SOUTH ICELAND,
SATURDAY 30 JANUARY, 1800 GMT
They stopped twice to
fill up with petrol on their journey east. Kristín 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 Kristín 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
Kristín interpreted for Steve. A man believed to be associated 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 Runólfur Zóphaníasson, 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 Runólfur’s murder, had still not been traced.
Sources confirmed that she was a suspect in the murder of Runólfur,
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 Reykjavík 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, Kristín called Jón 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
Reykjavík.
‘From time to time,’
Kristín said. ‘I did try to explain.’
‘Sure. You didn’t
want to be a GI whore.’
‘It’s not that
simple.’
‘I don’t suppose it
is.’
‘I’m so sorry to drag
you into this stupid mess.’
‘What, that little
game of cowboys and Indians?’ There was no humour in his voice,
only weariness.
Kristín was lost in
thought for several minutes.
‘It’s partly
political. I oppose the presence of the American army on
Midnesheidi. I could understand its strategic significance during
the Cold War, but that didn’t mean I agreed with its presence. I’ve
always regarded it as a blot on the landscape. It’s as simple as
that. The Icelanders shouldn’t have an army and they certainly
shouldn’t get into bed with one. Far too many people have
prostituted themselves to the Defense Force already – businessmen,
particularly. I should never have allowed things to go so far
between us but . . .’
She groped for the
right words.
‘You’re against the
army. So what?’ Steve said.
‘It’s not that
simple,’ Kristín repeated. ‘I’m opposed to the NATO base. Not as a
member of an organisation or anything like that, but in my heart; I
just can’t stand the thought of an army on Icelandic soil, whether
it’s American, British, French, Russian or Chinese. Never, over my
dead body, will I accept its presence here. And the more the debate
has come to revolve around money, unemployment, redundancies and
the economy, the stronger I’ve felt about it. It should never have
come to this. It’s unthinkable that we should be financially
dependent on an army. What does that make us? What have we
become?’
‘But . . .’
‘War profiteers. No
better than war profiteers. The whole damn Icelandic
nation.’
‘Aren’t you just a
Commie bastard?’ Steve asked, with a wry smile.
‘I should be of
course but I’m not. I’m . . .’
‘A
nationalist?’
‘An opponent of the
army.’
‘But the base’s
activities have been massively scaled down. They may close it any
day now.’
‘I think you’re here
to stay. For a thousand years. Don’t you see? For eternity. And you
can’t imagine how horrific I find that prospect.’
They raced along the
road, a beam of light piercing the darkness at a hundred and twenty
kilometres an hour.
‘I’m not the American
army on Midnesheidi,’ Steve pointed out at last.
‘No, I know. Perhaps
we took things too fast. Perhaps we should have got to know each
other better.’
‘Let me tell you who
I am, so there’s no doubt about it,’ Steve said. ‘I’m a New Yorker.
No, that’s not quite right, I’m from Albany, New York, and you’d
know what I’m talking about if you’d read any William
Kennedy.’
‘Ironweed,’ Kristín chipped in.
‘Did you see the
movie?’
‘I did.’
‘The book’s better
but I don’t really see how else they could have filmed it. Anyway,
Albany’s full of Irish like me. Plenty of Quinns. The salt of the
earth. My great-grandparents emigrated at the turn of the century
to escape the poverty. They settled with their family in Albany and
led a hand-to-mouth existence but left their children better off.
Granddad went into the wholesale business, importing goods from
Ireland, and made a decent living from it, and Dad took over from
him. You couldn’t call it a business empire but he does okay. The
Albany Irish fought and died in the wars the US fought in Europe,
Japan, Korea and Vietnam. They were no soldiers but they joined the
army because they believed their country needed them. As for me, I
chose to study political science because I wanted to understand
what led the US to establish bases in places like this, to
understand what turned us into the world’s police force. I know all
about people’s hostility here but what about them getting their
snouts in the trough? The truth is I’ve hardly gotten to know this
place at all. Still, someone once told me you’re all descended from
the Irish, so perhaps you’re safe sharing a car with me after
all.’
‘There were a few
Irish hermits living here over a thousand years ago.’
‘There you
go.’
‘But I don’t
think . . .’
