CENTRAL REYKJAVÍK,
FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 2100 GMT
The meeting was
extremely formal, despite the choice of venue. By special request
of the US military authorities, the prime minister and foreign
minister of Iceland were now seated face to face with the admiral
from Keflavík air base, in his capacity as the most senior officer
in the Defense Force, and the general, who was temporarily
discharging the office of US ambassador to Iceland during the
abrupt and unexpected absence of the regular incumbent. The
ministers had been summoned to the meeting with an unceremonious
haste that might be interpreted as high-handedness if the
circumstances did not turn out to be exceptional. The Icelanders
had been given no information about the reason for the summons and
discussed a number of possible scenarios as they travelled in the
prime minister’s car to the city centre hotel suite where the
meeting was to be held. They were inclined to believe that it
heralded an unexpected presidential visit, remembering that they
had been given practically no warning when the summit meeting
between Reagan and Gorbachev was held in Reykjavík in
1986.
On arrival they were
greeted by the admiral, a casual acquaintance from various official
receptions. He introduced them in turn to the general, a short,
pugnacious-looking man whose name, the Icelanders learnt, was
Immanuel Wesson; he was pudgy, red-faced and buck-toothed, and
walked with a slight limp due to the fact that one of his legs was
shorter than the other. The prime minister eyed him sceptically,
wondering whether he had ever been on active duty or had enjoyed a
lifetime’s service behind a desk and in the officers’
mess.
It was about nine in
the evening, the streets were quiet and there were few guests in
evidence at the hotel. The suite had been the foreign minister’s
idea; he often held meetings there with overseas guests on
unofficial visits who wished to keep their names out of the press.
As a setting it had that bland yet expensive anonymity
characteristic of hotel rooms: white leather furniture, tasteful
paintings by Icelandic artists on the walls, thick white carpets on
the floors and a full-size bar. The Americans surveyed the opulent
surroundings and nodded to the Icelanders as if in approval of the
venue. There was an atmosphere of quiet expectation.
Formalities
concluded, they took their seats on the room’s ostentatious
three-piece suite and the prime minister addressed the
Americans:
‘Perhaps you would be
kind enough to tell us what’s going on?’ he suggested, loosening
the knot of his tie.
‘We would like to
begin by thanking you, gentlemen, for agreeing to this emergency
meeting,’ the admiral commenced, regarding each of them in turn,
‘and by apologising for the short notice. Once we’ve explained the
matter, you will understand why it was unavoidable. It is
absolutely vital, and I cannot emphasise this enough, that nothing
said in this meeting leaves these four walls.’
The ministers nodded
and waited. The general now cleared his throat.
‘As you are naturally
aware, according to the terms of the defence treaty between our
nations, we monitor everything that happens within and around
Iceland’s borders for military purposes, using a combination of
submarines, reconnaissance planes and satellites. In particular, we
have in recent years been closely monitoring a section of the
Vatnajökull glacier.’
‘I’m sorry, did you
say Vatnajökull?’ the foreign minister interrupted, looking
disconcerted.
‘Allow me to explain,
gentlemen,’ the general said. ‘We can answer any questions
afterwards. In the past we operated surveillance flights over this
area of the glacier but since we acquired satellite capabilities
the process of monitoring has become much easier. Our interest in
the glacier is historical but at the same time presents something
of an embarrassment for us. In the closing stages of World War II
one of our aircraft crashed on the glacier and was lost in the ice.
We know more or less exactly where it went down but adverse weather
conditions prevented us from reaching it until too late. By the
time a search party from our Defense Force in Reykjavík finally
made it to the glacier, there was no trace of the plane. As I said,
the glacier had swallowed it up.’
The general paused
and the prime minister seized the opening this
offered.
‘What’s so special
about this plane?’
‘Recently, the
aircraft turned up on satellite images of the glacier taken by
military intelligence,’ the general continued, ignoring the
interruption. ‘Having confirmed our original suspicions with the
help of these images and others of the same area taken
subsequently, we decided to send an expedition to the glacier to
excavate the plane and transfer it to the base prior to
repatriating it to the States. This will inevitably necessitate the
movement of considerable numbers of military personnel and
equipment through Icelandic territory.’
‘And you require the
Icelandic government’s permission for this operation,’ the foreign
minister concluded.
‘It has never been
our wish to act against your will,’ the admiral
interjected.
‘Naturally we will
travel through the country as inconspicuously as possible,’ the
general resumed, ‘taking the utmost care not to cause any alarm. We
have drawn up plans which we will review with you in greater detail
later. We know how the army is viewed by many Icelanders and we are
aware that military manoeuvres on Icelandic soil are frowned on by
the public, but this is an emergency and if the expedition is to be
successful, we must proceed in absolute secrecy. But, needless to
say, we wouldn’t want to act without your full cooperation. I’d
like to make that absolutely clear from the outset and stress that
this is above all a scientific expedition. The military personnel
will be accompanied by some of our most senior
scientists.’
‘What’s so special
about this plane?’ the prime minister asked again.
