We are delighted to welcome authors Haraldur Erlendsson and Keith Hagenbach to Omnimystery News today.
Haraldur and Keith have written a most intriguing new novel, The Man Who Drew Triangles (Cosmic Egg Books; January 2016 trade paperback and ebook formats), and we are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt, the first chapter.
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Tuesday 7th June 2011
THIS IS NOT AN EXCERCISE. I say again, not an exercise. Clear, Miller?"
"As crystal, sir …"
The bearded policeman in midnight blue uniform and chequered cap, semi-automatic rifle cradled in his arms, gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. What did they think he was — stupid? Getting on for ten on a Tuesday night, with South Terminal half-empty and just him and Kenny Hall sent to maintain surveillance on a lone target? Hardly likely to be one of their bloody simulations, now was it?
"Doesn't look like he's spotted you …"
Inclining his head, Miller spoke softly into the shoulder mike. "I don't think he's even checking, sir …"
Not for a moment did his eyes stray from the angular figure, bent slightly beneath the weight of the pack slung across his shoulder, who continued with the same rituals he had been performing ever since Miller arrived. He circled the deserted area in front of carousel number one at a leisurely pace. Every so often he stopped and crouched before launching himself into a swallow dive that propelled him across the floor on his stomach. After lying prone for a few seconds, he clambered to his feet and the sequence began again.
"How long do we reckon he's been in here now, sir?"
"Four, maybe five minutes before you and Hall turned up. So … call it twenty …"
"Couldn't have just got the wrong one, could he …?"
"No way …"
Beyond his line of vision, ground staff in Day-Glo jackets would be performing well-oiled routines; shepherding the public to a safe distance, erecting and manning barriers. Closer at hand, Kenny would be shifting position in a dance choreographed to keep himself, Miller, and their target at the points of an imaginary equilateral triangle, as prescribed by the training manual.
"What's he's doing now …?"
"Reading the out of order sign …?"
"Assuming he understands English, French, German or Spanish …"
"Hang on, sir …"
He had shrugged off the backpack, leaned it against the carousel and with one athletic stride mounted the gleaming metal surface. Easing himself down until he was sitting straight-backed, he folded his legs beneath him, guru-style. Without haste, he placed his hands on his thighs, palms upward, and allowed his eyes to close. Tall and wiry, he was wearing jeans and a faded, red checked shirt. Miller studied the contours of chest and lower body. From thirty odd yards, no sign of tell-tale bulges. Not that he expected any; nothing as crude as a body-belt could have evaded both metal detectors and pat-downs. They'd have checked the bloke's sandals, too: which just left the backpack …
"What do you make of that …?"
Miller sighed. "Search me, sir. Praying …?"
"Possibly …"
Praying. Last rites, or whatever it was they did. Maybe they had their own manual and the bloke was following instructions. If so, he'd skipped the bit about making bloody sure you didn't attract attention.
"Couldn't be more conspicuous if he was waving a flag, sir …"
"And playing a trombone …"
"That too, sir. Could be a decoy …"
"Don't worry your pretty head about that, Miller …"
"I'll try not to, sir …"
"No sign he might be, but if he is, it's our problem. Yours is dealing with him …"
"Didn't look round before he hopped up there. And if there's anything in that pack he's not bothered about keeping it handy …"
"Could have a remote …"
"True …"
"We need his hands where we can see them …"
"Soon as I can, sir …" Miller sniffed. "What do you think — give him a couple of minutes? If he hasn't made a move by then, go in and have a word …?"
His suggestion was met by silence; he wondered how many they'd got crammed into the ops room.
"Fair enough. Hall will remain on your right flank. Take it nice and easy, okay. There's no rush …"
Miller pursed his lips. What did they think he was going to do — run at the bloke shouting and waving his gun? The target was rocking gently to and fro, chin held high. He had a long face, fair curly hair, gingery moustache and a beard trimmed tight along a fine jaw line. Miller put him somewhere between twenty-five and thirty.
"Okay, Kenny …?"
"Yeah …"
Hall sounded bored, but then he invariably did; nothing ever seemed to faze old Kenny. That was what made him exactly the wingman you'd have picked when anything might happen.
"Right …" Miller muttered, to himself. "Let's do this thing …"
He advanced a dozen or so paces, forefinger nestling alongside the trigger guard. Minimal pressure on that trigger was all it took to launch 5.56mm rounds from the Heckler & Koch's stubby barrel at a velocity in excess of 3000mph. Halting in mid-stride he turned his head and listened.
