“I have an allegation from a foreign human rights group that four asylum seekers arrived in Iceland in two thousand and nine, but that they weren’t processed in the usual way and were instead immediately put on a flight leaving the country. Can you confirm that this was the case?”
Jóel Ingi heard a buzzing in his ears that almost drowned out the sound of the man’s voice. He felt a sense of removal, as if he were looking down on himself from above.
“It’s not something I can comment on,” he said.
“That’s a shame, as we have been given copies of emails that appear to have been sent from your ministry email address, implicating several officials and confirming that a transfer could take place at Keflavík airport, where these four people were placed on a military flight leaving that same evening. Are you telling me this didn’t happen?”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I really can’t comment.”
“Was the minister aware of this?”
“I told you, I can’t comment. Listen, I’m not well. I’m on sick leave right now. You need to contact the ministry about this, not me.”
“I’ll have to say that you declined to comment, even though you’re implicated personally.”
“You need to speak to Ægir Lárusson. Do you want his personal numbers?”
She almost missed the Hyundai move off and had to accelerate hard to keep it in sight as it rounded the corner. She bullied her way into the road, ahead of a pickup truck whose driver flashed his lights angrily at her, and put her foot down in spite of the icy road, praying that the nails in the tires would keep her from sliding. As darkness fell, the frost accompanied it. The air was so cold that her first breaths almost hurt and the road under the Renault’s wheels crackled as the water on it became glassy ice.
Her eyes were glued to the Hyundai’s lights as she watched it drive along the Hafnarfjördur seafront before taking the road back toward Reykjavík. With two cars between them, she waited at the lights, pulling away fast and taking note as the mud-colored car swung sharply right and drove through yet another industrial area, this one a series of workshops and offices. As the car stopped on the forecourt of an empty workshop, she cruised past to the end of the road, did a quick U-turn and came slowly back, stopping outside a pizza place in the middle of an untidy knot of badly parked cars.
She reached down and picked up a small pair of binoculars from the pocket in the door, confident that she couldn’t be made out by the Hyundai’s driver as she focused them on the brown car and it’s occupant, his elbow resting on the wide open driver’s window as he scanned the road. Her heart beat faster as a second car pulled up alongside it, and she recognized the black Audi, and Jóel Ingi getting out of it to walk toward the Hyundai.
She desperately wanted to know what words passed between them, as well as what was in the package that went from Jóel Ingi’s hand and disappeared inside the brown car. A moment later Jóel Ingi was gone, the Audi speeding away. She realized it was too fast for her to follow, but the tracker she’d discreetly stuck inside a wheel arch of the Audi meant that his trail could be picked up whenever she felt like it.
She wondered what was going on as the Hyundai headed out of town in the steady stream of rush-hour traffic, northwards past Mosfellsbær, and she decided that anything north of the tunnel under Hvalfjördur would be far enough.
Staying just far enough behind to keep the mud-brown car in sight and trying to keep at least one car between the two of them, she saw it overtaken by a grey van as it slowed and pulled off the road into a lay-by occupied only by a dormant roads department bulldozer. She slowed down as well, dropping her speed low enough to see the driver hunched over the wheel, his phone to his ear.
She kept her speed as low as she could, watching the mirror for the brown car’s reappearance, but she saw nothing. She decided to give up, and at the Kjalarnes turn-off she slowed down and pulled into the middle lane to turn off, disappointed that she’d wasted the best part of an hour on a futile trip out of town and determined to get back to the job of tailing Jóel Ingi, which had now been made more difficult by the fact that she would have to remain out of sight.
She stopped at the Kjalarnes petrol station, pulling up by the pump and taking the opportunity to fill the car’s tank. Inside the shop she bought a newspaper, a sandwich and a bottle of water as a belated lunch, deciding to take a break, but was surprised to see the mud-brown Hyundai appear on the forecourt. Instead of coming into the shop, the car nosed up to the drive-by service window, where the driver, his face partly hidden by a hood, ordered a hot dog and a bottle of fizz, which were handed to him by the bored boy behind the counter.
As the car pulled away, she dropped her sandwich onto the seat beside her and followed, trying to keep the same discreet distance as before. This time the man with the scarred face took a detour around Kjalarnes, stopping for a few minutes at the far end of the village with the engine running as the driver stared at an old house a little way outside the settlement. After a few minutes, he turned back the way he had come to the main road and, worryingly, again headed north. With the tunnel entrance approaching, she decided the chase had to be cut short, and slowed down in order to use the turnoff for the old Hvalfjördur road the tunnel had replaced for a U-turn. The Hyundai did the same. Keeping it as far ahead as she could without losing sight, she watched it slow down and turn off.
She wondered why he was going along a road that was only occasionally cleared of snow and which would lead to nowhere but a few isolated farms and summer cottages. Deciding that the Hvalfjördur road would be too much for the Renault, she watched the Hyundai’s lights disappear into the distance, before turning back to town, and the job in hand, wondering about the significance of the old house at Kjalarnes.
Gunna rubbed her eyes with the heels of each hands. She shook herself and went through a list of numbers. Frustrated, she called the number and was rewarded with a “this number is not available” message, with no invitation to leave a message of her own. She drummed the desktop with her fingertips and instead dialed Pétur Steinar Albertsson’s home number, listening to it ring a dozen times. She was about to put the phone down when there was a click.
“Er … hello?”
“Hello, my name’s Gunnhildur and I’m with the city police force. I’d like to speak to either Pétur or Hekla, if either of them are home.”
“There’s nobody here. Just me.”
“That’s a shame. Are they going to be long, do you know?”
“I dunno.”
“Is that Sif I’m speaking to?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” was the surprised response. “Who are you?”
“I’m Gunnhildur. I really need to speak to your dad or to Hekla. It’s important.”
“I don’t know where they are. Why don’t you call the mobile?”
“I would if I had the number.”
“Wait …”
Gunna drummed the desk with growing impatience as a muffled conversation could be heard in the distance before Sif returned.
“You there?”
“I’m here.”
Sif reeled off seven digits and Gunna wrote them down and repeated them.
“Is that your dad’s phone or Hekla’s number?”
“It’s hers. Dad never goes anywhere, so he says he doesn’t need one.”
“Who’s there with you, Sif? You said you were alone.”
“My friend,” she retorted. “What’s it to do with you, anyway?”
“No reason. Just wondering. Thanks, bye.”
She quickly dialed the number Sif had given her, comparing it to the communications division’s list as it rang, nodding as she recognized it as one of the numbers Baddó had called that afternoon.
“Hæ. This is Hekla. I can’t take your call right now, so leave a message. Thanks.”
Gunna put the phone down in disgust.