Black Ice (18 page)

I was glad  to steer  the conversation back  to Solrun.  I was glad,  too, to see that  Pete-after the first two or three times, the name  came  easily- wasn't too worried  about  her. At first, he said,  they  thought she  might  have  been abducted. Now they were almost  certain she was in hiding and he thought  that was no bad  thing.

After what had happened to her mother and to her boyfriend, I was inclined  to agree. It was why she'd  gone to ground  that was bothering me more than  where.

'You  know who this Kirillina is?' Pete was giving me one of his searching looks as he lit up another of those small  cigars.

'A Russian. One  of her boyfriends?'

'You do not know, I see. That was also why I came tonight. I will tell you.'                      

And he did. He once again  did that  trick of moving the cigar on a notch  to avoid nicotine stains  and  he began  to talk about the  Russian  as  though  he knew and  loved  him.  In  a way,  I suppose he did.

'He  was a bright  boy, Nikolai. He was spotted at seventeen and selected for officer training. He went to the Frunze Higher Naval School in Leningrad- do you know of it? I'm  sorry. No, I'm  not trying  to catch  you out. Sometimes I forget what  you know and what you don't know. He went to the Frunze which many  people would say is the best of them.  All the rest of it is quite normal. First he went to a ship as a lieutenant. He did the four jobs that a Soviet naval officer usually does-a group head, a department head,  first  lieutenant and  then  CO,  all on  the same ship.  I forget which one. All I remember is that  it was a Krivak class frigate. And here he is as a captain, third rank, and in effect an  assistant naval  attache at  the  Russian  Embassy here.  You  understand  they  do  not  have  military attaches, because  Iceland  does not have any military. But that  would be his speciality.'

'He's a talented  boy, isn't he?'

Petursson concentrated as he held the cigar over the heavy brown  glass  ashtray and  knocked  the  ash  off with  his finger. Then he  sat  back  again  and  resumed   the  story  of Captain Kirillina.

'He is, Sam. Because he has a talent  that is worth much more than  his brains  to the Soviet Union. Much  much  more.'

'What's that?'

'In a woman  you would call it allure. I don't know what  you would say for a man.'

'Charm, maybe?'

'Charm, certainly. But charm  combined with looks and with personal  magnetism - social  graces,  too. These  qualities are unusual anywhere but in the Soviet Union  they are like gold.' He let that sink in. It did. I remembered the photograph and my first reaction to it. He was a hell of a good-looking man and if I'd noticed, it was a reasonable bet that  one or two women had. You could see, even in that  picture, the composure of the man.

'He turns up  here  in  the  Russian  Embassy. You know  the building, you were there  today.  The  Russians attach so much importance to  their  Iceland   embassy  that  they  have  eighty people  here - three  times  as many  as the Americans. And  no non-Soviet  ever   gets   inside.   They   even   have   their   own plumbers and joiners.'

'What's that got to do with our dashing buccaneer?' I asked.

I tasted  my coffee. I'd  been listening so keenly it had gone cold. I put it back on the table.

'I tell  you  that   to  show  you  how  reclusive   these  Soviet diplomats  are.   They   live  in   their   own   ghetto.  They   are secretive. Not only do they  not  mix, they positively  shun  any offers of friendship.'

'So  how  does  Nikolai  administer his  fatal  charm   at  that distance? By satellite?' I must admit  I was being a bit waspish. Male  A does  not  usually  wish  to  hear  about   the  irresistible charms of Male B, particularly when Male B has been known to knock off Male A's girl.

Pete  reached  over and  touched  my arm  with  his hand.  'It isn't  personal. That is what  I am showing  you. We are talking about a   highly professional man.'

'He w  s in the diplomatic ghetto ...'

'No.  That’s the point.  He never was. He rented  a beautiful flat over in the west of the city, facing the sea. It was beautiful

I went there a few times myself. We have some rich people here, but  there  are  very few apartments here  that  were so lavishly furnished. For  the  most,  in excellent  taste.  He  had  been well taught.'

'Apart from  the plastic sputnik.'

First  his face registered  astonishment, then amusement and he sat  laughing at  the  thought of it.  'You  know  about  that? Sometimes I do wonder  about  you, Sam.  You are quite  right. There, in a cabinet filled with beautiful silver and porcelain, is a model of the first sputnik. The Russians  never get it quite right.'

'Now you're going to tell me that he gave parties like Gatsby and  the women  fell at his feet.'

