by Lars Kepler
“Oh, it’s you, Beverly,” he says in surprise.
Her face is dusty and she’s holding a white dandelion ball in her hand.
“I didn’t want to talk to the police,” she says.
“Where’s Robert?”
“I hitchhiked home,” she says. “It wasn’t hard. I got a ride right away.”
“Why do you hitchhike? You might have been—”
“Don’t be mad. I really didn’t do anything wrong. But there’s something very important that I have to tell you.”
The telephone in his jacket starts to vibrate again.
“Just a moment, Beverly, I have to get this,” he says.
He searches through his jacket pockets and finds his mobile phone. He answers, “Axel Riessen here.”
A voice that seems to come from far away says, “Hello?”
“Hello,” Axel says.
“This is Raphael Guidi.” The voice is deep and the English is accented. “Please excuse the noise on the line. At the moment, I’m at sea, on my way to Latvia. I’m afraid that once we get out on the Baltic, we may lose our connection altogether.”
“I can hear you,” Axel says politely while Beverly walks over to the bed and sits.
“Let me get down to business,” Raphael Guidi says. “I’m calling you because I need to know that your signature is on the export authorisation. I’d already thought that the container ship would have been able to leave the harbour by now.”
Axel holds the phone close to his ear. He walks into the library but can’t hear much besides his own breathing. He thinks about the photograph with Raphael Guidi, Carl Palmcrona, Agathe al-Haji, and Pontus Salman. He remembers how Palmcrona had raised his champagne glass and was laughing so that his teeth shone.
“Are you still there?” asks Raphael Guidi on the crackling line.
“I am not going to sign the authorisation form,” Axel replies shortly, and shivers run up and down his spine.
“Maybe there’s a way I can convince you to change your mind,” Raphael Guidi says. “Think whether or not there’s something I can offer you that would help—”
“You have nothing I want.”
“I believe you may be wrong about that. Whenever I sign a contract, I—”
Axel hangs up. He slides the phone back into his jacket pocket. He’s filled with discomfort, almost a premonition, and begins to walk to the hallway door leading to the staircase. As he looks through the window, he spies movement in the park: shadows among the bushes heading towards his house. Axel whirls and looks out the other window but sees nothing.
There’s a clink from the bottom floor, as if one of the small panes of glass broke in the sunshine. Axel thinks the whole thing is absurd and at the same time realises what’s going on. His body fills with adrenaline, and he has heightened awareness of his surroundings. Heart racing, he moves as swiftly as he can without running. He heads straight towards Beverly in his bedroom. Beautiful sunlight is flooding in through the gaps in the venetian blinds and landing at Beverly’s feet. Beverly has got undressed and crawled back into the unmade bed. She has the volume of Dürrenmatt on her stomach.
“Axel,” she says, “I came back because I have to tell you some really good news—”
“Don’t be afraid, now.” He interrupts her. “Just do as I say. Hide underneath the bed right now. Don’t move or make a sound. Stay there for one hour.”
Beverly does what he says without question. She crawls beneath the bed.
Axel hears the stomping of feet coming up the stairs. There’s at least two of them, he thinks. Beverly’s jeans and T-shirt are on a chair. He picks them up and throws them under the bed.
His heart is pounding and his thoughts are whirling as he looks around, not knowing what to do.
He grabs his telephone from his jacket and runs out of the bedroom and into the library. He can hear the sound of feet in the hallway, also heading to the library.
His hands are shaking as he tries to punch a number into his phone. He hears the floor creak as someone rushes into the room. There’s no time to call. He tries to head over to the window so he can yell into the street for help, but someone grabs his right wrist while jamming a cool instrument against his throat. He doesn’t realise it’s a stun gun; 69,000 volts of electricity pulse through his body.
The sparking of electricity can be heard in the room, but Axel only feels heavy blows, as if someone were beating his throat with an iron pipe. He doesn’t even hear himself screaming. His brain shuts down and the world around him disappears.
