The Cup

by Alex Lukeman

  He felt his blows landing. Someone slashed at him with a knife and cut through his jacket. He kicked the man's knee, forcing it into an impossible angle. The man cried out as he went down. Nick kicked him in the head. The knife flew out of his hand. Somebody jumped on his back. He grabbed an arm and jacket and levered the attacker over his hip and down. The man's head hit the hard ground. He stopped moving.

  There was a shot, a sharp crack echoing in the cold air. Somebody yelled out. Nick looked that way and saw Selena. She was all movement, arms and legs a blur. Her attackers went down before her as if she were wielding a scythe. Three men lay on the ground nearby. A fourth went down as he watched.

  Then it was over. The men still standing ran back into the building. Nick knew they'd be back in minutes, with reinforcements.

  Forsberg was on his knees, holding his side. Blood seeped between his fingers. His pistol lay on the ground beside him. Selena bent down and picked it up.

  Alf Nilsson lay on the ground, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound.

  Selena came over to Nick. Her face was flushed. There was a long rip in her parka where someone had slashed at her with a knife.

  "Are you all right?" she said.

  "Yes. I was about to ask you the same thing."

  "I'm good."

  "Looks like you need a new jacket."

  Ronnie and Lamont came up to them. Lamont was rubbing his shoulder.

  "That was a hell of a brawl," Lamont said.

  "You okay?" Nick asked.

  "Yeah. Some asshole got me with a pipe. He's over there taking a nap with his buddies."

  Eight or nine of the men who'd attacked them lay on the ground, some motionless, some groaning and moving around.

  "We need to get out of here. Forsberg's hurt. Ronnie and Selena, take him to the car. Lamont, we'll get Nilsson. We can't leave him."

  "I'm all right," Forsberg said. He staggered to his feet. "They'll come out again."

  Nick and Lamont picked Nilsson up and ran with him to the car. They got him into the rear of the wagon as the doors of the refugee house burst open. A horde of angry men poured out, shouting and waving clubs.

  "Time to boogie," Ronnie said.

  They piled into the car.

  "Selena, discourage them," Nick said.

  Selena reached through the open window with Forsberg's pistol and fired three rounds into the ground in front of the charging mob. It stopped them long enough to get the Volvo away.

  "I'm heading for a hospital," the driver said. The car accelerated. He hit his lights and siren.

  Nilsson was still unconscious. Nick pressed Forsberg's hand against the bleeding wound.

  "Keep pressure on it. Can you do that?"

  "Yes."

  "You'll be okay."

  "Man, those people are crazy," Lamont said.

  "It's like that at all over." Forsberg spoke between clenched teeth. "They're out of control. They think it's their right to do what they want."

  Selena said, "They come here and are taken care of and then they act like this. I don't understand it."

  "They're animals," Forsberg said. "We help them and they hate us. No one knows what to do. These are difficult times for my country."

  "For the world," Nick said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chief Superintendent Axel Bergstrom sat in his fourth floor office at national police headquarters, put his phone down and chewed on a fingernail. He looked out at Kronensberg Park across the way. In winter the park was a clean, snow filled space, a pleasant piece of the country in the heart of the city. In summer, it was green and lush, a favorite spot to take a lunch break or a walk. Usually Bergstrom found the view soothing. Not today. The call had changed that.

  Bergstrom was assigned to the National Task Force, the intelligence and tactical division of the Swedish police responsible for dealing with hostage situations, terrorism and the reality of multiplying threats from every direction.

  For years Sweden had been one of the most crime-free and peaceful nations in Europe, but those days were over. Murders were increasing. Drugs were everywhere. The overwhelming influx of refugees and immigrants fleeing the wars in the Middle East had brought with it a host of new problems.

  Bergstrom had been a policeman for thirty-five years and would go no farther in his career. He'd had spent his adult life without doing any of the things he'd really wanted to do. When his wife had been alive he'd wanted to travel, but except for one holiday in Spain, they hadn't gone anywhere outside the country. Travel was a luxury he'd never been able to easily afford on his salary.

