Sun on Fire (4 page)

“What kind of a party?” Birkir asked.

“He’d organized a reading and reception Sunday afternoon in the Felleshus auditorium—the Felleshus is a public building that belongs to all five Nordic embassies. After that he seems to have invited a small group of people for dinner and drinks in the Icelandic embassy building. He apparently started off holding some kind of meeting, and then ordered in food from a restaurant. That in itself is inappropriate, because the premises are not suitable for parties like that. The ambassador’s residence is, on the other hand, specially designed to accommodate receptions, and of course he should have taken the visitors there—or to a restaurant—if the occasion demanded it.”

“Any idea why he decided to stay at the embassy?”

“No. That’s one of our many questions. After dinner, the group apparently continued drinking until sometime after two a.m. When the party finally broke up, the ambassador seems to have forgotten to count the visitors out. The German security guards eventually realized one of them had been left behind inside the embassy, and they contacted Arngrímur.”

“How large was this group?”

“At first there were eight—and then nine when Hulda, the ambassador’s wife, joined them just after eleven o’clock. Arngrímur sent the list of names yesterday. The security team monitors all visitors that pass through into the embassies’ compound, holding their passports while they’re in there and logging their details. These particular visitors were all Icelandic nationals, which is one reason we’re keeping this case to ourselves.”

“Tell me who is on the list.”

“First and foremost, the ambassador and his wife,” Sigmundur replied. He paused as the plane thundered along the runway and took off. When it was in the air, he continued, “Are you familiar with them?”

Birkir replied, “I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he a politician?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Konrad has been the ambassador in Berlin for just over a year, but before that he was a member of parliament for twenty years or so. At the last party conference, he challenged the sitting chairman and almost defeated him in the party leadership election. He lost by one vote.”

“I remember that,” Birkir said.

“Yeah, it was a memorable weekend in the political landscape. Two months later, the party unexpectedly found itself in power, even though it had suffered heavy losses in the elections. But there was no way that Konrad would get a ministerial post. Then they came up with the solution to make him ambassador to Berlin. Apparently, he studied at an East German agricultural school when he was young, so his German is pretty good.”

“Did everything work out?”

“No major mishaps until now. The foreign service’s most experienced and reliable counselor, Arngrímur Ingason, has been at the Berlin embassy for years. He oversees the embassy’s work
and has mostly managed to prevent any embarrassments. Until yesterday.”

“What do you mean by no major mishaps?”

“Konrad functioned well as a typical constituency go-getter when his party was in the opposition. He was actually never in a position to commit any major blunders, but his career was pretty flat. Younger folks had begun to run against him in the primaries, and he needed to do something to draw attention to himself and establish a position within the party. His big break was totally by chance—the party chairman encountered an unexpected crisis involving careless handling of party funds, and Konrad was the only one who’d been preparing to run against him. So he rode the crest of the wave that arose at the party conference and nearly won the leadership election. At the embassy, he’s at his best when he isn’t doing anything. Fortunately, that’s the normal state of things.”

“Doesn’t that get tiresome?” Birkir asked.

“Konrad is sober for two hours a day. He shows up at the embassy around ten o’clock and has a drink around noon. After that nobody has to worry about him. Somebody told me he spends most of his time writing his autobiography. Hulda, his wife, on the other hand, likes to set up events for Icelandic artists she invites over to Berlin, leaving it to the embassy staff to organize the details, often on short notice. And then nobody knows who’s going to pay, and that can cause problems. Especially after the banking crisis. It’s difficult to find sponsors these days.”

“You said his wife was at the party, too.”

“Yes. Hulda turned up at the embassy later that evening, as I said, and left with Konrad when the gathering broke up. She’s something else, that woman. The story goes that Konrad finagled her into that pivotal party conference—with full voting rights,
even. She represented some women’s group. But she went off to get her hair done for the last-night ball, and forgot to vote in the leadership election. Her missing vote would have resulted in a tie, in which case they would have had to draw lots between Konrad and the sitting chairman. The ambassador and his wife sometimes discuss this fact at awkward moments.”

