by Mark Parragh
He’d been walking another half hour according to his watch when he spotted the faint square outline against the dark green. It was the same color as the surrounding grass; only its linearity and ninety-degree angles made it stand out as artificial. It looked like some kind of building.
It was a sod-roofed shelter, he discovered as he came closer. The walls were hand laid and mortared stone, with heavy, weathered wooden pillars holding up the roof. It had been put out here to provide shelter for hikers caught in a storm or needing a place to camp for the night. It was perfect, Crane thought. It would be practically invisible from the air.
He went in and found a floor of bare packed earth and a fire pit with the remains of some long dead campfire. There was some graffiti on the walls. Crane noticed a heart with initials and a date four years past. For all he knew he could be the first person to come along since then. At any rate, it would do. It would do very well.
He shrugged off his pack and settled onto the bare earth floor. He’d catch some sleep here, then set out again, rested, and look for something to eat. He moved until he was as comfortable as he thought he was likely to get on the ground and tried to relax. He began to realize how exhausted he was. He hadn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours now, and he’d been on the move through rough country for most of that time. He had to sleep. The shelter would hide him from the helicopter.
A stray thought crossed his mind as he dropped into the outer layers of sleep. There was no door. Was he safe sleeping exposed to the outside? Ah, there were no dangerous animals in Iceland. That was right. The same guide had told him. There were only six wild animal species in the whole country. What were they again? The arctic fox. The only one that was actually indigenous. Rats and mice; they’d come over on the ships along with the first Norse settlers. They were always with us. Reindeer, he remembered, introduced to provide food during a famine in the 18th century. But they were only in the east. What were the others? Certainly nothing dangerous. Mink. That was right. Someone tried to farm mink in the ‘80s and they got loose. They were the closest thing to a dangerous predator, the guide had told him. They would attack lambs sometimes, and you were allowed to shoot any you found on your land. What the hell was the last one? Rabbits. Pet rabbits that got out. They were starting to be seen around Reykjavik.
No problem. The minks were the worst, and Crane thought he could handle a mink if it came to that.
And then Crane didn’t think anything at all. He slept deeply as the sound of the helicopter echoed softly off the hills.
Chapter 22
Crane dreamed of his father. They were standing at his mother’s grave. Crane was somehow outside himself, watching himself as a young boy, awkward in a small, ill-fitting suit and tie. His father stood beside him, his broad shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Crane was watching the scene from behind and from far away, but he heard his father’s voice as if he really were standing beside him, reaching up to lose his hand in his father’s larger hand.
“Even though the actions of godly and wise people are in God’s hands, no one knows whether God will show them favor,” his father said. “Good people receive the same treatment as sinners, and people who make promises to God are treated like people who don’t.”
“What are you telling me?” he heard his child’s voice ask.
“Don’t go to Iceland. It doesn’t matter that you’re doing the right thing. You’ll die there, because God doesn’t care if you do right. And the world won’t care that you ever lived.”
“But I can’t let them get away with it,” Crane heard his child’s voice saying. “If I don’t go, I’ll know.”
“The living at least know they will die,” said his father. “But the dead know nothing.”
Crane heard something else, dimly, faintly. It sounded like pounding, someone pounding as if on the lid of a casket, and then the rising sound of his mother’s screams.
“She knows she’s dead,” Crane said. His father had nothing to say to that.
It was a harsh voice that startled him awake.
Crane bolted upright, tactical drills flashing through his mind. Where were they? How many? Which was the biggest threat? Which should he take down first?
It was a woman’s voice, he realized as his brain caught up with events. She stood in the shelter’s doorway. A rangy woman, in her fifties Crane guessed. A rangy, middle-aged woman with a rifle pointed at him.
She looked down the barrel, focusing the iron sights on his chest, and said something in Icelandic.
“A minute,” said Crane. He held his hands out and blinked. He listened for the helicopter but couldn’t hear it. The woman wore faded jeans over a pair of boots and a Helly Hansen jacket that was unzipped to reveal a fleece sweatshirt and the untucked tail of a cotton blouse sticking out from beneath. Her hair was gray and unkempt, her skin windblown, her expression steely. A local farm woman, he concluded. And that wasn’t some battered old varmint rifle she was pointing at him, but a Sako 85 Carbonlight. If she’d spent that kind of money on her gun, he assumed she took it seriously and knew how to handle it.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“What I said is, so you’re the one they’re after, then,” she replied. “A foreigner. I should have known.”
“I’m not armed,” he said. “I don’t mean any harm.”
“I’ll keep my rifle on you still, I think. You can push that pack over here. Ah! Use your leg.”
Crane shifted around until he could get a foot against the pack and slid it slowly across the dirt floor. Then she had him stand up, turn around, take off his jacket, and run his hands across his torso and down his legs until she was convinced he didn’t have a concealed pistol somewhere.
How had she gotten here, he wondered. There were no roads nearby, and a car would have awakened him. Was she out here on foot? Why? Was she specifically looking for him?
