Operation Napoleon (6 page)

‘You’re right. Absolutely right,’ he said finally.

‘Mr Secretary?’

‘That plane must never ever be found.’

‘That’s what the secret service is for, sir,’ Carr concluded, the hint of a wry smile playing around his mouth.

VATNAJÖKULL GLACIER, ICELAND

FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 1900 GMT

Ratoff held the phone belonging to the boy who claimed his name was Elías and, as he walked into the communications tent that had been erected beside the aircraft, checked the last number he had dialled. According to the screen, the call had lasted long enough, Ratoff thought, for the boy to have described the area and their activities in detail. It was the only number that showed up on screen. Otherwise the phone appeared new and barely used.

‘Have the embassy trace this number,’ Ratoff ordered the chief communications officer. ‘And I need to talk to Vytautas.’

‘Vytautas, sir?’ the officer asked.

‘Carr,’ Ratoff breathed. ‘General Vytautas Carr.’

Ratoff left the tent again. The plane was now half clear of the ice. In the glare cast by four powerful floodlights a swarm of troops was busy digging it out with spades. The nose, which was relatively intact, jutted into the air like a raised fist. Ratoff could now confirm Carr’s theory that it was a Junkers Ju 52, known familiarly to Allied troops during World War II as ‘Iron Annie’ or ‘Auntie Ju’. The Ju 52s were Germany’s principal transport aircraft, often used for carrying paratroopers and powered by three vast BMW engines, the third of which was situated on the nose. And there the propeller still hung, its blades mangled by their collision with the ice. Below the window of the cockpit the outline of a black swastika was just visible under the flaking camouflage paint, while two of the seven windows that lined the sides of the plane could now be seen above the ice. The tail-end was still buried but the wings had evidently been sheared off and would probably never be found.

Ratoff understood the urgency of the situation. If these hapless boys on snowmobiles had managed to alert people to the presence of armed troops and a plane on the glacier he would have to act decisively. He must establish whom they had called and try to prevent the information from spreading any further, from dividing and mutating like a virus. The leak must be plugged at all costs. He had begun to realise just what a major undertaking this was and how difficult it would be to keep it under wraps. Smaller-scale operations involving less equipment and manpower and set in an urban environment were more his style, whereas Arctic wildernesses with weather conditions that could change drastically in a matter of minutes were quite outside his area of expertise. Nevertheless, he believed they had a good chance of getting away with it if they played their cards right, if everyone concerned did what was expected of them. He had done his research: Iceland was the backend of beyond; if there was anywhere an old secret could be dug up without word getting out, then surely it was here.

He heard someone call his name from the communications tent and went back inside.

‘It’s a Reykjavík number, sir. Registered to a woman named Kristín. She has the same patronymic as the owner of the phone. His sister, maybe. Married women keep their father’s name in Iceland. Here’s the address. It looks as if she lives alone. I have the embassy on the line.’

‘Get me Ripley.’

He was handed the receiver.

‘Her name’s Kristín,’ Ratoff said and dictated her address.

There was a silence while he listened intently.

‘Suicide,’ Ratoff said.

The man known as Ripley replaced the telephone. He and his colleague Bateman had arrived with the other Delta Force personnel, but Ratoff had sent them to the American embassy in Reykjavík with instructions simply to sit and await orders. To others, his ability to anticipate and plan for unforeseen contingencies was eerie.

Ripley relayed to Bateman the drift of the phone conversation. They were very similar in appearance, both tall, muscular and clean shaven, their fair hair combed into neat side partings. Over their neatly pressed, inconspicuous dark suits, smart ties and shiny shoes, they wore only waist-length blue raincoats. They could have been twins were it not for their contrasting features. One was more refined, with a narrow face and piercing blue eyes above a long, thin nose and a small, almost lipless mouth; the other somewhat coarser in appearance, with a square jaw, thick ripe lips, big chin and bull neck.

Having found the woman’s address, they identified the shortest route through the streets of Reykjavík, then borrowed one of the staff cars, an unmarked white Ford Explorer SUV, and drove off into the snowstorm. Time was of the essence.

The journey took no more than five minutes despite the heavy going.

When they pulled up outside her house on Tómasarhagi, Kristín was trying to contact the Reykjavík Air Ground Rescue Team. She was still wearing her anorak as she stood by the phone, trying all the numbers listed for the organisation in the telephone directory, without success. No one answered. She dialled her brother’s number again but there was still no reply. A recorded message announced that the phone was either switched off, out of range or all the lines were currently busy. Convinced now that he was in danger, she fought down the dread rising within her. She took a deep breath and tried to think clearly, tried to persuade herself that she was worrying unnecessarily, that her brother was fine and would phone her any minute to tell her what he had seen; that there was some perfectly reasonable explanation. She counted slowly up to ten, then up to twenty, and felt her heartbeat gradually steadying.

She was just about to ring the police when she heard a knock at the door. Dropping the telephone, she went and put her eye to the peephole.

‘Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ she sighed. ‘At a time like this!’ She must be polite.

The instant she opened the door, two men barged inside. One clamped his hand over her mouth and forced her ahead of him into the living room. The other followed close behind, shut the door and conducted a swift search of the flat, checking the other rooms and kitchen to ensure she was alone. Meanwhile, the man who was holding Kristín pulled out a small revolver and put a finger to his lips to indicate that she should keep quiet. They were both wearing white rubber gloves. Their actions were methodical, calculated and practised, as if they had done this countless times before. Focused and purposeful, they got straight down to business.

