Nele slumped to her knees, and took another two bullets in her back before collapsing at Petra’s feet. Petra crawled free of the GSG 9 man pinning her to the ground, and twisted Nele onto her back.
“Where is Maratse?” she shouted, as Nele started to gag on the blood in her mouth. Nele’s head lolled back to her neck, and Petra caught it. “Where is he?”
“You already know,” Nele said, as her body slumped to the ground.
Two men from the GSG 9 team worked on the body of their fallen team member, as the other men cleared the room. The first team returned, declared the area clear, and then clumped around the men working on the man with Nele’s knife in his head.
Petra searched Nele’s pockets, and tucked the hard drive into her vest before one of the team pulled her to her feet. He took her through the hole in the wall, and found a chair for her in the middle of the open office.
“Stay here,” he said, “Mayer is on her way up.
Petra waited for him to hurry back to the medics, and then slipped out of the office. She took the stairs, stumbling all the way to the ground floor. Petra pushed through the fire door, and staggered down the street, holding her ears as the fire alarm drilled into her head.
She hailed a taxi, cursed it as the driver took one look at her, and drove on. The same happened with the second, but the third taxi stopped. Petra opened the passenger door, and pulled the documents from inside her vest.
“Where to?”
Petra laid the documents on her bloody lap. She found three with the same address in the references section, whispered a quick thanks to such sloppy attention to detail, and told the driver where to go.
Chapter 21
The plastic strip securing Maratse’s ankle to the chair leg snapped just before midnight. His foot twitched and knocked one of the empty bottles of whisky. It rolled under the table and rattled against another, the sound of glass knocking against glass woke him, and he tried hard to open his eyes. Johnson pressed two fingers under Maratse’s chin and lifted it, prising one eye open with the fingers of his other hand.
“To be fair,” Johnson said, “I thought Greenlanders had a weakness for alcohol, something in their genes that means they can’t handle their drink.” He let go of Maratse’s chin, sucking air through his teeth with a whooshing sound as Maratse’s head snapped to his chest. “But this one did okay. Although he’s gonna have a hell of a hangover in the morning.” Johnson turned to Stefan, and said, “She should have been here by now. She should have called.”
Stefan waved the iPhone. “Nothing. Not even a text.”
“All right,” Johnson said. “Phase two. Go and get Berndt.” He looked at his watch. “If we can get this sorted before office hours tomorrow, I can fly back to the States, be home with the wife for Thanksgiving.”
Stefan stopped at the door. “You want me to bring anything to eat?”
“You do know we are in a restaurant?”
Stefan shrugged. “I don’t like Italian.”
“Whatever.” Johnson waved his hand. “Just bring me Berndt, and soon.”
Johnson waited until Stefan had left, and then picked up the empty whisky bottles, lining them up on the table in front of Maratse, until he had a row of three. He picked up a spoon and tapped the side of one of the bottles until Maratse lifted his head and squinted at him.
“There you are, Constable. I’m bored. Entertain me.”
Maratse had the vague sensation of drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Another sensation, a pressure in his bladder, made him realise he needed to piss, but he couldn’t recall if he had already, or just needed to. He tried to focus on Johnson as he placed a fourth bottle of whisky on the table.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “you spilled most of that one.”
“Why?” Maratse said, the word longer and more complicated than he remembered.
“We don’t always need a reason, do we? Why do anything?” Johnson dragged a chair across the floor, placed it beside Maratse, and sat down. “We’re driven,” he said, and patted Maratse’s arm. “Some are more driven than others, I’ll grant you that, but we are each, in our own way driven to do things. If you ask me, greed drives most people. A want for more. I see it every day. They might want different things such as power, a new car, a bigger house, but greed drives them. I’ll admit to being a little power hungry at times, but I wouldn’t say that drives me, not completely.” He stopped, leaned closer to Maratse, encouraging him with small, slow waves of his hand. “You can do it. That’s it.”
“What then?” Maratse said.
