arrangement consisted of a bed made with two huge slabs of ice pushed together, topped with a mattress and reindeer skins. The more elaborate rooms had carved ice headboards, chairs and animal sculptures.

  ‘People actually sleep here?’ asked Harry

  ‘For one night usually and then they put you in warm accommodation.’

  In the chapel they took a seat on one of the pews, admiring the altar and huge white cross behind it. The floor-level lighting bathed the equally white walls in a subtle glow, giving the place an intimate feel. Harry looked behind, but there were no other churchgoers sharing their intimacy. He turned to Michael.

  ‘What are we going to do? We can’t prove anything we might accuse Fitzpatrick of.’

  Michael pursed his lips and stared straight ahead. ‘I’m going to write a press release naming him as a British agent. I’ll reveal my credentials as the only survivor of the gunrunning incident in Cork, and I’ll accuse him of trying to protect himself by killing me. All of the background to this will be on record – the guns, Siobhan’s shooting. I’ll say I’m breaking cover because I have reason to believe my life is being threatened by the Secret Intelligence Service, and that I want some kind of justice for my sister. It’s all rather circumstantial, but I think I can find an Irish journalist who will run with it.’

  ‘But there’s still no proof.’

  ‘We just need to sow the seeds of doubt at this point. If we can get people asking questions we will have achieved something. And it might keep SIS away from me too. If I were to disappear suddenly that would only strengthen the case against Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Michael stood up. ‘Nothing, Harry. You’ve confirmed something I thought was true for a long time now. No point in putting you at risk too. I’m already at risk so I have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Alright. One thing though. Even if we were to expose him, he’d still be running round free. The worst you can do is bring a case against him for Siobhan’s murder.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘But if he was known to be a British Agent there’d be plenty of people willing to put a bullet in him for it. That’s what I’m counting on.’

  They left the chapel and returned to the Ice Bar.

  ‘Did you get lost?’ said Sabine. ‘You were away for ages.’

  Harry gave a wry smile. ‘We stopped in the chapel. Praying for guidance.’

  They had another drink and decided it was time to leave. When they stepped outside Sabine grabbed his arm and pointed upwards. ‘Look at that,’ she said in awe.

  The sky was clear and no snow had fallen in the short time they’d been here. And tonight the aurora was weaving its magic in the heavens, its swirling violet and green rays crisscrossing the sky. It was heartstoppingly beautiful, and both he and Sabine stood transfixed.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said Ingrid. ‘A lot of people come here just to see that and they never do.’

  They spent most of the trip back looking at it from the the car. When they were inside the house Sabine was drawn to the window at regular intervals to look again.

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ announced Harry. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  In the bedroom he checked his phone for messages and found nothing. Sabine came up shortly afterwards and rummaged in her luggage then retired to the bathroom. She emerged ten minutes later wearing track suit bottoms and a t-shirt. She had brushed her dark hair and it was loose now and down around her shoulders.

  ‘Am I acceptable?’

  He was under the covers, clad in t-shirt and boxer shorts. ‘Perhaps you should wear a jacket.’

  He was treated to a look of incredulity, then she got into bed. ‘It’s big enough for both of us. What did you talk about today?’

  He filled her in on the day’s events. She listened quietly without interruption and with increasing concern as he told her about the arrest of Michael’s father, the video session, and the press release. When he’d finished she put her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling for a while.

  ‘This is not a good situation for any of us, is it?’ she said.

  ‘No, but officially you and I know nothing. And if Michael gets his story out, it should make him safe too.’

  She wasn’t reassured. ‘Turn off the light, please.’ She turned to him and gave him a quick hug. ‘Sleep well, Harry.’

  The next day Michael locked himself away to draft his statement. Ingrid was in an angry and tearful mood, and managed to break a glass and a plate while doing the dishes after breakfast. The sound of breakage and what could only be cursing in Swedish drew Sabine to the kitchen, and after a while she returned with her arm around a clearly upset woman.

  ‘Michael told her everything,’ she explained.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ingrid,’ said Harry.

  ‘I don’t blame you, and I’m scared for him.’ She sat at the dining room table with the anger etched on her face. ‘Can’t he be left alone, after all this time?’

  Harry had no answer. Ingrid took a few deep breaths to compose herself. ‘We talked last night, and we think you should take the train back to Stockholm tonight. Michael will try to find a journalist that he can email today with his statement. After that we will wait here for maybe two days so he can answer any questions that come up. Then we’re going to disappear until we know the story has been released.’

  ‘Right,’ said Harry. It all seemed to be moving rather fast. ‘But how will I contact Michael if you disappear?’

  ‘You won’t be able to. I have Sami friends here, and they will take us reindeer herding for a while. We can get lost up here for months.’

  That should keep Michael out of harm’s way, thought Harry. ‘Ok, we’ll go back to Stockholm as you suggest.’

  As the morning passed, Harry found it increasingly difficult to relax. Michael could be vaguely heard talking on the phone, but he didn’t emerge from his study. Sabine was quiet and calmer and exchanging small talk with Ingrid in the kitchen. Harry had an idea.

  ‘Can I borrow the snowmobile? I’ll go back to the lake.’

  Ingrid managed a smile. ‘Yes, of course. Go with him, Sabine.’

  They took the one snowmobile and she rode pillion with her arms around him. The lake was deserted and they spent the best part of an hour traversing it in what remained of the daylight, stopping occasionally just to absorb the stillness and seemingly infinite whiteness. There was no need for conversation. The sky was overcast, and as they turned for home fat flakes of snow began to fall. Sabine tightened her hold around him and he could feel her breasts against his back. ‘It’s wonderful, Harry. Thank you.’

  Mic
hael was out of seclusion when they got back, and Ingrid was making lunch. Michael had found a bottle of whisky, and poured Harry a glass.

  ‘Swedish malt,’ he said. ‘Forgot I had it till now.’ He passed Harry a sheet of paper.

  ‘This is my statement, as we discussed. I’ve emailed a copy to a journalist on the Irish Times, his name and contact details are all there. And I’ve talked to him. He wants to run a few checks, and if he’s satisfied, he’ll publish. He said if that happens I should prepare for a “shitstorm”, and I should be prepared to do an interview if necessary.’

  ‘In Ireland? Is that wise?’

  ‘No, here in Sweden.’ He sighed. ‘Done all I can I think. Now we wait.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t wait around here too long.’

  ‘I don’t intend to. Keep that copy, Harry. I’d rather you have it printed and not emailed to you. There’s one last thing. My father’s address is on that sheet. If anything should happen to me I want you to go and see him, and tell him the whole story. Will you do that?’

  ‘Sure. But I hope I don’t have to.’

  Michael made inroads into the malt after lunch, but Harry declined to join him, muttering something about one glass being his limit. Michael became somewhat melancholic and started reminiscing about the greenness and beauty of Ireland, and the character of its people, all of which he missed. Harry responded with a sermon on the wonders of his own homeland, citing its rainforests, fiords and mountains. All of which he had to admit he didn’t miss as much as he should.

  Michael turned to Sabine. ‘You didn’t bring your saxophone. We don’t get much jazz in Kiruna, you know.’

  Sabine looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Mmm, it’s in a car park in Stockholm right now. I should have brought it really, it would have sounded amazing played on the lake. Next time.’

  Ingrid took away the bottle shortly afterwards and made Michael drink some coffee.

  As they drove to the station the Volvo’s headlights cut a swathe of brilliance through the lightly falling snow, and the trees on either side of the main road drooped even further under their new blanket. Ingrid drove steadily and not too fast with the restricted visibility, but they still made it with time to spare.