X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  The next drop of water hit her lower lip but trickled the wrong way down her chin and throat, where it veered off towards her ear.

  Before the next one landed, she opened her mouth a little bit wider, and once the droplet hit the sandpaper that had once been her tongue, she was not only convinced it was water, but also that she was still alive, whether or not she wanted to be.

  64

  HE HADN’T BEEN to Copenhagen since he was a little boy. But it looked the same. The colourful old timber-frame houses, the cobbled streets and all the different kinds of bikes going every which way. Nothing seemed to have changed during the interceding years. Every pavement stone looked like it had always been where it was. Even the smells matched the ones in his memories.

  But he’d never seen the city like this. From below, it came off as significantly calmer than usual. The stress was confined to street level. That was where time flew by and people dashed around like headless chickens. Down here, the pace was turned down, like in a parallel reality where everything moved in slow motion.

  His breathing deepened and slowed. As though he were entering a meditative state in which body and mind existed in perfect balance, even though he was on his way into the heart of a teeming metropolis.

  But then, this was the first time he’d arrived by sea and been able to glide silently past The Little Mermaid and the hordes of tourists crowding the promenade, exclaiming at how small the sculpture was. Past the new opera house and Nyhavn and along the canals under the bridges.

  His harmonious state was unmarred by distractions and maybe that was exactly what he needed to prepare him for what lay ahead. A last moment of calm before every part of him would need to perform at its absolute best.

  He passed a sightseeing boat full of Asians, who waved to him like it was the first time they’d ever encountered a person of their own skin colour. He waved back but turned his face away when they started to take pictures. About fifty feet further on, the canal made a ninety-degree turn to the left into the darkness underneath yet another bridge, where the sound bounced between the surface of the water and the damp bricks above his head.

  When he re-emerged into the light, a number of boat slips appeared on his right and he was able to squeeze in between the other little boats and moor at the low wooden jetty.

  None of the pedestrians or cyclists passing just feet from him reacted. Not even the parking attendant taking down the registration number of a Nissan Primera noticed him when he berthed the lifeboat from MS Vinterland in the middle of the city centre.

  On his way down towards Copenhagen, he’d made sure to hug the Danish coast, in case a situation developed. But not once had he seen anyone who appeared to be looking for him.

  His one real setback had been that policewoman, Irene Lilja, who for some reason had gone back into his flat and managed to find his secret room. That could only be described as a significant blow, and much as it hurt, he had to accept that he would never be able to return there.

  Only time would tell what the damage might be. Unfortunately, this time, the dice had said no to taking her life. But at least he’d had enough timber left over to trap her so comprehensively it would take her a long time to break out, even if she had help from the outside, and by then, he would long since have completed his task.

  He checked his equipment one last time. He was wearing beige cargo shorts, trainers and a thin grey hooded jacket that came down to well below his hips. He’d also put on a baseball cap and sunglasses. Granted, the get-up was far too warm for a summer’s day like this one; he was going to sweat profusely. But it couldn’t be helped.

  He’d replaced his backpack with no less than six belt bags, worn around his torso, each filled to bursting and relatively easy to reach. To his own surprise, he still had almost full range of motion, despite all the gear, and with the jacket covering everything, he just looked a few sizes broader than he was.

  The rifle had been the biggest challenge. It was a Finnish hunting rifle, a Tikka T3x TAC AI with sniper scope he’d purchased over a year ago and hidden in his neighbour’s attic storage space. It weighed just eleven pounds, which had to be considered incredibly light for a full-scale rifle.

  But when he’d pushed it into the padded, custom-made inner pocket of his jacket, it had felt considerably heavier and more cumbersome than he’d thought it would. A few adjustments to the sword sheath had allowed him to carry it on his back instead.

  The crossbow weighed around eleven pounds as well, but folded up and wrapped in a piece of cloth, it fitted relatively easily into the satchel along with the bolts, a change of clothes and a bottle of water.