Birkir asked, “How will this murder affect the ambassador’s position?”

“He’ll be recalled home, for the time being at least. I will act on his behalf until he returns or a new ambassador is appointed.”

“Who else is on your list?”

The plane had now reached cruising altitude, so Sigmundur woke up his laptop.

“Let’s see. Here’s Arngrímur’s list. First is the guest of honor, Jón Sváfnisson, ‘the Sun Poet,’ ” he read from the computer screen. “Do you know him?”

Birkir said, “I know his poem ‘As daylight grows longer and dreams multiply,’ et cetera.”

“Ah, you know that one,” Sigmundur said. “A book of translations of his work was just published in Germany. The ambassador’s wife had him come to Berlin and do a reading at the Felleshus auditorium. He came with his old friend, the artist and book designer Fabían Sigrídarson.”

“Did the Sun Poet plan to do any other readings in Germany?”

Sigmundur checked his computer screen. “Yes, according to Arngrímur’s summary, he’s finishing up at the Frankfurt Book Fair next weekend.”

“Any more names?”

Sigmundur read, “David Mathieu, the Reykjavík fashion designer—and his husband, Starkadur Gíslason.”

“Numbers five and six,” Birkir counted.

“Then Helgi Kárason, a ceramic artist, and Lúdvík Bjarnason. They are preparing for an exhibition in the Felleshus to be held in the new year. Lúdvík sometimes works as an overseas exhibition manager for Icelandic artists. He deals with transportation of the works and their installation in the space.”

“That makes seven and eight.”

“And then there was the deceased, Anton Eiríksson.”

“Nine. So, no women?”

“No, apart from the ambassador’s wife, of course, and it depends on how you classify the two gays.”

“What do you mean by that?” Birkir asked sharply. “Their gender is male, so they are men. Isn’t that how it works where you’re from?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“OK, then. Could there possibly have been other guests in the building?”

“It’s very unlikely. The security people are checking their logs and security-camera footage. There’s an entrance from the underground parking lot, and the cameras pick it up if anybody goes through there—of course, you need a key and a security-access number.”

“So the perpetrator’s definitely one of these eight?”

“Yes. Has to be.”

“Do we know where all these individuals are now?”

Sigmundur looked at the screen and said, “The ambassador and his wife are in Berlin, and the poet and his friend have gone to Frankfurt. The other four are probably on their way back to Iceland or already there, according to what the ambassador told Arngrímur.”

“Didn’t anyone try to contact them yesterday?”

“Not to my knowledge. The ministry’s immediate response was not particularly well coordinated. When they got things sorted out, they realized that the men had left Berlin, and we’re hoping they’ll show up back in Iceland soon.”

Birkir said, “It would have been better to talk to them right away yesterday morning. Individually. The German police could have taken care of that. We could have followed up with interviews today.”

“It might have been a bit extreme to ground all those people in Berlin,” Sigmundur replied hesitantly.

“Oh well,” Birkir said after a pause, “hopefully we’ll get hold of them all before long.”

Sigmundur became engrossed in his laptop while Birkir thought about the case. Anna quietly snored in the window seat.

13:50

The plane landed, and over the PA a flight attendant announced, “Welcome to Berlin Schönefeld Airport. The local temperature is twelve degrees Celsius.”

Birkir, Anna, and Sigmundur had reached the walkway in the terminal building before they caught up to Gunnar, who was trying to tuck his shirt back into his pants.

“Honestly!” he said apologetically. “I must have slept the whole way.”

Birkir guessed Gunnar had probably gotten himself two in-flight meals from the attendants and drunk three or four beers before spending most of the journey fast asleep. “You should be well rested, then,” he said.

Sigmundur watched Gunnar’s behavior with disdain, but said nothing. He pressed his cell phone to his ear.

Anna made a beeline for the corner where smoking was permitted and lit a cigarette. She waved the others on as they passed, saying, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“The embassy chauffeur is here at the airport,” Sigmundur said, pocketing his phone. “He’ll meet us by the exit.”

