The Shadow Killer

10

US counter-intelligence had been given temporary quarters in one wing of the old Leper Hospital on Laugarnes Point. They shared it with their British colleagues who had requisitioned the hospital building shortly after the occupation. The few remaining patients had been sent to a sanatorium in Kópavogur, the settlement to the south of Reykjavík.

Although the United States was officially still neutral, within a few months American troops were scheduled to relieve the British garrison and take over responsibility for the defence of Iceland. First to arrive had been the Marine Corps and 5th Defense Battalion on 7 July with their anti-aircraft units, followed by the first land army contingent on 6 August, and more reinforcements were expected any day now to swell their ranks — thousands of armed men who had never even heard of Iceland before, let alone known where to find it on a map. In no time at all Reykjavík had become a seething mass of British troops preparing to withdraw, reinforcements from America, incomers from the Icelandic countryside — seeking a better life in the suddenly prosperous city — and the citizens of Reykjavík themselves, young and old, who had yet to come to terms with the transformation their town had undergone in the last year.

As Thorson drove up to the imposing edifice of the old Leper Hospital on the northern side of Laugarnes, he found himself thinking about prejudice and ostracism, thoughts which were no strangers to him. Naturally the location was no coincidence: the patients had been segregated, kept at a safe distance from the town, or rather, more importantly, the townspeople had been kept at a safe distance from them. A second hospital, the Kleppur Asylum, stood down by the sea a little to the east, even further removed from the town. The Leper Hospital was the most impressive wooden building in the country. It consisted of two floors and an attic, with rows of windows the length of the building and two gables projecting from the front, one at each end. As he admired it, Thorson thought about all the disruption the military occupation had brought to this sparsely populated island and its simple society. On a calm spring day in 1940, the war had come knocking on Reykjavík’s door, and transformed the lives of its inhabitants. Thorson, together with a handful of other Canadian volunteers, had been among the first to come ashore with the British invasion force, as a private in the Second Royal Marine Battalion. They had marched under arms to the country’s main government offices and witnessed first-hand the look of bewilderment on the faces of the townspeople, who must have feared that life in Iceland would never be the same again.

Thorson’s thoughts returned to the task in hand. Analysis of the cyanide capsule found in Felix Lunden’s flat had confirmed his suspicions: it was a so-called suicide pill, manufactured in Germany. If the user bit down on the capsule, or ampoule, the potassium cyanide it contained would theoretically kill him in a matter of seconds, though in practice it could take as long as fifteen minutes, causing indescribable suffering. It was the first time a capsule of this kind had turned up in Reykjavík, and the intelligence officer was demanding to know how it had come into the hands of the Icelandic police. He was a major, fiftyish, aggressive and gruff, with a pockmarked face and a black glove on one hand. It looked to Thorson as though he was missing two fingers. His name was Major Graham and he had served in the US Military Intelligence Division for many years. With him was his opposite number from British intelligence, who had been consulting the records for any mention of Rudolf Lunden in the period immediately after the invasion. He was somewhat younger than Major Graham and disfigured by a burn that extended from his neck up one side of his face, leaving only a stump of an ear. He had transferred to intelligence after sustaining serious injuries when his plane came down. His name was Ballantine — like the whisky, he said as he introduced himself, adding that he was no relation. The smile that accompanied this remark was more like a grimace. Thorson got the impression that the joke had grown rather stale.

‘Why would an Icelander be carrying a suicide pill?’ asked Major Graham. ‘Hidden in a suitcase, you said?’

‘Yes, we believe the owner of the case to be a travelling salesman, sir,’ said Thorson. ‘So the pill would be on hand whenever he was away from home.’

‘Actually, that’s not an uncommon cover,’ said Ballantine, who also held the rank of major. ‘And it’s not a bad idea in this country. It would allow a man to travel wherever he liked without attracting any undue attention. And he could hide any equipment connected to his espionage activities in his suitcase. You did say you found samples of his wares in the case?’

‘Yes, that’s right, sir,’ said Thorson. He had provided a brief report when he handed over the capsule for analysis. ‘Are you confident that he’s been spying for the Germans?’

‘I wouldn’t say we’re confident,’ said Major Graham, ‘but this pill is a strong indication that he has been involved with the Germans in some way. After all, he’s from a German family, if I understand right.’

‘With the greatest respect, sir, that’s not necessarily significant. We can hardly suspect all civilians with German roots of being spies.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ retorted Graham.

‘His father, Rudolf Lunden, was arrested two days after the invasion,’ said Ballantine, opening a file that he had brought along to the meeting, ‘along with other individuals who were on our list of people known to have close ties to Germany. He was detained for several days and interrogated at length. The plan was to deport him to Britain for internment along with thirty other German nationals, but nothing came of it, and in the end he was released. We have no information at all on his son Felix. He wasn’t among those arrested.’

‘Do you have any idea why Rudolf Lunden wasn’t sent to Britain, sir?’

‘The officer in charge is no longer in the country,’ said Ballantine, ‘so I’m not acquainted with the details. They must have concluded that he was harmless following his interrogation. His house was searched but nothing suspicious came to light. Besides, the man’s confined to a wheelchair, which limits his activities. We kept his house under surveillance for a while, but he stayed at home for the most part and received few visitors.’

‘He must have known he was being watched?’

‘I don’t believe he can have failed to notice.’

‘Did any information about Felix emerge from the interviews?’

‘No, he didn’t mention his son, and it seems he was never asked about him. The interviews focused on trying to establish the nature of his relationship with the German consul, Dr Werner Gerlach. Apparently they were quite good friends. They used to meet regularly, according to Lunden, but mostly, if he’s to be believed, because they were compatriots.’

