The Valkyrie Project by Kilian Michael;

Author:Kilian, Michael;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

11

Spencer should have known that he was not going to die in a shootout at Egilsstadir airport with four KGB agents. It was too perfect, too glamorous, too much the sort of ending even Chesley would appreciate. He would die, and soon. But not in a gunfight.

He had not even tried to reach for his pistol. He could have killed at least one of them, could have resolved his abiding morbid curiosity, could have died a shared death. Instead, he simply stood foolishly by the ticket counter in the empty terminal, smiling idiotically as they came up to him. It was not until they had him in their car that he had realized they were not KGB but Icelandic policemen.

They had not bothered to search him. One had looked through his briefcase, grinning briefly upon finding the books with the pint bottles of whiskey. Otherwise, they had left him alone. Now, twenty-four hours later, he still had his pistol in his belt. It hurt, but he had no other place to hide it.

He was in a cell—small, antiseptically clean, brightly lit, and windowless except for a tiny pane in the door. The police station was in Kopavogur, a small suburb of Reykjavik. They had taken him to it without explanation and locked him in the cell without explanation. He had been allowed no telephone call and given only two meals. Happily, they had left him his briefcase and his whiskey.

Elisabet. What wretched irony. He had come to Iceland for a last fling of the spear into the universe. Yet all he had accomplished was falling in love. And getting put in jail.

The door opened. Spencer blinked stupidly at the grim-faced policeman.

“Come,” said the man. “Bring all your things. You will not be coming back here.”

Magnus Andersson was also grim-faced. He motioned Spencer to an uncomfortable chair in front of his desk but offered no greeting.

“I wish you were not in Iceland, Mr. Spencer,” he said finally. His voice was as dark as his looks.

“Then why have you made me your houseguest?” Spencer said.

“This is not my home.”

“Funny, it suits your personality.”

It was a dangerous path Spencer was treading. He smiled as amiably as possible. Andersson did not.

“Unfortunately, you have broken no law. None that we know of. You apparently trespassed on Geir Krog’s rented property at Heklafjordur, but for some reason he has not come forward to press charges.”

“Why did you have me arrested, then?” Spencer said, ignoring the joke.

“On suspicion,” said Andersson. “An aircraft was stolen from Egilsstadir earlier.”

“But you’ve held me for a day. Without charges, or anything.”

“It’s as long as I can keep you without charges. If the law permitted, I would keep you locked up for a year. Or put you on the next plane to New York.”

The pistol in Spencer’s belt now felt painful indeed. Bringing arms into Iceland was a serious offense. “Superintendent Andersson, I’m just a newspaperman. I’m just doing my job, researching an article.”

“Mr. Spencer. We fought three cod wars against the British and in all of them lost only one sailor killed in a ramming.

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