Running Blind / The Freedom Trap Read Online Free Page A

keeping a discreet distance.
    On arrival I went to the reservation counter. ‘I have a reservation on the flight to Akureyri. My name is Stewart.’
    The receptionist checked a list. ‘Oh, yes; Mr Stewart.’ She looked at the clock. ‘But you’re early.’
    ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ I said. ‘It passes the time.’
    She gave me the ticket and I paid for it, then she said, ‘Your luggage is weighed over there.’
    I touched the camera case. ‘This is all I have. I travel light.’
    She laughed. ‘So I see, Mr Stewart. And may I compliment you on how you speak our language.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I turned and saw a recognized face lurking close by—my watcher was still watching. I ignored him and headed for the coffee-counter where I bought a newspaper and settled down to wait.
    My man had a hurried conversation at the reservation counter, bought a ticket, and then came my way and both of us ignored each other completely. He ordered a late breakfast and ate ravenously, his eyes flicking in my direction infrequently. Presently I had a stroke of luck; the announcement loudspeaker cleared its throat and said in Icelandic, ‘Mr Buchner is wanted on the telephone.’ Whenit repeated this in fluent German my man looked up, got to his feet, and went to answer the call.
    At least I could now put a name to him, and whether the name was accurate or not was really immaterial.
    He could see me from the telephone-box and spoke facing outwards as though he expected me to make a break for it. I disappointed him by languidly ordering another coffee and becoming immersed in a newspaper account of how many salmon Bing Crosby had caught on his latest visit to Iceland.
    In airport waiting lounges time seems to stretch interminably and it was a couple of eons before the flight to Akureyri was announced. Herr Buchner was close behind me in the queue and in the stroll across the apron towards the aircraft, and he chose a seat on the aisle just behind me.
    We took off and flew across Iceland, over the cold glaciers of Langjďkull and Hofsjďkull, and soon enough we were circling over Eyjafjďrdur preparatory to landing at Akureyri, a city of fully ten thousand souls, the metropolis of Northern Iceland. The aircraft lurched to a halt and I undid my seat-belt, hearing the answering click as Buchner, behind me, did the same.
    The attack, when it came, was made with smoothness and efficiency. I left the airport building and was walking towards the taxi rank when suddenly they were all about me—four of them. One stood in front of me and grabbed my right hand, pumping it up and down while babbling in a loud voice about how good it was to see me again and the enormous pleasure it would give him to show me the marvels of Akureyri.
    The man on my left crowded hard and pinned my left arm. He put his mouth close to my ear, and said in Swedish, ‘Don’t make trouble, Herr Stewartsen; or you will be dead.’ I could believe him because the man behind me had a gun in my back.
    I heard a snip and turned my head just as the man on my right cut through the shoulder-strap of the camera case with a small pair of shears. I felt the strap snake loose and then he was gone and the camera case with him, while the man behind me took his place with one arm thrown carelessly over my shoulder and the other digging the gun into my ribs.
    I could see Buchner standing by a taxi about ten yards away. He looked at me with a blank face and then turned and bent to get into the car. It drove away and I saw the white smudge of his face as he looked through the back window.
    They kept up the act for two minutes more to give the man with the camera case time to get clear, and the man on my left said, again in Swedish, ‘Herr Stewartsen: we’re going to let you go now, but I wouldn’t do anything foolish if I were you.’
    They released me and each took a step away, their faces hard and their eyes watchful. There were no guns in sight but that didn’t mean a damn thing.