The Valkyrie Project, page 11
“Most American stars can’t act.”
Sverrir nodded. “We see your movies on our television,” he said. “I’m surprised Elisabet didn’t leave Iceland long ago to become a model in New York. Or marry some rich American. I interviewed her for Kvoldbladid and once she said she became very sad if she stayed too long away from Iceland. Very depressed. How did you two get along?”
“She had me to her apartment last night. To hear her father’s jazz records.”
“You should consider yourself much honored.”
Over Sverrir’s objections, Spencer raised his hand to signal the waiter. He could function with three whiskies. Even doubles. It would certainly enhance his cover.
Spencer’s last interview that afternoon was an added starter. On a whim, returning from a look at Reykjavik’s underground geothermal heating pipes, he decided to stop in at the Althing building and ask to see Gunnar Erikisson. The Communist leader was there, even though the parliament was not in session that day. To Spencer’s amazement, Erikisson readily agreed to meet with him. After a stiffly formal introduction, they sat together on a red leather banquette in a window alcove outside the Althing chambers.
Erikisson was an entirely gray man—gray hair, long and wispy; a gray pallor; gray eyes behind gray-rimmed spectacles; gray flannel trousers and a gray tweed jacket; a grayish white shirt; a dark gray tie.
As Spencer expected, Erikisson was both flattered and apprehensive at being sought out by an American correspondent.
He seemed so jittery beneath his grave formality that Spencer decided to be prudent, to choose a neutral, safe subject. Explaining his magazine assignment, Spencer asked, “Mr. Erikisson, Iceland has traditionally resisted any sort of foreign investment or foreign industrial exploitation of its tremendous resources of electrical power. In view of Iceland’s deteriorating economic situation, however, do you see any prospect of this changing? I mean, should your party prevail in the upcoming election, do you see any prospect of a different policy? Would you permit some foreign industry here?”
Erikisson looked stricken, as though Spencer had just driven an icepick between his eyes. Though Spencer would not have thought it possible, he grew paler. His eyelids fluttered, and a rapid tic pulled at the corner of his upper lip. His hands began to chase each other around his lap. “I … uh … we have the one aluminum plant here near Reykjavik,” he said. “It … it has proved to be of much benefit. I … I don’t know about … Iceland’s culture and environment must be—be preserved at all costs. But the working people must, too, be protected. I …”
He glanced nervously up and down the corridor, then quickly looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “An appointment. I’ve forgotten. I’m quite overdue.” He shook Spencer’s hand. “I am pleased to meet you. Thank you for what you did for us against the British imperialists.”
Then he was gone, striding across Austurvollur Square in awkward haste. Spencer had flushed a quail.
Spencer pondered the two telephone numbers Laidlaw had given him. The one in New York for routine calls, and the special one in Glasgow to be used only in extreme emergencies. The New York one was an open line that required that all conversations be conducted in cover. The Glasgow number would patch him into a “clean” line direct to Washington that could not be tapped but had to be used sparingly.
It was time for his daily check-in with Laidlaw. For a moment, he thought of using the Glasgow channel so he could relate more amply Erikisson’s extraordinary reaction. But he didn’t want to seem rash or hasty—an amateur. Instead, he returned to his room, pausing to pour a Johnnie Walker and water before sitting down at the desk overlooking Austurvollur Square and picking up the phone.
“Perspective magazine.” The woman’s New York accent was harsh.
“Jim Clepich, please. This is an overseas call. From Iceland.”
“Oh. Just a minute, sir.”
There was a click, another click, and a long wait. Finally, Laidlaw came on the phone, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. “Clepich.”
“Jim? This is Jack Spencer, in Reykjavik. Listen. I’ve started my interviews and everything, and I think now that maybe I want to pursue a slightly different angle.”
“What different angle?”