The  Icelander flapped a big hand at the cloud of cigar smoke which  was  building up  around him.  A single  beam  of light through the curtains laid a gold  bar across  his silver  hair.

'Of  course.  It is  so  obvious. Wonderful food,  wonderful drink, wonderful  company, too.  He  was immensely popular. With  men as much  as women.'

'You  don't mean... ?'

He held his hands  up in horror at the idea. 'Certainly not. He was a professional, I tell you. You are right,  women did go for him. And he was- what shall we say- associated with three or four.'

'Associated?' He'd  picked that  word  very carefully.

'Yes.  He  took them  out.  Oh,  I forgot  to tell you,  he had  a beautiful  car  too. An English  sports  car,  a Morgan I believe. Can   you  imagine - a  Soviet  diplomat driving around  in  a Morgan? Sorry,  where was I? Yes, these other  women.  Girls is perhaps more accurate. He took them out, went to parties, went skiing and skating, and bought  them lovely presents. But he did not go to bed with any of them.'

'Perhaps they said  no.'

He pulled  a face at  that.  'Sam, our  girls do not suffer from fake modesty.  He didn't ask them,  that  is the truth. If he had, the answer  would  have been yes.'

'If they were like the Icelandic girls I know, they must  have asked  him.'

'They did,  naturally. He declined.'

'Ungrateful Commie rat,'  I said just  to show where  my sympathies lay.

'Politely, he declined. Can you imagine the effect this had on our girls? We are only a little country, gossip travels  very fast. Here  was this man  who looked and  lived like a film star  and who insisted on sleeping alone. They were like bees around a honey pot, I can tell you.'

'Perhaps,' I said, because of course I could see very well where his narrative was leading, 'perhaps you're wrong.  Perhaps he was an impotent Russian  naval diplomat of private means?'

He allowed  himself a small smile, and began  to push  himself to and  fro in the rocker. He was enjoying  this.

'Obviously - I need  not say  this  I am sure  - the extrovert Soviet  diplomats are  invariably attempting to  penetrate the skin of the society  in which  they are living. There are also two other tests that  invariably apply.'

He grabbed the  index  finger  of his left hand  with  his right hand. 'One: at  some  point  in  their  careers   they  must  have received  training. After his command of the frigate, and  before he surfaced in  diplomatic life, Kirillina disappeared for two years.  He was not in any  naval  institution. He was not in any diplomatic institution.'

'I warn  you,  Pete,'  I said.  'I have a very  high resistance to overworked initials like KGB.'

In a soft voice he replied: 'Then perhaps it is as well it was the GRU.'

'GRU? Who  the hell are  they?'

'Much the  same  sort  of thing.  And  two,'  he grabbed  the second  finger, 'they  are the only Soviet diplomats who criticise the regime.  Kirillina did so several  times. With  people he had got  to  know  a  little.   He  would  say  that   the  Eastern  Bloc countries were too backward, and  they could  learn  a lot from the West. "Communism has never learned  to live with fun," he used to say. And his impotence very rapidly  disappeared when he encountered Sol run.'

'Gosh, I am glad  to hear  that,' I said.

There are times when I astonish myself with my generosity, I truly  do.

He  looked  at  his  watch.   'Good   heavens,   it  is  so  late.   I apologise. I had so many things to tell you I forgot the time.' As he got  to his feet with the nimbleness I'd  noted  before, Hulda came  zipping into the room with his coat folded in her arms so that  his hat rested on it, like the Crown Jewels on their cushion. If he was  worried  about her  listening, he didn't show  it. For some  reason  I liked him better  for that.

And because of that I was flattered  when he asked me to have dinner at  his flat  the following  evening.  I had  this feeling he didn't throw  a lot of invitations around. 'It will be pleasant to talk about London  again,' was his explanation.

We were on  the door-step before I asked  the question that had  been niggling  at me all night.

'Why?'

'Why  what?'  He  put  his  hand  out  to make  sure  it  wasn't raining: then  he put his hat on.

'I'm glad  you  have  told  me so  much.  I'm  grateful you've taken  me  into  your  confidence,   but  why  me?  Why  tell  me anything?'

'We must all follow instincts, I think.  My instinct is that you are here for a purpose, and that purpose has yet to be disclosed. In the meantime I would like you to understand how I see these things  in case one day  you can  help  me.'  He  turned his face towards me. 'Are  there  things  you  could  tell  me that would help?'

