Frozen Assets

‘Are you telling me, Gunnhildur, my dear, that you don’t care for the lady?’ Bjössi asked with exaggerated courtesy.

‘Quite right. Now, business. Where’s Hårde now?’

‘Still in Iceland,’ Bjössi said. ‘We can be sure that unless he managed to disguise himself pretty fantastically, he didn’t leave through the airport yesterday and it’s so heavily monitored now that he daren’t even try.’

‘How good is the monitoring over there? I’m wondering how long he’ll have to lie low before things cool off and he can try again? Or try another route? Where do we look next?’

‘Do we need to?’ Bjössi asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The man knows what he’s doing, but he has to have some kind of contact with other people. The longer he’s in the country, the more chance he’ll show up or at least be noticed. He’s not a local and as soon as he opens his mouth he certainly can’t pass for one. His face was all over the TV last night and today it’s all over the papers. If he’s not aware of that already, he will be soon and he’ll know someone’s going to recognize him.’

‘So, you’re saying that he’ll have to move quickly?’

‘Exactly,’ Bjössi said thoughtfully. ‘We may have forced him to act faster than he would have wanted to.’

He carefully spread out the sheaf of newspapers across the table. Alongside the main news of the day, including Bjarni Jón Bjarnason’s early return from a conference overseas to face the growing financial crisis, Hårde’s face could be seen somewhere on every one, leading to a story inside.

Only Dagurinn had Sigurjóna on the front cover, with Lára’s by-line under the picture and ‘Skúli Snædal — crime correspondent’ right under the headline. Gunna felt a warm glow and suppressed a smile as she stood up and the others followed suit, taking it as a signal that the meeting was about to close.

‘Right. I want everything watched that can be watched. We’ll have every force in the country alerted about Hårde, especially anywhere with an airfield. I’d like to see some additional monitoring at Akureyri and Egilstadir airports as I believe there are a few international flights from there, aren’t there?’

‘Yeah, one or two a week, I think,’ Vilhjálmur hazarded.

‘And Reykjavík airport as well. There are all kinds of oddballs going in and out through there what with all the private jets and whatnot. I’d hate to think of him getting away in a private jet.’

‘That it?’ Bjössi asked, making notes on a pad in front of him.

‘I want every port authority warned as well, not that there are all that many to worry about. Keep on top of all the shipping movements, everything that’s going to an overseas port, no need to worry about fishing vessels, just cargo, especially anything going short-haul to Europe.’

As Bjössi took notes, Gunna spied Vilhjálmur, hands behind his back, looking doubtful. ‘Problem, Vilhjálmur?’

‘Costs. This is a level of activity that is normally handled by a larger force and I’m concerned that we cannot sustain it for long without possibly requesting additional funding. The overtime costs are already far too high.’

‘Can you talk to the Sheriff?’

‘I will do so this morning.’

‘Please do. I honestly don’t think this is going to take long. Our man’s in the open now and I’m sure he’ll be noticed soon enough if he’s still in the country. If he’s not here. .’ Gunna shrugged and didn’t bother to finish her sentence.

‘What d’you reckon, Gunna?’ Bjössi asked when Vilhjálmur had left the room.

‘Hell, I don’t know. It’s like nothing we’ve ever had to deal with before.’

‘I reckon it’ll all be over by the weekend,’ Bjössi announced confidently and Gunna looked sideways at him.

‘You reckon?’

‘Yup. Unless he’s gone camping in the highlands and wants to live on berries and songbirds until the heat dies down. He has to be noticed by someone sooner or later. It’s a small country, Gunna. You can’t hide in Iceland.’

‘Yeah. I suppose you’re right. I hope you’re right.’

Sigurjóna sat huddled in the armchair with the 24/7 television news on in front of her. She was again swathed in her dressing gown, hair greasy and red cheeks puffing her face.

Rain hammered on the windows behind the TV set from a pewter sky and the room was half dark. On the screen an elegant newsreader dropped her smile and announced that Minister for Environmental Affairs Bjarni Jón Bjarnason had returned unexpectedly early from a conference in Berlin to face the growing financial crisis.

The screen cut to a clip of Bjarni Jón alighting from a black official car outside the Ministry to be greeted by a knot of microphones.

‘I have no comment to make as things stand. You can expect a statement when I have discussed these issues with the Prime Minister,’ he snapped at the expectant throng, shaking raindrops from his coat as he disappeared into the maw of the building.

‘And have you issued a statement yet?’ Sigurjóna asked blankly without looking round as her husband appeared behind her.

‘Of course not. Managed to get away from the Ministry without being seen by the scum.’