  His retirement ceremony was only a few months away, but his pension wasn't enough to maintain what he considered a decent lifestyle. His position gave him access to everything and anything that touched on criminal activity in Sweden. When he'd discovered that the refugee center in Solna was being used as a distribution center for smuggled antiquities, he'd seen his opportunity.

  Bergstrom didn't consider the trade in artifacts a real crime. After all, who was being hurt by it? He'd never understood people who thought tombs and ancient cities were places where everything should be preserved in a museum or left in the dust where it had lain unnoticed for centuries.

  Bergstrom only dealt with two buyers in order to minimize his potential exposure. Du Maurier was in France: Mercurio in Italy. Du Maurier would take anything that came from the ancient civilizations of the Middle East. A bás relief, a carved tile, a statue, a piece of pottery, it didn't matter. Mercurio, on the other hand, was only interested in Christian objects. There were fewer of those, but when they turned up he was willing to pay a premium price for them.

  It had been a satisfactory arrangement. The artifacts came in with the immigrants and ended up at the center with Sayed Hussein. Bergstrom made sure the police looked in a different direction and arranged for a buyer. The commission was deposited in a bank in Andorra.

  He had accumulated a nice nest egg, enough for a comfortable retirement. Most of his flights of fancy centered around someplace warm by the ocean, Ibiza, perhaps, or the Azores. Everything had been going smoothly. Bergstrom could almost feel the sand between his toes.

  Then Vilgot Andersson had interfered. That was the trouble with honest cops.

  Bergstrom looked down at his thumb, where he'd chewed the nail to the quick.

  Things were slipping out of control. First, Andersson's body had been found. Bergstrom had been shocked. There wasn't supposed to be any violence, certainly nothing like that. No one was supposed to get hurt, but they hadn't asked before they killed him and there was nothing he could have done about it, anyway. It was a strong message, meant for Bergstrom as much as anyone else.

  The phone call had been from Sayed Hussein's alter ego, Gabriel. Bergstrom didn't like Gabriel but he had to deal with him, since Hussein couldn't speak Swedish or English. Gabriel had told him about the visit from Forsberg and the near riot outside afterward. He'd warned Bergstrom that their arrangement was at risk. He wanted the police to back off.

  Bergstrom already knew what had happened at the center. It was the number one topic at police headquarters. What he didn't know was who the people were who had been with Forsberg. They hadn't been in uniform. Gabriel had said he thought the woman might be American.

  It had been necessary to spend a few minutes soothing Gabriel. Inside, Bergstrom had been angry. It helped to push away the feeling of panic that was beginning to worm its way into his consciousness. Bergstrom wished he could get rid of Gabriel and Hussein, but it was fantasy. In truth, he was not a brave man. He'd never even fired a gun in anger.

  He looked at his watch. In twenty minutes there was a meeting to discuss a response to the morning's events. Someone from the ministry would be there and that always created problems. Whenever the government got involved in police business it was never certain what the result would be. The laissez-faire policy of the Social Democrats toward the immigrants worked to Bergstrom's advantage but an incident like this couldn't be overlo
oked.

  He needed to find out who was working with Forsberg and what was being planned at KSI.

  After that he'd decide what to do.

  CHAPTER 7

  The day after the raid on the asylum the team met again at KSI Headquarters. Forsberg followed them into the conference room and sat down.

  "You look pretty good for someone who just got knifed," Nick said.

  "It looked worse than it was. He missed everything important. It's sore as hell, though."

  "I know the feeling," Ronnie said.

  "Let's talk about yesterday." Forsberg looked at Selena. "Tell me what Hussein said that wasn't translated."

  "They have nothing but contempt for you. Gabriel called you a dog. Hussein told him to find out what you wanted and then tell you whatever you wanted to hear so you'd go away. He said you were annoying."