“Well, instead of confining this to the techniques of harnessing geothermal and hydroelectric energy, which is pretty goddamn dull, I thought I’d include more of a human element. I mean, Iceland does have a hell of a lot of electrical energy. But if it were to exploit it, Iceland would have to pay a big price in the way of the threat to its environment and its culture. It’s the quintessential dilemma of the era of energy scarcity. The same sort of thing we face in Alaska. I’ve talked about it with some of the officials here. One of them, Erikisson of the Communists, got really excited. I mean really excited.”
Laidlaw paused. “Okay,” he said, finally. “It sounds interesting—as an angle. But don’t let it take over the whole story. Don’t lose sight of the main point. Remember, our readers are here in the United States, not in Iceland.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer said. “I think I may go out to the country. Take a look at some of these rivers and power plants. They’ve got a big hothouse complex here, heated with underground steam, where they grow bananas and tomatoes just a few miles south of the Arctic Circle.”
“Good. Get some pictures. Don’t leave things to memory. How’s the weather up there? Are you freezing your ass off?” Laidlaw never swore.
“No, it’s much less cold than I expected,” Spencer said. “I’m really quite comfortable.”
“Good. Stay in touch.”
After he hung up, Spencer slouched back in the chair, sipping his scotch as he looked out over the bright rooftops of the city. He had told Laidlaw everything, including the fact that it was not cold—that he was not overly worried about the Russians. Now, as far as he was concerned, his work day was over. He took another sip, a large one.
Emil Jahn’s plan for capturing Geir Krog was an old, simple, and effective one: Find someone close to him to take as hostage. But it was not succeeding; they had gone through Krog’s address book and made inquiries everywhere, but there was no one that close. Krog was a loner, a man with many acquaintances but few real friends. His parents and brother had moved to Canada years before. He had gone from woman to woman without, apparently, establishing any enduring relationships. His chief passions were his work, his outdoor pursuits, chess, and his politics. No wonder Jahn liked him; they were much the same.
Jahn went through the address book again, circling the names of the nine women who might have had or were known to have had affairs with Krog. Jahn would have his men investigate them one more time; perhaps there were still strong ties. He glanced through the photographs his men had taken. He would like to investigate one or two himself.
His telephone rang. It was the Polish embassy. The consular affairs official would be able to see him now. That meant a summons from Gorushchenko.
The Soviet ambassador was in the same basement room and just as angry as before. Gorushchenko began speaking in his ugly growl as soon as Jahn shut the door. “That fool Erikisson has just been to see me. There’s an American reporter here who tracked him down at the Althing for an interview. His first question—his very first question—was whether as prime minister Erikisson would allow foreign industrial development in Iceland!”
Jahn was covered. “His name is John Spencer. He’s from Washington. He was here in 1976 to cover the cod war with Britain. He’s come again to do a story on Icelandic energy for an intellectual magazine based in New York called Perspective.” Jahn paused. “Erikisson is not the only one he’s talked to,” he said. “This Spencer has spent the entire day interviewing Icelandic officials. The subject was energy.”
Gorushchenko squinted at him through his cigarette smoke. “Have you searched his room?” he asked.
“Nothing of consequence.”
“Have you run his name through Moscow?”
“He’s clean. He’s had a number of overseas assignments but has never appeared on an agents list. He’s had a few minor CIA contacts, but the kind you’d expect. They’re always trying to glean things from journalists.”
“Have you checked him out with our friend?”
“Of course. There’s nothing. No word from Washington. No attempts at contact. Nothing. The only thing suspicious about Spencer thus far is that taxi ride and the fact that he’s come here so close to the election.”
“Erikisson is paranoid over this,” Gorushchenko said. “He was on the verge of calling everything off.”
“Did you reassure him?”
The Russian glowered. “No. I told him he could be assassinated at any minute,” Gorushchenko snarled. Then he snorted. “I told him he was getting jumpy; that there was nothing this reporter or any American could do or say to affect the outcome of the election. Everything has been arranged.”
“All of which is perfectly true,” said Jahn. “Presuming he can still provide the manpower.”
