Operation Napoleon Page 7

  ‘We’re just leaving her father’s apartment now. He’s not at home. She left a message on his answering machine and we’re taking it down to the embassy to get it translated.’

  ‘She knows too much. Far too much.’

  ‘What about Keflavík?’ Ripley asked again.

  ‘She may be on her way to the base. Her brother mentioned an ex-boyfriend there. She ditched him suddenly and they haven’t met in a while, but it’s possible she will look to him for help or information now.’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ Ripley said.

  ‘Don’t screw up again.’

  ‘Understood,’ Ripley repeated.

  Ratoff gave him the man’s name and hung up, then stepped out of the communications tent and looked over at the plane. Like other members of Delta Force, he was dressed in thick, white camouflage and snow goggles which he had pushed up on his forehead, warm gloves and a balaclava. There were no names or ranks, no indications of any affiliation or any other markings on their clothes, nothing to connect them to the unit.

  Carr had not told him exactly what the plane contained and he burned to know more. He knew something of its history, knew that it had taken off from Germany at the end of the war, heading for Reykjavík, and had hit bad weather and crashed. But he had no idea whether Reykjavík had been the intended destination or if the plane had been scheduled to continue, perhaps all the way to the States. Nor did he know the identity of her passengers.

  He returned thoughtfully to the wreck and peered into the passenger cabin again. Ratoff had been trying to fill in the blanks by guesswork but knew it was futile; he would not be able to satisfy his curiosity until he could get inside. Turning away, he went back to his tent. An image floated into his mind of the boy’s face as he told him his sister was dead, of the torment in his eyes before he darkened them for ever. But the young men’s deaths had no impact on Ratoff. He calculated for collateral damage in all his assignments and in his view they amounted to nothing more. He would complete this job to his full satisfaction and any obstacles would have to be eliminated. Carr had asked if they were young – he was obviously getting soft in his old age. No doubt he would ask the same thing when he was informed of the woman’s death.

  He gave orders to be put through to Carr.

  ‘We believe she’s on her way to the US base in Keflavík, sir,’ he said when Carr came on the line, ‘and I have a good idea who she’s going to meet.’

  CENTRAL REYKJAVÍK,

  FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 2100 GMT

  The meeting was extremely formal, despite the choice of venue. By special request of the US military authorities, the prime minister and foreign minister of Iceland were now seated face to face with the admiral from Keflavík air base, in his capacity as the most senior officer in the Defense Force, and the general, who was temporarily discharging the office of US ambassador to Iceland during the abrupt and unexpected absence of the regular incumbent. The ministers had been summoned to the meeting with an unceremonious haste that might be interpreted as high-handedness if the circumstances did not turn out to be exceptional. The Icelanders had been given no information about the reason for the summons and discussed a number of possible scenarios as they travelled in the prime minister’s car to the city centre hotel suite where the meeting was to be held. They were inclined to believe that it heralded an unexpected presidential visit, remembering that they had been given practically no warning when the summit meeting between Reagan and Gorbachev was held in Reykjavík in 1986.

  On arrival they were greeted by the admiral, a casual acquaintance from various official receptions. He introduced them in turn to the general, a short, pugnacious-looking man whose name, the Icelanders learnt, was Immanuel Wesson; he was pudgy, red-faced and buck-toothed, and walked with a slight limp due to the fact that one of his legs was shorter than the other. The prime minister eyed him sceptically, wondering whether he had ever been on active duty or had enjoyed a lifetime’s service behind a desk and in the officers’ mess.

  It was about nine in the evening, the streets were quiet and there were few guests in evidence at the hotel. The suite had been the foreign minister’s idea; he often held meetings there with overseas guests on unofficial visits who wished to keep their names out of the press. As a setting it had that bland yet expensive anonymity characteristic of hotel rooms: white leather furniture, tasteful paintings by Icelandic artists on the walls, thick white carpets on the floors and a full-size bar. The Americans surveyed the opulent surroundings and nodded to the Icelanders as if in approval of the venue. There was an atmosphere of quiet expectation.

  Formalities concluded, they took their seats on the room’s ostentatious three-piece suite and the prime minister addressed the Americans:

  ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us what’s going on?’ he suggested, loosening the knot of his tie.

  ‘We would like to begin by thanking you, gentlemen, for agreeing to this emergency meeting,’ the admiral commenced, regarding each of them in turn, ‘and by apologising for the short notice. Once we’ve explained the matter, you will understand why it was unavoidable. It is absolutely vital, and I cannot emphasise this enough, that nothing said in this meeting leaves these four walls.’

  The ministers nodded and waited. The general now cleared his throat.

  ‘As you are naturally aware, according to the terms of the defence treaty between our nations, we monitor everything that happens within and around Iceland’s borders for military purposes, using a combination of submarines, reconnaissance planes and satellites. In particular, we have in recent years been closely monitoring a section of the Vatnajökull glacier.’

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say Vatnajökull?’ the foreign minister interrupted, looking disconcerted.