  "Woof, woof. I'll show him annoying. What else did he say?"

  "You asked about the man seen talking with Andersson."

  "With the scar."

  "Hussein called him Ahmed and said he was a fool for being seen. He told Gabriel to say there was no one there like that. He wanted Gabriel to find out who the witness was that saw Ahmed and after that to tell you the interview was over."

  "Ahmed. At least we have a name."

  "It's a common name," Selena said.

  "Do you have a picture database of the refugees?" Nick asked. "With that scar, it should be easy to pick him out."

  "Over a hundred thousand immigrants came here last year and there are more every day. There are many pictures, but most are of poor quality. It will take time. If he's in there, we'll find him."

  "What are you going to do about Hussein?" Nick asked.

  "Nothing at the moment. He's one of the most important Muslim leaders in Sweden. I don't have any grounds to arrest him. If I take him in, there will be riots. People will get hurt. The government would call it harassment and free him, but not before the damage was done. Until I have proof he's involved in terrorist activity, I can't do anything."

  "Then I guess we'd better find some proof," Nick said.

  "There's going to be a government inquiry," Forsberg said. "I fired my weapon and I shot one of the men who attacked us. In the current political environment, I'm guilty of an unprovoked, racist attack until proven innocent. After the inquiry I'll probably be suspended."

  "That's crazy."

  "That's politics. Hussein will claim anything you say to back me up is a lie because you're prejudiced against Islam. He'll say I insulted Mohammed and that's why everyone got upset. There will be a dozen witnesses to swear I fired with no provocation."

  Nick said nothing. It all sounded uncomfortably familiar.

  Forsberg continued. "It means you'll be asked to leave."

  "Hell, we just got here," Lamont said. "I was just settling in."

  "They won't kick you out before the inquiry but you'd better be ready to pack."

  "Who was the witness that saw Andersson with Ahmed?" Selena asked.

  "A truck driver named Torn Dahlberg. He delivers produce to the center. Dahlberg was making a delivery and saw the two of them arguing."

  "Did anybody see Andersson after that?"

  "No. We have a CCTV recording of him going into his apartment building and coming out two minutes later, in a hurry. He got into his car and drove away. His phone records show that he received a call right before he left. It came from a throwaway, we can't trace it."

  "Where did he go?"

  "He drove out of town, toward where we found his body. It's all country out there, farmland. Many of the old farms are deserted now. The old people are dying off and the young ones don't want to take up farming. Andersson was nailed to the side of a barn on one of those empty spreads."

  "What was he doing out there?" Nick asked.

  "We don't know. We think the phone call was to set him up. Whoever called probably killed him."

  "Did you find anything at the site to explain why he was there?"

  "No. He didn't drive there directly and we haven't found his car yet. Whoever killed him grabbed him and took him out there where he died."

  "If we could find the car it might tell us something," Selena said.

  "Sure," Forsberg said, "but it could be anywhere."

  "What kind of car was it?"

  "Vilgot drove a blue Saab, an older model. I used to kid him about it, it was pretty beat up."

  "If he drove out of town, that narrows it down some," Nick said.

  Forsberg shrugged. "There are lots of places in the country where a car could be hidden. A barn, a shed, lots of places. We don't have the manpower to search everything along that highway."

  "Are there houses along the road?" Selena asked. "Maybe someone saw him drive by."

  "We thought about that. We asked everybody we could find but nobody recalled seeing him."

  "You talked to everyone?"

  "Everyone we could find."

  "What about the ones you couldn't?"

  Forsberg looked annoyed. "Damn it, you're right. I don't think anyone has followed up on that. There were places where no one was home. We made a second pass and still came up with nobody. It got lost in the shuffle. I should have thought of it."

  "Don't feel too bad," Nick said. "It's an easy thing to do, a detail like that."

  "I should've thought of it," Forsberg said again. "It's something we can do today. Better than sitting around here waiting for somebody to yell at me for shooting that bastard."

