Sun on Fire by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson Page A

impossible. The manufacturer says it can’t be done.”
    “How about the other embassy buildings? Were they empty that evening?”
    “There were some comings and goings during the evening, but nobody approached the entrance to the Icelandic building. It’s set away from the other buildings. We’ve got recordings from two cameras covering the entrance, and only the people I’ve mentioned were spotted there.”
    Gunnar said, “The murder weapon is a large knife.” He passed the box to the guard. “Don’t you have measures to prevent this kind of weapon from being taken into the embassies?”
    Wolf replied, “The weapons-inspection levels vary in severity. There are three degrees of alert status. The highest is activated when there is political tension and threats have been issued, as when some Scandinavian newspaper published a cartoon of the prophet Mohamed. At that level, we have recourse to a Berlin-based security firm for backup, and all our security measures are augmented—the search for weapons is as rigorous as in airport security. But most of the time the alert status is low, which it was on Sunday. There’s a metal detector in the double entrance doorfrom the Felleshus into the plaza. Coins or cell phones in people’s pockets don’t trigger it, but larger objects—which would include guns and large knives—do. If it gives a signal, the inner door won’t open and the person in question is asked to step back. The security guard will then carry out a regular body search. I assume a knife like that would activate the alarm, but we can test it later.”
    “We’ll do that,” Gunnar said. “But everything seems to indicate that the killer was one of the eight in the party.”
    “Yes,” Wolf said. “Anything else is very unlikely.”
    Gunnar turned to Fischer. “If you had been instructed to investigate the case, you would’ve brought all eight of them in for interviews yesterday morning. And you’d have isolated them and questioned them individually—correct?”
    “Yes,” Fischer replied. “It might have taken a while getting qualified interpreters to assist us, but we would have tried to get a good handle on the course of events right away.”
    “Exactly,” Gunnar said. “But instead the witnesses scatter in all directions and get plenty of time to synchronize their stories. The killer is at large and capable of doing anything.”
    “That’s right,” Fischer said, nodding.
    16:00
    Birkir and Anna were eating their sandwiches in an office on the second floor when Konrad arrived at the embassy. The ambassador was a shortish, stout man with thin, gray hair, combed straight back and smoothed down with gel. He had a slight limp, taking noticeably shorter steps with his right foot.
    “Guten appetit,” he said, and waved Birkir away when the latter started to put down his sandwich in order to greet him. “Don’t let me interrupt your meal,” he said with a weary smile and sat down in an unoccupied chair.
    While he finished his snack, Birkir studied the ambassador. He’d seen his type before. Here was a man suffering the consequences of excessive alcohol the night before, who was so used to this malaise that it was more or less natural to him. His face was puffed and etched with deep wrinkles. Though his eyes were clear and awake, they were bloodshot, with bags under them.
    Birkir’s cell phone rang. It was Gunnar, telling him about the commissar’s offer to help with the forensics. Anna was hugely relieved to hear this. She had been anticipating many days’ work alone in the building. When Birkir explained to him that otherwise the office would be closed for several days, the ambassador also voiced his approval.
    Anna put down her half-eaten sandwich and went out for a cigarette. Birkir took a recorder from his pocket and looked at the ambassador. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation on this?” he asked. “It’s important for me to get all the details straight.”
    “Of course