Part 13 (1/2)

'The emba.s.sy's crawling with dubious characters. For all I know, any one of them could be a paid a.s.sa.s.sin.'

'Are they tapping the phones?'

'Yes, Steve. They're tapping the phones.'

'So they know who makes calls, both to and from the emba.s.sy?'

'That's what I'm trying to tell you.'

'What do you mean, trying to tell us? Jesus Christ, so they know about you and me, about us! Have you sold us down the river, Monica?' Steve said slowly in disbelief. 'Is this a trap?' He was on his feet now, tugging at Kristin, who had not yet absorbed the implications of what Monica was telling them. Following the line of Monica's gaze Steve glanced around to see Ripley entering the pub, dressed in a padded, white ski-suit. He strolled unhurriedly over to their corner. Steve looked back at Monica.

'They threatened my boys,' Monica said desperately; she too was on her feet.

Kristin could not believe what she was seeing when she looked over at the door and spotted Ripley making his way towards them, and out of the corner of her eye glimpsed Bateman coming down the stairs. He was dressed like Ripley; they no longer looked like religious salesmen; now they might have been tourists. She could see no way out of the trap she and Steve were in a back corner of the pub, in the place chosen by Monica. There was no escape route.

'Third time lucky,' Ripley said, pus.h.i.+ng Kristin down into her seat again. She stared at him, her knees buckled and she fell rather than sat. Ripley took a seat beside Monica, and Bateman pulled up a chair and joined them, indicating to Steve to return to his chair.

'Well, isn't this cosy?' Ripley said, beaming. 'Is the beer good here? Before you try anything silly, I should point out that we're both armed and won't hesitate to shoot, so perhaps we can do this in a civilised way.'

'We have a car outside and we're going to invite you not you, Monica to come for a drive,' Bateman added.

'And if we refuse to go with you?' Steve said, still searching Monica's face.

'Ah, you're the knight in s.h.i.+ning armour that she found on the base, aren't you?' Ripley said, smiling to reveal a row of improbably even white teeth.

'What a charming couple,' Bateman continued, looking at Kristin. 'Do you make a habit of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Americans from the base or is Steve here the exception?' He reached out a hand as if to caress her cheek.

Kristin jerked her head back. Steve sat stock still. Monica lowered her eyes in shame.

'Well, it's been delightful but regrettably we'd better get moving,' Bateman said. 'Monica, here, who's ready to betray her friends at the drop of a hat, will leave first and make herself scarce. I'll go next and escort our political scientist. We're going to stand up very slowly and walk out of here very calmly. Ripley and Kristin will follow, and that'll be that. It couldn't be simpler.'

'Where are you taking us?' Steve asked.

'We'll find some nice quiet spot,' Bateman said. 'Don't you worry about that.'

'What's in the plane on the glacier?' Kristin asked.

'Now that's the kind of curiosity that we find so stimulating,' Bateman said. 'But don't you think it would be better if you let us get on with what we have to do?'

Bateman stood up to let Monica pa.s.s. She bustled away from the table, keeping her eyes on the ground as she pa.s.sed them and hurried across the pub to the exit, looking neither left nor right. Opening the door, she vanished into the winter dusk.

'Right, Stevie, on your feet,' Bateman said, standing up himself and taking hold of Steve's shoulder and tugging at him. Steve stood up, looking helplessly at Kristin as Bateman turned him round and pushed him along in front of him. He did nothing roughly as he did not want to attract any attention.

'Now you,' Ripley said. Neither the fishermen at the bar nor any of the other customers seemed to notice. Kristin rose slowly and they set off. She felt sick, her legs weak as if they did not belong to her; the whole situation seemed unreal, as if it was happening to someone else, as if time had slowed down. When they reached the bar, one of the trawlermen inadvertently blocked her way, forcing her to stop in her tracks. Ripley tried to move him aside but he would not budge or give Ripley so much as a glance. Kristin saw Steve climbing into the white Ford Explorer outside the pub. So this is how it would end: abducted from a busy pub, without so much as putting up a fight, for a lonely, unpleasant finale.

'He called you a f.a.ggot,' Kristin said in Icelandic, before the fisherman could say a word. She had noticed him staring at her while she sat with Steve and Monica but had tried not to catch his eye. She knew all about men who stared from a distance: they were trouble.

'Oh, yeah? Who said that?' the fisherman demanded, instantly squaring up.

'f.a.ggot. He called you a f.u.c.king f.a.ggot,' Kristin said, pointing at Ripley.

'Don't say a word more,' Ripley ordered, pulling at Kristin. 'Your boyfriend will get shot if anything goes wrong in here.'

'He said you were all f.u.c.king fairies,' Kristin yelled at the bar, tearing herself away from Ripley. They now had the fishermen's undivided attention. If Ripley meant to pull the gun out of his ski-suit, he did not manage it. She saw the barrel of a revolver glint in his hand, then watched as the fisherman who had showed an interest in her punched him hard in the face.

'I'll show you who's the f.a.ggot,' he said.

Ripley collapsed on the floor and as the trawlermen surrounded him, Kristin edged slowly out of the crowd. She glanced outside at the Explorer. Steve was in the back, Bateman behind the wheel, inevitably beginning to wonder what had delayed his partner. He craned his neck to peer into the pub but Kristin was not sure what he could see.

