REYKJAVÍK
FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 1945 GMT
Kristín ran blindly
towards the coast road at Aegisída, then veered west, her instincts
keeping her as far as possible to the dark gardens. Her only
thought was to flee; she never once looked back.
A succession of
terrible images flashed through her mind. She saw the light going
out in Runólfur’s eyes as the bullet entered his forehead, heard
the whine of a second bullet and saw it thud into the door. Her ear
hurt; it was bleeding. Her thoughts darted to her brother on the
glacier: they had said he was dead. She remembered his last words:
armed soldiers, a plane. A few minutes later two men had forced
their way into her flat and tried to kill her. They had mentioned a
name – Ratoff – and a conspiracy involving the Reykjavík police,
the foreign ministry and the ministry of justice. It had seemed
preposterous at first but any illusion had been dispelled as
Runólfur crumpled to the floor in front of her.
The cold soon began
to make her bones ache. She psyched herself up to look over her
shoulder as she ran but could see no sign of the two men. Dropping
her pace, she took a better look around and finally slowed to a
standstill. She was surrounded by apartment blocks. Noticing that
the door to the basement of one building was ajar, she slipped
inside, pulling the door to behind her. It was pitch black inside
and she was met by a stench of refuse. She made her way to the back
and crouched down in the dark like an animal.
She lost track of
time. Eventually, hearing no sound of movement, she crept forwards,
cautiously pushed at the door and peered out through the crack,
surveying her surroundings. There was nobody about; they had not
followed her. Not far off was a small estate of terraced houses,
their lights shining cosily through the icy darkness. What should
she do? Knock at one of the doors and tell them everything? About
the men and the body in her flat and the police complicity? But if
the police were involved, who could she notify about the murder,
about her brother on the glacier and the two killers? And what if
the ministry she worked for was also implicated in the murder? She
fumbled at her jacket, feeling for the wallet in her
pocket.
What if they had
killed Elías the way they had killed Runólfur right in front of her
eyes? she thought. What kind of men were they?
Gradually anger got
the better of her fear, allowing her to think more logically. She
must find shelter somewhere; acquire clothes, information, maybe
even go to the glacier herself and try to help her brother, if he
was still alive. She did not dare contact the authorities; not as
things stood, not until she knew more, until she was sure it was
safe. But where was she to go? If they knew about her, surely they
would know about her father too, in which case she could not go to
him. The thought suddenly struck her: should she not warn him in
case they paid him a visit next?
She dashed out of the
rubbish store and over to the terraced houses where she hammered on
the door of the nearest and leaned on the doorbell. The man of the
house answered quickly, his wife and two children hovering behind
his shoulder. They had been watching television and had evidently
sprung to their feet when they heard the banging and ringing.
Kristín barged her way inside the moment the door
opened.
‘I have to make a
phone call,’ she cried. ‘Where’s the phone?’
‘Just a minute,
miss,’ the man said, looking at her in horror. She was sweating in
spite of the cold, her chest was heaving, her face a mask of
terror, her clothes soaking wet and blood was oozing from one ear,
caking the right side of her head.
‘I asked you, where’s
the phone?’ she repeated as he staggered back before her into the
little kitchen, where he pointed dumbly to the telephone. His
family clustered around him.
Three rings, six. He
did not answer. She tried to think clearly: where could he be? His
answering machine kicked in and she waited impatiently for the
tone, then spoke hurriedly.
‘Dad? You’ve got to
hide. The moment you hear this, disappear. I don’t know what’s
going on but they’ve killed a man and tried to kill me, and they’ll
almost certainly come after you. Elías may be dead. There are two
of them, dressed like Jehovah’s Witnesses. I know this sounds
insane but please do as I say and go into hiding. Don’t worry about
me, just hide! And don’t try to make contact with me.’
The little family
were gaping at her. The man exchanged alarmed glances with his wife
and both looked down at the children, huddling closer together,
their eyes fixed on this wild woman as she ended her message. When
Kristín put down the receiver and turned to face them, they all
stepped back simultaneously.
‘I’m sorry,’ she
said, seeing the terror on the children’s faces. ‘It’s all true, I
swear to God. They were going to kill me. Can you lend me some
clothes? But please don’t ring the police – they may be involved.
Try to forget this happened.’ She shivered involuntarily as the
adrenalin began to ebb from her body, her teeth chattering
together. ‘Do you have any clothes you could lend me? God, I’m so
cold. Do you have any shoes and socks?’
‘If we give you some
clothes,’ the woman said, speaking as calmly as she could, ‘will
you leave?’
‘I’ll leave right
away,’ Kristín assured her. ‘Just please don’t call the
police.’
A few minutes later
she emerged from the house dressed in an outfit belonging to the
woman: a pair of jeans, a thick jumper and winter boots. Under
normal circumstances she would have found it odd and uncomfortable
to be wearing someone else’s clothes which smelt of a strange,
alien perfume, but there was no time for such thoughts now. The
door slammed behind her. They had given her a plaster for her ear
as well. As she walked slowly out of the cul-de-sac and on to the
main road, the occasional car drove past cautiously in the snow.
Kristín loathed snow; it reminded her of nothing more than
Icelandic winters and the inner darkness they brought with them.
She walked along the pavement, wondering what to do, before
eventually deciding to head back in the direction of Tómasarhagi,
looking round warily all the while. She had come up with a plan of
sorts, though she doubted that she was in any fit state to think
rationally or to work out the simplest solution.
She would handle this
alone, at least to begin with. She did not dare to go to her
friends or family for fear that her pursuers or their henchmen
would be waiting. Only a few minutes had elapsed between her
conversation with her brother and their appearance on her doorstep.
Perhaps they were tapping her phone. But why? Did it have something
to do with Runólfur? They had killed him, after all, and he had
been raging about a conspiracy; about the Russian
mafia.
She knew only one man
who could tell her about soldiers.
Taking care to keep
out of sight, she peered over at her own house. There was no sign
of the police or anyone else; everything looked quiet, domestic,
unremarkable. When she reached the main road she hailed a taxi, one
which fortunately accepted cards.
‘Where to?’ he
asked.
‘Keflavík Airport,’
she replied, casting a nervous glance out of the rear
window.