  ‘Allow me to explain, gentlemen,’ the general said. ‘We can answer any questions afterwards. In the past we operated surveillance flights over this area of the glacier but since we acquired satellite capabilities the process of monitoring has become much easier. Our interest in the glacier is historical but at the same time presents something of an embarrassment for us. In the closing stages of World War II one of our aircraft crashed on the glacier and was lost in the ice. We know more or less exactly where it went down but adverse weather conditions prevented us from reaching it until too late. By the time a search party from our Defense Force in Reykjavík finally made it to the glacier, there was no trace of the plane. As I said, the glacier had swallowed it up.’

  The general paused and the prime minister seized the opening this offered.

  ‘What’s so special about this plane?’

  ‘Recently, the aircraft turned up on satellite images of the glacier taken by military intelligence,’ the general continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘Having confirmed our original suspicions with the help of these images and others of the same area taken subsequently, we decided to send an expedition to the glacier to excavate the plane and transfer it to the base prior to repatriating it to the States. This will inevitably necessitate the movement of considerable numbers of military personnel and equipment through Icelandic territory.’

  ‘And you require the Icelandic government’s permission for this operation,’ the foreign minister concluded.

  ‘It has never been our wish to act against your will,’ the admiral interjected.

  ‘Naturally we will travel through the country as inconspicuously as possible,’ the general resumed, ‘taking the utmost care not to cause any alarm. We have drawn up plans which we will review with you in greater detail later. We know how the army is viewed by many Icelanders and we are aware that military manoeuvres on Icelandic soil are frowned on by the public, but this is an emergency and if the expedition is to be successful, we must proceed in absolute secrecy. But, needless to say, we wouldn’t want to act without your full cooperation. I’d like to make that absolutely clear from the outset and stress that this is above all a scientific expedition. The military personnel will be accompanied by some of our m
ost senior scientists.’

  ‘What’s so special about this plane?’ the prime minister asked again.

  ‘I think we had better leave it at that for the moment. We wanted to inform you in case anything went wrong – and of course in a spirit of mutual cooperation.’

  ‘Went wrong?’ the foreign minister echoed him. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘In the event that news of the operation leaks out,’ the admiral replied, ‘we would like you to be ready with an explanation about the troop movements and our presence on the glacier.’

  ‘And what, General, do you suggest?’ the prime minister enquired.

  ‘Small-scale winter exercises. It would probably be best to describe deployments of small Belgian and Dutch NATO forces in collaboration with the US Defense Force. That should take off most of the heat.’

  ‘Is that all you’re prepared to tell us?’ the foreign minister asked.

  ‘We regard this as the best way.’

  ‘Best way? Why all the secrecy? Why can’t we simply announce that you’re mounting an expedition to the glacier to recover a plane? Just what exactly is going on here?’

  ‘It’s a sensitive issue, that’s all I can tell you at the present time,’ the general replied. ‘I hope to be able to provide you with a fuller explanation in due course.’

  ‘General, the issue is extremely sensitive for us too,’ the prime minister pointed out. ‘I advise you to be straight with us, otherwise I fail to see how this can work. What is this plane and why does it pose a problem?’

  ‘With all due respect, it’s not your concern,’ the general answered, abruptly abandoning any attempt at politeness.

  ‘And with all due respect to you, we’re not accustomed to such lack of courtesy in our dealings with the Defense Force. You have not requested permission to carry out the operation, merely told us what you are planning to do. Does that mean you’ve already set an operation in motion? May I remind you that such an act would represent a serious violation of the defence treaty, something the Icelandic media would be very dismayed to learn. Hitherto we have been prepared to accommodate American interests in any way we can and while we’re grateful that you’ve seen fit to inform us of this operation, I’m afraid the feeble excuses you are proposing will prove inadequate if we are compelled to account for our actions.’

  ‘Please excuse us if we come across as disrespectful,’ the admiral intervened in a placatory tone. ‘Of course we value your contribution to the West’s efforts for peace and international stability but in this case I think the general is right. This matter is best resolved without any external involvement, and then forgotten.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t do,’ the foreign minister replied. ‘A plane from the Second World War? How do we know that’s true? For all we know, it could have crashed yesterday. Who’s to say it even exists? Frankly, I find the whole thing extremely far-fetched.’

  ‘We could have passed it off as a routine exercise,’ the admiral replied, ‘but the matter is so serious that we can’t afford to be disingenuous. You will simply have to trust us. If questions are asked, it’s important that the answers given by all sides are consistent. It’s imperative that we keep the existence of the plane secret.’

  ‘I repeat: what is so special about this plane?’ the prime minister asked.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t answer that question,’ the admiral replied.

  ‘Then I’m afraid this meeting is over,’ countered the prime minister, tightening the knot of his tie and standing up.

  The Americans watched the ministers get ready to depart. They had been prepared for the fact that the Icelanders might not buy the half-baked story about a plane and Belgian troop movements, but had felt obliged to mount this as a first line of defence.

  ‘Are you familiar with the Manhattan Project?’ the general asked, rising to his feet.

  ‘The Manhattan Project? Vaguely,’ said the foreign minister.

