The Chill Factor

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

50th Anniversary edition 2021

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd in association with Arlington Books 1971

Copyright © Estate of Derek Lambert 1971

Introduction © Ragnar Jónasson 2021

Cover design by Stephen Mulcahey © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Richard Falkirk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008433871

Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008433888

Version: 2020-12-03

First Epigraph

Iceland. In the winter it gets light at 10 a.m. and dark at 2 p.m. There is a daily announcement of the Chill Factor, by which the mathematically minded can calculate how quickly they could die from exposure …

INTRODUCTION

Glöggt er gests augað.

This Icelandic saying came to mind while reading Richard Falkirk’s espionage thriller The Chill Factor. It means simply that an outside visitor often sees things more clearly than the locals, and is certainly true – more or less – in Falkirk’s book.

The Chill Factor was first published in 1971, when crime and thriller fiction was almost unheard of in Iceland. The first Icelandic detective novel is generally considered to have been written in 1926, actually during what is now considered to be the Golden Age of crime fiction. However, there was no such Golden Age in Iceland. Only a handful of other books followed, and there are then no records on any lists of a single crime novel written in Icelandic from 1950 until the early 1970s. From then on books were few and far between, with the proper ‘golden age’ of the Icelandic crime novel not commencing until 1997, when Arnaldur Indridason published his first book. The reason for the lack of Icelandic thrillers for most of the twentieth century was simple: readers (and indeed writers) felt that Iceland was too small a place in which to set believable murder mysteries.

And so, in 1971, Richard Falkirk was entering largely uncharted territory, writing a contemporary thriller set in Iceland. Interestingly, Desmond Bagley had beaten him to it by a matter of months with his espionage thriller Running Blind, published at the end of 1970, and its instant popularity should have been a clue to Falkirk’s publishers that they had another potential success on their hands. Falkirk – whose real name was Derek Lambert (1929–2001) – worked as a foreign correspondent for the British press, and he had spent time in Iceland prior to writing the book, as was his modus operandi for many of his novels. His descriptions of people, places and customs are accordingly quite vivid. As one might expect in the heightened world of adventure fiction, some of the statements about the local people are overly exaggerated, and occasionally incorrect, but many would have been instantly recognizable to an Icelandic reader at that time.

Now, fifty years later, much of Falkirk’s book evokes an Iceland that few writers were capturing at that time, such as this charming description of Reykjavik in the early 1970s:

‘Austurvollur Square was still toytown with the little white Lutheran Cathedral and the Althing – the diminutive Parliament building. In the streets around the square the same bookshops, glossy with Icelandic geography and culture from the time of the sagas to the contemporary Nobel Prize winner Halldor Laxness. Chanting newspaper boys, a policeman in white peaked cap and gloves, teenagers in flared trousers and brown and fawn sweaters, no hoardings, no dogs, all in miniature.’

The Reykjavik that forms the backdrop to this novel, with the US naval air station at nearby Keflavik, is somewhat unknown to me, as the story takes place in the early 1970s before I was born. Keflavik was closed and the Americans left in 2006. But even though these Cold War icons have passed into history, Richard Falkirk’s story transports the reader to this faraway time and place; a Reykjavik smaller and more quiet than the one we know now. This is the Reykjavik my parents knew as a young couple, and funnily enough the Icelandic Gudrun drives a ‘baby Fiat’, just as they did at the time. And when they got engaged, they went for dinner at the Naust restaurant, which also features in the book.

Even though the Icelandic crime novel hadn’t really made an appearance in the 1970s, readers there were still enjoying mysteries and thrillers in translation, with authors such as Alistair MacLean and Agatha Christie proving highly popular. The Chill Factor rapidly found its way to Icelandic readers, as it was published in translation within a year, in time for 1972’s traditional Icelandic Christmas book flood. In fact, the book made headlines in Iceland, with one of the leading newspapers of the time, Vísir, running a prominent piece on the novel in November 1972 with the headline: An Icelandic stewardess the leading character of a foreign novel. The publisher also took advantage of the Icelandic connection, advertising the book with the strapline: A foreign author chooses Iceland as a setting. The ad goes on to say: ‘The leading characters are a British man and an Icelandic stewardess at Icelandair. The novel also features the Russian embassy, the Iceland Defence Force, the Icelandic police, the National Registry, clubs and coffee shops in Reykjavik, and various locations outside of Reykjavik.’

The translator, Bárður Halldórsson, was perhaps more sceptical than his publisher, as his introduction to the Icelandic edition carried a word of warning to Icelandic readers:

‘The author of this book … travelled around Iceland and acquainted himself well with the situation here, as is clear from the reading of the book. However, some of his statements about Iceland and Icelandairs may be disputable and some readers may take offence, as the story is often quite satirical, even ironic. The author sometimes also gets his facts wrong and makes a few mistakes here and there. I decided not to change that in the translation, as such errors give the novel an air of freshness and foreignness. The author is not writing a work of historical accuracy and he has hardly expected the novel become an immortal work of literature, but in spite of all of that, the author’s reflections on Icelanders – their nature and disposition – makes it superior to most thrillers.’

