He glanced at Ingileif. It was true, he did know how important her father’s death was to her.
‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘Get the map out and tell me where to go.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As the airplane began its descent into Keflavik Airport, Diego licked his lips. He was nervous. It wasn’t the hit, he was looking forward to that. And it wasn’t flying, he had been on many airplanes. But he had never been to Europe before. Spain he could have handled, Italy maybe, but Iceland?
From what little he had been able to find out about it, it was one weird country.
He was expecting snow and ice, Eskimos and igloos. The cold he could probably cope with. Since the age of fifteen he had lived in the town of Lawrence, about twenty miles north of Boston. It got pretty cold there in winter.
The cold had been one hell of a shock when he had first arrived in the States, aged seven. His family were from the town of San Francisco de Macoris in the Dominican Republic. They had crossed the hundred-mile Mona Passage to Puerto Rico by boat, and with fake ID purchased there flew to New York. They spent several years in Washington Heights in Upper Manhattan, where his father had plied his trade as a mule. He got caught, went to prison, died there ten years later. His mother had taken Diego and his two sisters up to where her cousin lived in Lawrence.
There, Diego had begun his narcotics career in logistics, before taking up an enforcement role, at which he was very successful. He wasn’t quite as gratuitously violent as some of Soto’s other enforcers, but he was smart, and often that counted for more. He was certainly the best guy to go find a Boston cop among a bunch of Eskimos and off him.
They landed, and were out of the plane in no time. Immigration control wasn’t a problem, the official glanced quickly at Diego’s fake US passport and stamped it. Then in the arrivals hall he looked for and found a sign saying Mr Roberts. The guy holding it was stocky, with close-cropped brown hair and what sounded a bit like a Russian accent, although actually he was Lithuanian. He led Diego out to the car park and a Nissan SUV.
There had been very little time to prepare for Diego’s trip. But Soto had managed to find out from his wholesale suppliers who the big guys in drugs in Iceland were, and to make an introduction. They were Lithuanians, which was some kind of country in Russia, and they would help him.
He looked out over the black wasteland. No snow. Certainly no igloos. And not even a goddamned tree. The place already gave him the creeps.
After half an hour or so of driving, they pulled up in the parking lot of a Taco Bell. Sweet. Diego insisted on getting himself a burrito, even though it was early. When he returned to the car, there was another man waiting for him in the back seat. Thirties, also short-cropped hair, small blue eyes.
‘My name is Lukas,’ he said, by way of introduction, in a strong accent that wasn’t quite the Russian that Diego knew from Boston.
‘Joe,’ said Diego, shaking the proffered hand.
‘Welcome to Iceland.’
‘Have you got the piece?’
Lukas hesitated and then pulled a Walther PPK out of a black shoulder bag. Diego examined it. It looked like a PPK/S but it had a blue-steel finish. Some European model, perhaps. It was in good condition. Serial number filed off. Not a revolver, but this job would be bang bang and outta there.
‘Be careful with this,’ the Lithuanian said. ‘There are no handguns in Iceland. This one was bought in Amsterdam and smuggled in.’
‘Other than the cops. They got guns, surely?’
‘Cops don’t have guns either. Except at airport.’
Diego smiled. ‘Man, that’s cool. And the ammo?’
Lukas handed it to him.
‘How about the getaway?’
Lukas reached into his bag and took out a mobile phone. ‘Take this. The first name on the address list is “Karl”. Call that when you want to get out. If you are for real, say “Can I speak to Oskar?” Got that? Otherwise we think cops have you and you are on your own.’
‘What happens then?’
‘We’ll meet your car. Get you out of Iceland.’
‘Will it be quick?’
‘It will be very quick. Trust me, we don’t want you caught. And if you do get caught, don’t tell them we help you. We don’t want start war with police.’
‘I get it,’ said Diego. ‘So where do I find Magnus Jonson?’
‘You know what he looks like?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Then I suggest you hang around outside police headquarters until you see him.’
‘Oh, great. Can you ask some questions for me, man? Find out where he lives?’
‘No,’ said Lukas. ‘If you shoot policeman on the streets of Reykjavik it will be big deal. Very big deal. If they learn we have been asking questions about cop there will be big trouble for us. You understand?’
‘I guess so,’ said Diego.
‘Good. Now we take you to hotel and then you go to small airport in centre of city to hire car. There is bus station opposite police headquarters. I suggest you go there to watch.’
Arni was exhausted. It was amazing how sitting in one place for so long could be so tiring. He was very glad to be back in Iceland, although his body clock was completely confused.
He had been really looking forward to interviewing Isildur. He had planned all kinds of clever strategies to prompt him to finger Steve Jubb as the murderer. And he had hoped to see a bit of California – the drive to Trinity County had promised to be spectacular. He might even have got to see some giant redwoods. As it was he hadn’t even made it in to San Francisco, spending the night at an airport Holiday Inn and the following morning organizing the flight back, via Toronto.
He had never been to Canada before. Not impressed.
The only good thing was that he was whipping through The Lord of the Rings. He was on page 657 and going strong. It was a great book. And all the more interesting for having read Gaukur’s Saga.
Keflavik Airport was crowded – all the flights from North America arrived back in Iceland at the same time. Arni ignored his compatriots stocking up at the duty free shop and went straight through immigration and customs. As he came through the door into the main concourse, he spotted a man he recognized, Andrius Juska, stocky with short hair, a foot soldier in one of the Lithuanian gangs that sold amphetamines in Reykjavik. Arni only recognized him because he had tailed him for three days a couple of months before, while he was helping out the Narcotics Squad.
The ‘yellow press’, as Iceland called its popular newspapers, had whipped itself into a bit of a frenzy over Lithuanian drug dealers, seeing them on every street corner. The truth was that the majority of drugs in Iceland were sold by Icelanders. But the Police Commissioner in particular was concerned about the possible future spread of foreign drugs gangs, the main candidates being Scandinavian motorcycle gangs, and the Lithuanians. There was as yet no sign of Latino gangs, or Russians, but the police were all on the lookout for them.
Juska was holding up a welcome sign for a Mr Roberts. Arni slowed his pace to a saunter. As he did so a slim man with light brown skin approached the Lithuanian. From the reticence with which they greeted each other, it was clear that they had never met before.
Arni let his bag slip from his fingers, and then knelt down to pick it up. The two men were speaking English, the Lithuanian’s accent was heavy, the other man’s was American. Not educated American, street American. Arni took a good look. The man was about thirty, wearing a black leather jacket, and he looked as if he could handle himself. He most certainly did not look like your typical American tourist in Iceland.
Interesting.
‘Battle of Evermore’ rang out through the study as Hakon sat in his chair, eyes shut. The ring was on his finger as Led Zeppelin’s music washed over him.