The man who attacked him has already taped his mouth shut by the time Axel starts coming to. Axel finds he’s lying on the floor and his body is jerking in spasms. His arms and legs are flailing. A burning bite on his throat hits him with pain. He has no chance to defend himself.
The men brusquely move Axel’s arms and legs so that they can wrap him in white plastic. The plastic crackles softly and he believes that he’s going to suffocate. However, air is able to come through to him. The men tape up the plastic and then lift him like a rug. Axel tries to struggle, but he’s no longer in control of his own muscles. The two men carry him down the staircase, out through the front door, and into a waiting rubbish truck.
95
disappeared
Joona tries to call Pontus Salman back to shore. The rowing boat glides farther away. Joona runs from the dock to the meet the psychologist and the two colleagues from Södertälje. He accompanies them back to the dock and tells them to be careful, but he doesn’t believe that Pontus Salman is a danger to himself or others.
“But keep him in custody,” Joona says. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He hurries back to his car.
As Joona drives over the bridge over Fittjaviken, he reflects on Pontus Salman and how Salman sat in the rowing boat and told Joona how he was convinced that Axel Riessen would want to sign the Paganini contract.
Joona had asked Salman if Riessen could refuse, but he said that Riessen would not want to.
As he dials the number for Axel Riessen, Joona can see Veronique Salman in his mind’s eye. The disappointed expression around her mouth and the fear in her eyes as she described how once one had kissed Raphael Guidi on the hand, there was no way out.
Those words, the ‘nightmare’, keep returning, Joona thinks. Palmcrona’s housekeeper had used it. Veronique Salman had said that Raphael made sure that everyone would tell him their worst nightmare and Pontus Salman had said that Palmcrona had avoided his nightmare by committing suicide.
Pontus had said, He was able to escape reaping his nightmare.
Joona reflects on the fact that Stefan Bergkvist never knew that Carl Palmcrona was his father. He thinks about the unbearable heat that burned the flesh right off the bones and made the blood boil—the heat that burst the boy’s skull.
You can’t break a Paganini contract even if you die.
Joona tries again to reach Axel Riessen on the phone and then tries the direct number to the ISP.
“Can you connect me to Axel Riessen?” he asks quickly.
“I’m sorry. He is not reachable at the moment,” the receptionist replies.
“I’m a detective with the police and I need to speak to him right away.”
“I understand, but—”
“Interrupt him if he’s in a meeting.”
“He’s not here,” she replies, raising her voice. “He hasn’t come in this morning, and we haven’t been able to reach him by phone.”
“Now I know,” Joona says while hanging up.
Joona parks his Volvo on Brahegatan outside the gate to Axel Riessen’s mansion. The massive front door is just swinging shut as he approaches, and he races to ring the bell. The lock rattles and the door is reopened.
“Hello there,” Robert Riessen says as he sees Joona.
“Is Axel at home?”
“He should be, but I just got here,” Robert replies. “Has something happened?”
“I’ve been trying to re
ach him.”
“Me, too,” Robert says, and he lets Joona inside.
They walk up a half staircase and enter a large foyer dominated by an elaborate rose-coloured glass-armed chandelier. Robert knocks on the door and then walks right into Axel’s residence. They both hurry up to the private apartment in silence.
“Axel!” Robert yells.
They look around, going from room to room. Everything appears normal—the stereo system is on but no sound comes out, and a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica is lying open on the dictionary stand.
“Do you know if he was planning to travel?” Joona asks.
“No,” Robert replies, but there’s an odd exhaustion in his voice. “He does so many strange things.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You think you know somebody and … well, who knows.”
Joona walks into the bedroom and takes a quick look around. He sees a large oil painting leaning against the wall with its back facing the room and a puffy white dandelion past its bloom placed in a whisky glass, and he notices an unmade bed and a book.
Robert has already left the room and started down the stairs. Joona follows him down and to the large kitchen.
96
raphael guidi
Joona parks his car next to Kronoberg Park and walks to the police station while on the phone to the Södertälje police. Something is nagging him; he wishes he had been part of the group to bring in Pontus Salman.
