Sun on Fire (11 page)

“It looks like we imported some stone, too, just like the Norwegians,” Birkir said, turning toward the Icelandic embassy on their left. “What is this?” he asked, pointing at its pale-brown masonry.

“Rhyolite, from Hamarsfjördur.”

“So you don’t know Starkadur, David’s partner?” Birkir asked, switching the subject again.

“Maybe I’ve been introduced to him, but I don’t remember it.”

“You don’t know anything else about him?”

“Unfortunately not.”

They approached the entrance to the Icelandic embassy.

Birkir said, “The Icelandic building is noticeably plainer in style than the others.”

“Yes, I think it works very well. As you see, there is a contrast between the access and stairwell structure, which has this corrugated concrete texture, and the part containing the actual offices, with its rhyolite accent.”

At the entrance, Arngrímur let them in with a pass card.

Birkir asked, “You don’t know Jón the Sun Poet personally?”

“No.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“Not as far as I remember.”

“I see,” Birkir said thoughtfully. “It’s a small building, isn’t it? What’s the floor area?”

“Five hundred square meters in total, with office space of around eighty square meters on each story. The site itself is somewhat small and impractical, and the service area, stairs, and elevator take up a large part of the structure. But that’s how it is. Just eight of us work here, so we’re reasonably comfortable.”

“Was this the best solution?” Birkir asked.

“Yes, all things considered. One idea that came up at the planning stage was to have the Icelandic embassy on the top floor above the Norwegian one. I’m very glad that didn’t happen, and I think our embassy looks very good among the others, even if it’s not very prominent.”

“Have you ever met Helgi, the ceramic artist?”

It didn’t seem to bother Arngrímur that Birkir kept on changing the subject, asking questions about the ambassador’s guests. He replied without a pause, “We were going to have a meeting to discuss his exhibition, but I was called away. He spoke with the ambassador about it instead, so no, I’ve never met him.”

“When was your meeting supposed to be?”

“On Sunday.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Yes, but Helgi wasn’t able to make it any other day. Apparently he has a very tight schedule. At the embassy we do sometimes have to attend meetings on weekends. That’s not a problem.”

“Lúdvík was here to manage Helgi’s exhibition. You’d met him before, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, very briefly, as I said, when he organized an exhibition in the Felleshus. He is highly professional and efficient, and they didn’t need my help with that project, but I chatted with him at the exhibition’s opening.”

“And I guess he’s no more prone to violence than the others?”

“No, there’s nothing about him to suggest that.”

“Fabían, the Sun Poet’s companion. He’s the last name on the ambassador’s guest list. Do you know him?”

“No.”

They walked up the stairs. On the second floor, the sound of voices could be heard through the open office doors. The work of the embassy seemed to have returned to normal.

They arrived at the fourth floor, and Arngrímur opened his office with a key.

He said, “I hope you’ll let us know if we can be of any further assistance? We’ll also need instructions on what to do with Anton’s body.”

“If no relatives come forward, it’ll be up to the authorities to arrange some sort of funeral,” Birkir replied. “I assume his estate can cover the expenses.”

“In that case I suggest that the body be cremated here in Berlin,” Arngrímur said. “The ashes can be sent to Iceland and quietly interred. That’s standard procedure when an Icelandic citizen passes away on foreign ground and no relatives come forward.”

Arngrímur took a small book from a shelf and handed it to Birkir.

“This is the booklet of quotations about the diplomatic profession I promised you.”

Birkir took the slim paperback volume and read the Gothic lettering on its cover:

Diplomacy

Collected and translated by Arngrímur Ingason

“Thank you,” Birkir said, and flipped through the first pages. He noticed mostly short excerpts, followed by author’s name or other source in small lettering. The preface bore the dictionary definition:
“Diplomacy n. 1) Foreign service, especially the functions of embassies; 2) discretion, tact.”

Birkir picked out a few entries as he skimmed:

Time was when diplomats negotiated serious agreements on war and peace and royal marriage arrangements. These days it’s mainly about free trade agreement quotas and sizes of shoe boxes.

—
The Diplomat

The diplomat’s first duty is not to be surprised by anything.

