Whale Fjord

Twelve

They took a break and went outside for some fresh air. Pybus-Smith lit his pipe, and Tom a cigarette.

‘So how is Gunnar?’ Pybus-Smith asked.

‘From what I can tell, his translations are faithful. I’m impressed.’

Pybus-Smith smiled. ‘Excellent. He’s a good man; I thought I could trust him. I’m glad to have it confirmed.’ He drew on his pipe, cupping it in his hand to protect it from the persistent breeze.

‘They’re basically a good lot, the Icelanders,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how I would feel if a bunch of foreigners showed up in my capital city, even if they had the best of intentions. So, I’m not surprised there are some bad apples who would rather we were gone. Doesn’t excuse it, though, especially if they are hoping for Jerry to get rid of us.’

They smoked in silence for a moment, watching the women attacking the fish on the quayside. It looked hard work.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s difficult to rely on what the passengers are telling us about themselves, isn’t it? I mean, we ask them questions, but if any of them really were German spies they would just lie to us, wouldn’t they?’

‘They’d try,’ said Pybus-Smith. ‘We might rumble them anyhow. But I take your point.’

‘What if we asked them about the other passengers on the ship? They must know each other very well by now, having travelled for a month together. They probably knew each other anyway in Copenhagen or back in Iceland. We could ask if there are any Nazi sympathizers on the boat. Or members of the Icelandic Nazi party.’

‘Or communists?’

‘Or communists,’ Tom conceded.

‘They could still lie to us. Cover for their friends.’

‘If they were friends. But they’ve all been under German rule in Denmark. They’re glad to be here not there. I’m sure some of them would be happy to tell us about any Nazis if we asked in the right way.’ By ‘in the right way’ Tom meant nicely.

‘I see what you mean,’ said Pybus-Smith, puffing at his pipe. ‘Good idea. Let’s try it. And we’ve still got a lot of passengers to go, so you take interviews by yourself from now on.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Given the state of Tom’s Icelandic, the interviews might be a little stilted, but he would cope.

‘By the way, I managed to get you into the Hotel Borg tonight.’

‘I know, sir, thank you.’

‘Shall we have a drink in the bar when we’ve finished here? I’d like to chat to you about a little matter.’

‘Right you are, sir.’ He wondered what the ‘little matter’ was. He could guess, but he hoped he was wrong.

Neville sauntered off, and Tom finished his cigarette. The sun had put in a brief ten-minute appearance, and Tom wanted to enjoy it.

‘Gódan daginn.’

Tom recognized the voice and turned to see Kristín smiling at him, dressed in a smart skirt and jacket, her hair nicely curled under a stylish green hat.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I’m here to meet Marteinn. He was on board that ship.’

‘I know,’ said Tom, sheepishly.

‘You know?’

‘Yes, I interviewed him. I’m afraid he won’t be ready to leave today. We are keeping him overnight.’

Kristín frowned. ‘Keeping him overnight? Why?’

‘We think he might be a spy.’

Kristín opened her mouth in horror. ‘For the Germans! That’s ridiculous. Why?’

‘Because he’s a communist.’

‘He’s not a communist. A socialist, maybe, but not a communist.’

‘He told us he’d joined the party in Denmark.’

‘Really? Anyway, so what? That doesn’t mean he’s a German spy, does it? You must be crazy, Tom.’

‘I know it doesn’t,’ said Tom. ‘But Captain Pybus-Smith thinks communists are suspicious.’

‘And couldn’t you tell him he’s an idiot?’

Tom smiled. ‘I couldn’t. I did say I knew Marteinn’s family and that your father was very civil to me. I recommended we release him.’

Kristín controlled her anger. ‘I’m sure you did. Is this captain the man you were talking to just now? With the thin moustache and walrus teeth?’

Tom grinned at the description. ‘That’s him.’

‘Hm. Well, you had better let my brother go tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll try.’ If Tom had thought for a moment that Marteinn was a Nazi spy, he would have been more circumspect. But it was clear he wasn’t. He was just honest, that was his problem.