“I’m not sure why you think I’m such a threat,” said Crane.
“Because the police are putting a lot of effort into hunting for you,” she answered. “Now come outside with me.”
She gestured toward the door with the Sako’s muzzle, and Crane moved slowly outside. Maybe fifty yards away, a horse with a bridle and a light saddle contentedly chomped on the grass. So that’s how she got here. Crane wondered what she was planning to do with him now that she had him.
“Haven’t heard a helicopter around here for years,” she said as she followed Crane outside with his pack slung over one shoulder. “The tourist operators don’t fly here. They’re all up in the highlands, flying over the glaciers. I figured they had to be out looking for somebody. And here you are.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” said Crane. “I’m not a fugitive from justice.”
“And the helicopter?”
He considered simply denying any knowledge of it, sticking to his story that he was an innocent hiker. But she didn’t seem inclined to believe that.
“They’re not the police,” he said at last. “They’re very dangerous men. I have something they want, and they’ll do whatever it takes to get it back. We’re not safe out here.”
The woman said nothing. She directed him where she wanted him to go with small movements of her rifle. Then she nickered softly, and her horse trotted to her. That was a handy trick, Crane thought, remembering how the wild horses had disregarded him last night. He’d never had any luck with horses.
“We’ll go to Blönduós,” the woman said. “The police can sort it out.”
That could have been worse, Crane thought. Blönduós was where he wanted to go anyway. It was the next major town along the Ring Road. There would be people there, and cars. He couldn’t let her deliver him to the police, for any number of reasons. But if she really meant to take him to Blönduós, then he could play along for the time being.
“Okay, how are we getting there?” he asked, nodding to the horse. “He doesn’t look like he can carry both of us.”
“Smart mouth,” she mutt
ered. “First, we’ll have to find you a horse.”
“You’re kidding,” said Crane. She climbed into the saddle and sat comfortably with the Sako across it in front of her. She pointed east, toward the river. “That way.”
“I’m John Crane, by the way,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Halla. Halla Manisdottir.”
“Pleased to meet you Halla.”
Behind him, Crane heard her laugh. “Liar.”
Crane sighed and set out in the direction she indicated.
Chapter 23
Halla led Crane down into the lowlands where the land gave way to floodplain and the grass was thicker, sprouting in great hummocks. They traveled for the better part of an hour before Halla spotted a group of horses in the distance. She stopped and dismounted, bringing the Sako with her.
“You don’t need that, you know,” said Crane. “I’m not going to give you any trouble.”
“I know you’re not,” she said. And she let the rifle’s carbon fiber receiver rest on her shoulder.
“Do you ride?” she asked.
“Not well.”
“These are easy. You just get on and they know what to do.”
This was ridiculous, Crane thought as they moved closer to the small herd of perhaps a dozen horses. If these weren’t exactly wild, they were still animals unused to human contact. What the hell did she think they were going to do?
“Come on,” she called to her horse and clicked her tongue. The horse followed along like a well-trained dog.
“You really don’t know how to ride?”
“The last time I tried,” said Crane carefully, “it ended badly.” He didn’t mention that things had ended much worse for the rider he’d collided with.
“All right, you’ll ride Agnarögn,” she said. “I’ll get one of these.”
“These are wild horses! How are we going to catch one? How are you going to break it?”
“You know about horses now?”
Fair enough, he thought. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Move over there,” she said, pointing. “And be friendly.”
The horses saw them coming now. They looked curious, not particularly afraid. There was some snorting and whinnying going on between them and Halla’s horse. Halla called out to them softly in Icelandic, as if she was calming an upset baby. The horses stood their ground as they approached.
To Crane’s amazement, Halla walked up to one of the horses, a dark brown mare, and reached out and let the horse sniff at her fingertips. She kept talking to it in Icelandic and slung the rifle over her shoulder so she had both hands free. Crane watched her talk softly to the horse, stroke its neck, move beside it. The horses didn’t seem at all threatened by them. Perhaps because there was nothing dangerous in this land, only people who protected them. Crane wondered if it is was normal to just walk up to one when you needed a ride, like some Icelandic bike share program. The idea seemed outrageous to him.
But then Halla was up on the horse, clutching its body with her thighs. It started and cantered a bit, but soon settled down and she steered it back around toward Crane.
“Like that,” she said, and Crane detected a note of pride in her voice. “Easy. Can you manage Agnarögn with a saddle and bridle?”
Crane sighed and shook his head. “I guess so,” he said. He walked slowly toward Halla’s horse, and Halla called out to her in Icelandic.
Crane stroked the horse’s mane, the color of pale straw. Then he put his foot in the stirrup and hefted himself up. The horse waited patiently.
“See?” said Halla. “Not so hard.”
“Her name,” said Crane. “What does it mean?”