"… Gátt Gátt Gátt
Gát Gát
Geit Geit
Goat Goat Goat
Good Good
God God …"
"Hear that, Kenny …?"
"Just about …"
"Hear what …?"
"Buggered if I know, sir. Singing is he …?"
"Chanting more like …" offered Hall.
"Could be. Something about 'goat' …?"
"Goat and God …"
A hurried discussion Miller did not quite catch was taking place in the ops room.
"I want you to close in and engage, Miller …"
"Both of us …?"
"Just you. Hall stays back …"
"Right, sir …"
"Keep fanned out …"
Miller resumed his advance. The figure perched on the carousel had not altered position and his eyes remained closed.
Over the public address came a call for the three remaining passengers on Air Somalia flight 027 to Mogadishu to go immediately to gate 4B, where their flight was about to close. There would not be many people scanning the screens for that one; Miller recognised a coded message letting ground staff know a partial terminal evacuation was in progress. The singsong chanting continued.
"Ó-la-fur Ei-lí-fur Ó-la-fur Ei-lí-fur
Ó-la-fur Ei-lí-fur
Ó-la-fur Ei-lí-fur Ó-la-fur Ei-lí-fur
Ó-la-fur Ei-lí-fur …
Treading lightly, Miller veered to his left to avoid positioning himself directly in front of their quarry.
"Good to go, sir …?"
"You know the form, I'll leave it to you …"
Miller's lips twitched; for exactly how long would they be able to resist interfering? "Thank you, sir."
The big policeman eased down onto his haunches. According to the manual this offered a smaller target and less menacing appearance. Had they asked him, Miller could have told them it also made it a damn sight harder to move quickly if you needed to. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Hello … I'm speaking to the gentleman on the luggage carousel. Hello there …"
The man gave no sign of having heard.
"Louder, maybe …"
He had his answer: all of ten seconds.
"Good idea, sir …"
"All right, Miller. In your own time …"
He cleared his throat. "I'm sure you can hear me. It's important you speak to me, sir. Right now, if you please …"
A tremor ran through the man's body, as if he had been struck by a blast of cold air; the chanting died away and Miller found himself looking into an unusual pair of eyes; one cornflower blue, the other a translucent green. As he ran his gaze over Miller's face, uniform and weapon the eyes grew wider and a frown furrowed his brow.
"Heill og sæll minn kæri …"
"Do you speak English …?"
His enquiry was delivered with a smile calculated to reassure without appearing overly friendly. The man glanced at Hall, giving Miller a glimpse of his profile. At his school, a nose like that would have earned the owner the nickname Beaky.
"English, sir. Do you speak it … understand it …?"
The man's frown turned into a hopeful smile. "You are … guardians of the portal?"
"Not exactly, sir. I'm Sgt Miller of the Sussex Police armed response unit. My colleague over there is …"
The man dismissed the introductions with a shake of the head. The smile seemed uncertain whether to stay or go. "Yes, yes. But you have been sent to look after me. You are Gog and Magog, yes …?"
Miller sucked his teeth; he had been called a lot worse. "Well, yes, we're here to look after you, in a manner of speaking …"
"The gun …" the man hurried on. "What use are guns if the dark forces try to stop me, if they wish to resist the light? Come here, sit …" he patted the metal strip at his side. "Tell your friend to come, too. Quickly … quickly. If you are not my guardians, we must invoke those who can …"
He might babble nonsense but at least it was in pretty decent English. Looking down the business end of a semi-automatic tended to make people twitchy enough; it didn't help if they couldn't understand a blind word you were saying.
"Please raise both hands above your head, and keep them there …"
"My hands …?" He glanced down, frowning as if he had not noticed them before.
"That's correct. Above your head. Nice and high, please …"
With a bemused look, he did as Miller asked. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and he wore no watch.
"Thank you, sir. I'm not sure who you think I am, but I need you to give me some information …"
"What did they say about me …?"
"They …?"
"The ones who sent you …"
"Well, not a lot, sir. I don't think they know much. That's why they …"
The man shook his head. "Do not know — or did not tell you …? Think, Mr Miller. If they did not know I was coming, you would not be here, would you …?"