“Well it’s not lust, not all the time, but sex is certainly something that drives me. I mean, you must be having sex up there in Greenland, eh? Not much else to do in that crab-fart of a settlement in the winter. No,” Johnson said, “I think I’m driven more out of curiosity. For example,” he said, and leaned forwards, “take this particular job, chasing a forgotten journal half-way around the world, just to find out if an area is viable for mining, you know? I found that curious. My curiosity was aroused.”
Johnson clicked his fingers in front of Maratse’s face, sighed, pushed back his chair, and walked into the kitchen. When he came back, he emptied a jug of cold water over Maratse’s head.
“I find that stimulating conversations work best when both parties are awake, Constable. Now,” he said, as Maratse spluttered at the water dribbling over his lips, “as I was saying.” Johnson put the jug on the table. “This job was about solving a problem. As you know, the Greenland government, in their wisdom, put a stop to geological surveys in areas within one hundred kilometres of towns, villages, and settlements. They were a bit more accommodating with what you call ‘living places’ with one or two inhabitants too stubborn to die, but Svartenhuk was out of bounds. Unless – and this is where I pride myself on being more than a little ingenious – a survey had already been carried out, prior to the new law in 2013.”
“Wegener,” Maratse said.
“Exactly. Well done, Constable, I’m so pleased you are keeping up.”
“My pleasure.” Maratse moved his lips into what he thought was a smile.
“Ah, yes,” Johnson said. “One thing at a time, I think.” He tapped the table, and said, “I heard a rumour that an old acquaintance was speculating in a Scottish mining company. Arbroath Mining, is the name. My friend knows nothing about mining, but he does know the energy business. Nuclear energy to be precise. Tell me, Constable, have you heard of Thorium? No?” Johnson reached over to the next table and tugged a napkin from beneath the cutlery and wiped Maratse’s chin. He tossed the napkin into Maratse’s lap. “Thorium is a radioactive mineral, and can be used to produce nuclear energy, more or less on a par with uranium. My friend discovered two things of interest concerning Arbroath Mining Company.” Johnson held up a finger. “One, they were struggling. And two.” Another finger. “When Arbroath bought the rights to the old marble mine in Uummannaq, they also bought the rights that included the mountains of Svartenhuk. Now, Arbroath might be struggling, but they had a solid business plan – invest everything in proving the viability of their concern, and then get bought out by a bigger company. Bigger companies tend to keep an eye on the likes of Arbroath, but it is a risky strategy, as they are just as likely to be forgotten.”
“Not by you.”
“Again, Constable, I must praise you for keeping track. Remarkable, really,” Johnson said, with a nod to the row of empty bottles on the table. “My curiosity was peaked. I looked into Arbroath, Greenland, even Wegener, and I discovered a riddle, that might, if it were solved, prove very profitable to the people I represent.” Johnson laughed. “Is that a look of surprise? I can’t tell, but let’s assume that it is. I’m not personally capable of fronting this operation, although I’m flattered you might think so. No, I’m just good at pointing the right people in the right direction, at the right time, and then adding a few elements of my own to spice things up.”
“Like Nele Schneider?” Petra said, a
s she opened the door to the kitchen. “I let myself in,” she said, and raised the pistol in her hand.
“Sergeant Jensen,” Johnson said, and clapped. “Good girl. I can see why they picked you for the task force.” He gestured at Maratse. “Your friend and I were having a chat over a few drinks, although the Constable did most of the drinking. He’s got quite a thirst.”
“Are you all right, David?”
“Iiji.”
Petra pointed the gun at Johnson, and said, “Untie him.”
“What happens if I say no?”
Petra pulled the trigger and clipped Johnson’s shoulder with a bullet from Nele’s gun. The American swore, checked his shoulder, and lifted his hand to show Petra a stripe of blood across his fingers. “That, Sergeant, was not smart.”
“Untie him.”
