‘You have to. If you left, you’d go back to Reykjavík and do your best to interfere with Emergence. You know you would. More importantly, I know you would. And that would … upset the arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’

‘Everything will be sorted out, I promise. On Thursday. You’ll come to no harm. All you have to do is … remain here. With me.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, but there it is.’

The truth suddenly dawned on Wada. ‘You have the key to the handcuffs, don’t you?’

Caldwell nodded. He took his hand out of his pocket and there it was, nestled in his palm. Wada made a move towards him and he took an apprehensive half-step back, though she could never have reached him.

‘Let me go,’ she said, firmly but calmly. ‘You have no right to hold me prisoner.’

‘I agree.’ He looked genuinely regretful. ‘But I notice you’ve made no attempt to deny that you’d try to obstruct Emergence if I allowed you to leave here before Thursday. Which unfortunately leaves me with no choice in the matter.’

‘You have a choice, Mr Caldwell. It is absurd to try to blame what you are doing on me.’

‘Not from my point of view it isn’t.’

‘Let me go. Now.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You must.’

‘But I’m not going to, Miss Wada. My mind’s made up, I’m afraid. It’s force majeure. You’re going to be spending the next three days here. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.’

SEVENTEEN

THE SNOW THAT had fallen the previous evening was thawing slowly by Tuesday morning. Nick made his way to Reykjavík Roasters along slushy pavements under a pale blue sky. The coffee shop was busy but not crammed, the customers comprising a predictable mix of laptop-tapping student types and mothers with tiny children and enormous buggies.

No one paid Nick any attention as he settled in a corner, so he assumed Erla Torfadóttir wasn’t there yet. He was early anyway, so that was no surprise. By the time Erla herself was late, it became more of a cause for concern.

That was when he noticed a tall, slim, blonde-haired young woman loitering on the other side of the street. She was wearing jeans and a yellow anorak and appeared to be studying him with greater interest than young women normally displayed for men of his age. He gave her a cautious smile.

A few minutes later, she was seated at his table, cradling a mug of hot chocolate. ‘I am Erla,’ she announced.

‘Hi. Nick Miller.’

‘Can I see your passport?’

‘My passport?’

‘You have it with you, don’t you?’

‘Er, yes.’ He pulled it out and showed her the page with his name, date of birth and photograph on it. ‘Happy?’

‘No. I’m not happy. I’m worried. As you should be, Mr Miller.’

‘Call me Nick.’