‘Look, I’m staying at the Hótel Borg. Do you want to join me for a drink later?’

‘Will that captain be there?’

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘But that may be a chance for you to talk him round, as a member of Marteinn’s family. I’ll translate. With Ari the Learned’s help.’ He waved his faithful dictionary.

‘Maybe,’ said Kristín doubtfully. ‘I’ll think about it.’

With that, she was gone, and Tom returned to the storage shed and more interviews.

Tom’s plan worked nicely. Everyone knew that three of the passengers on the Esja were Nazi sympathizers — one was actually a member of the tiny Icelandic Nationalist Party. There were also four possible communists, one of whom was Marteinn, although no one Tom spoke to thought that Marteinn could possibly be a German spy.

Tom discussed his results with Pybus-Smith, who had come to a similar conclusion. He wanted to keep the seven suspects overnight, including Marteinn, to interrogate them tomorrow, despite Tom’s suggestion that they let the communists go.

It turned out that Pybus-Smith did have some reason to be concerned about the communists. Thjódviljinn, a left-wing newspaper which meant The Will of the Nation, had been agitating against the British, blaming them for the potato shortage and claiming that a British soldier had had sex with a fourteen-year-old girl and given her a venereal disease. Pybus-Smith thought the newspaper was funded by Moscow. It only had a circulation of about fifteen hundred, but he was worried about it nonetheless.

Of course, that didn’t mean Marteinn was a spy for the Nazis.

‘I do like this place,’ said Neville as he bought Tom a whisky and soda at the bar of the Borg. ‘I managed to get myself billeted here when we arrived. Got turfed out eventually, though. It’s easily the best place in Reykjavík.’

‘It certainly beats Hvalfjördur,’ Tom said.

Pybus-Smith lit his pipe, raising his eyes at Tom inquiringly. ‘Marks a Jewish name, isn’t it?’

Here we go, thought Tom. ‘It is.’

‘Where are your family from?’

‘London. Hampstead.’

‘I mean originally?’

‘The East End, I believe.’ Tom was an Englishman and wasn’t going to let Pybus-Smith imply otherwise.

‘Hampstead, eh?’ Pybus-Smith puffed at his pipe. ‘Are you a bit of a Bolshie yourself?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I was just wondering. All those left-wing intellectuals in Hampstead. Your reaction to that communist.’

‘Whom I vote for is my own business.’

‘Not if you’re in intelligence, it’s not.’

‘But I’m not in intelligence.’

‘Not yet,’ said Pybus-Smith with a smile. ‘You mustn’t mind my awkward questions, old man. You did a good job today. We work well together, and I could use a British officer who speaks Icelandic.’ He grinned. ‘Surely you’d rather be stationed here than on the shore of some godforsaken fjord?’

So that was what the ‘little matter’ was. Tom wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to work with Pybus-Smith but he realized it would make everyone’s life easier if he denied being a communist.

‘I voted for the National Government in the last election.’

‘Good man.’

Pybus-Smith stiffened as he saw something over Tom’s shoulder. Then he reddened and swivelled towards the bar.

Tom turned to see Kristín approaching him, smiling. Everyone else in the bar was turning towards her rather than away from her.

‘Good evening, Tom,’ she said.

‘Hello,’ said Tom. ‘I’m glad you came. Can I get you a drink?’

‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘But, yes, I would like one. Can I have a gin and vermouth?’

Ari the Learned wasn’t really up to that one, but Kristín explained it to the barman.

‘Oh, let me introduce you to Captain Pybus-Smith. This is Kristín Hálfdánsdóttir.’

‘We have met,’ said Kristín, smiling at the captain, who was looking excruciatingly embarrassed.

Tom raised his eyebrows and translated.

‘Have we?’ said Pybus-Smith.

‘Oh, yes. You were a little drunk.’

‘Was I?’ Pybus-Smith frowned as if trying to remember, but he was obfuscating. ‘Oh, yes, yes. Yes, I do remember.’

‘Well?’ said Kristín, raising her eyebrows.