"We need an ID, Miller. Get his name …"
"Ah, well …" Miller gave a rueful grin, "I don't get told everything. They just said to have a word with you, sir …"
Even to Miller the words had an implausible ring; judging by the thoughtful nod they earned, however, the man on the carousel found reassurance in them.
"Sometimes it is the same for me. They do not always explain …"
"Let's start with your name, sir …"
"Name …?"
"That's right …"
The man closed his eyes and took a breath, before answering in solemn, reverential tones. "Ólafur Bárðarson …"
"O-laf-ur Bard-arson …" Miller repeated. "Did I get that right …?"
"A name of such strength and beauty, no? As you speak it, can you not feel its power, Mr Miller?" His eyes locked onto the policeman's with a disconcerting intensity.
"It … well, it does have a ring about it …"
"A ring, exactly, yes … ! A sound … a sound like no other …" He peered at Miller. "You have an ear for such things …"
"Not sure I'd say that, sir …"
"Move it along, Miller. I need port of embarkation …"
"Your flight's not long in is it, sir? Well, obviously you've had to get through immigration …"
The man shrugged. "An hour … two? I do not know …"
"And where did you board …?"
"You did not recognise my language …?"
"Tell you the truth, I didn't …"
It was superfluous to volunteer the information that his command of foreign languages was limited to ordering draught beer in halting Castilian.
"Not many people would …"
"And I'm certainly not one of them …"
"Yes, yes …" The man paused. "That was why in the war your military often used us for passing secret messages. Did you know that …?"
"I didn't, sir, no …" Miller shook his head. "So, where did you fly from …?"
"Keflavík …"
"And … where's that, exactly …?"
The man frowned. "It is the international airport of Reykjavík, Mr Miller."
"Right. Got you …"
"Better brush up your bloody airports, Miller. Keep him talking, see what you can get, but don't push it …"
"Where are you heading when you leave here, sir …?"
The man considered Miller's question for a moment, then cocked his head. "How do I know it is safe to trust you …?"
"Trust me …?" Nonplussed, Miller stared at him. "Well, for a start there's the uniform, isn't there …?"
"Do you trust people who point guns at you …?"
"Fair point, but if you have a good look you'll notice it's not actually aimed at you, sir. That'd be against regulations, and my people are sticklers for regulations. My job's not shooting people, you see. It's the exact opposite, really — it's keeping them safe …"
"You are here to protect me, then …?"
"Exactly …" Miller gave him a nod of encouragement. "If you were in danger. Which you're not, obviously …"
"I hope you are right …" the man pursed his lips. "My arms are tired, Mr Miller, can I put them down …?"
"No, he bloody can't … !"
"Not yet …" It was sharper than he intended but had the desired effect. Miller conjured up a smile. "I'd like you to keep them where they are for the moment, if you would. Now, there's a couple of things I'd like to know …"
"What things, please …?"
"First off, I'm wondering what you're actually doing over here. That equipment's out of order, you see, it's not working …"
"I am aware of that, Mr Miller …"
"In that case …"
"I was looking for a quiet place. Crowds make me feel uncomfortable. So many people, all moving about, making noise …" He shrugged. "Do you work in this place all the time …?"
"Not just in reclaim, no. My unit keeps an eye on the whole place, both terminals. "
"Then you are used to it, but I am not. It made my head hurt, Mr Miller …"
"Feeling better now, are you …?"
"In a place like this it is very difficult to hear my guides. When that happens I do not know what to do or where I should go and that is a bad feeling — it makes me very nervous. I came over here so I could be still and I hoped maybe I could connect with them again …"
He suddenly broke off. Frowning, he gazed round the hall before meeting Miller's eyes.
"Something has happened … something is wrong …" lowering his voice he leaned towards the policeman. "It was full of people, wasn't it? But do you see, now … there is no one. Where are they — where have they all gone …?"
"It happens …" Miller shrugged. "You'd be amazed, you really would. I've been in here with the place absolutely heaving, then there's a gap between arrivals and … the next minute I was pretty much on my own."
"But so quickly …? No, this is not normal …"
"Listen, it's after ten and there's a lot less night flights. It is normal actually, sir — there's not a thing to worry about …"
The young man shook his head. "How can you be sure …? So many people disappearing like … like ghosts …?" The odd eyes grew wider. "What if something bad has happened … something very bad? Maybe the dark powers have learned where I am and they want to make sure I disappear …"
Sweat glistened on his brow and Miller noted under the checked shirt the Icelander's chest had begun to heave.
