Sun on Fire (3 page)

“The attorneys say they had to sell the farm at half price.”

“That sounds good enough, given the economic situation in Iceland. The farmer and his daughter had to take out a large loan to pay for it. That’s not so easy these days.”

“OK, but does your job description say that you should discourage people from going about their everyday business by scaring them off with some mumbo jumbo about ghosts?”

“My job description says to do what’s right and proper wherever it applies.”

Magnús shook his head. “The normal response to a complaint like this is to send you on unpaid leave while the matter is under investigation. If it turns out to be true, you will probably be dismissed from the squad. If the law office doesn’t press charges, you might be allowed to return to uniformed police work.”

Gunnar was about to reply, but Birkir gestured him to silence and asked, “Is there another way?”

Magnús said, “I have certain connections with these attorneys. I’m very reluctant to pull those strings—but if you agree to go to Berlin immediately, I can try to straighten things out.”

Birkir said to Gunnar, “Sounds like a good deal for you.”

Gunnar thought for a good while. “OK, then,” he eventually replied, “I’ll go, but only this one time.”

“Beat it, then, and go get yourself a passport,” Magnús said, picking up his phone. “I’ll tell the head of the agency you need it expedited for travel on official business.”

I
t was pitch black and pouring with rain. A cold wind blew from the east. Old snow, thawing in the wet, spattered from beneath the wheels of the few cars driving around Reykjavík so early in the morning—or late at night, depending on how you looked at it. Winter had arrived on October 1, with a sharp frost followed by a strong northerly wind bringing snow to the whole country. Now a new low-pressure area hung to the west of Iceland, dragging in warmer air from the south and raising the temperature above freezing, though the forecast predicted that it would soon track eastward across the country, deepen, and bring more icy weather from the north.

As scheduled the previous evening, Birkir and Gunnar met at the bus terminal and were joined by Anna Thórdardóttir, a forensic officer at the detective division. In the present economic situation, the police force had to cut their expenditures, so there was no available money for a taxi to the airport. The bus would have to do.

After the usual good mornings they had no further need to converse. They were all shivering and were missing their sleep. Birkir went and bought the tickets for them all, asking for a receipt.

In the meantime, Gunnar got himself a couple of buns and a coffee from the cafeteria.

Anna went outside to smoke. This was going to be a long day for her. On a normal day she went through three packs of cigarettes, but now she had to endure a smokeless bus ride to the international airport at Keflavík followed by a flight to Berlin. Her habit had left its mark: Her face was thin and drawn, and though her ID revealed that she wasn’t even fifty-five, she looked at least seventy.

“What did Magnús have on you?” Gunnar asked when Anna came back inside. He couldn’t imagine that anybody would agree to go on this trip unless forced to.

“Three reprimands for smoking indoors in official buildings,” she replied and coughed. Her voice was deep and hoarse. “He promised to withdraw them if I agreed to go with you. What did he have on you?”

“Some rude phone calls to lawyers.”

“Rude calls?”

“Yeah, well, maybe not exactly. More like advice on how to deal with a certain case.”

“Is that against the rules?”

Gunnar shrugged. “I didn’t think so, but it seems nowadays everything is banned unless it’s authorized by some regulation and a certificate.”

Anna nodded and popped a nicotine gum into her mouth.

“How are you going to survive the flight?” Gunnar asked. He had once been a longtime smoker and was familiar with the craving.

“Sleeping pill and gum,” Anna replied.

Birkir motioned for them to follow him out.

“I think I may have forgotten to bring an extra pair of pants,” Gunnar said, patting the old sports bag that was all the luggage he had.

“You’ll just have to buy yourself another pair in Berlin—if you decide you need them,” Birkir said. “I’ll help you choose.”

Birkir was immaculately dressed in neatly pressed gray trousers and a jacket. He wheeled a new-looking black suitcase; a shoulder bag housed his laptop. Anna had two pieces—a small suitcase and a sturdy tool case made of rigid plastic.

“I don’t have any money,” Gunnar said after a short deliberation.

“I’ll lend you some if you need new pants,” Birkir said. He knew that Gunnar had cut up his credit card and only carried cash. When he had any, that is.

They watched their bags get loaded into the luggage hold, and Anna lit a cigarette. Gunnar and Birkir climbed aboard while Anna smoked outside.

“I wonder if you can smoke in the embassy?” Gunnar asked with sympathy.

“I don’t know,” Birkir replied. “They’re sending a driver to meet us. We can ask him.”

“Jawohl,”
said Gunnar, leaning back in the seat. He promptly nodded off and slept all the way to Keflavík.

On arrival at the airport, they were retrieving their bags from the bus when a taxicab stopped behind it and a young man in a black suit got out. He came straight over to them and asked, “Are you the police team going to Berlin?”

“Yes,” Birkir replied.

“Great,” the other one said. “I was told I could recognize you by your . . . well . . . that someone in the group looked . . . uh—”

“That one of us looked Chinese?” Gunnar finished the sentence for him.

“Uh, yeah. I’m from the Foreign Ministry. We’ll be going together. I’ll handle the legal aspects and relations with the German Foreign Ministry. Good morning to you all—I’m Sigmundur.” He shook hands with the three of them.

“This is a very difficult case,” he went on. “The minister and the chief secretary are eager for it to be dealt with in a professional manner. That’s why they chose me to manage it.”

“So maybe we don’t need to go?” Gunnar asked, his voice full of hope.

“Well, yes, you do. The chief secretary wants the Icelandic police to investigate the case. You’re the one that speaks German, right? Hopefully we’ll solve the matter quickly.”

“Do you have any experience with investigations like this?” Gunnar asked.