Gorushchenko leaned back, exhaling cigarette smoke. “I do not like the idea of this American journalist,” he said. “I know that security is now your responsibility but I have rank on you and I will use it if necessary. I want you to contact our friend again and have him run a computer check on Spencer.”
“That would be very difficult—and very dangerous—for our friend,” Jahn said.
“He’s being paid very well,” said Gorushchenko. “And in a few more days we shall no longer have need of him. This is important, Colonel. You and I have never been involved in anything so important.”
“Yes, Herr Botschafter.”
“I want you to keep a very, very, very close watch on this Spencer. And put a man on Erikisson, as well. He’s beginning to make me a little paranoid. And this time don’t hire a Krog.”
Less than three hours later, the KGB’s American in Iceland had the information—or the lack of it. The risky computer check had drawn a blank. Spencer was clean.
Jahn, back in his hotel room, telephoned the Polish embassy. “Tell the consular official,” he said, “that the answer to his question is still ‘no.’”
Geir Krog had been out in the wild for so long that it felt more natural than a human habitation. He had accustomed himself to the cold, the uncooked food, his own unwashed body, and cuts and scratches he found he was able to completely ignore. His hearing had become so finely tuned he could detect the slightest shift in the wind or the sound of a car on a gravel road miles away. Traveling only in the darkness, he found his night vision had improved as dramatically as though he had taken a magic potion. There may have been less myth to Eyvind of the Hills than people thought.
Egilsstadir lay in the middle of a long valley that contained one of the few forests in Iceland. The birch and aspen were scarcely twelve feet high, but they grew thickly and provided ample cover. Krog had been hiding in it all day, watching the lone asphalt runway and small terminal building that constituted the Egilsstadir airport.
It was much like spending a day in a theater, a theater that gave only two main performances—morning and afternoon domestic Icelandair flights from Reykjavik. Within twenty minutes after the aircraft took off again, all would be gone, the terminal deserted, the runway just another desolate place beside the forest, the theater empty.
Except for the policemen. There were two of them, relieved every four hours. One hung about the terminal; the other strolled the perimeter of the airstrip. Krog moved as close as he could. Normally, Icelandic policemen did not carry guns, but normally there were not suspected murderers on the loose. Krog would have to assume that each carried a pistol.
There had been four breaks in the long, dull monotony of hours between the two Icelandair flights. The first was the unexpected—and, for Krog, briefly terrifying—appearance of a Coast Guard patrol plane. It made one low-level pass over the field, then turned and landed. The pilot taxied to the terminal, keeping the engines idling while a crewman ran inside and fetched a package. With that aboard, they flew off, shifting course toward the sea. Krog took a deep, relaxing breath. The Coast Guard visit had nothing to do with him. He was spared a chase, and could continue with his plan. He lay in the woods, waiting.
Around noon, a violent storm roared in from the south, drenching the valley with a cold, unrelenting downpour for half an hour and driving the policemen to the shelter of the terminal. If there had been an aircraft on the ramp, Krog would have seized that moment to steal it. But he had to wait, his clothing slowly drying in the returning sun.
Midafternoon brought what Krog had been counting on, a private plane. A six-passenger, V-tailed Beechcraft Bonanza landed roughly and taxied to the terminal area. Krog rejoiced to see the pilot park it, kill the engine, and tie it down. Not longer after, a speck in the distant clearing sky proved to be a small overhead-wing Cessna 150. Its pilot also parked it and tied it down, but first—making Krog even happier—he stopped at the avgas pump to refill his fuel tanks.
Now the waiting became even less endurable. Krog dared not make his move until the fall of darkness. He stared through the foliage at the afternoon shift of bored policemen, knowing that at any minute either or both the two pilots might return and fly off. The afternoon Icelandair flight from Reykjavik came and went. The policemen changed shifts again. The sun sank and the shadows lengthened. Still the pilots did not come. At last the eastern sky began to darken, the deepening hue spreading overhead like a curtain being pulled by the gods.
