The Valkyrie Project, page 6
He returned to his chair. Beneath the copy of the New Republic on the table was a New Yorker. Beneath that was a very old copy of a horseman’s magazine. The rest of the stack was horsemen’s magazines, all very old.
Laidlaw returned carrying a full martini shaker and two long-stemmed glasses on a small, slightly tarnished silver tray. He poured very deftly without speaking. Spencer had not been served a martini in this fashion for at least ten years. He sipped it and found it perfect, taste and icy temperature just as he expected.
“Before we proceed any further,” said Laidlaw, resuming his seat, “may I assume at this point that you’re willing to assist us in this matter? It won’t take long. Two or three weeks, I should think.”
“I have two or three weeks,” Spencer said. He took another, larger sip.
“My question, Mr. Spencer.”
“I’ll do it,” said Spencer. “Of course. But what is it you want me to do?”
“There’s an election in Iceland this month.”
Spencer nodded. Laidlaw lifted his eyebrows in query.
“There are only some twenty functioning democracies left,” Spencer said. “I cover the State Department. They keep track of these things.”
“Are you acquainted with the political situation in Iceland?” Laidlaw asked. Spencer shook his head.
“The true Communists, the Workers’ and Farmers’ Party, have a chance to win this one so overwhelmingly they can take the government without a coalition. They can even do without the People’s Alliance. Inflation is now running at fifty-six per cent in Iceland. People are getting a bit desperate. The other four parties have had the government and failed. Gunnar Erikisson, the leader of the Communists, has promised to cut inflation in half. We think he can deliver. As you may know, Iceland imports all its oil from the Soviet Union. They’ve been charging top dollar, but they don’t have to. We’ve reason to believe Erikisson has made an arrangement.”
“Cut a deal? For what? To get us out of that air base? Get Iceland out of NATO?”
Laidlaw smiled.
“That’s the obvious thing,” he said. “The Workers’ and Farmers’ Party has always vowed to do that. It’s a possibility. But I’m not all that certain the Icelandic people would stand still for such a sudden shift in foreign policy. I think the Russians are after something more subtle. They’re certainly after something. They’ve poured ten times the money into this election as they usually do.”
“What do you want me to do? Fix the election?”
Laidlaw’s smile was reluctant. “We don’t do those things anymore, Mr. Spencer,” he said. “We confine ourselves to gathering intelligence. That’s what we want from you. We would like you to find out what the Russians want, which is to say, we want you to find someone who we think knows what the Russians want.”
Spencer stared blankly. He was tiring of Laidlaw’s pregnant pauses.
“His name is Geir Krog. He’s a hydroelectrical engineer from Akureyri. You remember Akureyri? He’s also a geologist, a mountain climber, a chess player of some note, and I think he’s a pilot. We have a file, of course. You’ll be fully briefed.”
“How would he know what the Russians are after?” Spencer asked.
“He’s deputy leader of the Workers’ and Farmers’ Party. He’s also working for us. At least he was. You see, unfortunately he’s disappeared. There’s another complication. He’s wanted for murder.”
“They don’t have murders in Iceland.”
“This was a very real and particularly nasty murder, Mr. Spencer.”
Spencer had drunk most of his martini. He needed more.
“Why me? I know next to nothing about Icelandic politics. I don’t know anything about engineering. I’ve only been in the country twice.”
“You have an association,” Laidlaw said. “You took their side in the cod war. They like and trust you for that. You have contacts there. Your presence will be more than plausible. Really, Mr. Spencer, I consider you a godsend.”
“Why would my presence be so plausible?”
“You are going to combine business with a vacation. You’ll be doing an article on Iceland’s success with hydroelectric and geothermal power for Perspective magazine.”
“You own Perspective?” Spencer asked. “Some of the best names in Washington write for that.”
“You’ll be given a letter confirming the assignment and a check for five hundred dollars. Another two thousand will be paid upon publication. You’ll have to write the article, you know. And do a good job. We don’t want any doubts cast on your cover.”