‘I think we had
better leave it at that for the moment. We wanted to inform you in
case anything went wrong – and of course in a spirit of mutual
cooperation.’
‘Went wrong?’ the
foreign minister echoed him. ‘How do you mean?’
‘In the event that
news of the operation leaks out,’ the admiral replied, ‘we would
like you to be ready with an explanation about the troop movements
and our presence on the glacier.’
‘And what, General,
do you suggest?’ the prime minister enquired.
‘Small-scale winter
exercises. It would probably be best to describe deployments of
small Belgian and Dutch NATO forces in collaboration with the US
Defense Force. That should take off most of the heat.’
‘Is that all you’re
prepared to tell us?’ the foreign minister asked.
‘We regard this as
the best way.’
‘Best way? Why all
the secrecy? Why can’t we simply announce that you’re mounting an
expedition to the glacier to recover a plane? Just what exactly is
going on here?’
‘It’s a sensitive
issue, that’s all I can tell you at the present time,’ the general
replied. ‘I hope to be able to provide you with a fuller
explanation in due course.’
‘General, the issue
is extremely sensitive for us too,’ the prime minister pointed out.
‘I advise you to be straight with us, otherwise I fail to see how
this can work. What is this plane and why does it pose a
problem?’
‘With all due
respect, it’s not your concern,’ the general answered, abruptly
abandoning any attempt at politeness.
‘And with all due
respect to you, we’re not accustomed to such lack of courtesy in
our dealings with the Defense Force. You have not requested
permission to carry out the operation, merely told us what you are
planning to do. Does that mean you’ve already set an operation in
motion? May I remind you that such an act would represent a serious
violation of the defence treaty, something the Icelandic media
would be very dismayed to learn. Hitherto we have been prepared to
accommodate American interests in any way we can and while we’re
grateful that you’ve seen fit to inform us of this operation, I’m
afraid the feeble excuses you are proposing will prove inadequate
if we are compelled to account for our actions.’
‘Please excuse us if
we come across as disrespectful,’ the admiral intervened in a
placatory tone. ‘Of course we value your contribution to the West’s
efforts for peace and international stability but in this case I
think the general is right. This matter is best resolved without
any external involvement, and then forgotten.’
‘I’m afraid that
won’t do,’ the foreign minister replied. ‘A plane from the Second
World War? How do we know that’s true? For all we know, it could
have crashed yesterday. Who’s to say it even exists? Frankly, I
find the whole thing extremely far-fetched.’
‘We could have passed
it off as a routine exercise,’ the admiral replied, ‘but the matter
is so serious that we can’t afford to be disingenuous. You will
simply have to trust us. If questions are asked, it’s important
that the answers given by all sides are consistent. It’s imperative
that we keep the existence of the plane secret.’
‘I repeat: what is so
special about this plane?’ the prime minister asked.
‘I’m afraid we can’t
answer that question,’ the admiral replied.
‘Then I’m afraid this
meeting is over,’ countered the prime minister, tightening the knot
of his tie and standing up.
The Americans watched
the ministers get ready to depart. They had been prepared for the
fact that the Icelanders might not buy the half-baked story about a
plane and Belgian troop movements, but had felt obliged to mount
this as a first line of defence.
‘Are you familiar
with the Manhattan Project?’ the general asked, rising to his
feet.
‘The Manhattan
Project? Vaguely,’ said the foreign minister.
‘It was the codename
for our nuclear testing programme in the 1940s. At the end of the
war a considerable number of German scientists who had been
involved in the Nazis’ nuclear experiments were invited to America
and employed on the Manhattan Project. It became a source of major
embarrassment to us after news broke about the Holocaust. The Jews
claimed that some of these scientists had worked in the death
camps, carrying out experiments on the prisoners.’
The general allowed
the ministers a chance to absorb the implications. This was the
story he had been instructed to feed them if the meeting failed to
go according to plan, a contingency he now judged necessary. The
ministers observed him with quizzical expressions.
‘We were engaged in a
race against the Russians, as on all fronts in those days. They
managed to recruit far more German scientists than we ever did,
though no one criticised them, of course. But that’s another story.
The plane took off from Hamburg with four German nuclear scientists
on board. It made a refuelling stop in Scotland and was scheduled
to land again in Reykjavík en route for New York but was damaged in
a storm and crashed on the glacier. Since no sign of them or the
plane has ever been found, we believe everyone on board was killed.
Now, however, we have a chance to retrieve the wreckage from the
glacier and take it home.’
‘But I still can’t
see why the discovery of the plane should be kept so clandestine,’
the foreign minister interrupted.
‘If news of the plane
and its mission is made public, it will reignite the whole debate
about German scientists working in America, coverage that we could
well do without and which would risk jeopardising relations between
the US and Europe. That’s all there is to it. Now, gentlemen, you
are in possession of all the facts. May I take it you are willing
to cooperate?’
The ministers looked
at one another, then back at the Americans.
‘I think you have a
lot more explaining to do,’ the prime minister said.