Halla smiled at him for the first time. “Tiny thing. All right, let’s go. I’ll still shoot you if you give me any trouble. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Your horse likes me,” Crane said, grinning despite himself.
“Pff. She’s just well behaved. Let’s go.”
Crane nudged the horse forward, and Halla fell in beside him. Together they set off across the meadows toward the road and the river.
Their progress was slow, largely because of Crane’s inexperience on a horse, but it was faster than walking. It wasn’t long before Crane heard the helicopter again. It was louder this time. It must have crossed over to their side of the ridge. Crane glanced over at Halla. She’d heard it as well and was craning around on the back of her horse, looking for it.
“They’re not the police,” Crane said. “If you want to take me to the police, take me to people you know. At the station. In Blönduós.”
Halla didn’t answer. They rode on, and the clatter of the helicopter echoed off the hills.
“Who are they?” she asked some minutes later. “If that isn’t the police out searching for you, who are they?”
“They work for an Internet company in Reykjavik called Datafall. That’s the English name anyway. They have an Icelandic name, but I don’t think I can pronounce it.”
“And what is an Internet company doing out here, beating up the countryside looking for you?”
He debated for a moment how much to tell her. Keep it simple, he decided. “They’re up to some things they shouldn’t be,” he said at last. “They’re breaking the law. Breaking it badly, and they know I have proof. If it gets out, they’ll be ruined. So they’ll do anything to stop me from getting out of Iceland.”
He glanced over and their eyes met. Hers were a steely grey and they were assessing him, weighing what he said against her judgment of him.
“If they find us out here, they’ll kill us,” he said. “They’ve already killed one man. A trucker picked me up on the Ring Road. He was taking me to Akureyri. They blew up his truck, and he was killed. Did you hear about a truck fire on the Ring Road? On the radio maybe?”
“I don’t listen,” she said quietly, half to herself, and Crane wondered if she meant the radio or him.
“That’s how desperate they are,” he went on. “They won’t stop there. They’ll kill you, they’ll kill the police, anybody that gets in their way.”
The helicopter was growing louder, he realized. Had they been spotted? Would they pass by two people on horseback, or would they land? If he thought they’d been made, Crane realized, their only chance would be for him to try to take Halla’s rifle away from her.
Halla stopped her horse and looked back. The helicopter was a dot in the distance, but it was definitely heading toward them. What if she didn’t believe him? If she really thought Crane was a bank robber or something, and the helicopter was a police manhunt, then she’d signal them.
“You know the police in Blönduós, don’t you?” he said. “Trust them.”
The horses grew nervous, especially Halla’s. It stamped and sidestepped as the helicopter flew over them at a few hundred feet. Whether it was because she was trying to control the horse or because he’d introduced enough doubt to make her cautious, Halla didn’t wave them down. The helicopter continued on to the north. Eventually the sound of its rotors faded. Crane let out a long breath. The wind ruffled his hair, and he watched Halla calm her jittery horse.
Eventually the horse settled. She patted its neck reassuringly, then looked over at Crane.
“So those are ruthless killers, and you’re the good guy in this,” she said. “That’s your story?”
“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that,” said Crane.
She shook her head and laughed. “What a crock of shit. Come on, keep moving. The police will sort it out.”
Chapter 24
They had to awaken Einar to take the next call. The helicopter was on the ground to refuel, and Einar needed sleep. He’d been in the air for nearly two full days now, and it was counterproductive for him and his crew to continue without rest.
They were at a tiny fuel depot in the middle of nowhere. One of the crew had refueled the helicopter and was keeping watch. Einar was asleep on the sofa in the small, battered building that ser
ved as the depot supply office. The rest of the crew had crashed wherever they could find a spot. The man on watch gently shook Einar’s shoulder, showed him the phone with its screen lit up in a call. Einar was instantly awake.
He got to his feet, took the phone from the man’s outstretched hand, and nodded to the couch. The other man gratefully settled onto the crumpled cushions. Einar walked outside.
“Sir,” he said to the phone as he closed the door behind him. It was a crisp day, but clear. The wind was gusting, so he walked around to the lee side of the building to get out of it.
“Can you give us a status update on the brushfire?” This was Arnason. Einar recognized the voice. That was indeed several steps up the hierarchy of the board. The signal was, as always, clear. The board was growing impatient to have this resolved.
“There’ve been no changes,” he said. “The man is still contained in the backcountry. The data remains isolated from the outside world.” That was about the best spin he could put on it.
“But not nearly as secure as we would like, Mr. Persson. What are you doing to recover the data? Your previous strategy has not succeeded.”
There was no denying that, Einar thought. It was time for a shift. The board needed to hear something new, a different plan. And it was appropriate, he realized. The area the man might have reached by now had grown too large to effectively search with a single helicopter. He wasn’t going to find him that way. It was time for a zone defense.
“The intruder has managed to evade our air search,” he said. “Therefore, I am ceasing flight operations.”
“Good,” said Arnason. “They’re beginning to draw unwelcome attention.”