“Fine.” Johnson pulled a buck knife from his boot, opened the blade, and locked it in place, cutting the ties, one by one. “I must say, you look a little rough, Sergeant. How is Nele?”
“Dead,” Petra said, and waved the gun. “Keep going.”
“That’s unfortunate. She was quite useful.”
“She said she was ordered to make a mess, something newsworthy. Did you tell her to do that?”
“Anything to do with the news is Berndt’s business, literally. I told her to kill Henrik Baumann because he was an activist. Greenpeace, or some other organisation with more balls than money. I thought he might destroy the journal before we had made use of it.” Johnson cut the ties around Maratse’s hands. “There’s another one through his belt,” he said, and offered the knife to Petra. “Why don’t you cut that one?”
Petra took a step forwards, only to stop as something hard was pressed into the back of her neck.
“If I pull the trigger,” Stefan said, “I will kill you, and your friend. Now, lower the gun, and take a seat on that chair over there. Stop,” he said, as Petra started walking. “Put your gun on that table, and then walk over to the chair.” Stefan waited for Petra to sit down, and then picked up the gun, stuffing it into his waistband as he beckoned for Berndt to come in.
“I hope you have good news, Aleksander,” Johnson said.
“Berndt has a call scheduled with his crazy daughter for one o’clock,” Stefan said, and nodded for Berndt to place his phone on the table between Johnson and Maratse. “That’s in seven minutes.”
“Seven whole minutes, eh?” Johnson looked at Petra. “I might have managed that in my youth, but I have to admit that it takes a little longer these days. Perhaps later, darling, what do you say to that?”
“Eeqqi,” Maratse said.
“What did he say?” Johnson said, and leaned closer to Maratse.
“It means no.” Maratse lunged for Johnson’s throat. His fingers caught around the American’s shirt as he stepped back, tearing a flap of cotton and ripping a few buttons before Stefan smacked Maratse on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol.
“You see this?” Johnson said to Berndt, pushing at Maratse’s head with his knuckles. “This is what you hired.”
“Maratse?”
“The one and only. Pathetic, eh?”
“Leave him alone,” Petra shouted.
“Sit down, sweetheart, don’t exert yourself, it looks like you’ve had quite a night already.” Johnson waved at Stefan to lower his gun. “Unless you’ve got something to trade?”
“I have Dieter’s hard drive,” she said.
“Here?”
“Close.”
“Of course,” Johnson said. “But now I have to do more than get your boyfriend drunk to make you hand it over.” He gripped the knife in his hand. Petra held her breath as he held the knife to Maratse’s chin.
“Wait,” Berndt said, as his phone rang. He swiped the screen, and turned the phone on the speaker setting, dialling up the volume as Johnson lowered the knife.
“Daddy?”
Maratse recognised Therese Kleinschmidt’s voice, but the shriek of wind in the background, and the crash of what sounded like waves, made it difficult to hear her.
“Therese, where are you?”
“I’m not going to make it. I’m sorry.”
“What are you saying?” Berndt cast a wild glance at Johnson at the sound of something heavy cracking in the background.
“The mast?” Johnson said, with a shrug.
“Therese?”
“I’m sorry, daddy.”
Petra sat up as Johnson walked to the table and spun the phone towards him with his finger.
“Do you have the journal?” Johnson waited a beat. “Therese? The journal?”
“I always loved you, daddy, like you were my own father.”
Berndt pushed Johnson away from the phone and placed his hands either side of it. He leaned over the table, and said, “You should have been my daughter. You were the bravest…”
“Oh please,” Johnson said. He pushed Berndt to one side, and shouted at the phone. “Kleinschmidt. Do you have the damn journal? Have you read it?”
“Yes,” Therese said, her voice barely audible above the waves crashing over Ophelia’s stricken hull.
“Have it or read it?”
“Read it.”
“Finally,” Johnson said. He tapped the tip of the knife on the table. “Tell me about Thorium. Is that Wegener’s secret? Is that what he found in the mountains?” Johnson placed his palms on the table and pressed his face towards the phone. “Come on, Therese. Daddy is waiting.”
