Black Ice (21 page)

His voice echoed  after  us down  the corridor. 'Auf  Wiedersehen,  buddy. AufWiedersehen.'

34

Solo females celebrate their status. They gather in wine bars on Saturday lunch-times and swap  notes on how to change  plugs and  what's new in  rape  alarms, and  laugh  scornfully  about their  enslaved  sisters who have to wash shirts.

Solo  males  don't. It's   widely  assumed   that  they  weep  in dingy basements with only a budgie for company and  pine for those  little  female  touches,  like a pile of smelly  tights  on  the bathroom floor.

For  some  reason,   it's  an  achievement for  women,   but  a failure for men. Actually  it isn't  like that  at all. The  reason  we keep so quiet  about  it is that  we're  having a lovely time: we're just  nervous that  pitying women will burst  in and rip the shirts off our  backs  to wash  them.

By use of a secret  international code,  Petursson and  I had established that we were both solo males. It's  not all that secret - you simply  never  use the word  'We'.

He  lived  in a cramped flat above  a shop  in Laugavegur, a long shopping street which runs right through the centre of the town.  Some stretches look like a branch office of Bond Street, others more like an Arizona  trading-post a century ago, and it's the only street I've so far come across where you can get an Icelandic-Vietnamese meal. The flat probably wasn't cramped before he moved in. But by the time he'd packed in huge chunks of dark  gleaming furniture,  presumably salvaged  from some earlier existence in  higher  and  wider  premises, a library  that lined  almost  every  wall,  a  baby-grand that  was  more  grand than baby,  plus a high-security wardrobe to keep his hat in, and then  slid  his own  considerable bulk  through the door,  it was cramped. Each  of the three  main  rooms had a central  clearing in which  it was possible  to sleep, eat, or sit.

Once you'd  seen him at home you no longer wondered  where he got such  nimble  footwork.

'Are  you interested in food?' he asked. I'd  found  him in the kitchen, apparently unaware of the fact that  he was wearing  a full-length plastic apron  cut  and  decorated in the shape  of a half-naked hula-hula girl.

'I am, actually,' I said.

That was another tricky  one.  You had  to be careful  where you  made  that  admission. Solo  men  who  like food have  the same  problem as male  hairdressers - people  are apt  to make snappy and  inaccurate judgements.

'Then  perhaps you  can  do  these.'   He  handed   me  some

peppercorns between  two sheets of kitchen  paper and a rolling pin. 'Ah,  an expert,' he said,  when  I set about crushing them. He was peeling  broccoli stems which he then placed upright in a pan. 'So,'  he said, obviously  pleased to be able to show off a little.  'The steam  cooks  the  heads  while  the  water  does  the stems. It is  quicker this  way.'  He  took  two  quarter-pound steaks  out  of a dish  of red wine where  they'd  been wallowing and  dipped them in the crushed peppers.

'A point?' He slid them  under  the grill.

That was an expression  you didn't hear a lot outside France which was where he'd picked it up. When he lived in London  he did a lot of Channel-hopping.

He knew what he was about, too. When  I sliced into mine I saw the thin line of raw meat  in the middle.  It  was a point all right. And I wasn't  sorry to see that  he'd removed  his pinafore before he sat down.  Hula-hula dancers' breasts  may well stimulate appetites  but  not  when  they're slung   beneath an elderly copper's face.

We tried some burgundy, then some more burgundy on top of that  burgundy and  they got along  fine. When  the  brandy went down  to join  them,  it did  no harm  at  all, so we sent  off some more, with dashes of coffee in between. Two table-lamps spread  light as thick and  yellow as custard.

He  told  me he wanted  me to visit Dempsie  in hospital  the next  day.  The   American   PR  man   hadn't got  any  serious injuries. They'd kept him in case of concussion and his face had been badly chewed up. When  I asked why he wanted  me to go, he repeated  again  his idea that  I was there for a purpose. Had he some contact  with Batty? Or even with Christopher Bell? I didn't know and  he wasn't going to tell me.

'Do you really believe that Palli did that to Sol run's mother?'

I was interested in his answer.  If he did,  he was a good deal dimmer than I'd taken him for. To my relief, he shook his head.

'I tried to use it as a lever. It worked a little. At least he told us what  he thought.'

'The Russian  trawler. I thought you'd  inspected that  and found  nothing  but fish.'