His worry intensifies when the Södertälje officer explains that no one knows where Pontus Salman is.
“I’ll call you back,” the man says in a strong Gotland accent. “Just give me a few minutes.”
“But you did bring him in, didn’t you?” Joona asks.
“That was the plan,” the officer says doubtfully.
“I was very clear that he should be held.”
“No need to blame me,” the man says. “I’m sure all procedures were followed.”
He is heard to tap on his computer, mumble to himself, and then tap some more before he gives Joona the information: “Yes, he’s in custody here. We have also confiscated his weapon, a Winchester 490.”
“Good. Keep him there. We’ll send a car for him,” Joona says. The nearby Kronoberg Park swimming pool smells strongly of chlorine to Joona as he walks through the large glass doors.
He takes the lift up and strides quickly through the corridor. He’s almost reached Carlos Eliasson’s office when his mobile phone rings. It’s Disa. Time is very short, but he answers anyway.
“Hi,” Disa says. “Are you coming tomorrow?”
“You told me you didn’t want to celebrate your birthday.”
“I know, but I thought … just you and me.”
“Sounds good,” Joona says.
“I have something important to tell you, too,” she explains.
“Okay,” Joona says as he arrives at Carlos’s door.
“I—”
“Sorry, Disa, but I really can’t talk. I’m heading into an important meeting.”
“I have a surprise,” she says.
“Disa, I have to hang up now,” he says, and opens the door.
“But—” Disa says.
“I’m really sorry, but I just can’t talk now.”
Joona walks into Carlos’s room, closes the door behind him, and sits down next to Saga on the sofa.
“We can’t reach Axel Riessen,” Carlos tells him immediately.
“We’re afraid these murders are all tied to the export authorisation,” Joona says. “And we believe that Raphael Guidi is behind the whole thing. We need an arrest warrant for him as soon as possible—”
“Arrest warrant?” Carlos repeats, taken aback. “Just because Axel Riessen hasn’t answered his phone for two hours and has been delayed coming to work, you immediately assume he’s been kidnapped by Raphael Guidi—who, I might remind you, is a successful businessman with an unblemished record.” Carlos starts counting on his fingers. “Swedish police have nothing on him. Europol has nothing on him. Interpol has nothing. I’ve even talked to the police in France, Italy, and Monaco.”
“But I’ve talked to Anja.” Joona smiles smugly.
“You talked to Anja?”
Carlos falls silent before the entry of Anja Larsson, who closes the door behind her.
Without any introduction she begins. “During the past decade, Raphael Guidi’s name has come up six times. He was rumoured to be involved in illegal arms deals, illegal money deals, and unexplained deaths.”
“Only preliminary investigations,” Carlos objects. “That doesn’t mean—”
“Should I go on or not?” Anja says.
“Please, go ahead.”
“All suspicions about Raphael Guidi were squashed at an early stage in almost every case and so he was never really investigated.”
“So you have nothing,” Carlos says.
“His business earned 123 million dollars on Operation Desert Storm by providing Nighthawk jets with AGM-65 Maverick missiles,” Anja continues. She glances at her notes to check her accuracy. “But one of his auxiliary corporations provided Serbian forces with artillery rockets capable of bringing down these same planes during the Kosovo war.”
Anja shows them a photograph of Raphael in sienna-tinted sunglasses. He’s in sharply pressed blue pants, with a more comfortable-looking blue shirt hanging out. He smiles broadly. He’s between two bodyguards, posing in front of a smoke-coloured Lamborghini Diablo.
“Raphael’s wife was the well-known violinist Fiorenza Colini,” Anja tells them. “One year after their son, Peter, was born, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She underwent all kinds of treatments, but died when their son was seven.”