Krog got to his feet, painfully, for the first time since sunrise. In his hand he held that rarest of objects in nearly treeless Iceland, a length of wood. A club. Now I am the compleat Neanderthal, he thought. With well-practiced stealth, he slipped along through the trees, circling toward the terminal building, again deserted but for the two policemen. One lounged in the doorway, smoking. The other began his walk around the airport perimeter.
They were there in case Krog tried to get aboard one of the Icelandair flights or attempted precisely this—the theft of an airplane. Krog had seen himself described in the newspaper article as a highly skilled pilot. The truth was, Krog had only a rudimentary knowledge of powered aircraft. He was one of the country’s leading glider pilots, having achieved two of the three tasks needed for the Federation Aeronautique Internationale’s diamond badge. It was international soaring’s highest award, and fewer than a thousand had been issued.
That was now moot. He knew only enough about powered aircraft to start them, take them off, and land them. He had little or no experience with their sophisticated navigation instruments or the mysteries of keeping a sputtering engine going.
As he moved through the trees, he weighed in his mind the advantages and disadvantages, the possibilities and limitations of both aircraft. The large Bonanza would have the fastest speed and longest range. With full tanks, it could take him to Scotland. But he had no idea how much fuel had been left in it. The small Cessna, though its tanks were full, could only take him, with a miracle, close to the Faroe Islands. More likely, it could go no farther than Greenland.
And all this at night.
He made his decision.
The man walking the airport perimeter had reached the apron of the runway and turned to the right, heading for the point on his rounds farthest from the terminal. The other, still smoking, started to walk in a counterclockwise fashion around the terminal building. When he had disappeared around the far side, Krog ran from the cover of the trees for the near corner. He flattened himself back against the wall, the length of wood in hand. They had doubtless been on this duty assignment for several days, waiting and looking for Krog, seeing and hearing nothing. They would be bored and tired, irritable, certainly not expecting anyone to steal an aircraft and take it off from an unlighted field after nightfall.
Krog heard the leisurely crunch of the policeman’s feet upon the gravel. Tightening his grip on the club, he realized he had no idea how hard to hit the man. Too much force—Krog was a huge man—and he would become the murderer all Iceland so falsely accused him of being. Too little, and he would be captured. He could only guess.
It was a good guess. The man turned the corner and Krog swung the wood without hesitation, striking the crown of the man’s skull with a loud thud and dropping him to the ground in an instant. Krog knelt a moment beside him. He was unconscious but still breathing.
Still holding his club, Krog picked up his pack and ran toward the two aircraft, stopping at the small Cessna. Slashing the tie-down ropes with his knife, he darted for the door, guessing that it was locked, that he would have to break the window and thus alert the other policeman. But the door opened when he pulled the handle! He threw his pack in the opposite seat and climbed inside, feeling cramped in the little cockpit. It would be no problem for Iceland’s best electrical engineer to cross the ignition wires. He had started his own and his friends’ cars that way countless times. But it was an added complication that could cost valuable seconds, or worse.
He started to fumble with the wires, glancing over the instrument panel outlined in the faint remnants of twilight. There it was in the ignition—the key! Why would a pilot leave the key in his plane? Was it a trap? But why wouldn’t he? The police were guarding the airport twenty-four hours a day.
Krog rummaged through his memory for a procedure he had last gone through in a flying lesson six years before—a lesson taken, fortuitously enough, in a Cessna 150. The magneto switches had to go on. The carburetor heat had to go on. The fuel mixture turned to rich. The throttle halfway in.
He pushed his feet on the rudder pedals and pushed the wheel and turned it, making sure the controls moved freely. That would be all the preflight he would have time for. Then he turned the key. The engine coughed, then caught, throwing back a few bright blue sparks of exhaust against the darkness. Krog let it run just a few seconds more, till the sound was full and throaty, then eased in the throttle.
