VATNAJÖKULL GLACIER,
SUNDAY 31 JANUARY, 0030 GMT
Kristín was
transfixed by Ratoff, as a snake before a charmer. He had brought
his face close to hers and was running the awl playfully up her
throat, chin and cheek to her eye. She did not have a clue how to
answer him about Napoleon but she had to say something – anything –
to stall him; something he wanted to hear. It did not matter what.
She had a sudden intuition that she was now in the same situation
her brother had been in and understood how he must have felt,
understood his terror of this man, his terror of dying. Understood
what it was like to be this close to a maniac. Was it really such a
short time ago? Yesterday evening? The day before
yesterday?
What could she
say?
‘Kristín, your
attempts to delay us are delightful. But pointless,’ Ratoff
said.
Kristín had retreated
to a pole at the back of the tent. The two guards were restraining
Steve. Bateman held a gun levelled at them.
‘You think the place
will fill with rescue teams,’ Ratoff continued, ‘that you’ll be
saved and the whole world will find out what’s going on here. Well,
I regret that this is the real world. No one can touch us here. We
have the government in our pocket and the rescue team has been
intercepted. What are you going to do, Kristín? We’re leaving the
glacier and after that no one will know a thing. Why is it your
self-appointed duty to save the world? Can’t you see how ridiculous
you are? Now tell me from the
beginning . . .’
‘The choppers are
taking off,’ a soldier called into the tent.
‘. . . how
you found out about Napoleon.’
They heard the
helicopter engines growl then roar into life outside and the rising
whine of the rotor-blades that magnified as they spun
faster.
‘It was a retired
pilot from the base who told us about Napoleon,’ Steve shouted.
‘And she’s not the one who knows what it means, I am.’
‘He’s lying,’ Kristín
said.
‘How touching,’
Ratoff whispered.
Kristín did not
realise immediately that he had stabbed her – it felt more like a
pinch. In one deft movement he had thrust the awl into her side
just below her ribs, through her snowsuit and clothes, the steel
penetrating several centimetres into her flesh. She felt a searing
pain and blood seeping inside her clothes. He held the awl in the
wound.
She cried out in
agony and tried to spit at him again but her mouth was too dry. He
twisted the awl and her eyes bulged as a spasm of pain racked her
body, forcing a shriek from her lips. Out of the corner of her eye
she saw Steve shouting and struggling in the grip of the
guards.
‘Who else knows about
Napoleon?’ Ratoff repeated, observing Kristín’s reaction to the
pain with scientific detachment. She stood on tiptoe, looming over
him.
‘Everyone,’ she
groaned.
‘Who’s
everyone?’
‘The government,
police, media. Everyone.’
‘I think you’re lying
to me, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ she said in
Icelandic. ‘No.’
‘In that case you can
tell me what Napoleon is.’
He twisted the
awl.
Kristín did not
answer. The pain was unendurable. The wound must be ten centimetres
deep. She thought she was going to faint; her mind was clouding
over, making it hard to concentrate, hard to come up with the right
answers to play him along, to keep stalling.
‘What is Napoleon?’
Ratoff repeated.
Kristín was
silent.
‘Have you asked
yourself what they did to Napoleon?’
‘Constantly,’ she
replied.
‘And what can you
tell me about that?’
‘Plenty.’
‘So what’s
Napoleon?’
‘You know what he was
famous for,’ she groaned.
‘A great emperor,’
Ratoff said. ‘A great general.’
‘No, no, not that,’
Kristín said.
‘What
then?’
‘He was small. A
midget like you.’
She prepared for
another wave of agony. It did not come. Ratoff jerked the awl out
of the wound and the tool vanished as mysteriously as it had
appeared.
‘Never mind,’ he
said, pulling out a revolver. Kristín had just long enough to
register how small and neat it was, the sort of weapon she imagined
might be designed for a handbag.
‘I’m going to leave
you with a beautiful memory. It didn’t have to be like this. You
could have saved him. Think about that on cold nights when you are
alone. This is your fault.’
Without the slightest
warning he half-turned and fired a single shot into Steve’s face. A
small, puckered hole appeared under Steve’s right eye as his skull
exploded and an ugly splatter coated the wall of the tent. He
dropped instantly to the ground, eyes open, a look of bafflement
fixed on his face. Kristín watched as if in a daze. The gunshot
rang deafeningly in her ears; for a moment time seemed to slow
down; she could not grasp what had happened. Ratoff was standing
unmoving, observing her; the attention of the men in the tent was
focused on Steve as the bullet hit home. She saw him fall on to the
ice, his head striking the frozen ground with a thud, his dead eyes
fixed on her face. She saw the obscene red streak on the tent wall,
the ice under his head soaking up the blood.
Bile rushed up into
her mouth. She dropped on to the ground, retching, her body
shuddering. Then she blacked out.
The last thing she
saw was Steve’s empty eyes. But the last thing she heard was
Ratoff’s voice.
‘This is your fault,
Kristín.’