She shows them a newspaper clipping from the Italian newspaper La Repubblica. Fiorenza Colini has a beautiful red violin at her shoulder with the entire orchestra of La Scala behind her. The conductor, Riccardo Muti, is poised beside her. His wavy hair shines in the spotlight. Fiorenza Colini’s slim body is a shimmering column in a gown of platinum trimmed with silver brocade and an edging of sparkling crystal. Her eyes smile beneath thick lashes. Her right elbow is lifted as if her bow is travelling down and her slender fingers are placed high on the fingerboard, searching for a difficult note.
Anja shows them another clipping, this one from Newsweek, in which Raphael Guidi, his newborn son in his arms, stands improbably and proudly next to the American rock star Alice Cooper. The headline reads billion dollar baby. And in yet another, Guidi, dressed in a soft, light-coloured suit, chats with Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi while three blond women in micro bikinis lounge beside a rose-marble pool shaped like a heart.
“Raphael Guidi supposedly lives in Monaco, but if you want him, you have to go to sea, as far as I can determine,” Anja says. “He spends almost all of his time these days on his mega yacht, Theresa. It’s easy to understand why. Lürssen built it in Bremen fifteen years ago with every luxury that could be devised.”
A shot of the yacht, white and arrow-shaped, accompanies a feature on Guidi in French Vogue. In the photo the ship looks like a porcelain spear, and the article, entitled ‘Lion en Cannes’, breathlessly details a lavish film-festival bash thrown on board: “À la ville comme à la mer: Raphael Guidi et sa femme, Fiorenza, prennent le temps de faire les présentations. Kevin Costner et Salma Hayek saluent Victoria Silvstedt, l’icône Playboy suédoise.”
The men wear tuxedos, the women wear little, and the ever-present bodyguards planted behind Guidi wear their habitual stolid expressions. The article takes special pains to describe the dining hall, which features toucans in birdcages hanging from the ceiling, and a male lion, pacing back and forth in a cage of his own.
They hand the clippings back to Anja.
“Let’s listen now,” Anja says. “Belgian Intelligence has recorded a telephone conversation between an Italian prosecutor and Salvatore Garibaldi, who was a brigade general in the Esercito Italiano, the Italian army.”
>
She passes out copies of a hastily made translation, puts a USB flash drive into Carlos’s computer, leans over, and hits Play. The recording opens immediately with an official voice giving the circumstances, place, date, and time in French. Then a small metal click can be heard and a distant connecting tone. There’s a crackle, then a firm voice speaks.
“I’m listening and I’m ready to begin the preliminary investigation,” the prosecutor says.
“I can never testify against Raphael Guidi, not even under torture, not even …”
Salvatore Garibaldi’s voice disappears in a spurt of static. Then it appears again more weakly as if through a closed door.
“… med recoil brakes or completely recoilless rocket systems … and a hell of a lot of mines, antipersonnel mines, antivehicle mines, antitank mines … Raphael would never … like in Rwanda, he didn’t care. They used sticks and machetes—nothing with real money. But when the fight spilled over into the Congo, he wanted part of the action. He thought it would be a gold mine. First he armed the Rwanda Patriotic Front to be able to attack Mobutu forcefully. Then he turned around to pump heavy weaponry to the Hutus so that they could retaliate against the RPF.”
A strange peeping sound rises through the static. It hiccups and then his voice is clear again.
“The whole deal with the nightmare, I couldn’t really believe it. I was forced … forced to hold his sweaty hand … while I watched. My daughter, she was fourteen. She was so pretty, so beautiful … Raphael … he did it himself. He used the knife himself … he screamed at me that I was reaping my nightmare. He owned it … he owned my nightmare. I still … don’t ask me to think about it again … I can’t …”
There are strange sounds. Someone shouts in the background. Breaking glass can be heard. The sound recording sputters.
Salvatore Garibaldi is weeping. “How could anyone do anything like that … he took a fillet knife from his bodyguard … my daughter’s face … her beautiful, beautiful …” He continues to sob and then he screams that now he wants nothing more than to die. He wants to die.
More crackling and the recording ends. No one in Carlos Eliasson’s office says a word. Through the small windows facing Kronoberg Park’s green slope, a playful light falls into the office.