Johnson frowned, recoiling at a violent crash of static through the speaker, and the sound of something groaning, tipping, as if Ophelia was rolling into the massive jaws of Greenland’s dark seas.
“You’re not my daddy,” Therese said, and nothing more. The line went dead.
Johnson lifted the knife in his fist, raised it above his head, and curled it down in an arc towards the iPhone, just as Berndt collapsed onto his knees, and the windows of the restaurant imploded with a bang, and the flash and flare of magnesium.
The first GSG 9 officer to crash through the blinds and glass of the window put two bullets through Stefan’s chest, and a third through his forehead. Two more officers slammed Johnson into the floor. One of them knelt on the American’s chest, while his partner cinched plastic ties around his wrists. A fourth man covered Berndt while the fifth and sixth members of the team secured Maratse and Petra, dragging them out of the restaurant to the ambulances parked behind the police cordon at the end of the street. Hannah took Petra’s hand and helped her into the ambulance.
“You’re all right?”
“Yes.”
Hannah moved to one side as the paramedics lowered Maratse onto a stretcher. He smiled at her, and said, “Don’t mind the smell; I’ve had a bit to drink.”
Petra waited for the medic to finish strapping Maratse to the stretcher, and then leaned over to brush a tear from his cheek with a dusty finger.
“Funny guy,” she said, and smiled.
“Piitalaat.”
“Yes?”
“I’m ready to go home.”
“Yes. Let’s do that.” Petra waited as Maratse turned his head to one side and coughed; when he looked back he whispered her name. “What?”
“Don’t eat my peanuts.”
“Right,” Petra said, as Hannah tapped her on the shoulder.
“You took a big risk,” she said, “running away like that.”
“I didn’t run away.” Petra opened the front of her vest and pulled out the hard drive. “I knew you would find me.”
“The GPS tracker could have been damaged in the blast.”
Petra shrugged. “It wasn’t.” She turned at the sound of Johnson’s voice as the GSG 9 team marched him towards the police car parked behind the assault vehicle. Berndt followed, flanked by two more GSG 9 men. “What happens to them?”
“Berndt’s easy. With the evidence on the hard drive, and the testimony of the captain of the Ophelia, we can charge him with obstruction of justice at the very least, p
ossibly conspiracy to…” Hannah paused at the sound of a vehicle braking hard outside the police cordon. She glanced at Petra, and took a step towards the car at the sound of two doors opening, shouts from police officers in German, and a loud male voice with an American accent.
“Who the hell’s in charge here?”
“I am,” Hannah said, as she took a step towards the tall man flashing a badge at her colleagues. Petra followed a step behind her.
“Your name?”
“Hannah Mayer.”
“And you’re in charge?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Who I am is above your pay grade. Now, here’s what you are going to do.” The man pulled out his phone and dialled a number. He held up a finger as Hannah started to speak. “Yes, sir, here she is now.” He gave the phone to Hannah.
Petra watched as the man pulled Johnson away from the GSG 9 team holding him, and waited for Hannah to finish talking on his phone. Johnson caught Petra’s eye and took a step towards her, nodding for her to join him.
“You see what’s happening here, don’t you, Sergeant?” Johnson said.
“I see you’re still cuffed,” she said, with a glance at the plastic ties around his wrists.
“An oversight.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” he said, “but in the meantime, now that we have a moment, and your boyfriend is otherwise engaged, how about you ask me the question.”
Petra looked over her shoulder at Maratse. She caught his eye and smiled.
“Hurry now, Sergeant.”
Petra lifted her chin and looked Johnson in the eye. “You’re CIA.”
“Am I?”
“Nele was working for you. She said so.”
“She didn’t say my name.”
“She didn’t need to.”
Blood Floe: Conspiracy, Intrigue, and Multiple Homicide in the Arctic (Greenland Crime Book 2) Page 18
