Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

posters at the airport: she could use a long soak in the geothermally heated pool.
    The middle of nowhere, as Dieter had said. A long way from Israel.
    ‘Nico showed us the video,’ Ásta said. ‘It’s going to make quite a splash when it gets out. There was a lot of coverage here when Tamara Wilton was shot. It was a
big deal.’
    ‘Yes, it will make a splash.’ Tamara Wilton was an ordinary British student who had decided to spend six months after graduating from university with the United Nations High
Commission for Refugees in Gaza doing her bit for the Palestinians. Except she wasn’t ordinary – she was a pink-cheeked, fair-haired English-rose type in the mould of Princess Diana.
The world knew that because she had an identical twin sister Samantha, who looked just like her and who turned out to be not just cute, but articulate and angry as well. Samantha Wilton had been
all over the papers and TV, not just in Britain, but also in the rest of Europe and even the States. The story of her sister had touched all kinds of people, even Erika, who saw something of
herself in the idealistic young woman willing to go to dangerous places for what she believed in. It had been a public-relations nightmare for the Israelis, which they had fought hard to
contain.
    But until now no one outside the Israeli Defence Force had actually seen it happen. More importantly, no one had heard it happen.
    Erika had spent Saturday and Sunday holed up in an activist’s flat in East London going through everything she could find on the death of Tamara Wilton. The Israeli Defence Force
investigation had been a whitewash. The recent Goldstone Report, instigated by the United Nations to examine human rights abuses by both sides in the Gaza war of the winter of 2008–9, had
found no evidence to question the IDF’s version of events: that the helicopter crew’s assumption that the UN truck contained a Palestinian anti-tank unit was reasonable, as was their
action to destroy it.
    There were doubts, accusations, but no proof.
    Until now.
    As she looked out over the broad expanse of brown and grey rubble that had been spewed out of a volcano several thousand years before, Erika felt the excitement build inside her. The Icelandic
priest was right, this was big. This was very big.
    In the three years of its existence Freeflow had published many important leaks: it had started by exposing international inaction in Darfur, then corrupt arms deals in Africa, cover-ups in
Belgium, political shenanigans in Italy and dodgy loans in Iceland. This video would cause the biggest stir. Which is why they had to make it objective, hard-hitting and above all
unimpeachable.
    This time their target was Israel.
    Erika had always known that at some point Freeflow would have to publish a leak concerning Israel, and she had no doubt that this particular leak deserved to be published. But she also knew what
her family would think of it. What Erika was doing would be a step too far for them.
    She took a deep breath. Too bad.

CHAPTER TWO
    T HEY PASSED THROUGH the newly built suburbs of Reykjavík into the city centre, a warren of small, brightly coloured
houses with corrugated iron roofs. Ásta drove up a hill towards the tall smooth swooping church spire that Erika remembered from her previous visit to the city. From the summit by the church
she could see over the roofs towards a broad mountain ridge dusted with snow to the north and sea to the west.
    ‘That’s Mount Esja over there,’ Ásta said. ‘It looks different every time you see it.’
    They descended a pretty residential road, a little wider than the others, with small leafless trees and cars parked on one side perpendicular to the sidewalk. She caught sight of the street
sign: Thórsgata. Ásta drew up outside a yellow concrete house with a metal roof. Lights glimmered behind drawn curtains. ‘Here we are.’
    Inside, the house was buzzing. The ground floor was open-plan, essentially a large living area full of computer equipment, wires, folding tables and chairs, and people.
    ‘Hey, Erika, great to see you!’ Nico, tall, with shaven cranium and unshaven jaw, kissed her on both cheeks. Dieter looked up from a nest of cables and waved absent-mindedly.
    Dúddi, a young Icelandic computer-science student, came over holding out his hand. Erika ignored it and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Hey, Dúddi. Great to see you again.
How’s it been?’
    Dúddi grinned. ‘It’s been good.