SUNDAY IN REYKJAVíK was no less bleak than saturday, with drizzle, sometimes intensifying into rain, drifting across the grey city. Wada could do little but wait for the day to pass. She wasn’t due to meet Kristjan until midnight. Until then she was on her own. Kristjan himself was meeting Ragnar at some point, before his departure for Akranes, which lay twenty kilometres or so north along the coast. That was when the entry code and password were to be disclosed. Ragnar had refused to reveal them the night before, perhaps fearing they wouldn’t wait until Sunday to use them. Or perhaps, as Erla no doubt suspected, he needed time to set the trap they were going to walk into. Wada conceded this possibility to herself, but she’d decided to trust Kristjan’s judgement of Ragnar and there was no turning back now, because to turn back would be to admit defeat. And it probably wouldn’t stop there. If she didn’t go after Nishizaki, he’d ultimately come after her.

She did the small amount of reconnaissance she could in the morning, by tracking down the address of Quartizon’s Reykjavík offices. They occupied the upper floor of an unremarkable building in Hafnarstræti, one street north of the main shopping street, Austurstræti. The physical evidence of the company’s presence amounted to no more than the embossed letter Q on a brushed steel plaque. There were no cameras trained on the entrance or any other sign of overt security, but the windows on Quartizon’s floor were made of reflective glass. Wada looked up at them and saw nothing but a mirrored image of gulls in flight across the sky.

The location wasn’t far from the Hotel Borg, an elegant Art Deco building standing on the eastern side of Austurvöllur Square. On the southern side was the Icelandic parliament. The proximity caused Wada to wonder if Driscoll had dealings with Icelandic politicians in the course of whatever his business was. There was a pattern to everything he did, she sensed, but as yet she couldn’t see what the pattern was.

She was tempted to go into the Borg and ask if Driscoll was a guest, but reckoned it was safer to sit in the pleasantly Parisian Café Paris on the northern side of the square, sip coffee and monitor the comings and goings at the Borg from there. No limousine drew up outside. No one resembling the Peter Driscoll she’d seen in the Facetrail report strolled obligingly into view. If Driscoll was in residence, he was keeping a low profile.

She kept up her vigil for the better part of an hour, then left, deciding the only sensible course of action now was to lie low at her hotel and wait out the hours.

It was going to be a long day.