The novel is indeed filled with interesting details about life in Iceland, but as the translator notes, some of the statements need to be taken with a grain of salt, delivered as they are with the characteristic flippancy of a fictional secret agent! He remarks, for example, that the second names in Iceland are so alike that phone numbers are listed under Christian names. The second part is quite true, but the reason is perhaps more complicated. He also mentions that in Iceland the weather can change by the minute, which unfortunately is very true. ‘You should have come last week for the sunshine,’ says Gudrun – a wonderful line, capturing in a subtle way the fact that Icelanders love to talk about the weather, especially the elusive sun.

It is also never too late to do anything in Iceland: ‘To drink or make the love. At least not in the summer when we have no night. In the winter it is different – then we sleep.’ And following this statement, the character of course offers the protagonist aquavit and a bottle of Black Death – Iceland’s signature drink. Falkirk was also aware that beer was not allowed in Iceland (not until 1989, in fact): ‘The Government does not allow much alcohol in the beer – they think it will encourage drunkenness.’

One of the appeals of spy thrillers from this era – and of Falkirk in particular – is the presence of dry humour to move the story along, and he spices things up with some very broad generalisations: ‘You’ll like him. A great drinker, a great joker – like most Icelanders,’ is one example. Another is that Icelanders are ‘Very friendly, very inquisitive, very tough. They also like to tell you about their dreams.’ And yet another is the assertion that sweets are apparently an indulgence shared by many Icelanders.

You can tell the author was a journalist, as he never wastes an opportunity to extract humour from something he has observed. During his visit to Iceland he obviously noticed the tendency of some English-speaking Icelanders to use ‘v’ instead of ‘w’ and vice versa:

‘But you are alive and that is vonderful.’

‘Wery,’ I said.

And I think it’s safe to say that reading Richard Falkirk’s previously forgotten book is truly a wery vonderful wisit into the past, all the way back to the toytown of Reykjavik in 1971.

RAGNAR JÓNASSON

Ragnar Jónasson is the award-winning author of the bestselling Dark Iceland series and the Hulda Trilogy, called ‘a landmark in modern crime fiction’ by The Times. His books are published in 27 languages, and his first standalone novel, The Girl Who Died, is published in 2021. Ragnar lives in Reykjavik.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

First Epigraph

Introduction

Second Epigraph

1. The Stewardess

2. Charlie Martz

3. The Welcome

4. The Saga

5. The Saga of the Saga

6. Ruffled Feathers

7. Hekla

8. Two Devious Policemen

9. Airman First Class Fred Shirey

10. The Fugitive

11. The Grenadiers

12. The Fire-Bringing Giant

13. The Latchkey belonging to a Girl working in the office of a Barrister

14. Jefferey

15. The London End

16. National Day

17. Gudrun

18. The Files

19. Confessional

20. Black Death

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Second Epigraph

In a book called Letters from Iceland first published in 1937, W. H. Auden replied to a question from Christopher Isherwood. Question: ‘What about the sex life?’ Answer: ‘Uninhibited.’

1

The Stewardess

At least they warned you. The first club listed for Reykjavik in the guide book was Alcoholics Anonymous – open daily 1800-1900, tel. 16373. I didn’t recall the need for such an establishment, but I was only twelve when I was last in Iceland.

I asked the stewardess the price of a miniature vodka. ‘Too cheap,’ she said, discarding cosmetic charm as if her boyfriend were invariably incapacitated by Stolichnaya. That was the second warning.

‘I’ll have one,’ I said.

The smile reappeared, as sincere as a TV advertisement. ‘Very well, sir.’ Slight American accent, hair blonde and slithery, body slender in red skirt and blue blouse representing the fire and ice of Iceland.

I looked out of the window of the Icelandair Saga Jet, a Boeing 727. Pastures of grey cloud were far below; it never seemed to be proper to inspect clouds from above – it made Nature appear vulnerable.

I returned to Iceland in a Nutshell. On the cover Hekla was erupting in the snow in a great convoluted brain of smoke. Inside the covers were the desolate grandeurs of the Iceland I remembered. Waterfalls, glaciers, red tongues of lava tasting the cold; clean skies, geysers and towns with green and red roofs like playing cards. Civilisation in the Ice Age melted a little by the Gulf Stream.

I travelled through the pages. Tobacco and alcoholic drinks. ‘Icelanders generally say “Good Health” (Skal) each time they raise their glasses when drinking alcohol, at the same time looking into one another’s eyes.’

