Operation Napoleon by Arnaldur Indridason

Witnesses,’ she sighed. ‘At a time like this!’ She must be polite.
    The instant she opened the door, two men barged inside. One clamped his hand over her mouth and forced her ahead of him into the living room. The other followed close behind, shut the door and conducted a swift search of the flat, checking the other rooms and kitchen to ensure she was alone. Meanwhile, the man who was holding Kristín pulled out a small revolver and put a finger to his lips to indicate that she should keep quiet. They were both wearing white rubber gloves. Their actions were methodical, calculated and practised, as if they had done this countless times before. Focused and purposeful, they got straight down to business.
    Kristín could not make a sound. She stared at the two men in stunned bewilderment.
    White rubber gloves?
    Bateman found her passport in a drawer in the sideboard, walked over to Kristín and compared her face with the photo.
    ‘Bingo,’ he said, dropping the passport on the floor.
    ‘Do exactly what I tell you,’ Ripley said in English as he levelled the revolver at her head, ‘and sit down here at the desk.’ He shoved her towards the desk and she sat down with the gun still wedged against her temple. She could feel its muzzle, cold, heavy and blunt, and her head hurt from the pressure.
    Bateman came over and joined them. He switched on Kristín’s computer, humming gently to himself as it warmed up, then created a new file and began quickly and methodically to copy something from a sheet of paper he had taken from his pocket. They conversed in English while this was going on, saying something she did not catch. Yet although they gave the impression of being American, to Kristín’s astonishment the man was writing in Icelandic.
    I can’t go on living. It’s over. I’m sorry .
    She tried addressing them, first in Icelandic, then in English, but they did not answer. She knew that robberies had been on the increase lately but she had never heard of a burglary like this. At first she had taken it for some kind of joke. Now she was sure they were burglars. But why this unintelligible message on the computer?
    ‘Take what you like,’ she said in English. ‘Take anything you like, then get out. Leave me alone.’ She felt herself growing numb with terror at the thought that they might not be thieves, that they might have some other form of violence in mind for her. Later, when she replayed the events in her head, as she would again and again in the following days, she had difficulty remembering what thoughts had raced through her mind during those chaotic minutes. It all happened so fast that she never had time to take in the full implications of her situation. It was so absurd, so utterly incomprehensible. Things like this did not happen; not in Iceland, not in Reykjavík, not in her world.
    ‘Take whatever you like,’ she repeated.
    The men did not answer.
    ‘Do you mean me?’ she asked, still speaking English, pointing at the computer screen. ‘Is it me who can’t go on living any longer?’
    ‘Your brother’s dead and you can’t go on living any longer. Simple as that,’ Bateman replied. He smiled as he added to himself sarcastically: ‘What poets they are at the embassy.’
    The embassy , Kristín noted.
    ‘My brother? Elías? What do you mean, dead? Who are you? Are you friends of Elías? If this is supposed to be a joke . . .’
    ‘Hush, Kristín. Don’t alarm yourself,’ Ripley said. The accent was definitely American.
    ‘What’s going on?’ Kristín demanded to know, her terror suddenly giving way to blazing anger.
    ‘A grand conspiracy involving the Reykjavík police, the Icelandic foreign ministry and the ministry of justice,’ Bateman said gravely, catching Ripley’s eye. He looked for all the world as though he was enjoying himself.
    ‘A conspiracy?’ Kristín repeated in Icelandic. ‘The foreign ministry? Elías? What kind of joke is this? What kind of bullshit is