By Michael Ridpath
Iceland 1934: boys enjoying within the lava fields that encompass their remoted farmsteads see anything they wouldn't have. the implications will hang-out them and their households for generations. Iceland 2009: the credits crunch bites. The forex has been devalued, banks nationalized, reductions annihilated, lives ruined. Grassroots revolution is within the air, as is the sensation that somebody should pay...ought to pay the blood fee. And in a rustic with a inhabitants of simply 300,000 souls, in a rustic the place we all know each person, it's not challenging to attract up a listing of precisely who's dependable. after which, one-by-one, to move them off. Iceland 2010: As bankers and politicians begin to die, at domestic and overseas, it truly is as much as Magnus Jonson to solve the internet of conspirators sooner than they strike back. yet whereas Magnus investigates the crimes of the current, the crimes of the prior are catching up with him.
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Extra resources for 66 North
In a moment, Björn was on his knees examining Gabríel Örn. The banker was motionless. His eyes were closed. His already pale face had taken on a waxy sheen. A snowflake landed on his cheek. Blood seeped out of his skull beneath his short thin hair. ‘He’s not breathing,’ Harpa whispered. Then she screamed. ’ Hallgrímur swung his axe as they came at him. Eight of them. In a frenzy, he chopped off the leg of the first warrior, and the head of the second. His axe split the third’s shield. The fourth he hit in the face with his own shield.
On the wall was an empty Thule beer bottle. She picked it up, took three steps forward and, aiming for the bald spot on the back of Gabríel Örn’s head, brought it crashing down. He staggered, swayed to the right and fell, his head bouncing off an iron bollard at the entrance of the little car park with a sickening crack. He lay still. Harpa dropped the bottle, her hand flying to her mouth. ’ Frikki roared and ran at the prone body of Gabríel Örn, launching a kick hard into his ribs. He kicked him twice in the chest and once in the head before Björn grabbed him around the waist and flung him to the ground.
The fact that they were outside and nearly naked on a cold grey September evening didn’t bother any of them. ‘Ooh, that feels good,’ said the tall, skinny man who slid in beside Magnus. ’ ‘I’ve got to get rid of the energy somehow, Árni,’ Magnus said. ’ ‘Yeah. ’ Magnus glanced at his companion. Despite living in Reykjavík for four months, Magnus was never entirely sure when Icelanders were being serious. It was a particular problem with Árni Holm. He was good at the deadpan irony. On the other hand he occasionally said the most spectacularly stupid things.
66 North by Michael Ridpath