Spencer drained his glass, setting it down on the table with a pronounced click. He glanced at the pitcher. It was still two-thirds full. “Upon publication,” Spencer repeated. “I’m not very flush at the moment, and five hundred …”
“You’ll be able to draw up to ten thousand in expenses from us, Mr. Spencer. And you won’t have to account for any of it.”
All Spencer had to do was casually ask for another martini. Perfectly sociable thing to do. Why else the large pitcher?
“What about your own people in Iceland?” Spencer said. “Why can’t they find this Krog?”
“They’re trying,” Laidlaw said, ignoring Spencer’s empty glass. “Although I’m not altogether certain I want them to find him. Our operation’s been a bit compromised there, I’m afraid. Intruders.”
“A mole?”
“Or moles. That’s why we want to keep you separate. You’ll have to operate entirely on your own.”
Spencer felt a little bleak. He remembered being very lonely when he was in Iceland, even though he had been accompanied by a good friend.
“We have some reliable assets elsewhere in the Nordic countries,” Laidlaw continued. “If things get really bad, we’ll have someone in place to help you. And we’ll provide you with a means of comunicating with me. But otherwise, you’re a solo, to borrow a phrase from a colleague of mine.”
“What about Icelandic intelligence?”
Laidlaw laughed for the first time since the conversation had begun. “Mr. Spencer. Iceland has no army, no navy. Just five hundred policemen and that little Coast Guard. I don’t think they have ten ambassadors. Don’t worry about bumping into Icelandic agents. They can’t afford any.”
Spencer looked at the martini pitcher, then decided not to look at it anymore.
“Are you still thinking this over?” Laidlaw asked.
“No. I’ll go. I’m your boy.”
“The job will have its dangerous aspects, Mr. Spencer, if that sweetens things.”
“Weapons?”
“No more questions for the moment, if you don’t mind. Everything will be answered at your briefing tomorrow,” Laidlaw said. He took a slip of paper from his notecase, writing a four-digit number on it. “Be at this address on J Street tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. Someone will meet you in the lobby and take you upstairs.”
They both rose.
“How soon will I have to be in Iceland?” Spencer asked, memorizing the number and returning the notepaper to Laidlaw.
“Soon. Within the week. Perhaps as soon as two days. Presuming we get the final okay. Which I’m sure we shall.”
He led Spencer into the hall. At the door, Spencer shook hands and thanked Laidlaw for his hospitality. Then abruptly he said, “Do you ride horses?”
“No, Mr. Spencer,” said Laidlaw, with the faintest of smiles. “No, I don’t.”
As he walked to his car, Spencer took careful note of the weeds growing in the drive. He also noted that the Mercedes had District of Columbia license plates, and, as he twisted his head toward the BMW’s rear window in backing it and turning it around, he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the heavy brush and trees that fronted the road. There were doubtless more. He wondered how the agency could be so clumsy. Where did Laidlaw actually live?
Spencer did stop for his whiskey in Georgetown, at a bar on M Street fashioned after an English club. But he only had one. And he ignored the thin blonde at the bar, although she was alone. He passed the evening soberly, reading about Iceland in some books he had bought during his previous trip but had never opened. It wasn’t until just before he went to bed that he had another drink—a very large straight whiskey, just like always.
After Spencer had gone, Laidlaw returned to the study, poured himself another martini, and then rejoined his colleagues in the basement room. Thorn, thorough as always, had the videotaped interview played back again, paying particular attention to the footage showing Spencer’s movements in the study after Laidlaw had left to make drinks.
“He passed all the tests,” Laidlaw said. “Such as they were.”
“Okay,” said Thorn. “I’ll buy him.”
“I do wish he had shown more interest in the particle-beam file,” Laidlaw said. “And the word ‘Valkyrie.’”
“It was negligent of you not to tell him about it,” said Mendelsohn, lighting another cigarette. Laidlaw and Thorn stared at him as though he were not a genius and had never been a University of Chicago classics scholar.
“The most dangerous thing for the other side to know,” said Thorn reciting cant, “is what we know.”
Laidlaw grimaced slightly as he sipped his gin, He wished Spencer didn’t drink so much.