"Nice and easy does it, calm him down. Don't let him get excited …"
"Like I said, there's nothing to worry about, sir. You're safe as houses with me here. Try a few nice deep breaths, that always helps …" He paused, but the Icelander ignored his advice. "No one can take you anywhere without my say-so."
"You don't understand forces like those. If they wanted to, they …"
"Doesn't matter what they bloody want." Miller snapped. "I wouldn't let 'em, simple as that. And it's not just me, is it? Don't forget there's my mate over there. And he's a hard bloke. No one messes with Kenny, believe me."
Glancing in Hall's direction the man nodded, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "You think so …?"
"I know it. Me and Kenny go back a long time, sir …"
"We need to check that pack over now. Purely precautionary, tell him, no big deal …"
"You were explaining why you've come and sat down here …"
The man nodded. "Yes …?"
"Let me make sure I've got this straight. You don't have any more bags, right …?"
"That is correct, Mr Miller."
"Your pack and nothing else …?"
"Nothing else."
"Fine. Now, you understand we're going to have to take a look at it …?"
"I can show you …"
"I'm sure you could, but it's all got to be done by the book, I'm afraid. We need to take it away so some of our lads can give it a thorough inspection …"
"Good job. Hall, when Miller gives the word, move in and get it."
"Right you are, sir …"
"The explosives boys are standing by. Okay. Miller?"
"Let me tell him what's going on …"
The Icelander stiffened abruptly, eyes wide. "Who are you talking to?"
"Well, it's actually …"
"Who are they, what are they telling you …? Did they say I can go, or to keep me here …?
"Level with him. Can't do any harm."
"I'm on a radio link to my unit commander, okay? He didn't say anything about keeping you here. He'd like you to keep your hands where they are while Kenny collects your pack. We have to make sure there's nothing nasty in there, so the bomb squad are going to take a look. That's all …"
The man stared him in silence for a few moments, then shook his head. "They really think I … would have something like that?"
"It's nothing personal, sir. It's what we have to do. If there's a query about any luggage, the experts check it out. Simple as that."
"Why would I have a bomb …?"
"You don't, then?"
"No, no …"
"So there's nothing to worry about. They'll do their thing — doesn't usually take long — and then we can move on, can't we? So …" he continued, cheerfully, "Kenny's listening in, and now I'm going to ask him to take it away. Okay?"
"If it is really necessary …"
Hall came ambling in. Dry mouthed, Miller offered a hasty prayer this would not be the moment Gatwick South terminal building was rocked by an explosion and he, Kenny, and a foreign national believed to be of Icelandic origin became headlines on the evening news bulletins. Scooping up the pack as nonchalantly as he might have taken a supermarket basket, Hall retreated to a position somewhere out of Miller's line of sight. The pack's owner watched his departure with a bemused expression.
"Good so far. Keep him occupied, but for Christ's sake don't let him start getting upset again …"
Miller moistened his lips. How the hell were you supposed to avoid upsetting someone who had made it clear their grip on reality was pretty loose at the best of times?
"Moving on, then, sir. Once they've got their bags most people head through customs then go off to … wherever they're going. But you haven't, have you? Now, if I've understood you, that was because you wanted to get in touch with these … guides of yours. Tell me about them — who are they, exactly …?"
"Beings who guide me …" The man shrugged. "I needed to talk to them, make sure all was well …"
"Okay. And what did they …?"
"And I felt I should salute the goddess — the lady of your land. I once changed aeroplanes here, but this is my first real visit to her country and I wanted to show proper respect. Give her greetings from our mountain gods. Oh, and ask for her help and protection …" He paused. "I thought maybe it was Védís who had sent you and your friend …"
"Did you? No, I don't think it was her …"
"The Irish know her as Danu. I am not sure what name your people would use … if you remember her at all. It is sad, but you have forgotten so much of the ancient wisdom, haven't you? Danu is a goddess of the land, but a water goddess, too. Lady of the lake as well as queen of the hidden beings of the earth …" The man nodded to himself.
"Okay. He can drop his hands …"
"Regular little multi-tasker, she is, then …" Miller moved his finger a few millimetres further from the trigger-guard. "You can put your hands down now if you like, sir."
"Thank you …"
The young man flexed his shoulders, rubbing his hands together before clasping them in his lap.