Birkir eyed Gunnar as they walked toward the baggage claim.

“How do you feel about being in Germany?” he asked.

“It’s kinda strange,” Gunnar admitted, looking around. “I mean, I’m used to hearing people speak German in Iceland. Tourists, and all. But here it’s everywhere. I’m fond of this language—I picked it up from my mom before I learned Icelandic.”

Gunnar’s voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

“I know you don’t like traveling,” Birkir said, “but why the hell haven’t you ever made the effort to come here before?”

“My dear old mom has had a phobia about the country ever since she fled to Iceland,” Gunnar replied. “She went through something really bad at the end of the war, and I understand that the situation here was terrible. She came to Iceland from Lübeck, but her roots were in the eastern half—that was her Germany. She was sure she wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country if she came back to visit here.”

“But after the fall of Communism in East Germany? Wasn’t she happier after the reunification?”

“No, not at all. She thought it would all go down the drain. She’s totally convinced there’s going to be another war in Europe. It’s kind of an obsession. She was always very unhappy when I brought up the idea of going to Germany, and I just got used to the idea that it wasn’t going to happen.”

“So how did she react to this trip now?” Birkir asked.

“I told her I was going to the east of Iceland, to Egilsstadir,” Gunnar said. “You’ll back me up on that, won’t you?”

“I’ll try,” Birkir replied.

14:30

The embassy driver stood outside the customs area holding a card with “Icelandic Embassy” printed on it. He was a neatly dressed, shortish, middle-aged man with thick dark hair carefully combed back. Sigmundur greeted him in English and introduced his companions as “the Icelandic police.”

Gunnar nodded familiarly at the man, who bowed in greeting.

“Please follow me,” the man said in English, leading the way out of the terminal building. Birkir nudged Gunnar and they fell behind the others. “Try to get to know this guy. He could be useful to us.”

Gunnar nodded. “Let’s hear what he’s got to say.”

The embassy car, a spacious BMW, was waiting for them in the short-term parking lot. The driver skillfully shoehorned all five bags into the trunk and then opened the driver’s side rear door for Anna, who stubbed out her cigarette before getting in. Sigmundur was about to climb into the front passenger seat, but Gunnar tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, buddy, I have longer legs than you, and my butt is wider.” He smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth.

Sigmundur hesitated, but then climbed into the backseat next to Birkir and Anna.

“Thanks for meeting us,” Gunnar said to the driver in German as they drove off. “I hope it hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience for you.”

“Oh, you’re German?” the driver said. “How long have you lived in Iceland?”

“All my life,” Gunnar said. “My mother is German. She moved to Iceland after the war.”

“I see. She has taught you good German.”

“We always speak German together. I understand that we sound somewhat old-fashioned.”

“You speak excellent High German,” the driver replied.

“Thank you very much for the compliment,” Gunnar said as he studied the distant outline of the city out the window. Then he added, “You have a bit of a problem at the embassy, huh? Do you know anything about it?”

“No, hardly anything. We’ve only been told that a deceased man was discovered in the ambassador’s office yesterday morning. All the staffers are devastated. The Icelandic embassy building is locked, and they have to work in a couple of borrowed rooms in the Felleshus.”

“So you don’t know who the deceased is?”

“No, I haven’t heard anything else about it. Embassy Counselor Herr Ingason had a brief meeting with all the staff yesterday morning and told us that the deceased was not linked to the embassy, but that he was some kind of acquaintance of the ambassador’s.”

Gunnar was silent for a while, enjoying the sights of the big city. He hadn’t experienced an urban environment like this, and found it a little overwhelming. He also wondered where to take the conversation next, as he sensed that the driver was not a very willing participant in a discussion about his workplace, but too polite to make this obvious. Probably best to go down a completely different road. He said, “What’s the latest soccer news? I saw on the Internet that Hertha tied scoreless against Bochum Saturday.”

“Ah, you’re a soccer fan?” The driver’s face lit up.

“Yes, Hertha is my team.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, ever since 1995, when Sverrisson joined the club.”