  ‘It was the codename for our nuclear testing programme in the 1940s. At the end of the war a considerable number of German scientists who had been involved in the Nazis’ nuclear experiments were invited to America and employed on the Manhattan Project. It became a source of major embarrassment to us after news broke about the Holocaust. The Jews claimed that some of these scientists had worked in the death camps, carrying out experiments on the prisoners.’

  The general allowed the ministers a chance to absorb the implications. This was the story he had been instructed to feed them if the meeting failed to go according to plan, a contingency he now judged necessary. The ministers observed him with quizzical expressions.

  ‘We were engaged in a race against the Russians, as on all fronts in those days. They managed to recruit far more German scientists than we ever did, though no one criticised them, of course. But that’s another story. The plane took off from Hamburg with four German nuclear scientists on board. It made a refuelling stop in Scotland and was scheduled to land again in Reykjavík en route for New York but was damaged in a storm and crashed on the glacier. Since no sign of them or the plane has ever been found, we believe everyone on board was killed. Now, however, we have a chance to retrieve the wreckage from the glacier and take it home.’

  ‘But I still can’t see why the discovery of the plane should be kept so clandestine,’ the foreign minister interrupted.

  ‘If news of the plane and its mission is made public, it will reignite the whole debate about German scientists working in America, coverage that we could well do without and which would risk jeopardising relations between the US and Europe. That’s all there is to it. Now, gentlemen, you are in possession of all the facts. May I take it you are willing to cooperate?’

  The ministers looked at one another, then back at the Americans.

  ‘I think you have a lot more explaining to do,’ the prime minister said.

  KEFLAVÍK AIR BASE,

  FRIDAY 29 JANUARY, 2230 GMT

  Ever since the Icelanders had taken over the international airport at Keflavík in the 1980s with the construction of their own civil aviation terminal, public access to the military zone had been severely restricted. Local dealings with the army had always been kept to a minimum but now the base became more isolated than ever. Standing among the bleak lava fields, the military zone was demarcated by a high fence, pierced by only two gates which were guarded at all times. Although it was not considered necessary to mount a guard on the fence itself, the military police monitored it during their regular patrols of the residential area.

  Kristín directed the taxi driver to a new housing estate which lay adjacent to the perimeter fence. After waiting for the cab to disappear down the street, she set off at a run in the direction of the military zone. The fence soon loomed out of the darkness and after a hasty glance around she started to climb it. There was barbed wire along the top and she had to ease her way over it with extreme care to avoid the spikes which nevertheless ripped at her clothes and scratched her hands. Finally, she was over and jumped down the other side; it was a drop of about three metres but the snow was soft and absorbed most of the impact. Rising to her feet, she brushed down her borrowed clothes and assessed the damage. Her ankle ached from the fall but the injury did not seem serious, so after a brief pause to recover, she set off, limping a little.

  During the drive she had forced herself to take stock of her situation, to impose some sort of order on her chaotic thoughts. Runólfur had been involved in business with the Russians; he had spoken of a conspiracy when he visited her office at the ministry; he had made threats against the chairman of the Trade Council and now he was lying dead in her flat with a bullet in his head. He had mentioned the Russian mafia. Yet she had been the killers’ intended target. They had referred to a conspiracy as well, but they were American. How did that fit? And how was it connected to what her brother had seen on the glacier? Was he actually dead, as they had claimed – was Elías really gone? It was more than she could bear to follow the thought through.
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br />   Soon she came to a block of flats and pressed one of the doorbells. The building was three storeys high with two cold, empty stairwells. It contained twelve apartments in all. Like the other military accommodation blocks on the base, it had been built by Icelandic contractors in the style of a massive bunker, with thick concrete walls designed to withstand major earthquakes as well as a relentless battering from the Icelandic climate which was particularly savage here on the exposed Reykjanes peninsula. The windows were suitably small and thickly glazed.

  After a while, a voice said ‘Yes?’ over the entry-phone.

  ‘Steve?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Kristín,’ she said in English. ‘I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Kristín? Kristín! Just a minute.’

  He buzzed her into the dark stairwell where she groped for a light switch. A cigarette machine stood on one wall and another sold chocolate and nuts. The cheap floor tiles were plastic. She climbed up to the top floor where she found Steve’s door open but knocked anyway.

  ‘Come in,’ he called from inside the flat.

  She entered, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Hi,’ Steve said, his arms full of newspapers and magazines that he had picked up off the floor and sofa, something he plainly did not do very often. ‘Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting you. In fact you were the last person I expected to see.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Kristín replied.

  ‘I dozed off. But what are you doing here? It must be a year . . .’ He trailed off in mid-sentence.

  She had been here once before and nothing had changed. The apartment was small, consisting of a kitchen, a living room, one bedroom and a cramped bathroom. The place was a tip, littered with piles of newspapers, fast-food packaging and dirty dishes cluttering up the sideboard. The walls were covered with photos and posters: James Dean in a long coat, standing on a New York street in the rain; Che Guevara, outlined in black on a red background – nothing you would not find in any left-leaning movie buff’s home.