They started when the
car-phone began to ring. They stared at it, but when Steve moved to
answer it, Kristín said:
‘Oh, leave it. It’ll
just be my ex, pissing himself about his fancy jeep.’
By the time they
drove into Jón’s yard, the blizzard that had blown up on the way
there had developed into a complete whiteout. The old farmer was
standing in the doorway, visible through the thick curtain of snow,
lit up by the porch light, a stooping figure in jeans and felt
slippers. There was no sign of the soldiers; they had moved all
their equipment up to the glacier, and the wind, which was gusting
strongly here at the foot of the ice cap, had filled their tracks
and tyre-marks with drifting snow. Kristín and Steve ran from the
jeep to the farmhouse and Jón closed the door behind them, showing
them into his living room where Kristín took in old family photos,
bookshelves and thick curtains in the dim lamplight. The heating
was turned up high and a powerful odour of the stables hung in the
room’s stuffy air. Jón went into the kitchen to put on some coffee
while they made themselves comfortable.
‘I heard about the
shooting in Reykjavík,’ he said quietly, his eyes on Kristín as he
invited them to take a seat. His voice was hoarse and quavered a
little. He had thick hands, callused with hard work, slightly bow
legs and strong features long since mellowed by age.
‘And I suppose you’re
the Kristín they keep asking about on the radio,’ he
added.
‘My brother is dying
on the glacier,’ Kristín said slowly and clearly. ‘He fell into the
hands of some American soldiers up there; they took him and threw
him down a crevasse. He was found by his rescue team but they think
he’s unlikely to live. The friend who was with him is dead. We hear
that you’ve helped these soldiers over the years, guided them on
the glacier, done whatever needed doing.’
The accusatory note
in her voice did not escape Jón and he looked surprised. What an
extraordinary young woman she was. He had always kept the promise
he and his brother had given Miller long ago and never told a soul
what he knew, had kept quiet all these years. Even after Karl died.
And now here sat this woman, accusing him of colluding somehow in
her brother’s death. What would Karl have done in his shoes? he
asked himself.
‘The expedition
leader goes by the name of Ratoff,’ he volunteered.
‘Ratoff!’ Kristín
exclaimed triumphantly. ‘That’s him. That’s the man they
mentioned.’
‘He’s not like
Miller.’
‘Who’s Miller?’ Steve
asked, catching the name, although they were speaking
Icelandic.
‘A colonel in the
American army who was in charge of the first expedition. In
1945.’
‘So the plane on the
glacier’s American, not German?’ Kristín asked, once she had
translated Jón’s reply.
‘No, on the contrary,
I think it’s much more likely to be German,’ Jón said slowly. ‘It
crashed at the end of the Second World War; flew over our house and
vanished into the darkness. We knew it had gone down. It was flying
too low. Miller told my brother and me that the plane was carrying
dangerous biological weapons – some kind of virus that the Germans
had developed. That was why they had to find it urgently. It didn’t
occur to us not to help them.’
‘So it crashed before
the end of the war?’
‘Shortly before peace
was declared.’
‘That fits in with
what Sarah Steinkamp told us,’ Kristín said, looking at Steve. ‘She
said there were Germans on board. Hang on, a virus?’ she said to
Jón. ‘What kind of virus?’
‘Miller was very
vague about it. I got the impression he’d given away more than he
should have done. We were on good terms; Karl and I would never
have dreamt of betraying his trust.’
Jón looked from
Kristín to Steve and back again.
‘Miller said the
pilot was his brother,’ he added.
‘His brother?’
Kristín said. ‘In a German plane?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jón
replied. ‘He didn’t mean to tell us; he was under a great deal of
pressure and it just slipped out.’
‘Did Miller tell you
the plane was German?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why was an
American pilot flying it?’ Kristín asked, perplexed.
‘When my brother and
I saw the plane fly over the farmhouse in the dark all those years
ago, we reckoned it was big enough to be a Junkers Ju 52. Of course
no one would know it nowadays. It was the same model as Himmler’s
private plane. We didn’t know then that it was
German.’
She looked at him
blankly.
‘The war was
something of a hobby for my brother and me,’ Jón explained.
