‘What happened?’ Kristín asked.
‘Leo was an outstanding pilot,’ the woman said, the dim glow of the candles playing over her features. She had clearly once been an elegant, even beautiful, young woman but Kristín suspected that life had not been kind to her; age had set its stamp on her hard and there was a glittering determination in her eyes that hinted at past troubles. She must have been in her late seventies. Kristín examined the family pictures on the walls and piano; they were old, taken in the first half of the century, all photos of adults or elderly people, encased in thick, black frames. She could not see any children in the pictures, nor any recent photos or colour pictures. Only old, black-and-white images of men and women, posing for the photographer in their best clothes. The woman caught her looking at them.
‘All long dead,’ she said. ‘Every single one of them. That’s why there aren’t any new pictures. Those are mourning frames. Is that enough of an answer for you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kristín said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Leo told me to keep my maiden name, Steinkamp. That was Leo all over. He was a Jew like me. We met in Hungary after the war and he took me in. My family were all dead. All I had left were photographs. Everything else had gone. Our neighbour in Budapest had saved them. Leo tracked him down and I’ve kept the pictures with me ever since.’
‘They’re beautiful photographs,’ Kristín said.
‘Are you investigating Leo?’
‘Investigating?’ Steve said. ‘No, of course not. We just need information.’
‘They never investigated anything. They said it was an accident. Said he’d made a mistake. My Leo didn’t make mistakes. He was a perfectionist, you know? Always checking. He saved my life. I don’t know what would have happened to me if he hadn’t found me…’ She was silent for a moment, then asked: ‘What sort of information?’
‘About the plane on Vatnajökull. Did Leo ever tell you anything about it?’
‘Leo knew all about the plane on the glacier. He said it belonged to the Nazis.’
They stared at the woman in astonishment.
‘And then he died,’ she added.
‘The Nazis?’ Kristín repeated. ‘What do you mean? What did he mean?’
‘There was a Nazi plane on the glacier. That’s what Leo said. Then he died. In a helicopter crash. But Leo was a very good pilot. How peculiar that you should come knocking on my door after all these years, asking questions. No one has mentioned the plane since those days.’
‘But it crashed after the war was over,’ Kristín said, confused.
‘No, it did not,’ Sarah corrected, her small eyes meeting Kristín’s steadily. ‘It crashed before the end of the war. The Nazis were trying to escape, scattering in all directions to save their wretched skins.’
‘Thompson said it was carrying American soldiers who had stolen some gold,’ Kristín said.
‘Of course he did.’
‘Did Leo tell you the same story?’
‘No, he knew what was really happening and he did not keep secrets from his wife.’
‘What exactly did he tell you?’ Steve asked.
The woman still appeared suspicious and uncertain, as if in two minds about whether to answer them, but then she seemed to come to a decision.
‘Leo made a fuss about it at the base. About the plane. They wanted to cover it up but my Leo wanted to know what was going on. He wouldn’t shut up. He couldn’t stand all the secrecy.’
‘And what happened then? Did he get any answers?’ Steve asked.
‘No, nothing,’ Sarah Steinkamp replied. ‘The plane appeared out of the ice, then vanished again.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kristín asked.
‘Leo said that the glacier was like that. He said the plane had been buried in the glacier but then reappeared. End of story.’
‘Was this in 1967?’
‘Yes, 1967, exactly.’
‘So why did Leo believe it was a Nazi plane? What did he mean by Nazi?’
‘Surely even you know who the Nazis were, young man!’ the old woman snapped, her expression hardening. ‘Or has everyone forgotten them, as if they never existed?’
Kristín had stood up. She shuddered as the full implication of this woman’s history dawned on her: the photographs, Budapest, Steinkamp.
‘Murderers!’ the old woman exclaimed, and Kristín heard the frozen agony in her voice. ‘Bloody murderers! Never forget what they did,’ she cried, her eyes blazing as she stood there surrounded by the family pictures in their thick black frames. ‘They murdered my entire family. Burnt them in the ovens. Murdered our children. That’s what the Nazis were like, and never you forget it.’
Kristín looked at Steve rather than meet Sarah Steinkamp’s gaze. She felt guilty and ashamed for rousing this pensioner from her warm bed and stirring up a lifetime’s horrors. To her amazement, Steve ploughed on, lost in the complexities of the riddle they were struggling to solve.
‘But why did Leo believe the plane belonged to the Nazis? What made him think that?’ he persisted.
‘Who are you?’ the old woman asked, suddenly sounding brusque, as if she had regained her senses. ‘Who are you? I don’t know you at all. I am tired and you are upsetting me. Please leave now. Please go away and leave me alone.’
Kristín signalled to Steve that enough was enough. They took their leave of her without more ado. She stood by the piano, watching as they turned and walked back out to the front door. They closed it carefully behind them and felt a mingled sense of relief and sadness on emerging once more into the icy winter air.
Chapter 19
CONTROL ROOM, WASHINGTON DC,
SATURDAY 30 JANUARY
Vytautas Carr strode briskly into the control room. The reinforced doors closed slowly behind him with a heavy sucking sound. The room was filled with the same chilly gloom, the only light coming from the screens, most of which were flickering. A number of employees sat at the computer consoles and other controls which operated the organisation’s satellites, some talking on the phone, others silently intent on the screens which were reflected in their eyes. Phil, Carr’s assistant, came over and invited him to follow him. They walked through the control room and into a much smaller room, closing the door behind them.
‘We’ll start receiving them live any minute, sir,’ said Phil, a thin, tense man with a cigarette permanently jammed between his lips. He was one of the satellite operators. He had rolled-up shirt-sleeves and horn-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose which were invariably smeary with fingerprints, though he never seemed to notice. Carr reflected that for a man charged with seeing things with superb clarity, it was odd that he never seemed to clean his spectacles.
‘How long will we have them?’ Carr asked.
‘The satellite takes approximately thirty-seven minutes to pass over the area, sir. It’s cloudless at the moment but a storm’s gathering.’
‘Does Ratoff know we’re watching?’
‘I imagine he does, sir.’
Iceland’s recognisable outline appeared on the screen in front of Carr alongside part of Greenland’s east coast. The image vanished, to be replaced by another showing the south-eastern corner of the island. Phil pressed a button and yet another frame appeared, this time of the southern half of Vatnajökull. He zoomed in until the snowy surface of the glacier became visible, criss-crossed with crevasses, and finally a group of tiny dots could be seen moving over the ice. Carr felt as if he were looking through a microscope at minute organisms swimming around on a slide, like a scientist observing a complex experiment. During his long army service the world had changed almost beyond recognition and the extent of the US army’s capabilities these days never ceased to amaze him. The image was magnified yet again until he could make out what was happening on the glacier. Removing his own glasses, he gave them a wipe, before replacing them on his nose and focusing intently.