C-17 TRANSPORT PLANE, ATLANTIC AIR
SPACE,
SUNDAY 31 JANUARY, 0630 GMT
Carr took a seat with
Kristín and Miller in the C-17’s cramped flight cabin. Kristín did
not know what had become of the other men, nor how many other
people were on board. No one had been introduced, nobody had a
name; she felt she was in a world of nameless shadows.
A cup of coffee was
handed to her. She could not remember when she had last eaten –
perhaps at Jón’s farm, perhaps not. She had no idea what day it
was, what week or month, nor how long she had been awake. All she
knew was that she was on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic. And
Steve was dead.
‘Colonel Miller’s
trying to convince me that you know nothing about the sensitive
contents of this German plane which we have gone to great lengths
to retrieve,’ Carr said. ‘He says there aren’t enough Icelanders in
the world.’
‘Who are you?’
Kristín asked. She was too shattered and depressed to take in much
about this man. He was just another in the string of shadowy
figures she had encountered over the last forty-eight
hours.
‘That’s of no
importance.’
Never cross Carr, Kristín thought. Behind her
eyelids burned the image of Ratoff lashed to the
pallet.
‘Are you Carr?’ she
asked.
‘As far as we’re
concerned, the mission’s over. We just need to tie up a few loose
ends and . . .’
A man appeared at the
door, entered the cabin and bent to whisper a few words in Carr’s
ear. Carr nodded and the man went out again.
‘You shit,’ Kristín
muttered in a low voice.
‘Excuse me?’ Carr
said.
‘You fucking American
shit.’
His grey eyes
appraised her coolly from behind his glasses. She read nothing in
his gaze – neither amusement nor offence. ‘I can understand how you
feel,’ he said.
‘Understand?’ she
laughed. ‘How could you understand anything?’ As Kristín’s
indignation rose, she caught the look of alarm on Miller’s face. He
tried to caution her but Carr silenced him.
‘You are murderers.
You have violated every law and standard of decency. You disgust me
– so don’t claim to understand how I feel,’ Kristín went
on.
Carr waited patiently
until she was finished. ‘For what it is worth, I regret what was
done to your brother and his friend,’ Carr said. ‘It should never
have happened.’
Kristín moved faster
than Carr had expected but it was all over in seconds: she sprang
out of her chair and struck him in the face so hard that his head
rocked back. Miller shouted at her – she had no idea what – and two
men materialised behind her and forced her down into her seat. Carr
rubbed his cheek, which was already turning a mottled
red.
‘You saw what became
of Ratoff, I assume,’ he said calmly.
‘Is that supposed to
appease me? Seeing that sadist wheeled out of the
plane?’
‘He overestimated his
usefulness and was punished. I didn’t see you trying to help
him.’
‘You
shit!’
‘Don’t, Kristín,’
Miller warned. ‘That’s enough.’
‘We’ll see you get
back,’ Carr said. ‘We’ll send you home to Iceland. Of course, we’ll
have to wait until all our personnel have left with their equipment
but after that you’ll be free of us and we’ll be free of you. You
can say what you like: you can talk to the authorities and the
press, to your family and friends, but I doubt anyone will believe
you. We’ve already begun disseminating misinformation about the
purpose of the mission. At the end of the day no one knows anything
and that’s for the best. Incidentally, there’s a man on his way to
Keflavík with the troops. His name’s Júlíus. A friend of yours, I
believe. Leader of the rescue team on the glacier. He’s perfectly
safe and will be set down outside the gates of the base. He’ll be
able to back up your story. And so will your brother – Elías, isn’t
it? I gather he’s safe, by the way, and has been admitted to a
Reykjavík hospital.’
‘You mean
he’s . . . alive?’ Krístín gasped.
‘Yes,’ Carr replied,
‘to the best of my knowledge.’
‘You’re not just
playing with me?’
‘Certainly
not.’
The relief was
overwhelming. It did not matter that the news had been delivered by
a stranger, a man who, from what she could tell, bore the chief
responsibility for what had happened to her. She had been unable to
face up to the possibility that, despite all her efforts, Elías
might die. Now, however, here was the confirmation that she had
managed to save his life and suddenly all she could think of was
that it was Steve who had paid the ultimate price. She ground her
teeth in frustration.
‘We can always send
people after the three of you. It’s up to you to make that clear to
the others. And I do urge you to take me seriously, Kristín. Go
ahead and tell who you like, but if Júlíus were to go missing one
day, you’ll know why.’
‘All because
of . . .’ Kristín began.
‘An old plane,’
Miller interrupted. ‘All because of an old plane.’
‘All I want to know
is what’s happening. What’s going on? What’s the
truth?’
‘Kristín, Kristín,
you ask too much,’ Carr said. ‘Truth and lies are nothing but a
means to an end. I make no distinction between them. You could say
we are historians, trying to correct some of the mistakes made
during a century that is now coming to its close. This has nothing
to do with any truth, and anyway what’s in the past is irrelevant
now. We reinvent history for our own purposes. The astronaut Neil
Armstrong once visited Iceland – we know that. But who can say for
sure whether he ever landed on the moon? Who knows? We saw the
pictures but what proof do we have that they weren’t staged in a US
air force hangar? Is that the truth? Who shot Kennedy? Why did we
fight the Vietnam War? Did Stalin really kill forty million? Who
knows the truth?’
Carr
stopped.
‘There’s no such
thing as truth, Kristín, if ever there was,’ he continued. ‘No one
knows the answers any more and few even care enough to ask the
questions.’
It was the last thing
Kristín heard.
She felt a pinch on
her neck. She had not noticed anyone behind her and never saw the
needle. All of a sudden she went limp, a feeling of utter
tranquillity spread through her body and everything turned
black.