  Even the problem of having to roll the dice on the run had been solved. By cutting the bottom off a water bottle, taping the sharp edges and making two little holes just large enough to insert a cable tie, he’d been able to construct a perfect device on board the lifeboat from things he had with him.

  When he was sure everything else was in order, he tied the device upside down around his left wrist with an aluminium dice inside and tried shaking his arm to make sure the dice couldn’t fall out. Then he got out of the boat, climbed the wooden steps up to the street and flashed the parking attendant a warm smile before strolling down Frederiksholm Kanal and turning left onto Stormgade.

  To avoid becoming too dehydrated before things even got started, he was careful to keep to the shade under the portico. Moments later, he crossed Vester Voldgade and then H.C. Andersens Boulevard and now he was so close he could hear the shrieks of excitement from the rides at Tivoli.

  65

  FAREED CHERUKURI. NOT only was the name impossible to remember, the little Indian was the worst kind of hacker, too, according to Stig Paulsen at TDC. During his years at TDC, Fareed had worked his way around every last firewall, infiltrating all the way to the inner core of the company’s code, which made it possible for him not only to eavesdrop on every mobile phone call relayed through TDC’s network, but to perform triangulations, read text messages and who knows what else.

  Over the past month, they’d had a whole team working around the clock to fix all the security breaches and clean up after him as quickly as possible. But it had turned out to be more complicated than they’d thought, which was why they were still unable to give an end date when the network would be one hundred per cent secure again.

  But that was Paulsen’s headache, not his. He used Telenor. Besides, they’d agreed not to report it to the police but rather to deal with it internally. Partly to protect TDC’s good name, but mostly so he could resolve the situation in whatever way he pleased. Which he was now looking forward to doing more than ever.

  Suddenly, he didn’t just have little Dunja to take care of. He also had a tiny Indian man and an obese Chink with an elephant fetish, and he could already sense that the whole affair was going to be a treat like none he’d ever experienced before. A treat that, if all went to plan, was waiting just around the corner.

  Now that he knew the Indian man’s real address and was sitting in his car outside Amagerbrogade 150, keeping an eye on the entrance between Synoptik and Punkt1 through his rear-view mirror, his last outstanding question was hopefully going to be answered imminently. His working theory was that all three had swapped flats with each other, which meant Dunja should be hiding in this hideously ugly building in the middle of Amager. That fact alone did wonders for his mood.

  Because Amager was one of the most depressing areas of Copenhagen. No wonder the island was nicknamed Rubbish Island. Once upon a time, it had been Copenhagen’s landfill, and it still smelled worse than anywhere else. As though soap hadn’t made it here. Everyone wore second-hand clothes that reeked of mould and nowhere would you see more hammered, stinking Greenlanders than on Amager.

  Islands Brygge, where he himself lived, did have a geographical link to Amager. But that was all. Culturally, not to mention economically, the two neighbourhoods were like night and day, and he was convinced the battle to introduce the postcode 2301
Islands Brygge would soon end in victory, thus severing the last connection to Rubbish Island.

  But enough about that. Right now, he was dealing with that little whore, and he was almost certain his fingers would soon be wrapped around her throat.

  And yet he felt anything but calm. Deep down inside, he was furious. Even after a double dose of Omeprazole, he could feel the searing burn every time his oesophageal sphincter opened, releasing stomach acid into his throat.

  He should really just let what happened go and stop caring. Focus on more important things. But, true to form, he’d let aggravation get a firm grip on him and as usual there was no way to shake it.

  Fabian Rask. Or was it Risk? Whatever. That prick had seriously crossed a line on Wednesday night. Going into Danish territory after being denied access – that was, quite simply, a declaration of war.

  Fine, so the question of whether or not they had been right to deny the Swedish coastguard access to Danish waters was maybe open to discussion, as Ingolf Bremer of the Naval Operative Command had pointed out during their conversation. But this wasn’t about right and wrong. Let the politically correct Swedes wring their hands about those kinds of namby-pamby considerations.