'Sometimes you  can  have  too  much  innocence.' He'd assembled  his cigars, lighter  and ashtray on a table  beside his heavy  leather chair.  I  noticed  that  he aligned   them  exactly along the edge of the table. That was how he liked things: neat.

'What was that old Icelandic saying that Hulda wheeled out for Palli?'

'Oh, yes. Something about  we cannot  save  those  who  are doomed  and we cannot  send to hell those who must live. It's a saying  you hear  mostly from the old people.'

He looked at me carefully through the smoke from his cigar.

He wanted to see if I was laughing at it. Luckily I wasn't.

'Which did she think  he was? Doomed  to die or to live?'

'What do you think? To die, of course. Here, have some more brandy.'

'Why  do you think she said  that?'

He pondered on that for a while. He'd  put on some classical piano  stuff- Chopin at  a guess - and  he cocked  his head  to concentrate on that  for a moment. After that  he replied.

'Palli. Ah,  Palli.  I was thinking  more about  what  you said about  him. I tried not to be the policeman, to see him your way. I  think  that  is why I wasn't so hard  on him at the flat. Isn't  it clear why Hulda said that about  him? He has the smell of death about him. Perhaps it is from where he has been or perhaps it is a part  of him,  I don't know. But it is there,  without  a doubt.' He wrinkled  up his nose as though  he could smell it there in

his own warm  den of a home. We sat in a comfortable silence before he carried on.

'Loyalties. That is what we are talking about  here. Loyalties. Where  do you  think  Palli's  loyalties  lie? With  Iceland?  With America? Or  is he a maverick,  a mad dog to be shot down?'

'No,  he isn't  a  mad  dog.  He doesn't have  loyalties  to any country because  he's a man  without  a country. All he has are places   where   they  don't  want   him.  You  can't   grasp   that because  your  roots go ten miles down  under  this lot.'

I tapped  my foot on the thick rug.

'So where does this man  place his loyalty?'

'If you haven't got a country, it goes to your friends. Who are his friends? One. Only one. Oscar  Murphy. Everything he does is for love of a friend. That doesn't make him too bad, Pete. Not with  me anyway.'

At that  he sat forward. 'That reminds  me. Why didn't you tell  me  about your  meeting  with  Murphy?  I  had  told  you things.  I trusted you. I hoped  you would return  the favour.'

'If  I did,  you would've swamped the place with police and there  would've been no Oscar  Murphy, real or phony.  Has he been picked  up yet?'

He shook  his head.  'Who  else knew about  that?'

'Ivan.' Even in saying  that,  I felt as though  I was betraying him.  'And  that  means  the entire  Soviet  Embassy, which also

means Kirillina. Very possibly Christopher Bell too, for what that's  worth.'

He gave a mock hurt look. 'Everybody in Iceland except me.'

'Who  was he? The  man who vanished?'

'That,' he replied, tipping some more brandy into my goblet,

'is something  I trust  Mr Dempsie  will tell us tomorrow.' He raised his glass. 'Seriously,  I do owe you my thanks. You have told me about  the real Oscar  Murphy. Thank you.'

I thought  of the way the police had appeared unsummoned on that first night. He'd  known what  that  Air Crew  badge was from the start. They'd been expecting  him. They  were looking for the ex-marine at Solrun's when they picked me up.

'I think you knew all about  Oscar  Murphy anyway.'

'Well,  I  will  tell you  this.  I  didn't know  he  was  running around  our countryside armed  with a Colt .45. So I am grateful to you for your clever piece of burglary.'

He raised his glass again. 'And where do your loyalties rest?'

I lifted my glass to him and we held each other's eyes over the rim.

'With  Dr Barnardo's, of course.'

He examined  the ceiling in search  of further evidence  of my lunacy.

'I thought  people who were raised in institutions needed  the warmth  of others  around them?'

'Mostly they do.'  It was true. That was why so many of our lads went into the Forces. It was also why they tended  to make well-balanced citizens.  'But  with one in a thousand it bounces the other  way. You come out emotionally self-sufficient.'

He lowered  his eyes to mine. 'So you won't  be going out  to

Chelmsford, I take it?'

'No.  Not a chance.'

'Like this country  of mine, you are trying  to be neutral in a world where it is not possible.'

'I wouldn't say that.  Palli's  neutral.'

'Palli  is also crazy.'

'Why  does it fascinate  you so much?'

'Because  neutrality is wrong.  It is a form of cowardice. No, no, please don't take offence. I mean intellectual cowardice. Personally,  it is merely tragic.  Don't  you feel this?'