‘Especially the aircraft. Karl knew all about the aircraft they
used and said straight away that it looked like a
Junkers.’
She continued to
stare at him, still not quite sure what he was talking
about.
‘Miller was tireless
in his hunt for that plane. We didn’t understand why until he told
us about his brother. Karl took a photo of Miller that I still have
somewhere.’
Jón rose from his
chair and walked over to a large dresser. The top half was a
cabinet containing glasses and plates, the lower half heavy, carved
drawers. Bending down, Jón pulled out the bottom drawer and rooted
around until he found what he was looking for. He handed them an
old photograph.
‘He used to turn up
here from time to time, saying he was on his summer vacation, and
would go up to the glacier. We let him stay with us. He’d be here
for up to a week or two. Came every three to five years to search
for that plane, though it must be more than thirty years since his
last visit. We were told he’d died. He wrote to us for years,’ Jón
added, handing them some yellowed letters. ‘These are thank-you
letters to me and my brother that he used to write after he’d been
to stay. An exceptionally nice chap, Miller.’
The letters were
addressed to Jón in an elegant hand and the sender had taken care
to spell his patronymic and the name of the farm correctly. They
were postmarked Washington; the stamps featured Abraham
Lincoln.
‘What was his
Christian name?’ Kristín asked, examining the photo.
‘Robert,’ Jón
replied. ‘Robert Miller. He told us to call him Bob. Isn’t that
what most Americans are called?’
‘Did he ever find
anything?’
‘Not a thing, poor
man.’
‘He wanted to find
his brother?’
‘That goes without
saying.’
‘Did he tell you
anything about his brother?’
‘Not another word.
And we didn’t ask any questions. He asked us not to take any more
pictures of him. This is the only one we have.’
The photograph had
been taken outside the brothers’ stables one summer’s day. Miller
stood holding the bridle of a black horse, face turned to the
camera; a thin figure in checked shirt and jeans. He had raised a
gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun but his features were
clearly visible: a prominent nose and mouth above a receding chin,
a high brow and thinning hair.
‘That horse was only
half broken and it came close to killing Miller,’ Jón said,
pointing to the animal. ‘Bolted across the yard with him the moment
he got in the saddle, heading straight for the electric cable that
used to run between the buildings. Fortunately Miller noticed the
wire in time and managed to throw himself off.’
Jón was silent for a
while, as if considering whether to say more or stop there. They
raised their eyes to him enquiringly. He shifted from one foot to
the other in his woollen socks, before eventually inviting them to
follow him.
‘What does it
matter?’ he said. ‘Come with me. I can show you something that
proves that plane was German.’
They waited while he
pulled on a thick down jacket, boots, a woollen hat and gloves.
Their own coats were in the car and he told them to fetch them
while he waited at the door, then led them out into the blinding
whiteness. Soon the house was invisible and they could see no more
than a yard ahead in the snow-filled night. Kristín walked behind
Jón, carefully placing her feet in his tracks. She could only just
make out his shape in front of her and when he stopped abruptly,
she stumbled into him and felt Steve collide with her from behind.
Jón had reached a door which he heaved open, sending it slamming
back into the wall. He fumbled in the darkness and turned on a
light, revealing that they were inside a cowshed that was now used
as a stable. It took all Steve’s strength to close the door behind
them against the force of the wind.
There were six horses
in the stable, giving off a heat that made it warm inside. They
stood in their wooden stalls, watching the unexpected visitors with
quizzical expressions, steam rising from their nostrils, their
winter coats almost comically thick and woolly. Kristín, who had
always loved horses although she had never ridden, paused to pat a
chestnut mare. Jón led them along the passage that ran behind the
animals, parallel to the dung channel. Kristín was surprised by the
old man’s vigour and nimble movements. The three innermost stalls
were empty and in one stood a large chest with a key in the lock,
which Jón now turned, before lifting the lid.
‘It must have been
about twenty years ago,’ he said with a grunt. The lid was
surprisingly heavy. ‘He may not have been the only one to survive
the crash. He veered just too far to the east, or he would have
stumbled on the farm.’
‘Who would?’ Kristín
asked.
‘The German,’ Jón
said, lifting a tattered German uniform jacket out of the chest and
holding it up for them to see.