"Your legs okay, sir? I'd be getting cramp by now …"
"It is not a problem, thank you." He inclined his head. "In Bodh Gaya we meditated in the lotus position for many hours at a time …"
"In … where, sir?"
"Bodh Gaya."
"Is that in Iceland …?"
"India, Mr Miller …"
"Many hours …?" Miller repeated, shaking his head. "Rather you than me. Mind you, you're probably a good bit younger than me …"
"You must know how old I am …" the man smiled.
"No, just guessing. When were you born, sir?"
"At sunrise …"
"Ah. What I meant was …"
"And I am a Piscean, but you must know that, too. You say it is not so, but you know all about me, don't you? Who I am, where I come from … even why I was sent. Nothing is hidden from people like you, is it, Mr Miller? And knowledge is power, so you must possess great power. You could keep me here if you wanted to, or make me disappear like the others …"
"That might be a bit beyond my pay grade, sir. Whatever you may think, I'm just a cog in the great wheel …"
"True, Miller …"
The sound of the man's clap echoed eerily round the great, deserted space surrounding them. He peered at Miller as if trying to see what lay behind the policeman's eyes.
"You are a good actor, but there is no need — you do not have to pretend …" he went on. "The one you talk to on your radio, your commander, he must know all about me, too. He tells you what you must do, he controls you, yes, of course, but do you realise there are others, much higher powers who give him his orders? You did not? Oh, it is true — there is a great hierarchy, Mr Miller. It ascends through higher and higher levels until you reach the very top, the peak, the summit. Of course, only the chosen ones are allowed to enter those realms. Lesser beings could not survive the spiritual energy, you see. At those levels the psychic charge is so great they would burn up like moths in a flame …" He snapped his fingers, "in an instant … ! That is where the supreme spirits dwell, with the celestial light beings who are their guard protectors …" He paused, rubbed his hands together and chuckled. "You are wondering how do I know all this? I will tell you. Because I have been in the presence of such beings myself, can you believe that? No? Well, it is true. I have been initiated into the great mysteries, the wisdom has been revealed to me, Mr Miller. Me, Ólafur Bárðarson! Now do you understand why I know what you are doing — I know this is just a trial, a test …?"
"Hang in there. Just go along with it, agree with whatever he says …"
"There's no fooling you, is there …?"
"They began testing me as soon as I reached the airport …"
"Did they?"
"No, no, not your airport, Mr Miller. In Keflavík …" He paused, frowning. "Just after I saw Brynja …"
"Was it …?"
"Yes, but she is not like them. They are tricksters, Mr Miller …"
"Are they? But …" Miller hesitated. "But you spotted them anyway?"
"When they asked me to take my shoes off …"
"Bit of a give-away, that …" Miller nodded. "You mean … they didn't ask the others?"
The man grimaced and shook his head. "No, no. You do not understand. Everyone had to do it. But without letting them see what I was doing I watched very, very carefully. I saw them tell the others they must take off their shoes and put them in plastic trays …"
"Ah, I see …"
Miller wished he did see. He had strayed into Alice in Wonderland territory; nothing was what it seemed, but he must pretend otherwise. He hoped they were not expecting him to play charades much longer; it was alien to him, it made him uncomfortable and he suspected he was unconvincing in the role. Something else they could add to their bloody simulations.
"But if everyone had to do it …" Miller went on, cautiously, "why did you think it was strange they'd asked you?"
The Icelander wagged a playful finger at him. "It was the way she spoke to me, you see. This woman — a young one, younger than me and quite pretty — she looked straight into my eyes, Mr Miller. For a long time, longer than you would say is normal or natural. And then she said, 'Shoes, please. But not in the same tray as your pack'. Of course, then I knew for sure they were testing me, trying to trick me. They hoped I would give myself away …" he gave a high, brittle laugh. "But I was too clever for them. Gave them no sign, just did what she told me. Casually, you understand, as if I had noticed nothing …"
"Very canny …"
"Canny …?" he frowned.
"Smart, sir … clever."
"Ah … canny, yes, I think so. They knew I knew and let me through so I can carry out my work. But you understand why I must still be very, very careful …"
"Oh, yes," Miller agreed. "I'm a great believer in careful."
The Icelander's smile vanished. He stared at Miller, eyes suddenly cold and hard as steel.
"If it had not gone well and they had tried to stop me, even if it was dangerous I would have had no choice. You understand what I am saying …?"
