'Did Miller tell you the plane was German?'

'Yes.'

'So why was an American pilot flying it?' Kristin asked, perplexed.

'When my brother and I saw the plane fly over the farmhouse in the dark all those years ago, we reckoned it was big enough to be a Junkers Ju 52. Of course no one would know it nowadays. It was the same model as Himmler's private plane. We didn't know then that it was German.'

She looked at him blankly.

'The war was something of a hobby for my brother and me,' Jon explained. 'Especially the aircraft. Karl knew all about the aircraft they used and said straight away that it looked like a Junkers.'

She continued to stare at him, still not quite sure what he was talking about.

'Miller was tireless in his hunt for that plane. We didn't understand why until he told us about his brother. Karl took a photo of Miller that I still have somewhere.'

Jon rose from his chair and walked over to a large dresser. The top half was a cabinet containing gla.s.ses and plates, the lower half heavy, carved drawers. Bending down, Jon pulled out the bottom drawer and rooted around until he found what he was looking for. He handed them an old photograph.

'He used to turn up here from time to time, saying he was on his summer vacation, and would go up to the glacier. We let him stay with us. He'd be here for up to a week or two. Came every three to five years to search for that plane, though it must be more than thirty years since his last visit. We were told he'd died. He wrote to us for years,' Jon added, handing them some yellowed letters. 'These are thank-you letters to me and my brother that he used to write after he'd been to stay. An exceptionally nice chap, Miller.'

The letters were addressed to Jon in an elegant hand and the sender had taken care to spell his patronymic and the name of the farm correctly. They were postmarked Was.h.i.+ngton; the stamps featured Abraham Lincoln.

'What was his Christian name?' Kristin asked, examining the photo.

'Robert,' Jon replied. 'Robert Miller. He told us to call him Bob. Isn't that what most Americans are called?'

'Did he ever find anything?'

'Not a thing, poor man.'

'He wanted to find his brother?'

'That goes without saying.'

'Did he tell you anything about his brother?'

'Not another word. And we didn't ask any questions. He asked us not to take any more pictures of him. This is the only one we have.'

The photograph had been taken outside the brothers' stables one summer's day. Miller stood holding the bridle of a black horse, face turned to the camera; a thin figure in checked s.h.i.+rt and jeans. He had raised a gloved hand to s.h.i.+eld his eyes from the sun but his features were clearly visible: a prominent nose and mouth above a receding chin, a high brow and thinning hair.

'That horse was only half broken and it came close to killing Miller,' Jon said, pointing to the animal. 'Bolted across the yard with him the moment he got in the saddle, heading straight for the electric cable that used to run between the buildings. Fortunately Miller noticed the wire in time and managed to throw himself off.'

Jon was silent for a while, as if considering whether to say more or stop there. They raised their eyes to him enquiringly. He s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other in his woollen socks, before eventually inviting them to follow him.

'What does it matter?' he said. 'Come with me. I can show you something that proves that plane was German.'

They waited while he pulled on a thick down jacket, boots, a woollen hat and gloves. Their own coats were in the car and he told them to fetch them while he waited at the door, then led them out into the blinding whiteness. Soon the house was invisible and they could see no more than a yard ahead in the snow-filled night. Kristin walked behind Jon, carefully placing her feet in his tracks. She could only just make out his shape in front of her and when he stopped abruptly, she stumbled into him and felt Steve collide with her from behind. Jon had reached a door which he heaved open, sending it slamming back into the wall. He fumbled in the darkness and turned on a light, revealing that they were inside a cowshed that was now used as a stable. It took all Steve's strength to close the door behind them against the force of the wind.

There were six horses in the stable, giving off a heat that made it warm inside. They stood in their wooden stalls, watching the unexpected visitors with quizzical expressions, steam rising from their nostrils, their winter coats almost comically thick and woolly. Kristin, who had always loved horses although she had never ridden, paused to pat a chestnut mare. Jon led them along the pa.s.sage that ran behind the animals, parallel to the dung channel. Kristin was surprised by the old man's vigour and nimble movements. The three innermost stalls were empty and in one stood a large chest with a key in the lock, which Jon now turned, before lifting the lid.

'It must have been about twenty years ago,' he said with a grunt. The lid was surprisingly heavy. 'He may not have been the only one to survive the crash. He veered just too far to the east, or he would have stumbled on the farm.'

'Who would?' Kristin asked.

'The German,' Jon said, lifting a tattered German uniform jacket out of the chest and holding it up for them to see.

VATNAJoKULL GLACIER,

SAt.u.r.dAY 30 JANUARY, EVENING

Count von Mantauffel has gone in search of help. He took two bars of chocolate and we tried to wrap him up as warmly as we could. He's the toughest member of our party and is desperate to get off the ice. We thought if he headed south-east he might be able to find his way down, but there's not much hope; he knows it and we know it. The cold will be the death of him.

The cold will be the death of us all.

