66 North by Michael Ridpath

By Michael Ridpath

Iceland 1934: boys enjoying within the lava fields that encompass their remoted farmsteads see whatever they would not have. the implications will hang-out them and their households for generations. Iceland 2009: the credits crunch bites. The foreign money 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 every person, it is not demanding to attract up a listing of precisely who's dependable. after which, one-by-one, to pass them off. Iceland 2010: As bankers and politicians begin to die, at domestic and overseas, it really 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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She reached out to grab him, but he pushed her back. She lurched into a low wall surrounding a small car park. 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.

Maybe even guns. And he wanted his men to be ready for it. Hence his request for an American police detective with practical experience who spoke Icelandic. There weren’t a whole lot of those among America’s big-city police forces. Magnus, who had left Iceland for the States at the age of twelve with his father, fitted the bill, and when he had been shot at as a witness in a police corruption scandal he had been sent to Reykjavík as much for his own safety as for what he could do for the Icelanders.

And not from her. ’ Harpa followed her child as he scampered into the living room and she slotted the DVD into the player. She went back into the kitchen and stacked their dishes in the dishwasher. She liked to eat with her son, even though it was early. From out of the kitchen window she looked out over Faxaflói Bay. To the right, behind the oil storage tanks, was the city of Reykjavík, a jumble of brightly coloured houses overlooked by the Hallgrímskirkja, its majestic sweeping spire boxed in by scaffolding.

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