‘That wasn’t what I asked you to do!’ he yelled into the car, just as he saw Stella.

He was clearly taken by surprise. He stared at her for a moment, and Stella felt a strong urge to run away. At the same time the fire 214in her head cooled so that the cold wind chilled her through to the bone, blew in her ear and down her neck, so that she shivered.

‘Not a single word about that to anyone,’ Óðinn hissed at her, his anger as cold as the wind. ‘Otherwise you’ll get what you deserve for what you’ve done!’

It took Stella a moment’s thought before she worked out what the permanent secretary had meant; he clearly knew that she had been selling the ministry’s rubbish, but he hadn’t been sitting in the creep’s car to trap her. He had been there because he had an errand of his own with the journalist. He had been berating the creep, venting his displeasure because the man hadn’t done as he had been asked.

Stella threw the bags into the car and snatched the proffered notes from the journalist’s hand. She felt tears running down her cheeks as she walked back across the car park and down to Sæbraut, taking care not to look in the direction of the grey tower that loomed over the district.

She licked her lips, tasted the salt, and wiped her face, growling to herself at her own feebleness. Had the permanent secretary’s rebuke triggered the tears, or was she crying with relief that she hadn’t been sacked on the spot? Her eyes finally strayed to the grey tower. Was she crying over Gréta? The blue-green flame burst into life in her head, so hot that it almost hurt. Was that it? Was she really in tears over the fat newsreader?

95

‘I’ll find another photo of me that you can have,’ Úrsúla said with sarcasm. ‘Looking ministerial in front of the flag. I could even sign it for you.’

There seemed to be some kind of karma that repeatedly brought them together, as this was the third time she had found herself going from floor to floor in the lift with Adolf. As before, 215his bulky frame seemed to fill more than half of the space. He had begun by complaining that Eva had made him delete the picture he had taken of Úrsúla in the helicopter, which he decided was tantamount to censorship.

‘It was just a bit of fun,’ he grumbled.

‘If it’s fun, then it would have to be funny,’ she retorted, not bothering even to try to hide the irritation in her voice. She might have been overstepping the mark, but everything seemed to leak from the ministry to the media, and she had no desire to see the picture Adolf had taken of her, chilled through and soaked, on the front page of a newspaper.

‘You people – feminists – are completely humourless,’ he said and squeezed out something that was undoubtedly supposed to be a grin but which turned into a scowl.