—Heinrich von Bülow

A diplomat is someone who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you look forward to the journey.

—Caskie Stinnet

A diplomat is someone who never offends accidentally.

—
The Diplomat’s Dictionary

Arngrímur’s cell phone rang, and after a short exchange he said to Birkir, “Your friend Gunnar is at the Felleshus front desk. I asked them to let him in.”

“Good. We’re actually finished here. We’d better go catch our flight to Frankfurt.”

They walked back down to the ground floor and out into the plaza. They watched Gunnar approach.

Gunnar greeted them informally. He held in one hand a fat half-eaten curried sausage; in the other he held a bun.

“Did you see the elephants?” Birkir asked.

“Yes.”

“And what did you make of them?”

“I thought they’d be bigger,” Gunnar said, and he bit into the sausage.

14:00

On arriving in Frankfurt, Birkir and Gunnar took a taxicab from the airport terminal to the nearby hotel the embassy staff had booked for them. Birkir waited in the cab while Gunnar took their luggage inside to check in.

“All set here,” Gunnar said when he came back out. “Take us to the Book Fair, please,” he instructed the driver.

“Which entrance?” the man asked.

“The main one, I guess.”

After driving awhile, they eventually spotted the sign “Frankfurter Buchmesse” pointing to the exhibition area. They passed several parking structures, finally reaching a tight group of large buildings dominated by a massive tower.

“Which one is the Book Fair in?” Gunnar asked the driver.

“The fair takes up all the buildings in the exhibition area,” the driver replied. He stopped at a taxicab stand and pointed to a gate. “You can go in there.”

Birkir paid for the ride and waited for a receipt. Then they climbed out and walked toward the gate, where they found a guard.

“Where can we buy tickets?” Gunnar asked.

“No tickets on sale today,” the guard replied. “You can come on Sunday. The fair will be open to the public then.”

Gunnar shook his head, “No good. We’re police from Iceland, and we need to talk to a guy who happens to be here today.”

The guard eyed them suspiciously. “Wait here. I’ll have to check with my boss.”

He turned away and had a brief conversation on his headset, and then asked Gunnar, “Where are you going to look for this person?”

Gunnar read from a piece of paper, “Booth H251, first floor of building number six.”

“You got ID?”

Gunnar and Birkir produced their passports and their Reykjavík police badges. The guard examined them carefully, and then spoke again into his headset. Finally he asked, “Is there anyone who can confirm your business here?”

Gunnar presented Arngrímur Ingason’s card, prominently imprinted with the Icelandic embassy’s emblem. “You can call the counselor of the Icelandic embassy in Berlin. He knows all about this.”

The guard spelled out Arngrímur’s name into the headset and gave the phone number.

“Wait here,” he said, disappearing through a door.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared bearing two plastic cards and a map of the exhibition layout.

“This will give you access for today,” he said. “You’ll find your guy here,” he added, pointing out the place on the map.

“Thanks very much,” Gunnar said, and he and Birkir used their pass cards to enter the exhibition area.

With the help of the map, and after a long walk around the concourse, they found building six. Inside, there were books everywhere they looked, and hordes of people, but it was not difficult to find booth H251—from a distance, they could see large pictures of Icelandic landscapes promoting a new book of photographs, and portraits of familiar Icelandic writers. A slim man with thin hair stood at a table arranging booklets.

“Good afternoon,” Birkir said in Icelandic.

“Oh, hello, good afternoon,” the man said, looking at Birkir in surprise. “Are you an Icelander?”

Birkir nodded. “We’re police officers from Reykjavík, and we’re looking for Jón the Sun Poet.”

“Goodness. I hope you intend to arrest him.”

“Is there a reason we should?”

“He’s driving all of us crazy, and this is only the first day of the fair.”

“How?”

“We’re a few medium-sized publishers sharing this booth, and someone was dumb enough to include Jón in the group. He’s been raising a ruckus all day.”

“How?” Birkir repeated.