5
Geir Krog had now committed three actual crimes. He had killed a lamb, killed a dog, and broken into a farmer’s cottage. By the time his odyssey ended, he was likely to be listed in police records as one of the worst criminals in recent Icelandic history.
The lamb was necessary. He was hoarding his canned goods and taking fresh meat where he could. His hope was that the lamb might not be missed. Icelandic sheep were allowed to wander the country at will, sorted out according to skin markings in an annual roundup. Farmers routinely accepted a few losses.
The dog was unfortunate. Krog had been approaching the cottage at dawn over a mossy meadow when the dog came at him at a bounding run, barking and snarling. Krog could not escape it. He had no wish to fight the dog. It had to be silenced before it summoned its master. As it leapt at him, he caught it in the throat with his sheath knife. It fell, still breathing, whimpering. He stabbed it twice more, horribly reminded of Inga.
As it turned out, the dog was guarding the cottage on his own. The farmer and his family apparently were visiting elsewhere, having padlocked the cottage’s only door. Krog kicked in one of the windows. In a quick but thorough rummage, he took some canned fish and vegetables, an extra flashlight, some matches, and what he was most overjoyed to find—a copy of Kvoldbladid, Reykjavik’s leading paper, only two days old. Geir Krog, high-ranking communist, was amused that he was so happy to have it. Kvoldbladid was one of the most conservative papers in the country.
The farmer’s cottage was a godsend in another way. Breaking into it would provide unmistakable evidence that he was heading south.
He had been ever since he had fled from his cabin, moving through the hills parallel to the coast road, striking into some mountains to avoid a big loop in the road around the peninsula at Djupivogur, and then descending into the wide mossy valley that contained the farmer’s cottage. If he continued in this direction, he would soon enter a barren wilderness and ultimately come upon the huge Vatnajokull glacier. It was good country in which to hide, better country for the police to waste their time searching for him. Making messy tracks as he left the cottage, he continued south until he reached some higher rocky ground. Then he made his chess move, carefully leaving no tracks as he recrossed the valley and headed north.
Now he was camped on the top of a rocky ridge overlooking the long blue lake Lagarfljot. At the far end of Lagarfljot was the town of Egilsstadir. It was where the police might have expected him to bolt to immediately after the killing. But now, several days later, with his having left his car behind and a trail to the south, they might not be expecting him there.
It was near noon, on as clear a day as Krog could remember in Iceland. It would be raining in Reykjavik if the axiom—that good weather on one side of the island meant bad weather on the other—held true.
He had lunched on a meal of canned green beans, lamb, and clear stream water and was rereading the newspaper. Geir Krog was now the most famous name in Iceland. There were pictures accompanying the front-page story—of him, of Inga, and of the acting superintendent of the state investigative police, Magnus Andersson, who had taken over the case. The photograph showed an intense-looking bearded man with dark hair and glasses. One gathered he was quite intelligent, a fit opponent in a chess game. Krog wondered whether he had met him before.
He smiled to himself and then laughed aloud. He had many opponents—Andersson, Rozkowski, and countless, faceless others. He was playing not one but a dozen games, and playing some of them blindfolded.
Frowning, he began to read the news story carefully, wincing at the graphic description of the wound to Inga’s body. The article left little doubt that he was the murderer and seemed to treat him as a great danger to the populace. It was a fair presumption, but it angered him, even on his third reading of the article.
They appeared to know only that he had fled on foot into the countryside. They were looking for him everywhere, although for four hundred seventy-five policemen in a country of forty thousand square miles, “everywhere” didn’t cover much ground. There was no mention of his note protesting his innocence, no mention of Polish engineers, or Russians, or Americans, or aluminum plants. But why should there be?
Krog read through the rest of the paper, but his mind kept going back to his problem, so he returned the paper to his pocket and took out his map.
He had now ruled out entirely any attempt to escape the country by stealing a boat, no matter how plentiful they were in these eastern fjords. His seamanship was poor, and he knew the Coast Guard would be on him in a trice. His only escape by sea could be as a stowaway on a ship, and ships big enough to hide in docked only at Akureyri in the north and Reykjavik in the west.