It took Pybus-Smith a few moments to realize what she was waiting for. ‘Um. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I might have made a bit of an ass of myself.’

Tom frantically translated this, choosing the Icelandic word for ‘horse’ for ‘ass’ in his haste.

‘You did,’ Kristín said, with a hint of a smile at Tom’s translation. ‘You were quite a horse.’

‘I apologize. I hope there was no harm done?’

Kristín gave Pybus-Smith a dazzling smile. ‘No, none whatsoever. Men get drunk in Iceland all the time. I’m used to it.’

So it was Pybus-Smith who had propositioned Kristín the night of the occupation! Tom’s amazement turned to anger. The cad!

Pybus-Smith and Kristín were both looking at him, waiting for him to translate. Tom decided that firstly, he would not give Pybus-Smith any sign that Kristín had told him about that evening, and secondly, if Kristín wanted to forgive Pybus-Smith, presumably so that he would release her brother, that was her business.

She came straight to the point. She tended to do that.

‘I came to Reykjavík to pick up my brother, but Tom tells me you suspect him of being a German spy?’

‘We can’t be too careful,’ said Pybus-Smith, nodding his head solemnly. ‘And he admits he is a communist.’

‘But he hates the Nazis,’ said Kristín. ‘Which means he hates the Germans. I can assure you the last thing Marteinn would ever do is help them.’

‘Ah,’ said Pybus-Smith. ‘That’s good to know. Thank you for telling me.’

Kristín gave him another dazzling smile. ‘This is Iceland. I can’t call you Captain Pybus-Smith. What is your real name?’

Pybus-Smith smiled nervously. ‘Neville.’

‘Well, Neville. How do you like Iceland?’

They spoke for fifteen minutes, Kristín charming Pybus-Smith in her rather blunt, direct way, Tom translating furiously with the occasional help of Ari the Learned.

Tom understood what Kristín was doing, but he didn’t like it. If Marteinn wasn’t a spy, he would be released soon anyway. Pybus-Smith didn’t deserve to be absolved from what was seriously ungentlemanly behaviour.

Also, he was unimpressed with Kristín being so charming to another man.

A tall, fair-haired Icelander in a double-breasted suit entered the bar and approached her.

‘Ah, Sigursteinn! This is my brother-in-law, Sigursteinn,’ Kristín said to Tom and Pybus-Smith.

The two British officers smiled and shook the Icelander’s hand. There was not a crack of a smile back.

‘Sigursteinn has come to escort me back to my aunt’s house,’ said Kristín. ‘Goodbye, Neville. It was very nice to talk to you properly.’

Tom was glad to see she had taken that precaution this time. He suspected Sigursteinn knew all about Pybus-Smith.

‘Come and visit us at Laxahóll, Neville,’ she said. ‘Tom will tell you where we are. We are always welcoming, aren’t we, Tom?’

Before translating, Tom replied to her in Icelandic. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘I’ll be perfectly safe,’ said Kristín. ‘He will sit with me and Dad and drink coffee and eat cakes for fifteen minutes and then he will go. He doesn’t speak Icelandic and we don’t speak English. Just translate it.’

‘All right,’ said Tom, and he did as he was asked.

‘That’s jolly kind,’ said Pybus-Smith, with a grin that was almost as charming as Kristín’s. ‘I may well take you up on that.’

Tom and Pybus-Smith watched Kristín leave the bar with her unsmiling escort.

‘Quite a girl, that one. She was jolly decent about the last time we met. I did make an ass of myself with her, I’m ashamed to say. She seems to have quite forgiven me, don’t you think?’

‘She does,’ Tom admitted grudgingly.

‘And she vouched for Hálfdánsson. Said he hated the Germans.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I think we’ll let him go in the morning, don’t you, Marks?’

Much later, Tom was tucked up in his bedroom at the Hotel Borg, reading a Graham Greene ‘entertainment’, when he heard a gentle knock at the door.

He hopped out of bed and opened it.

Kristín.

She smiled nervously.

‘I have come to discuss “the Situation” with you. If that’s all right?’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Tom with a broad smile. ‘Come in.’