“No, not with murders, but we have had to deal with a number of very difficult cases at the ministry. I’ve had many dealings with police authorities in Europe.”

“I feel better already,” Gunnar said, stomping off into the check-in area.

07:45

They walked down the Jetway to board the plane and a stewardess greeted them.

The ministry official turned to the police team and smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways. I’ve got enough air miles that I was able to upgrade my ticket to Saga Class.” He nodded toward the front of the plane. “I’ll see you in Berlin.”

He turned left and disappeared into the forward seating area. The other three continued to the right, along the aisle to row 23. Anna, leading, immediately slipped into the window seat, fastened her seat belt, and popped a nicotine gum.

Birkir asked Gunnar if he wanted the aisle seat.

Gunnar looked with horror at the seat that was meant to accommodate his huge frame, and then at Anna, who, despite being small and slim, seemed to fully occupy the space allocated to her.

“Am I supposed to sit here?” he asked Birkir, pointing at seat 23C with a stubby finger.

“That’s the only option,” Birkir replied and shrugged. He sat down in the middle seat. He was also slim and smaller than average, but even so there wasn’t much space left.

“Excuse me for a minute,” Gunnar said, and turned around. He inched back toward the front of the plane, pushing his way past all the people going the opposite direction. He barked “
Afsakid
, excuse me,
entschuldigen bitte
, sorry” as he went.

When he reached the stewardess standing at the entrance to Saga Class, he flashed a broad grin and pushed past, ignoring her confusion and saying, “Sorry, I just need to have a word with my colleague.”

Sigmundur’s seat was much more spacious than the one assigned to Gunnar. He was talking to the passenger next to him, a young woman Gunnar recognized from pictures in glossy magazines. He couldn’t remember what she was famous for.

Gunnar tapped Sigmundur’s shoulder, saying, “Hey, buddy.” The ministry official looked up in surprise.

“We need to fix a problem.”

“Indeed?”

“I get claustrophobic in those tight coach seats.” Gunnar pointed toward the back of the plane.

“Claustrophobic?”

“Yeah. It makes me lose control, and I make these peculiar animal noises. Can’t help myself.” He demonstrated with a quiet “
Moooohhh
.”

Sigmundur looked around quickly.

Gunnar continued, “I’m afraid that the captain will kick me off the plane before we can take off.”

“What?”

“That wouldn’t be good. You know the chief secretary was adamant I should be on this case. I speak German, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?”

“You want me to speak to the captain?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Change seats with me.”

“What?”

Gunnar made another quiet mooing noise and flashed a smile that made the gap between his front teeth particularly prominent. The young woman sitting in the inner seat stared at him in terror.

The man from the ministry looked around again and saw that the passengers in nearby seats were watching them. He stood up, opened the overhead bin, and got out his briefcase.

Gunnar said, “23C. See you in Berlin.”

08:00

Birkir saw the man from the ministry approach along the aisle, scanning around for seat numbers. He stopped by row 23, opened the overhead bin, and stuffed his briefcase in—with some difficulty, as the compartment was almost full. Then he sat down in the empty seat without uttering a word, and fastened his seat belt.

“It was kind of you to change seats with my colleague,” Birkir said.

The man from the ministry was quiet for a while before turning to Birkir. “This associate of yours—is he OK in the head?”

“He’s a good detective, he is scrupulous and honest,” Birkir replied. “He sometimes uses unusual methods to get what he wants. I hope he wasn’t impolite.”

Sigmundur looked at Birkir and said, “He behaved like a maniac.”

Birkir smiled apologetically. “He is as mentally healthy as you or I. But he can be a bit impulsive sometimes.”

Sigmundur unclasped his seat belt. “Right, I can’t let him get away with this,” he said, standing up.

“Wait, wait,” Birkir said, grabbing his arm. “It would be great if you could fill me in during the flight. It would save us time in Berlin.”

The ministry man sat down again and sighed. “Well, I just hope he’s not going to be a problem when we get to Germany. This is all highly sensitive. The minister is very worried.” He refastened his seat belt.

“No there won’t be any problems, I can promise you that. Gunnar knows when to behave properly. Tell me what you know about this case.”

Sigmundur pulled out a small laptop computer and fired it up.

“Look,” he said. “Here’s an e-mail I got this morning. It’s a statement that’s going to be read at a press conference they’re giving at the ministry this morning—nine o’clock.”

Birkir read from the screen:

Early yesterday morning an official at the Icelandic embassy in Berlin came across a deceased gentleman in the embassy quarters. It was evident that the death had not occurred naturally. The deceased is of Icelandic nationality but not an embassy employee. His name cannot be released at the present time. Icelandic detective officers are now on their way to Berlin, where they will investigate the case in collaboration with the Nordic Embassies’ security force, the Berlin police, and the foreign ministries of the two states.

“It would have been better to delay this statement,” said Sigmundur, “but the story began to leak out yesterday and we started getting media calls.”

He switched off the laptop as the plane backed away from the terminal.

“What else do you know?” Birkir asked.

“Embassy Counselor Arngrímur Ingason called the chief secretary the night before last to report the incident. The chief secretary called a crisis meeting at the ministry very early yesterday morning, and we decided to carry out an initial investigation ourselves.”

“What happened exactly?”

“An embassy visitor was knifed to death in the ambassador’s office.”

“Who was the victim?”

“Anton Eiríksson, an old friend of the ambassador’s. A very wealthy man who mainly worked in Asia. An agent of some kind.”

“Why didn’t you ask the German police to investigate?” Birkir asked.

“This business doesn’t look very good for the ambassador. He hosted a party in the embassy building that evening, which is not supposed to happen. He’ll have to answer for that.”