“Jón has no idea how to work book fairs like this. You can’t talk to anybody here without booking a meeting weeks in advance, but he just barges into publishers’ booths and demands to speak to the boss. When he’s not doing that, he marches up and down the aisles bellowing out his poems as though this is some kind of performance-art venue. All readings here are tightly organized sessions. The security guards have brought him back here three times—the booth number’s on his pass card. For God’s sake, take him away with you.”

“I can’t see that we have reason to at the moment,” Birkir replied.

“He’s ruining Icelandic literature’s reputation. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Undoubtedly, but . . .”

“And look, there he is. I’m off to a meeting. You’ll have to take care of the guy and the booth while he’s here. It’s your responsibility.”

And with that, he was gone.

Jón Sváfnisson was tall and voluminous, clad in blue overalls that were generously large even for him, with the legs turned up to reveal old leather walking boots, and so loose around his waist that they were only held up by the shoulder straps. He wore a red checkered cotton shirt, tucked into his pants. A prominent bald patch crowned his head, around which he’d tied a red cowboy neckerchief to hold back his long, dull, frizzy hair hanging down both sides. Above his unkempt beard covering the lower part of his face, a pair of piercing blue eyes gazed at the detectives.

“What do you want with me?” he bellowed once Birkir introduced himself and Gunnar.

“We’re investigating the embassy murder in Berlin,” Birkir replied. “Perhaps you haven’t heard about it?”

“Murder, murder most foul at the embassy! Yes, somebody may well have told me about that. Some folks’ sole occupation is spreading rumors. And then they pretend to be selling literature.” He underlined every word with an exaggerated gesture.

Birkir said, “You were at the embassy that evening.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it happened at a party after your reading on Sunday.”

“Ah, yes. The fat gate-crasher—that disgusting slave driver—was bumped off. Someone did humanity a great favor that evening. I don’t think it was me, though. I would probably remember it. Although that’s not certain. When does a man kill a man?”

“How do you know who was killed?” Birkir asked.

“The Holy Spirit appeared before me,” Jón replied, raising his hands to heaven.

Birkir and Gunnar looked at one another.

“One of the girls at the embassy told me this morning,” Jón guffawed. “It
was
that windbag Anton, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, his name was Anton,” Birkir replied.

“So we agree on that, then. How about we just get on with selling literature? Time is precious, and I’ve got so many people I need to talk to today.”

Birkir said, “Anton went up to the ambassador’s office several times that evening to make phone calls. Were you with him any of those times?”

“No . . . yeah . . . no, how the hell am I supposed to remember that, I was totally wasted!”

Birkir glanced uncertainly at Gunnar, who grinned broadly.

“Your friend Fabían—is he here with you?” Birkir asked.

Jón looked around theatrically. “No, he doesn’t appear to be here,” he said, affecting a surprised expression.

“Where can we find him?” Birkir asked patiently.

“Fabían! Fabían! Faaaabían!” Jón shouted in crescendo.

Visitors at nearby booths looked curiously in their direction, and when Jón saw that he had their attention, he held up his book and shouted, “Poetry! Icelandic poetry for sale! Come and have a look, dear friends.”

His audience looked away, and some walked off elsewhere.

“I need to get an agent,” the poet said, laughing.

Birkir was about to say something, but Gunnar put a hand on his shoulder, “Go get yourself a cup of tea. I think the Sun Poet and I need to have a little conversation.”

Birkir shrugged and said, “See you in a half hour.”

Birkir took off, and Gunnar pointed at a small refrigerator in the back of the booth. “You got any liquor here for your guests?”

Jón’s interest was aroused, and he crouched down and opened the mini-fridge to reveal bottles of beer and Icelandic firewater. Gunnar grabbed a couple of beers and flipped off their caps with an opener he found on top of the fridge. He passed one of them to Jón and took a slug from the other.

“Didn’t Fabían come here with you?” he asked.

Jón downed half a bottle in one gulp before replying, “Ah, this was a very good idea. You’re not totally dumb.”

Gunnar repeated the question.

Jón took another swig before replying, “Fabían, no, he didn’t come with me. He’s very ill, poor thing. He’d had enough of this goddamned trip. Flew back to Iceland on Monday. I should have gone with him.”