Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

agencies got involved, things got complicated. That was true of the FBI, and it had to be even more true of the CIA. Magnus had promised Erika that he had nothing
to do with the CIA, and he wanted to keep things that way.
    And yet he understood Bryant’s point. The video Magnus had watched that afternoon would horrify the international community. It would incense the Palestinians, reigniting the sense of
injustice on both sides caused by the Gaza war. If the two sides were really that close to peace, perhaps it would be better if the release of the video was delayed?
    Perhaps. But it wasn’t up to him to make that decision. While he was in Iceland his loyalties lay with the government of Iceland. It was that simple.
    As he turned on the Range Rover’s engine, his phone rang. ‘Magnús.’
    ‘It’s Gudmundur. I’m watching the house in Thórsgata. A woman has just left the property in running gear. I think it’s Erika Zinn. Do you want me to follow
her?’
    Magnus paused. Idiot! He’d told her to remain inside. Once she was out on the streets of Reykjavík she was vulnerable.
    ‘No. You’d better stay outside the house. I’m in my car at headquarters, I’ll see if I can find her. Which way did she go?’
    ‘Up the hill to the Hallgrímskirkja and then turned left.’
    ‘OK – I’ll check for her along the bay. That’s the most likely place to go for a run in that direction. What’s she wearing?’
    ‘Black sweatpants. Grey hoodie with “Princeton” on the front. White baseball cap.’
    ‘Got it.’
    Police headquarters was only a few yards from Saebraut, the dual carriageway that ran along the shore of the bay. Presumably Erika didn’t know Reykjavík very well. She could have
gone anywhere, of course, but the long green strip with its bike path would be the natural place for a runner to head for.
    He drove slowly west along Saebraut. There were a small number of joggers on the bike path. He soon saw one with black pants and a grey top running away from him. No cap, but he accelerated to
catch her up. She crossed the road and ran up a side street.
    Magnus turned to follow her. He lost her in the cluster of streets around government buildings, including the big black block of the hated Central Bank. It took him several minutes before he
caught up with the woman on Hverfisgata.
    Not Erika.
    Back to the Saebraut.
    And then he saw her. Crossing the road a hundred yards ahead of him, her dark hair bobbing up and down under her white baseball cap. She disappeared up a side road.
    Behind her was another runner, a man wearing jeans, moving fast.
    Magnus accelerated, and followed them up the little street, only to be met by two cars heading downhill towards him, one behind the other. There was no room to pass. Three horns blared. Rather
than argue with the other drivers, Magnus leaped out of his car and ran up the hill, just in time to see the man turn a corner to the left.
    Magnus followed.
    The road was empty.
    OK. This was where Magnus needed a gun. In any halfway sensible country he could pull out his firearm. But not in Iceland. In Iceland he had to go in with just his fists.
    Oh, well. Magnus knew how to use his fists.
    He jogged along the road, slowing when he came to an opening. And there, at the end of a narrow path, was the man, holding his arms out wide, a hunting knife in his right hand. Erika was
literally cornered.
    ‘Hey, you!’ Magnus shouted, in English. ‘Police! Drop the knife!’
    The man turned and Erika saw her chance. She darted along one wall, but the man was too quick for her. Too quick and too strong.
    In one movement he grabbed her, twisted her around and, holding her with one arm around the neck, held the knife to her face.
    ‘Stop!’ he shouted.
    Magnus had lunged forward himself, but froze at the man’s words. If only I had a goddamned gun, he thought.
    Magnus was about ten yards from the man. He studied his face. Youngish, late twenties, maybe, at six feet a couple of inches shorter than Magnus. Narrower shoulders, but strong and wiry. A long
thin face, unshaven; a narrow pointed nose; longish dark hair, brushed back, receding slightly at the temples; brown eyes. Magnus would remember that face.
    The eyes worried him. They were bright, shining, excited, manic. But they were also angry. And full of hate. Lots of hate.
    Magnus held up his hands. ‘OK. Let’s talk about this. Let the woman go and we can talk about it.’
    ‘Why should I let her go? I want to