  No, this was about one thing and one thing only. About giving that Risk bloke, who was chummy with Dunja to boot, a proper slap on the wrist to show him who was boss. If he’d just accepted it, taken his punishment and slunk back to Sweden with his tail between his legs, the whole thing would have been over and done with and balance restored.

  But no. Instead the prick had been overcome with hubris and violated Denmark’s sovereignty. He’d given him the finger, clear as day. I don’t give a flying fuck about his territorial pissing, he’d said on the recording of his conversation with the Naval Operative Command. No one talked to him that way and walked away unpunished. Least of all a fucking Swede.

  He’d tried to run the matter all the way up the flagpole to Morten Steinbacher for an official statement on the ministerial level, which would in turn lead to the Swedish ambassador being summoned for a meeting. That would stir things up, and their relationship with their Swedish neighbours would deteriorate even further. And that was exactly the kind of environment in which he thrived. When the world was engulfed in chaos and everyone else felt like shit.

  But he needed Ingolf to be on board, and since he was insisting on being obstinate, he’d switched tactics. He was going to sit on his hands and pretend he hadn’t even noticed the declaration of war. As though it had passed by unnoticed without so much as a raised eyebrow.

  Then, one day, when everything seemed blessed state fucking peaceful, he’d pounce. Then Mr Rusk would find out what it was like to have him as an enemy. It would hurt, really goddam fucking hurt. Granted, he’d already laid the groundwork, but exactly how and when he would strike in earnest was still an open question. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a year from now. The only thing he knew for sure was that when the opportunity presented itself, he would be ready to unleash an Armageddon that would obliterate that son of a bitch and everyone around him.

  In the end, it was his phone that broke the silence, and when he saw that it was the useful idiot Jan Hesk at Homicide, he answered, mostly to distract himself. ‘Yes, what do you have for me?’

  ‘Hi, Kim, it’s only me, Jan.’

  ‘I know, and I wouldn’t mind if you cut to the chase.’

  ‘Right, well, the reason I’m calling is that I just spoke with Astrid Tuvesson from the Helsingborg Police and—’

  ‘What, wait, hold on,’ he broke in, glancing up at the mirror aimed at the entrance. ‘You’ve been in touch with the Swedes?’

  ‘Yes, but I wasn’t the one who—’

  ‘Ap-ap-ap, let’s calm down and rewind the tape. Haven’t I been perfectly clear about all contact with the other side of the sound being conducted by me and no one else?’

  ‘You have, but, like I said, she called me. I didn’t call them, and since you weren’t here—’

  ‘You should have referred her to me.’

  ‘And I did. But she insisted and in the end, I had no choice.’

  ‘Jan, I have to say I’m disappointed. You of all people should understand what—’

  ‘Kim, if you want to keep bickering about this, that’s fine,’ Hesk broke in. ‘But if I were you, I’d listen to what she had to say instead.’

  Hesk had never talked back or interrupted him like this before. ‘You would, would you?’ he said, and let the silence between them grow. ‘I see.’ Hesk had never liked him, that much was certain. Ever since that Christmas party a few years ago when he’d stormed into his office trying to play the hero after seeing Sleizner on top of Dunja on the sofa, he’d held a grudge. ‘But then, you’re not me, you’re you. At least, I hope that’s the case.’ Hesk had never mentioned it again, but he’d concealed his growing dislike behind a thick layer of sycophantic smarm. Until now. ‘And if I were you, I’d seriously consider plastic surgery, then I would think carefully about what I said and above all, to whom.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to sound rude. If that’s how it came off I apologize, and for what it’s worth, I would never call you unless it was important.’

  There. Back in your hole. ‘All right, let’s hear it.’

  ‘From what I gather, for the past few weeks they’ve been hunting a perpetrator of Asian descent suspected of committing a number of murders on randomly selected victims. And they now believe he has crossed the sound to strike here, at Tivoli.’