  Selena looked out the window. The sky was overcast, filling with gray clouds.

  "That looks like something's coming in."

  "It's supposed to snow later," Forsberg said, "but not until tonight. We'll be back before it hits."

  CHAPTER 8

  Forsberg drove the Volvo. He had a list of the places where no one had been at home. At the first one, the door was opened by a middle-aged farmer eating a sandwich. He spoke with a thick accent that Selena couldn't understand. Forsberg spoke with him for a few minutes. The door closed.

  "He didn't see anything."

  "Where is he from?" Selena asked. "I didn't understand what he said except for a few words."

  "Up north, near Kruna. It's near the Norwegian border. The dialect is hard to understand for most Swedes, much less a foreigner."

  The next farm was a few miles farther down the road. The main house was two stories high, a long single building with whitewashed walls and a pitched roof. Behind it was a smaller, stone building that might've once been a guesthouse. There was a barn. The farm had a forlorn, abandoned feeling to it. Everyone had walked away one day and left it behind.

  The day was cold and clear. Fresh snow had fallen the night before. The drive leading in showed no tracks. No vehicles were visible. As they drove up to the house, Selena thought a curtain moved on the second floor.

  Forsberg knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again, louder. The sound rolled across flat, empty fields marked by stubble sticking out through the snow. The silence was overwhelming.

  "Nobody home," Forsberg said.

  "I thought I saw a curtain move upstairs," Selena said.

  "There are no tracks, no vehicles. Nobody's going to walk all the way out here."

  "I could've been mistaken."

  She looked again at the window. There was nobody there.

  They drove on to the third farm on the list. They found the farmer in his barn, mending harness. He was a man who might've been eighty years old or more, with a face grizzled by hard work and hard weather. His arms were knotted with muscles. A faded naval tattoo graced one of them.

  He hadn't seen anything either. No, no blue car. Yes, he was usually here. He'd probably been out in the fields when they'd been here before. If a blue car had gone by, he would've noticed it. He knew all the cars that came this way. There wasn't any reason to go this way except to visit neighbors a mile up the road. The weather was going to act up and they might get a lot of snow.

&n
bsp; The man went on for five minutes before Forsberg finally cut him off. He thanked him and they went back to their car.

  "I thought he'd never stop talking," Forsberg said. "Some of these old farmers get lonely."

  "It seems desolate," Selena said. "I can see how living out here could get you down."

  "It looks that way now," Forsberg said, "but in the spring and summer it's beautiful. All this is green. There are flowers everywhere, birds, it's a beautiful place. But winter is bleak."

  "What now?" Ronnie asked.

  "That was the last stop on the list. We might as well head back to town."

  "I want to look at that second place again," Selena said.

  "Why?"

  "Just a feeling. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure someone was inside the house. Why didn't they answer the door?"

  Forsberg looked at her. "A feeling?"

  "Better listen to her," Ronnie said. "She's got good intuition."

  "Why not? It's on the way."

  Nothing had changed when they returned. The only tracks going in and out from the main house were the ones they'd left earlier. The curtain in the upstairs window hung still and lifeless. Forsberg pounded on the door again. There was still no answer.

  They walked around the house, peering in windows. There was nothing to see except empty rooms. A back door was locked.

  "Let's take a look at the barn," Nick said.

  "Technically speaking, I'm supposed to have a warrant," Forsberg said.

  "I won't say anything if you don't." Nick started toward the barn.

  The building was old, weathered by years of harsh Swedish winters. The boards had long ago given up any paint they might once have had. Two hinged doors were closed with a thick metal hasp and locked with a new, heavy-duty padlock. A square metal plate was bolted onto the wood behind the lock and hasp.

  Nick pointed at the lock. "What's a new lock like that doing on a beat up building like this? Everything else around here is falling apart."

  Forsberg bent to examine the lock. "Someone wants this to stay closed."