Deep down in his half-buried eyes I thought I detected a sparkle  of mischief. He was going to get me again. Like that afraid-of-the-past stuff. He led you on then, wham, he got you. A conversational  mugger. But not me. Not again.

'I don't  think it's tragic,' I said, slowing down while I looked for the  traps.  'Not  if you don't  need to use other  people as props.'

'There,' he said,  flopping  back as though  I'd  made some major admission. 'It is all a question of viewpoint.'

'How's that?'

'That's where we differ, you see. You say you don't  need to use people as props. I was thinking how sad it was for people you might've  propped  up yourself.'

A large neon sign saying 'Mistake'  lit up in my head, but I ignored it. 'Like who?'

He waved his hands to show it was of no importance. Then he answered. 'Like anyone. Like Solrun, maybe.'

He'd got me again.

I got him back, though. I watched him put the pinafore on again  as we collected the dishes. 'You know, you're going to have to make your mind up which you're going for,' I said.

He gave me a puzzled look.

'Well,'  I  said,  nodding  towards  his twin-barrelled  chest, 'which is it? A face-lift- or a bra?'

As I walked back to Hulda's,  taxis were dashing around siphoning  people from the blocks of flats to fill up the discos. The old gods of war had been at it again in the sky- the clouds dripped  blood all over the sea. In all its vivid horror, it brought back the memory of Solrun's mother with her freshly-plucked head. The thought stopped me in my tracks. I shuddered. The light night air went clammy on my skin.

It was all right sitting drinking brandy and swopping ideas about loyalty, but I was several fathoms out of my depth here. Unseen armies were locked in silent conflict of which I knew nothing.

With a swell of sudden fervour, I hoped that Christopher Bell was my lifeline. I prayed that the inoffensive Mr Batty, between sneezes,  had  made  allowance for my amateur  status  in  the world of spies. Why me anyway? Why had he sought  me out to fling me into the middle  of this dress  rehearsal for World  War III?

I felt small,  ignorant, and  incompetent. I looked  up at  the butchery of the sky and silently mouthed the wish that God,  Mr Batty or whoever was ad min. night-duty was keeping an eye on me.

Two would be even better.

35

Overnight they'd  done  a quick  spray  job on  the sky. They'd taken  the  pattern from some minor  public  school  tie - it was eggshell  blue streaked with  pale gold. The  sea wasn't having any of that fancy stuff: it stayed surly grey, lightly topped  with angry  white.

The   wind  was  back  with  us  too.  It tugged   hard   at  the Daihatsu as I drove out to the base, and I saw that someone had moved  the crashed  car.

Ivan  had caught  me mid-shave  that  morning with a phone call to say he'd filed a story, and I was glad of it by the time I got to the base hospital. It gave me something to trade  with.

Petursson wanted  me along. He insisted that  I was central to his inquiries and he also pointed  out that it wasn't wise to have stray  newsmen  wandering around unrestrained at a time like this.  Dempsie  wasn't  sure,  but  he let it go when  I told  them about  Ivan's call. I didn't feel bad about  telling them. Ivan and I had agreed to let each other know before we filed. In any case, the Western  embassies  would pick up his story  the next day.

He'd  phoned from the Russian  Embassy. I could tell that  by his  businesslike   manner - no  mention   of  leg-breaks,   his favourite  waiters, or even the heavy glooms. What  he'd written was basically an Outraged of Omsk piece about  the beating  up

of Kirillina. Professionally, that  didn't bother  me too much.  I didn't think  the civil rights of Soviet citizens abroad were at the forefront of Grimm's mind. If it  was  big enough   to  have  a forefront, that  is.

What interested the  other  two  was  the  interpretation that Ivan  had  added  on the end.

'Once more, please,' Petursson said, bending  his ear towards my notebook as though  he could actually hear  my shorthand.

It was  all  about flagrant acts  of provocation ... an  indication  of the  increasing fear  of the  US  imperialists that  the peace-loving people  of Iceland would  no longer  tolerate  their nuclear bases ... fears  that   the  Americans planned   further barbaric acts  and  that  Iceland's friends  would  not stand  idly by ...

'What next?'  Pete said,  looking at the American.

'That's   definitely cue-for-song,' Dempsie   said.   He   was sitting up  in  his  hospital bed  wearing  raffish  black  pyjamas with  red  piping,  and  flicking  through a clipboard thick  with notes.