Stealing a car to reach either of those places was also pointless. There were seven thousand miles of roads in Iceland, most of them gravel, but only one major highway—the coastal road. Police could cut it anywhere they wished. Trekking on about the wilderness was useless, even if he were able to evade the authorities, because it brought him no closer to a solution of his problem. It was not likely he could evade the authorities for long. Traversing the uninhabited, glacier-strewn interior of the country would be extremely difficult; at this time of year, impossible. He would have to stay near settled areas, increasing the chance of detection and slowing his progress. Reaching even Akureyri could be a journey of weeks.
There was another possibility, one that meant speed and range and opened up a number of opportunities despite its risk: the airport at Egilsstadir. An airplane could take him to the Faroe Islands, and from there to Scotland. Or he might fly to Greenland and make his way somehow to Canada. If he chose to stay, he could reach any point in Iceland by air in two hours. As best as he could recall, there were few if any aircraft based at Egilsstadir. The field was used mostly by the Coast Guard Fokker patrol plane and the two commercial flights from Reykjavik. But there was always a chance. Krog was a sailplane pilot, a very good one, but his experience with powered aircraft was rudimentary. Still, desperation was a wonderful teacher.
He hunched deeper into his parka. The wind had shifted and was blowing cold from the north. He doubted the temperature was much above freezing at this height. Another cold night among the rocks without a fire. He pulled the bottle of aquavit from his pack. Only a little more than an inch of the liquor remained. Eking it out for warmth was becoming a kind of torture. He pulled off the cap and, in a few quick sips, finished it. He was tempted to hurl the empty bottle down the side of the ridge, just for the joy of hearing the angry sound of breaking glass. But such glitter would be dangerous. He slipped the bottle into a crevice in the rocks.
It would be so wonderful to be in Reykjavik—city lights, warmth, hot food, cognac. He had been having fantasies about Reykjavik these sleepless nights, some of them sexual. His friend there, the friend with whom he had left his now-so-valuable notebooks, was a woman. Her name was Evi Kekkonen. A Finn, handsome in a broad-faced way, she operated a leather goods store downtown. They had been lovers once, and friends for years. Occasionally, they still made love.
He would trade all his possessions to be in her warm bed now. He wondered whether it might somehow be possible to reach her. The police would know or soon find out that she was among his friends. They could not possibly know that she was the only one of his friends that he trusted absolutely, that she was the only one who would truly believe him when he said he had not murdered Inga.
The distant clattering sound struck his ear abruptly, hurrying toward him from the north. Recognizing it, he quickly stripped off his blue parka, bundled it beneath him, and dove for the rocks, grateful for the dull gray color of his thick wool shirt. The clatter increased to what seemed to him a din, but it passed on and diminished without pause. They were not conducting a search but were en route to a search. Grettin Asmundsson, the medieval bandit, may have survived in the wild for seventeen years, but he had not had to contend with helicopters.
The two Russian factory trawlers, having completed a rough voyage around Iceland’s south coast, had tied up at Reykjavik, joining a third Russian ship moored at Hafnarfjordur just down the shoreline. Such a flagrant Soviet presence was not out of the ordinary. The Icelanders had come to expect it whenever there were NATO ships in port, and the NATO flotilla numbered eight vessels, a size that more than warranted this large a Russian escort.
Emil Jahn, still disguised as a sailor, stood slouching against the rail of the trawler nearest the NATO ships, his jacket collar turned up and his watch cap pulled down low over his eyes. After the storm had blown over, they had sent the little Polish trawler on its way to Gdansk, just as had been reported to the Icelandic Coast Guard. For a moment, uncharacteristically rattled by the Coast Guard vessel’s appearance, Jahn had thought of remaining aboard the Waldemar Dulski all the way to Poland. Krog’s escape and the girl’s murder were not small mischances. But he quickly regained control of himself and continued with the plan, swinging aboard one of the big Russian ships for the return to the battleground. After all, if the Coast Guard captain had suspected anything, he would have boarded. And “Valkyrie” could not wait.
