As Bjössi took notes, Gunna spied Vilhjálmur, hands behind his back, looking doubtful. ‘Problem, Vilhjálmur?’
‘Costs. This is a level of activity that is normally handled by a larger force and I’m concerned that we cannot sustain it for long without possibly requesting additional funding. The overtime costs are already far too high.’
‘Can you talk to the Sheriff?’
‘I will do so this morning.’
‘Please do. I honestly don’t think this is going to take long. Our man’s in the open now and I’m sure he’ll be noticed soon enough if he’s still in the country. If he’s not here . . .’ Gunna shrugged and didn’t bother to finish her sentence.
‘What d’you reckon, Gunna?’ Bjössi asked when Vilhjálmur had left the room.
‘Hell, I don’t know. It’s like nothing we’ve ever had to deal with before.’
‘I reckon it’ll all be over by the weekend,’ Bjössi announced confidently and Gunna looked sideways at him.
‘You reckon?’
‘Yup. Unless he’s gone camping in the highlands and wants to live on berries and songbirds until the heat dies down. He has to be noticed by someone sooner or later. It’s a small country, Gunna. You can’t hide in Iceland.’
‘Yeah. I suppose you’re right. I hope you’re right.’
Sigurjóna sat huddled in the armchair with the 24/7 television news on in front of her. She was again swathed in her dressing gown, hair greasy and red cheeks puffing her face.
Rain hammered on the windows behind the TV set from a pewter sky and the room was half dark. On the screen an elegant newsreader dropped her smile and announced that Minister for Environmental Affairs Bjarni Jón Bjarnason had returned unexpectedly early from a conference in Berlin to face the growing financial crisis.
The screen cut to a clip of Bjarni Jón alighting from a black official car outside the Ministry to be greeted by a knot of microphones.
‘I have no comment to make as things stand. You can expect a statement when I have discussed these issues with the Prime Minister,’ he snapped at the expectant throng, shaking raindrops from his coat as he disappeared into the maw of the building.
‘And have you issued a statement yet?’ Sigurjóna asked blankly without looking round as her husband appeared behind her.
‘Of course not. Managed to get away from the Ministry without being seen by the scum.’
He knelt at her side and put an arm awkwardly around her shoulders. Sigurjóna shook him off in irritation as the elegant newsreader returned, set her face to neutral and continued.
‘It is reported that aluminium conglomerate InterAlu has withdrawn from its provisional agreement with entrepreneurial company Spearhead and its power generation subsidiary ESC. Twenty-four Seven News was told by InterAlu’s Berlin office earlier today that there was no comment to be made and referred us to ESC, where phones were not being answered yesterday afternoon. Chief executive Sigurjóna Huldudóttir was today unavailable for comment due to other commitments, according to a Spearhead spokesperson a few minutes ago.’
‘Jón Oddur or Ósk?’ Bjarni Jón asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Sigurjóna replied in a bleak voice. ‘Is it all over?’
‘All over? Who knows?’ Bjarni Jón groaned. ‘It’s not just us that’s in the shit, if that’s what you mean.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This week the Central Bank will get a visit from Glitnir to tell them formally that they can’t service their own loan payments. We’re discussing what to do. The old man may be prepared to bail them out using foreign currency reserves, but I don’t know. Or he may want to hang on to the cash as it seems there’s worse to come. At the moment it’s anybody’s guess. After that, it’s still anybody’s guess.’
‘This is going to be bad, then?’
‘Jóna, this is going to hurt everyone. But after Monday, I think we can be fairly sure that nobody will be even slightly interested in Spearpoint or ESC.’
Sigurjóna’s back straightened and the line of her mouth lifted. ‘And what did the Prime Minister say? Are you stepping down?’
‘Good grief, no. He wouldn’t hear of it. We all have to stand together in tough times.’
‘Have you told Lárus Jóhann?’
‘Of course not,’ Bjarni Jón cackled. ‘I’ll let him think he’s being shifted upstairs for a few more days. Mind you, the treasury at a time like this is a poisoned chalice.’
Again the newsreader cut away to a clip, this time showing a red-haired young woman nodding to a microphone. Bjarni Jón groaned as she appeared on the screen.
‘Good grief, Ingunn Sverrisdóttir. Just what I need now,’ he moaned, reaching for the remote control that Sigurjóna whisked out of his reach.
‘I want to hear this,’ she snarled, increasing the volume.
‘. . . absolutely,’ the red-haired woman said, caught in mid-sentence. ‘On behalf of the Left-Green Alliance, I want to make it plain that there is every indication of completely unacceptable conduct from the Member of Parliament concerned and we will definitely be inquiring with the Prime Minister’s office as to when a full public hearing into Bjarni Jón Bjarnason’s conduct is due to be held.’
‘You’re referring to the collapse of the InterAlu project in his constituency?’
‘That and more,’ Ingunn Sverrisdóttir assured the camera in a clear, clipped voice. ‘I’m talking about conflicts between the national interest and the Minister’s own personal business interests. I’m talking about a full Parliamentary inquiry into misappropriation of public resources. I’m talking about a man elected to Parliament to look after the interests of his constituents who has blatantly misused his position to enrich himself.’
‘Strong allegations from Left-Green spokesperson Ingunn Sverrisdóttir. Thank you for your input and now back to the studio,’ a young man holding a microphone said as the camera swung back to show him and the red-haired woman standing outside the Parliament building.
Bjarni Jón Bjarnason closed his eyes and collapsed in a heap on the sofa. ‘Bitch. That’s totally unfair. The fucking bitch.’
‘What the hell do you expect from some stupid lesbian communist fuckwit? You can’t expect them not to stick a knife into you now they have a chance, not after the way you’ve treated them in the past,’ Sigurjóna sneered.
‘It’ll be forgotten on Monday,’ Bjarni Jón said with satisfaction, levering himself to his feet to pour himself a hefty drink. ‘Want one?’
‘No,’ Sigurjóna said with determination, standing up.
He poured a stiff vodka and brought the bottle with him to the table. Sitting down, he extracted a small cigar from an inside pocket and put it between his lips.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re not going to smoke that in here, are you?’ Sigurjóna demanded, scowling at him.
‘Yes, I bloody well am,’ Bjarni Jón replied airily.
‘In that case I’m going to the office.’
‘Do whatever the hell you like,’ he said, lighting up and contentedly blowing smoke towards the expensive abstracts on the walls for the first time. ‘You always have done, so why change now?’
He felt happier with the arrangements for his fall-back plan. The airport had been too carefully watched and the hours in the air would have been too dangerous, leaving too much time for him to be noticed, calls to be made and a discreet tap on the shoulder at the destination airport where security would be tight in these days of international terrorism. He wondered how the unfortunate Ib Torbensen was feeling. Probably being waited on hand and foot in an Icelandic hospital.