  ‘They believe?’

  ‘Yes, they found his notes, and though they don’t explicitly mention Tivoli, they’re saying it’s highly likely that’s where it’s going to happen. The problem is that they don’t know exactly when. It could be tonight, tomorrow or the day after. He might even be there now. So what they’re suggesting is working together to formulate a plan of action to—’

  ‘Our cooperation with the Swedes will be kept to an absolute minimum.’

  ‘Yes, I know that’s the official line, but—’

  ‘Absolute minimum! Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Right, I hear you, but what does that mean in real terms? We can’t just ignore this. From what I’m told, a detective called Fabian Risk is already on his way over, and if it turns out they’re right about—’

  ‘Risk?’ Of course that prick was involved. Fucking fantastic. ‘Just so you know, that man has already violated our sovereign borders once. So if he’s planning to run around Tivoli, waving his gun around, our top priority is to have him arrested. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, but surely we still have to—’

  ‘No buts! If you want to retain whatever slim chance you still have of getting promoted, you’ll make sure that bastard’s arrested! As far as the other thing goes, it’s all guesswork, no more, no less. You know what it’s like. He might be on his way to Tivoli or he might not. He might come tomorrow, he might come never. We don’t know,’ he said, just as he saw the door between the two shops open. ‘That being said, of course we will take the threat seriously.’

  Out stepped none other than the Indian man and the obese gook, scanning the street like two freaks in cheap sunglasses. It was almost enough to make him believe they suspected they were under surveillance.

  ‘Okay, so what do you suggest we do?’

  But he wasn’t worried, not in the slightest. They could look around all they wanted. They would never spot him.

  ‘Kim, are you still there?’

  Granted, he’d hoped to see Dunja herself, but this was almost better. That half of Asia had just been in there and were now parting ways suggested they’d had some form of meeting at her house.

  ‘I’m going to have to call you back,’ he said, and climbed out of the car.

  And that should in turn mean she was still in the flat.

  66

  ACT AS QUICKLY and efficiently as you can. If possible within the next few days, the instructions had said, according to Lilja’s email. That could mean pretty much any
time. Even so, Fabian sprinted up the stairs from the parking garage underneath the Confederation of Danish Industry’s building, next to Tivoli.

  He came out on H. C. Andersens Boulevard and raced around the corner to Vesterbrogade, where crowds of tourists slowed him down.

  During the drive to Denmark, he’d been in more or less constant contact with Tuvesson, once she’d dispatched Klippan and a team of uniformed officers to assist Stubbs and made sure Molander was safely locked up until he could present his evidence.

  She’d read him the message from Lilja in which Milwokh’s impending attack was outlined with the help of a number of rules for how the dice was to be rolled, which in turn determined who was supposed to be murdered next and how. The whole thing had exuded a cynicism and coldness they’d never come close to before.

  People were staring at him. True, he was forcefully pushing through the crowd. But that wasn’t it. Their looks were fearful, and he had no problem understanding why. His face, cut and bruised after his fight with Molander, must look terrifying, and even though he’d washed off the dried blood in a bathroom on the ferry to Helsingør and put plasters over the deepest gashes, it clearly wasn’t enough.

  Together with Tuvesson, he’d come up with a plan that, in simple terms, consisted of her contacting the Danish police to inform them and initiate cooperation, while he rushed to the amusement park and began to search it as best he could.

  The queue outside the main entrance with its grand arch was absolutely grotesque. Every family in the capital must have had the same thought when they woke up that morning. It was a welter of screaming children with dropped ice-cream cones, frustrated parents, shrieking hen dos and bellowing bands of young men. Not to mention the groups of tourists from all over the globe. In a word, it was bedlam.

  But the worst thing about it was that Tivoli’s own security guards didn’t seem to have the situation under control. It was as though they’d been caught off guard by the onslaught. True, they were conducting the occasional security check, but very sporadically and mostly for show.