"You would have had no choice …?"
"In my place, don't you think you would feel the same …?"
"I might, I guess …"
"No choice but what? Find out …"
"When you say no choice, sir, what exactly would you have done if they had tried to stop you?"
"At certain times fire must be answered with fire, the sword drawn against the sword. When it is necessary for blood to be shed, so be it …" he nodded at the semi-automatic. "You carry that, you must understand how I felt …"
Miller hesitated; whatever the man was on about, he clearly expected an affirmative.
"I think I do, yes …"
"If you are facing people who are ready to use violence, you do what you have to do, no?"
"It's all you can do …" ventured Miller.
"Even though we are not men of violence, you and me …"
"Absolutely not."
"But we are not blind and we are not stupid. We are aware violence exists, and we know some people are violent. Just as we know that to protect ourselves — and perhaps others — we may have to resort to methods that do not come naturally to us …" He gave the slightest shrug of the shoulders. "Which is what I would have done …"
"But you'd have preferred not to."
"Exactly …" He gave an approving nod. "It is good to talk with someone who can see my meaning …"
"I'm doing my best, sir …"
Regular workouts in the gym kept him in pretty good shape, but Miller had been down on his haunches for a long time in his bulky flak jacket, nursing a semi-automatic which, at four kilos plus, was no lightweight; his hips and knees were beginning to feel the strain.
"I'm going to stand up, sir. Didn't want to alarm you, just making myself a bit more comfortable."
"You are most thoughtful, Mr Miller …"
Until recently he could have risen to his feet without needing a steadying hand on the ground but, to his annoyance, it was no longer the case. Odds-on Kenny would make some smart-arse comment about it later, it would not have gone unnoticed. Which, of course, he would have done had the situations been reversed. Looking down at the man on the carousel, he took a deep breath.
"Do you think we will be here much longer, Mr Miller?"
"I'm hoping not, sir. We're probably just hanging on for the all clear on that pack of yours, but you've said there's nothing in it, so …"
"Don't speak to me, okay. Makes him jumpy. But we need to double-check that ID he gave."
Miller shifted feet and flexed his back. Glancing round in search of inspiration he saw only Kenny away to his right, placidly chewing gum.
"Never been to Iceland myself …" he paused. "There's shops by that name over here … I've been to one of them …"
He knew trying to lighten the atmosphere would be a mistake almost as soon as he began; if he had been in any doubt the man's blank look confirmed it.
"That name of yours, common back home, is it? I mean, take Miller." He smiled, "There's loads of us. Anywhere in the UK, you'll find Millers all over the shop …"
"No. Mine is not like yours, not at all common …"
"Bard …" Miller shook his head. "Sorry, could you remind me …"
"You do not remember …?"
"Just want to make sure I've got it right …"
"Ólafur Bárðarson …"
"Thank you, yes. Olaf-ur Bar-dar-son." he repeated.
"Clumsy, but you got the job done, I suppose …"
"Anyone meeting you, is there …?"
"Why …?" The man gave him a sharp glance. "Why do you want to know …?"
"It's not important. I just thought maybe we could get a message to them, let them know you've arrived, but due to circumstances beyond your control you'll be a bit delayed. That's all …"
"No one is meeting me, Mr Miller. I know no one in your country."
"How about accommodation? We could give them a ring so they don't let your room go …"
"It is not necessary, thank you."
"No problem."
Miller bit his lip; he was running short of inspiration.
"You picked a pretty good time to come over. We've been having a heat wave …"
"In India I became accustomed to high temperatures …"
"I imagine you would, yes …" Miller nodded. "Holiday, that trip, was it?"
"I would call it studying …"
"And … what about now — holiday is it?"
To Miller's surprise, the Icelander chuckled.
"Your friend in immigration pretended he did not know. When I showed him my passport he asked what I had come for …" He folded his arms. "A trick, of course …"
"You think so …"
"Yes, but so obvious, Mr Miller. They must think I am very stupid …" He tipped his head to one side. "You do not think I am stupid, do you, Mr Miller?"
"I don't, sir, no. …" Miller shook his head. "Mind you, those passport pushers aren't the brightest buttons in the box. Anyway, you didn't fall for it …"
"Fall for it …?"
"Let them trick you …"
"No, no. I gave him a nice, friendly smile and said, 'I am a tourist, sir'."