Ratoff was sitting in his tent, reading the diary he had found under the co-pilot's seat by the dim light of the gas heater. The gale ripped and tore at the tent, its screaming so loud that conversation was impossible. Two of the soldiers' tents had already been carried away and were probably halfway across the Atlantic by now. Blinded by wind and snow, there was nothing more they could do until the storm had exhausted itself.

The pilot had been carrying papers that identified him as one William Miller. Instantly, Ratoff knew where he had seen that face before: Colonel Miller was the former chief of the organisation; the pilot must have been his brother. Ratoff had already been struck by the strangeness of seeing the bodies emerge from the ice well preserved and undecayed after so many years. The pilot looked as if he had merely been asleep for half a century. Now he could picture Colonel Miller precisely as a young man. The thought intrigued him.

The diary was written in pencil, its entries sporadic. They were not separated by date or time, as if the author had lost all sense of the pa.s.sing days, and some were very short, hardly more than a sentence jotted down, a disjointed thought or a message from the pilot to those who eventually found the plane. Ratoff could not tell how much time the diary spanned but by his calculations it would not have taken the men long to freeze to death. He flicked through the pages, dipping into them here and there, trying to work out the sequence of events. From time to time the pilot addressed a particular reader presumably his brother as if he had intended him to find the diary.

It's dark round the clock here. Cold and dark. We put Dietrich outside on the ice. He died in agony, I'm afraid. We won't be putting any more outside for the moment. The plane almost filled with snow. Such an incredible wind. But nothing could stop von Mantauffel. He said he had no intention of dying here; I'm afraid he's right that no one will be coming to rescue us. But I'm glad he's gone. He was a disturbing presence, playing the victor in spite of having lost the war. The others are more polite. We're all dying that makes men polite. I can't see how we can be saved. I just can't see it.

Ratoff turned the pages.

... to gain alt.i.tude but it was hopeless. The wings were heavily iced up and there was serious turbulence, alternating updrafts and downdrafts. It was nightmarish flying weather: gale-force winds, snowfall and pitch darkness. Out of nowhere, we felt the plane hit the ice. Completely out of the blue; I still can't grasp how it happened. The left wing probably struck first, but after that it was just noisy chaos. We bounced and the propellers caught in the ice, the wings sheared off in a shower of sparks and the fuselage ploughed on but it didn't break up...

Ratoff read on. His tent flapped violently, the gaslight dancing over the pages of the diary.

I saw Berlin for the first time in my life the day before yesterday. I think it was the day before yesterday. Strange to be visiting the German capital in the middle of a war. See what you've done by persuading me to fly over the Atlantic? What are you mixed up in? Are they going to do a deal with the n.a.z.is? Are they trying to shorten the war? Planning to attack Russia? You hear so many rumors. The Germans don't want to talk about it. I know they're part of some kind of negotiating team, but what are they negotiating?

Our general died on impact. He got up from his seat shortly before we crashed; one of the Germans as well. I don't know what they were thinking of. They yelled at me to do something but there was nothing I could do.

My G.o.d, it's cold. I can hardly hold the pencil.

The door flap was wrenched open from outside, causing the tent to belly out, the canvas stretching so taut that the seams creaked as if they were going to split. Bateman was on the line again in the communications tent. Ratoff stood up, zipped the tent flap firmly behind him and followed the man. They could barely keep their footing in the relentless blizzard even over the few short yards between the tents.

'Tell me you have dealt with the inconvenience,' Ratoff shouted, trying to make himself heard above the wind.

'Negative, sir,' Bateman said. 'Ripley's unconscious in hospital. The woman escaped with her friend. He's one of us...'

'What do you mean?'

'An American. I think they're on their way to you. There's a retired pilot on the base who's been asking questions about the brothers who farm near the glacier. It didn't take him long to admit why he wanted the information. He said they'd come to him for help. Said they were heading for the glacier.'

'Then good luck to them. It's h.e.l.l on earth up here,' Ratoff yelled. 'Has our mission been compromised?'

'They don't seem to have talked to anyone except the pilot. And as yet the emba.s.sy hasn't received any official reaction from the government or any other inst.i.tution in Reykjavik. The girl's so busy evading us that she hasn't had much chance to warn anyone about what's going on. Anyway, I think we've managed to frame her for murder, which is a bonus.'

Ratoff set the receiver back in its cradle and heaved a contemptuous sigh. They were pathetic; outmanoeuvred and now hospitalised by a woman. By a civil servant, for Christ's sake, and an Icelandic one at that.

CENTRAL REYKJAViK,

SAt.u.r.dAY 30 JANUARY, 1800 GMT

The two detectives who had inspected Kristin's flat only the previous evening were now standing at the bar of the Irish pub. The area around the building was cordoned off with police tape; a crowd of curious bystanders had gathered in the darkness on the other side of the street, floodlights had been set up both inside and out, reporters and photographers were circling, desperate for a quote, and the premises were surrounded by police cars with flas.h.i.+ng lights. Ripley and one of the fishermen had been admitted to hospital. Delicate, intricate flakes of snow were falling lazily, only to melt as they landed on the floodlights. The older detective removed his hat and scratched his head.

