‘That’s exactly the problem. There’s cross-party agreement on this, all the polls show that the public is in favour, the environmental assessment has been done and the finance is there. So why pull out?’

‘Do you think it’s acceptable that a social-democratic party should be behind an initiative that means people have to pay a road toll for travelling around the country?’ he asked and reached for another of the doughnuts. Úrsúla wondered if he had had any breakfast that morning.

‘Of course private enterprise isn’t the ideal option,’ she said. ‘But can you see this being done any other way in the foreseeable future?’

The PM put his half-eaten doughnut aside, sighed and stared into his coffee cup as if he was looking for fragments.

‘I watched you on the TV when you presented this initiative,’ Úrsúla added. ‘You sold it to me, just like you sold it to everyone else. So why has your position changed now?’

The prime minister turned the cup around in his hands a few times then slurped down the remaining coffee. He put the cup down in its saucer, cleared his throat and looked at Úrsúla, who was taken aback by the intense blue of his eyes. She had often noticed them in pictures, but never face to face. There had to be something in the cold winter light coming through the window that intensified their striking sky-blue colour.

‘There’s a problem,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We have to get out of this, and the sooner the better.’ He shifted in his seat, placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Úrsúla. ‘There’s a hitch in the financing,’ he said. ‘The bulk of it comes from pension funds and the state makes a small contribution, but there’s a substantial chunk that comes from overseas investment funds.’

‘I’ve looked through it,’ Úrsúla said. ‘As far as I could see, it all looks fine.’

‘That’s just it,’ the PM said. ‘It’s extremely problematic; it’s come to light that one of these funds – the largest one, in fact – is an 63overseas investor in name only. In reality, it’s held by an Icelandic individual.’ The prime minister coughed again. ‘Ingimar Magnússon.’

Úrsúla stared at him and felt her jaw drop in astonishment.

‘The one and only Ingimar Magnússon?’ she asked.

‘Hmm. Yep.’

‘Shit.’

It was the only comment Úrsúla could think of.

‘Yes.’ The prime minister leaned back in his chair and looked down at the table like a small child with a guilty conscience. ‘That pretty much sums it up.’

24

Úrsúla’s frame of mind was grim as she stepped out of the portico of the prime minister’s offices, but she had to stop herself laughing when the driver jumped out of the car and hurried around it to open the door for her. He didn’t seem to be in a humorous mood though. He was dressed like a bodyguard in some foreign country, in a dark suit, white shirt with a black tie, and a white wire that snaked from his collar up to one ear.