"Nice one …" Miller gave an approving nod. "And he was happy with that … waved you through, did he?"
"He put his stamp on my passport, handed it back and said 'enjoy your stay' …"
"Well, I never …"
The Icelander gave a wry smile and shrugged.
"By now they must know there is nothing dangerous in my pack. I would like you to ask your commander if there is a problem, Mr Miller."
"I can try …"
"Yes, please …"
"Right you are …" he cleared his throat. "Sgt. Miller to control, come in please …"
"Don't overdo it, Miller …"
"Mr Bardarson's getting a bit concerned about how long that pack check is taking, sir. According to him there's nothing suspicious in it …"
"There isn't. So far, anyway …"
"So — "
"There's a laptop. They're taking a good look at it right now …"
"And what would you like me to tell the gentleman?"
"For the moment you will carry on doing exactly what you're doing. You will be polite, you will be sympathetic, and whatever you may think of it, you will go along with any lunatic nonsense he comes up with. Do you read me, Miller …?"
The policeman tapped his earpiece and frowned. "Didn't quite catch the last bit, sir. What you want me to tell him …"
"You're not going to mention it to him, but I'd say he's in for a long night …"
"Why would that be, sir …?"
"Well, his pack may be clean, but we've got a couple of problems with your new best friend, Miller. Number one, he sounds as mad as a fucking hatter. Number two, there was no passenger by the name of Olafur Bardarson on any flight in from Reykjavik tonight …"
— ♦ —
Photos provided courtesy of
Haraldur Erlendsson and Keith Hagenbach
Haraldur Erlendsson, born in Denmark, was brought up in Iceland which for him is home. His fascination with the spiritual began with deep inner experiences in his teens that had a formative impact on him and laid the ground for his spiritual journey. His family gave him links to Theosophy as a platform to explore spiritual traditions. His life-long interest has been the study and practical application of the spiritual practices of different religions including shamanism and esoteric tantra. Haraldur studied medicine and later trained in neurology in Iceland and worked in general practice. Treating victims of natural disasters led him into the field of psychological trauma and psychotherapy. He trained and worked in the UK as a psychiatrist for many years, specializing in treating severe psychological trauma and borderline personality disorder. He is a member of a special interest group at the Royal College of Psychiatrists interested in the overlap between mental illness and spiritual experiences. He is a pioneer of research into the application of sacred geometry, place names and shamanic techniques to unlock ancient earth mysteries. His work holds the promise not only of connecting with the consciousness of the planet, but making equally profound and revelatory inner journeys.
Keith Hagenbach is 70 years old but younger in spirit, mind and body [regular squash and running]. He was educated at Rugby School and Trinity College Dublin, where he earned an honors degree in Business and a BA in English. His life experience is broad. Apart from travelling the world he has been a Unilever product manager, owned and run his own successful yacht building business, and began writing during the ten years his home was the magical island of Ibiza. In recent years he worked in the NHS and now in private practice as a psychotherapist. He is a keen observer of his fellow man, fascinated by how and why each responds to what life brings, and the level of consciousness and awareness we are able to bring to those responses. He enjoys applying what he observes in order to create authentic, believable, engaging characters in his writing.
— ♦ —
The Man Who Drew Triangles by Haraldur Erlendsson and Keith Hagenbach
Publisher: Cosmic Egg Books
Olaf, a 27-year-old Icelander, arrives in England on June 8th 2011 convinced he has been sent on a spiritual quest which involves scaling Scafell on Midsummer Night. Immediately arousing the suspicion of the authorities, he finds himself sectioned.
He becomes a patient of Patricia, a 40-year-old psychiatrist from Co Mayo, who in the aftermath of an acrimonious divorce is struggling to cope with a manipulative medical director, an excessive caseload, disturbed teenage son Colm and a painful estrangement from daughter Caitlin.
Patricia slowly unearth's Olaf's history of traumatic loss, including the death of his father during childhood, and the recent, unexplained disappearance of his young son. While Olaf appears steeped in esoteric knowledge and wisdom and enjoys a profound connection to nature, he lays claim to supernatural gifts and powers which Patricia concludes are largely illusory.
She feels compelled to reconsider her views, however, when it becomes clear that the interactions with this young patient coincide with a series of significant and positive changes in her own attitude to and experience of life …
— The Man Who Drew Triangles by Haraldur Erlendsson and Keith Hagenbach