Noticing a door behind the bar, she vaulted over the counter and fled into what transpired to be the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ripley trying to fend off two fishermen before he was overpowered; the Icelanders were raining down blows on his body and head. Kristin sprinted through the kitchen and out of a door that opened into a small backyard which was connected to the street via a narrow alley. Running along it then pressing her back against the wall to peer into the street, she saw that the white Explorer had not moved. Inside she could just make out Bateman and Steve.

She began to creep towards the car, then saw Bateman gesticulating at Steve and yelling something at him. Next minute he jumped out of the Explorer, slamming the door behind him, and ran into the pub. Without a moment's hesitation she raced to the rear door on the street side and tried to open it but discovered it was locked. Noticing her, Steve banged on the window. He could not open the door on his side either; he was locked in the car.

'For f.u.c.k's sake,' Kristin panted. Looking round frantically she saw a small warning sign that had been erected in front of some nearby roadworks. Dragging it towards the car, she heaved it as hard as she could against Steve's window. The gla.s.s shattered, small splinters showering the interior and the road. Immediately the car alarm went off and inside the pub she saw Ripley's head jerk round. Bateman was supporting him. The fishermen were standing in a huddle by the bar. Bateman shouted something as Steve squeezed out of the window, ripping his jacket on the jagged edges of the gla.s.s.

'Our car!' Kristin screamed as she tore ahead of Steve past the restaurant. She did not dare to look back. Steve was following hard on her heels; she could hear him breathing heavily just behind her.

Bateman emerged from the pub supporting Ripley and laid him on the steps. He had his gun in his hand and, scanning his surroundings, caught sight of Kristin and Steve jumping into the jeep parked in front of the florist.

'It's the Special Squad!' exclaimed a teenage boy clutching a skateboard and pointing at Bateman. Bateman ignored him. He did not notice that people all round him had stopped and were watching him sprint along the street, gun in hand. He ran hunched over, like a hunter after his prey, his arms held straight down by his sides so the gun almost brushed the tarmac.

Kristin got behind the wheel of the Pajero and turned the key in the ignition and stamped on the accelerator simultaneously. The engine screamed into life. Shoving the automatic into reverse, she backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce and down the street with wheels spinning, the tyres smoking on the wet tarmac. With a quiet popping sound, a small hole appeared in the windscreen just to the right of her head and another directly below it: Bateman was shooting as he ran. Kristin backed across the road, clipping a car approaching from the opposite direction, which made the Pajero spin forty-five degrees. She slammed the automatic into drive and screeched off down the road. They heard a low hiss as shots penetrated the cha.s.sis and Kristin ducked in the hope that this would protect her. Steve lay in the footwell on the pa.s.senger side, eyes wide with anguish.

Behind them, Bateman tore around the corner into the street in pursuit but he soon gave up the chase and shrank ever smaller in the rearview mirror before disappearing from sight.

SOUTH ICELAND,

SAt.u.r.dAY 30 JANUARY, 1800 GMT

They stopped twice to fill up with petrol on their journey east. Kristin drove the whole way. According to the weather forecast, there was a severe storm affecting the east and north-east of the country but down on the southern lowlands through which they were now driving conditions were fine apart from some drifting snow. It was very dark; there was little traffic on the Sudurland highway and the further east they drove, the fewer vehicles they encountered. Soon only the occasional pair of headlights lit up the Pajero before disappearing just as suddenly, plunging Kristin and Steve into darkness again.

They were each wrapped up in their own thoughts and spoke little, except when the radio news reported the shooting incident in the city centre and Kristin interpreted for Steve. A man believed to be a.s.sociated with the gunman had been admitted to hospital with injuries. Eight fishermen had been arrested but could not be interviewed at present because they were still under the influence of alcohol. The police were investigating possible links between the shooting and the murder of Runolfur Zophania.s.son, and were calling for witnesses to both incidents to come forward. It also emerged that a lawyer employed by the foreign ministry, who was wanted for questioning in connection with Runolfur's murder, had still not been traced. Sources confirmed that she was a suspect in the murder of Runolfur, who had been involved in unspecified business with the ministry, and that she may also have been present at the shooting in the city centre. No details were given about the gunman. The incident was almost unheard of in Reykjavik where gun crimes were extremely rare.

Steve rang Michael Thompson from the car-phone. In the interim Thompson had dug out the details of the farmer who lived at the foot of the glacier and was able to tell them the name of his farm. Having obtained the phone number from directory enquiries, Kristin called Jon to make sure he was home. He said they were welcome to visit, though he did not know how he could help them.

They sat for a while without saying a word.

'Have you thought about me at all since?' Steve asked eventually, squinting in the glare of a pair of headlights that shot past, leaving them in darkness again. He had been sitting mostly in silence, eyes fixed on the monotony of the white road ahead, ever since they left Reykjavik.

'From time to time,' Kristin said. 'I did try to explain.'

'Sure. You didn't want to be a GI wh.o.r.e.'

'It's not that simple.'

'I don't suppose it is.'