Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

people; her intuition was more reliable.
    Besides, she didn’t have the time to do otherwise. They needed a Hebrew speaker, if not Zivah then someone else, and anyone else they found at short notice would be no less likely to be a
spy.
    ‘All right,’ Erika said. ‘One last question: if it turns out the Israelis are on to us, are you willing to stick it out?’
    Zivah swallowed. Looked Erika straight in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe in this. I’ll stay.’
    Erika smiled. ‘Good. Now, back to work.’
    She returned to her computer on a makeshift table and typed a simple message to Dieter: zivah stays.
    She stared at her screen. Why had she brought up her own family? Her father she didn’t care about. A cosmetic surgeon at a prestigious Manhattan clinic, he had disapproved of almost all of
Erika’s choices in life. Going to Rwanda as a student, returning with a husband, quitting med school to go to Darfur, divorcing the husband and finally publishing rumours and gossip on the
Internet. He had given her all the opportunities she could possibly want and she had thrown them back in his face.
    Erika’s grandmother was of course very proud of her son, the doctor. But she was also proud of her granddaughter for standing up to him. She understood what Erika was doing and why she was
doing it and Erika loved her for it.
    A widow, nearly ninety now, she had left Poland for the United States as a girl in the 1930s and had met Erika’s grandfather, a young émigré from Berlin, in Queens during the
war. Her husband had worked hard and prospered; a passionate supporter of the state of Israel, he had been a regular giver to Zionist causes all his life.
    Since his death twenty years before, his widow would occasionally criticize the more extremist right-wing factions in Israel, but never the state itself. Her husband and her ancestors had given
up too much, fought too hard for her to betray their dream.
    She would be dismayed at what Erika was doing. She might never forgive her. That would be difficult for Erika to bear.
    The doorbell rang. The house froze.
    ‘That’s not the police, is it?’ said Erika.
    ‘If it is, I’ll tell them to go away,’ said Viktor. ‘The agreement was they would leave us alone.’
    ‘I’ll answer it,’ said Ásta.
    She went to the door and opened it. Erika heard insistent questions asked in Icelandic and English. She recognized her own name.
    Ásta came back inside and closed the door. ‘It’s RÚV. Icelandic TV. They want to speak to you, Erika.’
    ‘Tell them to go away,’ said Viktor. ‘We have no comment.’
    ‘No,’ said Erika. She took a deep breath. Nico’s murder was a big deal in the Icelandic news. Of course the press would want to speak to her. It wasn’t surprising that
they would find out where she was eventually. ‘No, I’ll talk to them. Otherwise they’ll never go away.’
    She took a moment to compose herself and then went to the door. A reporter was waiting for her – a young blonde woman who looked as if she was just out of high school – and a
cameraman in a woolly hat. Behind them she could see a police car parked on the other side of the street, its occupant watching them with interest.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ Erika said. ‘I am Erika Zinn. Can I help you?’
    ‘How are you feeling after the attack?’ the reporter asked.
    Erika answered as blandly as she could, and dealt similarly with a couple of follow-ups. The questions were hesitant; it was like talking to the cub reporter on the Chappaqua Journal. Erika was preparing an emotional appeal for people to come forward for information that might help the police when she was surprised by a new tack.
    ‘Do you think that the attack had anything to do with Freeflow?’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Erika said, stalling.
    ‘You are the leader of Freeflow, aren’t you? The website that channels leaks? The organization that leaked details of Ódinsbanki’s loan book? We saw you here in Iceland
last fall.’
    ‘That’s right,’ Erika admitted.
    ‘So do you believe that the murder of your colleague was related?’
    Erika’s instinctive response was to blame the CIA; that was usually a useful diversionary tactic. But she was afraid that would raise questions she didn’t want raised.
    ‘Freeflow has made a number of enemies over the years, so we cannot rule that out,’ she said.
    ‘Why have you come back to Iceland?’ The reporter was beginning to irritate Erika.