I looked into the eyes of the stewardess and said, ‘Skal.’

She smiled back and I detected warmth behind this smile. But it was a different stewardess.

‘Do you know what it means?’ she asked.

I shook my head, still warming myself with her smile.

‘It means skull. It’s different from the Scandinavian. In the old days the Vikings used to cut a skull in half and drink from it.’ Her tone implied: Those were the days.

‘You seem to approve of drinking more than your colleague.’

‘She has had many bad times because of drink.’

‘And you have had many good times?’

‘Always I have the good times. With or without the drinking.’ She, too, spoke with a slight American accent; but her v’s became w’s and vice versa and some of her s’s became sh’s. She sat on the arm of the empty gangway seat next to me: there were few passengers on board and she had time to waste. She pointed at my papers. ‘You know much about volcanoes?’

‘Quite a bit.’ I listened to my voice to hear if I could detect its lying quality: I could and hoped she couldn’t.

‘They are a hobby of yours, these volcanoes?’

I swallowed the vodka neatly and quickly as the Russians had taught me in Moscow. Fire and ice. Perhaps it would oil the lying squeak in my voice. ‘It’s a little more than a hobby. It’s part of my job.’

She said: ‘You have come to observe Hekla?’

‘That’s the general idea.’ I held up the empty glass. ‘Could I have another, please?’

‘Of course. It is wery good wodka, is it not?’

I nodded. ‘Wery, wery good. Vonderful, in fact.’

I put away the papers because I didn’t want to tax my knowledge of eruptions. The girl returned and sat down again: she seemed to be a rather unorthodox stewardess by BOAC or Pan-Am standards. And the absence of the papers deflected her not one degree. ‘You are very lucky that Hekla has erupted again after twenty-three years;’ she said.

Press on with the lies, then. Make this a dress rehearsal. But first another dose of fire water – the volcano in the glass. ‘I’m going to Iceland at the request of your Government. The ash has poisoned cattle and pastureland. I’m something of an expert on these matters.’

‘You must be a very clever man.’ The light blue eyes appraised me and I glimpsed formidable singleness of purpose. ‘In Iceland girls say, “Brains first, then looks”.’

The compliment seem dubious. It was also unanswerable. I examined the cube of ice in my vodka; it had a tiny white Christmas tree imprisoned inside.

She went on: ‘If you are lucky you may see Hekla from the aircraft just before we land. You know that in the Middle Ages people thought it was the Gates of Hell?’

At least I knew my Hekla after two days of application in London’s museums and libraries. I took out a notebook and read aloud: ‘The wailing and gnashing of teeth of the damned can be heard from the mountains and shepherds have seen great vultures driving the fallen souls in the form of black ravens into the opening to hell.’

‘Vonderful,’ she said.

It didn’t seem exactly wonderful. I finished the vodka, Christmas tree and all.

‘You would like another?’

‘I might as well. Vodka seems to go with volcanoes.’

‘It is good that you like vodka. We like it very much in Iceland.’

‘So I gather. I don’t remember people drinking a lot last time I was there.’

‘You have been to Iceland before?’

‘During the war.’ I didn’t mention my recent visit to the NATO base.

She paused – to calculate my age, I suspected. She confirmed the suspicion. ‘How old were you then?’ It seemed doubtful if Icelandic conversation was ever hampered by reticence.

‘I was only a child. My father was in the British Embassy. But I learned to speak Icelandic.’

She exclaimed enthusiastically in Icelandic, which is Old Norse. ‘Say something,’ she said.

‘Djoffullin sjalfur,’ I said. Which means roughly: ‘Bloody Hell’. I added: ‘But I prefer to speak English.’

‘Vonderful,’ she said, and went to fetch some more vodka.

The aircraft was lowering itself on to the grey pastures of cloud as if it wanted to touch down on them. It was the time to stop aeronautical speculation; the time to banish all speculation about the altimeter which would bring us down on the razored peaks of the mountains just below the clouds if …

The other passengers were queuing for the toilets. Prematurely fastening their seat belts, extinguishing cigarettes or yawning and scratching with exaggerated nonchalance.

I accepted my third vodka with a buoyant disregard for landing formalities inspired by the two previous vodkas. And – with a familiarity that owed something to the same source – asked the stewardess what her name was.

It was, she said, Gudrun.

We were told to strap ourselves in and stop smoking. We submerged in the cloud, then surfaced underneath. And there was Iceland – all lichen, moss and black ash from the air. Uncompromising, fighting with the sea in a front-line of breakers. Mountains veined with snow on one side of us, on the other a shower of rain bowling along like a bundle of gnats.

Gudrun sat down and peered towards the mountains. ‘It is wery disappointing,’ she said. ‘I cannot see Hekla.’