Kristín could not make a sound. She stared at the two men in stunned bewilderment.

White rubber gloves?

Bateman found her passport in a drawer in the sideboard, walked over to Kristín and compared her face with the photo.

‘Bingo,’ he said, dropping the passport on the floor.

‘Do exactly what I tell you,’ Ripley said in English as he levelled the revolver at her head, ‘and sit down here at the desk.’ He shoved her towards the desk and she sat down with the gun still wedged against her temple. She could feel its muzzle, cold, heavy and blunt, and her head hurt from the pressure.

Bateman came over and joined them. He switched on Kristín’s computer, humming gently to himself as it warmed up, then created a new file and began quickly and methodically to copy something from a sheet of paper he had taken from his pocket. They conversed in English while this was going on, saying something she did not catch. Yet although they gave the impression of being American, to Kristín’s astonishment the man was writing in Icelandic.

I can’t go on living. It’s over. I’m sorry
.

She tried addressing them, first in Icelandic, then in English, but they did not answer. She knew that robberies had been on the increase lately but she had never heard of a burglary like this. At first she had taken it for some kind of joke. Now she was sure they were burglars. But why this unintelligible message on the computer?

‘Take what you like,’ she said in English. ‘Take anything you like, then get out. Leave me alone.’ She felt herself growing numb with terror at the thought that they might not be thieves, that they might have some other form of violence in mind for her. Later, when she replayed the events in her head, as she would again and again in the following days, she had difficulty remembering what thoughts had raced through her mind during those chaotic minutes. It all happened so fast that she never had time to take in the full implications of her situation. It was so absurd, so utterly incomprehensible. Things like this did not happen; not in Iceland, not in Reykjavík, not in her world.

‘Take whatever you like,’ she repeated.

The men did not answer.

‘Do you mean me?’ she asked, still speaking English, pointing at the computer screen. ‘Is it me who can’t go on living any longer?’

‘Your brother’s dead and you can’t go on living any longer. Simple as that,’ Bateman replied. He smiled as he added to himself sarcastically: ‘What poets they are at the embassy.’

The embassy
, Kristín noted.

‘My brother? Elías? What do you mean, dead? Who are you? Are you friends of Elías? If this is supposed to be a joke . . .’

‘Hush, Kristín. Don’t alarm yourself,’ Ripley said. The accent was definitely American.

‘What’s going on?’ Kristín demanded to know, her terror suddenly giving way to blazing anger.

‘A grand conspiracy involving the Reykjavík police, the Icelandic foreign ministry and the ministry of justice,’ Bateman said gravely, catching Ripley’s eye. He looked for all the world as though he was enjoying himself.

‘A conspiracy?’ Kristín repeated in Icelandic. ‘The foreign ministry? Elías? What kind of joke is this? What kind of bullshit is this?’ She was shouting now.

‘She’s lost it,’ Bateman said, taking in her flushed face and heaving chest. ‘Let her have it,’ he added, and retreated a couple of steps.

Out of the corner of her eye Kristín saw the barrel of the gun and Ripley tightening his finger on the trigger. She closed her eyes. But instead of the shot she expected, there was a sudden violent banging on the door.

Ripley removed the revolver from her temple and clamped his gloved hand over Kristín’s mouth. She struggled for air and could taste the plastic. Bateman went to the door and peered through the peephole, then returned to the living room.

‘A male, fortyish, unaccompanied, medium height.’

‘Let him in,’ Ripley said. ‘We’ll take him too. Turn it into a murder. Ratoff needn’t know.’

Ratoff
, Kristín noted.

Bateman returned to the door. The banging resumed, even louder than before. A man was yelling Kristín’s name. She recognised the voice and the hectoring tone but could not place them. In an instant, Bateman had opened the door, grabbed the man by the lapels and dragged him into the flat. As the door opened and Ripley’s attention was momentarily distracted by the struggle in the hall, Kristín seized her chance. Leaping to her feet, she shoved Ripley away, sending him crashing into the table, and fled to the door. Now she could see who the visitor was: Runólfur.

‘Look out!’ she screamed. ‘They’re armed!’

Runólfur did not have time to reply. He saw Kristín rushing towards him, panic written on her face. Glancing beyond her into the living room he saw Ripley stagger into the table. There was a dull report and a tiny red hole appeared in Runólfur’s forehead as Kristín dodged past him. She saw him collapse noiselessly into Bateman’s arms. As she ran out of the flat, the next bullet tore past her ear and smacked into the door. She sped across the hall, through the front door, out into the snow and round the corner of the building with Ripley and Bateman hard on her heels.

Although Kristín had been on her way out when her brother called from the glacier, she had not got as far as putting on her shoes. She was wearing only thin socks, baggy tracksuit bottoms and a vest-top under her anorak as she hurtled across the back garden. The temperature had dropped below freezing and the snow was covered with a thin crust of ice that cracked beneath her weight, plunging her feet into soft wetness with every step. The cold was so painful that she wanted to cry out. Not daring to look back, she took a flying leap over the garden fence, sprinted across the road, into another garden, across it and over the next fence, vanishing into the darkness.

Later, when she had time to unravel the chaos in her mind, she would decide that her life had been saved by the fact that Ripley and Bateman were ill-equipped for running in snow. They never had a chance of catching her in their slippery, leather-soled shoes and by the time they had jettisoned them, she had disappeared. After observing where her tracks in the snow met and mingled with countless others, the two men turned and headed back to Kristín’s flat. In spite of the gunfire and the commotion of the chase there was no sign of the occupants of the flat upstairs.