Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

speeding towards the operating room at the stern of the gurney.
    He was shown into a small waiting room and began pacing, a television mumbling in the background. Uniformed police officers bustled about.
    A woman with a clipboard asked him about next of kin. He wrote down Katrín’s name and address. Then he called her.
    ‘Oh, hi, Magnus, did Árni find you?’ she asked in English.
    ‘Yeah, he found me.’
    Katrín could tell from the tone of his voice that something was wrong. ‘What’s up?’
    ‘I’m at the hospital. Árni’s been shot.’
    ‘Shot? He can’t have been shot. This is Iceland.’
    ‘Well, he was. In the chest.’
    ‘Is he OK?’
    ‘He’s not OK, no. But he is alive. I don’t know yet how bad it is. He’s in surgery now.’
    ‘Did it have something to do with you?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘Yes, it did have something to do with me.’
    As he ended the call, he thought about exactly what it had had to do with him. It was his fault that Árni had been nearly killed. It was he who had led a Dominican hit man to Iceland, armed with a gun and primed to fire it.
    It should have been him in there on the operating table.
    ‘Damn, Árni!’ He smashed his fist against the wall. A flash of pain ran through his hand, still sensitive from where it had connected with the punk’s jaw. OK, Árni wasn’t used to being around criminals with guns, but a Boston cop would never have done what he had done. There were lots of options. Drive the car straight at the guy. Drive up to Magnus and put the car between him and the punk. Just honk the horn, roll down the window and yell. All of those would have worked better than sprinting full speed at an armed man.
    And, of course, if this was any normal country and Árni had been carrying a gun, he could simply have drawn it and shouted a challenge.
    But even if he wasn’t smart, Árni was brave. And if the hit man had just been a split-second slower, Árni’s headlong rush might have worked. But the Dominican had been fast, and Árni had taken a bullet for Magnus.
    The Police Commissioner had recruited Magnus to control the spread of big-city violence to Reykjavík. But all he had done was lead it right into the heart of the city, the heart of the police department.
    Mind you, he had already come across plenty of unusual deaths in Iceland. Dr Ásgrímur, Agnar, Ingileif’s stepfather.
    Katrín burst in. ‘How is he?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t know. They haven’t said anything yet.’
    ‘I’ve called Mum and Dad. They are on their way.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Magnus said.
    Katrín was a tall woman. She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Did you shoot him?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, then you have nothing to be sorry about.’
    Magnus gave her a small smile and shrugged. He wasn’t about to take this moment to argue with an Icelandic woman.
    A doctor appeared, mid-forties, confident, competent but concerned. ‘Are you next-of-kin?’ she asked Katrín.
    ‘I’m Árni’s sister, yes.’
    ‘He’s lost quite a lot of blood. The bullet’s still in there, right next to the heart. We’re going to go in and get it out. It will take a while.’
    ‘Will he be OK?’
    The doctor looked Katrín in the eye much the same way she had just looked at Magnus. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s got a chance. A good chance. Beyond that I can’t say.’
    ‘OK, don’t waste time here,’ Katrín said. ‘Get on with it.’
    Magnus was sure that Iceland had competent doctors. But he was worried that they would have little experience with gunshot wounds. Back home, at Boston Medical Center, they spent much of their Friday and Saturday nights plugging up bullet holes.
    He decided not to mention this to Katrín.
    There was a commotion outside the waiting room and Baldur strode in. Magnus had seen Baldur angry before, but never this angry.
    ‘How is he?’ he asked.
    ‘They’re operating on him now,’ Magnus said. ‘The bullet’s still in there somewhere and they’re trying to fish it out.’
    ‘Will he make it?’
    ‘They hope so,’ said Magnus.
    ‘He’d better,’ said Baldur. ‘Now I’ve got some questions for you.’ He turned to Katrín, disapproval all over his face. Although Katrín wasn’t in full regalia, there was a sprinkling of metal sticking out of her face. ‘Can you excuse us?’
    Katrín frowned. Magnus could see she had taken an instant dislike to the policeman, and was not in the mood to be pushed around.
    ‘Let’s leave her