She pointed downwards. ‘Perhaps you can see Surtsey down there? Iceland, you see, is still forming. It is wery vonderful.’

I looked for the island that had suddenly sprung from the sea in a fountain of fire and smoke. But I couldn’t see it.

We sank lower and went into circuit. I mentally recited some of my homework: ‘The centre of Iceland consists of a rift from SW to NE. This is part of a vast rift running the length of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge south from Iceland to the Azores, Ascension Island and Tristan da Cunha … thought to represent a line of fracture along which the Atlantic Ocean may first have opened … from which basalts have been pouring out for millions of years.’

The runway was a few feet below, wet and fast. ‘Of the volcanic rocks the tertiary plateau basalts are the oldest dating from Eocene to Pliocene …’

We bumped once, then settled and the first sign I saw said: ‘US Navy Ops Field Elevation 169 ft’.

I considered asking Gudrun, now in scarlet jacket and hat, out to dinner. But reluctance to invoke a clause of the tired businessman’s travel manual prevented me; just such reluctance could make a man an octogenarian celibate.

I said goodbye to her breezily and squeezed past her on to the landing steps. She looked hurt, I thought; but it was too late now. I was on the tarmac and the runway accelerating across the airfield like buckshot.

At the duty-free counters I debated prices with a morose sales assistant so that I could be last through formalities and customs and proceed unnoticed to my own nearby destination.

I was still deep in low finance when Gudrun rounded the corner, a galleon in full sail. She dropped anchor in front of me and said: ‘You did not pay for your vodkas.’

Interest animated the face of the sales assistant.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, searching my pockets for the kronur I bought at London Airport.

She considered the coins in my hand. ‘Why are you staying around like this? Reykjavik is thirty-five kilometres from here and you will miss the bus.’

‘I prefer to go by cab.’

‘That will cost you much money. You are very rich?’

‘Not rich at all.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘In a guest-house in Baragata.’

‘Then you are certainly not so rich.’

‘A lot of scientists stay there. It’s very peaceful, I’m told.’ I held out the coins. ‘Take whatever I owe you.’

‘I do not want your money,’ she said.

Which was perplexing. My body, perhaps? I put the coins back in my pocket and waited optimistically.

She said: ‘Tomorrow I will introduce you to a man who knows all about volcanoes.’

Which was what I needed like a crater in the head.

‘Do you know the Saga Hotel?’

I shook my head. ‘It wasn’t here in my day.’

‘You will find it very easily.’ Her face challenged me not to find it. ‘I shall be there at eight o’clock tomorrow evening. Perhaps the three of us may dine and dance.’

‘The three-step?’

‘You are not anxious to meet my friend?’

‘Not if he’s your boyfriend. Perhaps’ – consulted the tired businessman’s manual – ‘perhaps you and I could have dinner tomorrow at the Saga and meet your friend some other time.’

She smiled as the conversation degenerated into a cliché of her profession. ‘Very well.’ She paused. ‘But what about all those poor cattle dying?’

I looked concerned. Which I supposed I was because I like cattle. And birds, and human beings sometimes. ‘There’s nothing I can do for them. I can only try and stop it happening again.’

She looked relieved. ‘Very well. Eight o’clock in the downstairs bar. We have many things to discuss. And now – can I give you a lift into Reykjavik? I have a little car.’

A single lie spawns with great fertility. I pointed at an Orion P3 anti-submarine surveillance aircraft brushing up wings of spray on the runway. ‘I have to meet someone off that plane.’

‘Who is he?’

‘An American scientist. He’s been rushed in. We’ll be working together on this project.’

She looked at the unorthodox passenger aircraft with surprise. But the surprise was prevented from being inflated into suspicion by sudden emotion. ‘Britain and America helping little Iceland,’ she said. ‘It is vonderful.’

‘Wonderful,’ I said.

And so it was.

2

Charlie Martz

The NATO base at Keflavik, which also serves as one of the capital’s two airfields, once belonged to the British. They occupied it when they occupied Iceland on May 10, 1940, to prevent the Germans doing the same thing. Later in the war the Americans took over the job because Britain had other commitments.

But after the war the Americans were reluctant to leave Iceland vacant for new post-war enemies to occupy and in 1951 Keflavik became a NATO base staffed predominantly by Americans. There are some 2,000 Naval personnel, 1,000 Air Force and two Army men.

The welfare authorities do their best. Cinema, theatre, sport, domestic television and radio. But it is difficult to make a site on a lava field homely. In the winter it gets light at 10 a.m. and dark at 2 p.m.; there is a daily announcement of the Chill Factor (temperature multiplied by wind velocity) by which the mathematically-minded can calculate how quickly they could die from exposure; even tourist literature, which can normally transplant a palm tree almost anywhere, admits that Keflavik ‘is rather bleak and barren’.