‘Was Felix a member of the Icelandic Nazi movement — the Nationalist Party?’ asked Thorson. ‘Do you have any information about that, sir?’

‘No, nothing at all on Felix Lunden, as I said,’ replied Ballantine. ‘On the other hand, his father was listed as a member, and we confiscated the minutes of meetings, which we found at his house, together with a list of members dating from three years ago.’

‘Hasn’t the party been disbanded?’ asked Thorson.

‘It’s ceased its activities, yes,’ said Ballantine. ‘Though that doesn’t necessarily mean the party members have abandoned their Nazi sympathies. We keep an eye on a few of them, but the majority seem to have seen the error of their ways.’

‘I assume there’s quite a bit of information the Germans would want to get their hands on here in Iceland,’ said Thorson.

‘Indeed. Espionage flights from Norway aren’t sufficient,’ said Ballantine. ‘They also need men on the ground watching our vessels, tracking our arms shipments and monitoring key positions like the naval base in Hvalfjördur. The Nazis are interested in all our activities in Iceland. If this Felix Lunden is collecting information for them, he must have access to a radio transmitter and possibly a camera as well. A transmitter can be concealed in an ordinary suitcase like the one you found at his flat. It would need to be powerful enough to communicate with the German U-boats that lurk off the coast, picking off our ships and Icelandic vessels too. If so, Felix must have a key to their codes, which would be worth getting hold of. It wouldn’t be at all difficult for him to communicate with U-boats at a particular location — or locations, around the country — at pre-arranged times. These are probably points on the coastline where the U-boats can come in close to shore. We’ve already stepped up our patrols of some of these areas.’

‘Is it possible that Felix could already have been picked up by a German submarine?’ asked Thorson. ‘Or that he might attempt to escape that way?’

‘Yes, it’s quite conceivable,’ said Ballantine.

‘So far we haven’t caught any German agents in Iceland,’ added Graham, scratching his chin. ‘This Felix would be the first. Have you identified the dead man in Felix’s apartment?’

‘No, sir, not yet,’ said Thorson. ‘We don’t have any leads. No one’s asked about him. No one seems to have noticed that he’s gone. At least, the Icelandic police haven’t gotten any reports of a missing person his age.’

‘I probably don’t need to point out, er — Thorson, isn’t it? — how important it is that you keep us informed of the progress of this investigation,’ said Graham. ‘I want you to deliver a verbal report on a daily basis, keeping us up to date with what the Icelanders have discovered. You’d better talk directly to me. The British are in the process of withdrawing and Ballantine here is no exception.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss that with my commanding officer, sir,’ said Thorson, careful to keep his tone courteous. ‘Colonel Franklin Webster. I’m under orders to keep him informed about the inquiry. If he wants to make any changes to that arrangement, I’m sure he’ll let me know.’

‘Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to take over the inquiry?’ Graham asked, his eyes on Ballantine. ‘Can we do that? Surely there’s a risk the Icelanders will screw it up? Are they capable of dealing with an espionage case?’

‘With respect, sir, we don’t know for sure that the man’s death is connected to spying,’ Thorson pointed out. ‘The detective in charge of the case seems reliable and he’s very meticulous.’

‘You’re an Icelander yourself, aren’t you? Do you speak the lingo?’

‘Icelandic-Canadian, sir.’ Thorson corrected him. ‘I don’t really know if I’m Canadian or Icelandic. Both, I guess. I don’t believe the Icelanders need any—’

‘Yes, well, regardless of that, if they don’t come up with some results soon, we’ll have to step in,’ said Graham brusquely. ‘That’s the only way we’ll get anything done. The bullet comes from an American weapon. That’s enough for me. It’s our business.’

‘It would be problematic for us to interfere in the affairs of the Icelandic police, at least at this stage,’ said Ballantine calmly. ‘I’d advise holding back for the time being and keeping a close eye on them. I imagine that’s your role,’ he added, looking at Thorson. ‘Do we have incontrovertible proof that the suitcase containing the cyanide pill belonged to Felix Lunden?’

‘Who else could it belong to?’ asked Graham.

‘The dead man, for example,’ said Ballantine.

They both looked at Thorson as if they expected him to have the answer, but he didn’t, and neither did Flóvent. They had agreed that there was a strong chance the suitcase belonged to Felix, but Flóvent felt they shouldn’t entirely rule out the alternative: that the unidentified victim had brought it with him to the flat. If Ólafía was to be believed, her tenant had sold various items of the type that had been found in the case, but that still didn’t amount to proof that it was his.

‘The police are analysing the fingerprints on the suitcase,’ said Thorson. ‘They may provide some more clues, but the odds are pretty good that it belongs to Felix.’

‘This is our territory,’ Graham repeated, scowling. ‘We’ll take over sooner or later. It’s only a question of when.’

Shortly after this the meeting broke up, and Thorson headed back to his jeep. As he passed along the hospital corridors he caught glimpses of the old wards that had now been converted into offices for military personnel, and unconsciously he slowed his pace, his thoughts returning to the sick and the shunned, whose history still lingered in this building. He pictured the patients who had once occupied these rooms, afflicted by sores that couldn’t be concealed, but also by other, invisible wounds, eating away at their minds: the wounds of the outcast. He felt a deep sense of kinship with the building’s former residents. He was aware of his own inclinations, though he didn’t fully understand them, and knew that they were no less reviled by society than the leprosy which people had held in such dread that they had built this handsome hospital to contain it. These were feelings that he tried to avoid thinking about and refused to admit even to himself, yet they persisted and he was finding it increasingly hard to control them, though he didn’t dare breathe a word of them to anyone else for fear of exposure. He did his best to be on his guard, but sometimes he forgot himself, like yesterday when he’d narrowly avoided rousing the suspicions of the drunken singer.

Why are you staring at me like that?