'Like a spaghetti western,' he remarked.

'You were right about Kristin. She was here,' the younger detective replied. 'The witness statements match the picture we have of her.'

'I'm not sure I've quite grasped this yet. There are at least four people with Kristin at the scene, three men and one woman. One of them, who the fishermen claim was American, is lying on the steps outside after being beaten to a pulp by our jolly jack tars. The other woman makes herself scarce. Another man, after trying to come to the aid of his companion, runs down Tryggvagata taking pot shots at Kristin and a third man. The gunman is American too, if the fishermen are to be believed. Kristin and her companion get into a jeep and drive away. The American on the steps has no ID. His car is parked outside and has plates registered to the Defense Force in Keflavik. What's going on? You studied in America. You know the people. I've only seen the films.'

'I can't make head or tail of it, any more than you. Perhaps we'll get some answers from the emba.s.sy.'

'Inspired. The emba.s.sy will solve it. We'll just talk to the emba.s.sy and they'll clarify everything and then we can go home to bed.'

'Is your indigestion troubling you again?'

The older police officer turned to look at his partner. His expression was oddly sad, despite the glint of mockery in his eyes under their red brows. His hair was red too; his face intelligent, stubborn, determined.

'What? Am I not jolly enough for you?' he asked sarcastically.

'When were you ever?'

On arrival at the US emba.s.sy on Laufasvegur, they were informed that neither the amba.s.sador nor the attache was in the country. The chief press officer was indisposed but they could speak to a General Wesson from the Keflavik base. He was the highest-ranking officer at the emba.s.sy in the amba.s.sador's absence. The detectives shrugged. The general kept them waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes in a small anteroom outside the amba.s.sador's office. Finally the door opened and they were greeted by an overweight man of about fifty, with thinning hair, a broad face and strong, rather protuberant teeth. He led them into the office and invited them to take a seat. The younger detective took care of the questions since his partner had a poor command of English.

'What can I do for you, gentlemen?' the general asked. With him was a thin young man who introduced himself as Smith and took up position at a carefully calculated distance behind the general.

The detective cleared his throat. 'I don't know if you've heard but there was a shooting incident in the city centre earlier today involving a vehicle registered to the Defense Force. An American citizen was injured and is now in hospital.'

'I've been made aware of events, Inspector, and I find it shocking that those men should have set on him like that. Have you discovered any motive for this outrage? I hear it was a brawl between fishermen and our man got caught in the middle. Naturally we will be demanding a thorough investigation.'

'Well, General, the fishermen claim that he not only started the brawl but that his companion, who also sounded like an American, entered the pub waving a gun and subsequently started firing in the street.'

'That's preposterous. Are you trying to pin this on our man?'

'I am merely reporting how witnesses described the incident.'

'But it's ludicrous. I hear the fishermen were blind drunk. Do you mean to blame an American citizen for their barbaric behaviour?'

'We're keeping an open mind, sir. But reports indicate that the man's companion pursued an Icelandic woman, firing shots at her. His vehicle is registered to the Defense Force. Can you enlighten us as to what might have been happening?'

'No, I'm afraid I cannot. I haven't had any contact with the Defense Force about the matter yet. If it transpires that the man came to the aid of his companion in the pub by pulling out a gun, it would of course be reprehensible, but perhaps understandable in the circ.u.mstances.'

'Ask him if he knows the ident.i.ty of the man in hospital,' the elder detective interrupted in Icelandic. He had until now been sitting quietly, surveying the room with an air of supreme indifference.

The general listened to the question but did not reply.

'What do you mean when you say "our man"?'

'Pardon me?'

'You said "our man", as if he came from the emba.s.sy.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'Ask him if it's normal practice for a three-star general to take over the emba.s.sy when the amba.s.sador is on leave.'

The younger officer put the question. The general smiled broadly, his strong teeth gleaming, and leant forwards.

'I don't think the way we run our emba.s.sy has any bearing on the matter.'

'Ask him if he knows who Kristin is.'

'No, I don't know anything about her,' the general answered.

'Ask Jaws here if it's possible that the gunman and his companion were at the pub on military business.'

The younger detective hesitated, then repeated the question in English. Smith bent down to the general who smiled even more broadly.

'I'm afraid you've been watching too many Hollywood movies. We don't shoot at Icelanders. We protect them and consider them friends of the United States. We also direct unprecedented sums of money their way by means of generous contracts. I'm afraid I can't help you gentlemen any further. If you came here to offend a friendly nation, you did a good job of it. Good day.'

He rose. Smith came round to the front of the desk and waited for the policemen to stand, which they did, belatedly. The elder detective with the hat looked Smith up and down, then turned to Wesson.

'Smith and Wesson? Is that some kind of joke?' he asked.

Smith smiled thinly. 'You're the joke, buddy,' he replied in fluent Icelandic.

The two men's eyes met.

'Who are you really? What are you hiding?'

'Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me. Smith will show you out. I have no further comment.'