The  Oscar Murphy story- both of them- was on the tip of my tongue. Just as I was going to tell him, I had this alarming vision of the elusive Oscar turning up to find the place ringed with  police.

'I'll think about it,'  I said, feebly.

'I would  be most  grateful. We  have  some  very  powerful people playing games in my country and  I would welcome any help. I am, as I'm sure the Americans will tell you, very Mickey

Mouse.'

I watched  him walk down  the street  and  almost  called  him back to tell him about  Oscar. Never mind,  I thought, it'll keep until  tomorrow.

It didn't keep, of course.  And if l had told him I could  have saved  at least one life.

31

'Sam  Craven,' said  Andy  Dempsie, 'meet  Oscar Murphy.'

'Hi,' he  said,  like  he would.  Powerful  handshake, square tough face, reddish-brown hair and a scattering of freckles. He was  wearing  standard inoffensive  clothes:  well-pressed grey trousers, dark  blue  blazer-style jacket,  light  blue  shirt,  mid blue  knitted tie, and  black slip-on  shoes. Late  twenties,  short thick-torso type  that  usually  make  good  boxers,  and  an open intelligent face.

He gave a little whistle as he looked around. 'We don't get in here much  on corporal's pay,'  he said.

'So here's your boy, Sam,' Dempsie said, as though  Murphy was a freshly-landed trout. He'd  booked a private room and he was examining the full range of breakfast food that was laid out on a table  at  the side. 'Coffee,  boys?'

'Yes,  Sir,'  said  Oscar, and  I nodded.

'You're still in the corps?'  I was keen to get started.

'Yeah,' he  said,   almost   as  though   his  honour   had  been queried. Then  his face lightened. 'Oh, I get you-we don’t wear uniform  off base. That's so, isn't  it, Sir?'

'Certainly is.' Dempsie grabbed my arm in a muscular hand and spoke quietly  to me as he headed  towards  the door. 'Leave you with  him, okay? He's  a good guy. He'll  tell you about  the girl, too- no problem.'

As he left,  Murphy got  up and  grabbed some  toast  and  a croissant. I did  the same.  A bit of togetherness never did any harm.

'This is just  for  my  information and  doesn't go into  any official report  or newspaper report  for that  matter.'

'Fine, Sir.'

'So you were Solrun's teller?'

'You  too,'  he said,  then  he added  quickly:  'Hope you don't mind  me saying  it like that.' When  he saw I didn't, his face set in a smile of sheepish pride,  but at least it was better  than  the barnyard  bristling I'd  been  expecting. In  fact,  Oscar wasn't what  I'd  been expecting, but  I didn't quite  know why.

'You  knew about  me, then,  Oscar?'

'Uhuh. She  told  me.  Hell,  you  know  Solrun  - crazy  as a monkey,  but totally,  totally  honest.'

'You  were seeing  her at that  time, then?'

He pulled an apologetic face and gave a long sigh. "Fraid so. I knew she had to spend a lot of time with these foreign newspapermen. Later  she told me she'd  taken a shine to one of them  ... kapow,  that's Solrun.'

He unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie. 'Don't get me wrong.

If I’d caught  you then I would've broken your goddam neck. I cooled down  a lot since then.'

'Thank God,' I said,  to take any competitive sting out of the air. 'Tell  me about  you and  her. How you met.  Everything.'

'Well  ...' He glanced at the door as if he was afraid  Dempsie might  be listening. 'They don't encourage US servicemen to take  up with  the local girls.  I'm  not complaining about that.

They tell you about  the place before you come out here, and you can find every damned thing  you want on that  base.'

'How  did you meet?'

'Skiing.' He  pointed  out  of the  window  towards the  ever present   mountains. You  could  see  them  clearly   today.  The mists  and  rain  had  gone.  Now  you'd   think  it  was  another country.

'That was one of the things I promised  myself,' he went on. 'I was going  to do some  studying, get  some  exams,  save  some money, take a trip round  Europe, and do some skiing. First trip into the mountains, I meet Solrun. End of studying and saving.' Listening to this, I couldn't see how serious he was about her. He sounded almost  too casual. 'I thought you  two had  a big thing going?'

His smile died.  He looked down  at his polished  shoes. Then he glanced  up. 'That's right.  I try not to get too heavy about it now - what's the  point? - but  at  the  time  I worshipped that girl.'