by Sara Blaedel
She purchased half an hour’s Internet time, instructing her press secretary to arrange her schedule for the days surrounding the premiere as she saw fit. By the looks of it she could expect to be rather busy. The thought pleased her, and although as ever she felt apprehensive about the upcoming reviews, she realized she had rather a good feeling about what lay in store.
She checked her Facebook, rereading her status about warming up to the premiere with sangria and flamenco, smiling at all her likes and the comments from friends wishing her well and saying how much they were looking forward to it.
“Señorita Holten?” a man inquired in Spanish, stepping toward her and holding out a very large bouquet of flowers.
Naja rose to her feet and nodded. She had no idea what else he said, but accepted the flowers with astonishment. The girl in reception beamed at her, the same one who had checked her in on arrival.
“Boyfriend?” she asked, gesturing toward her floral compliment.
Naja gave a sheepish shrug as she removed the little card that was attached to the cellophane with sticky tape.
Now it begins! Five-star review in Woman’s Weekly next week—hurrah!
“Yes!” Naja exclaimed, and almost punched the air with joy. The flowers were from the PR department. She could see the text was cut from an email. How kind of them, she thought.
Now suddenly she was looking forward to going home again and smiled to herself at the thought of the people in the film company’s office whose contacts had tipped them off in advance about the review.
She decided to celebrate, and with the flowers in her arms she strode off immediately to book a table at the hotel’s expensive restaurant. Passing by the small indoor fountain she encountered the man who had been standing behind her in reception the day she arrived. He looked away before they made eye contact.
She stood for a moment before a waiter came to ask how he might help her. The fat reservations book lay open on the counter and she noted how busy the place would be, but if she was prepared to dine rather early they could manage a table at six. She arranged a vase for her flowers before going out onto the patio and ordering a drink topped with a cocktail umbrella.
“The new stove came yesterday,” said Jesper when she phoned home. “But the stupid delivery guy left it at the curb. It weighs a ton, so I haven’t gotten it inside yet.”
She laughed and could hear the dog in the background wanting to play, as always when they were on the phone.
Her drink arrived and she had them charge it to the room.
She missed them madly all of a sudden. Jesper had taken time off work to get the kitchen organized while she was away, and she loved him for it.
“Your mother’s invited us for dinner on Saturday, so I was thinking I could come and pick you up at the airport and then go straight there. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” she said, and had the feeling that she had already been away far too long, even though it had only been three days since she came.
“I got some wine in, just in case you want to invite some people back after the premiere,” he said.
Again, she marveled at how well he knew her. A few days before she left she had told him there was no way she would have the energy to throw a party after the formal celebrations the film company would be laying on. But it was her movie, and of course she would celebrate. The news of the first review had already vitalized her. She told him about the flowers and the message from the PR department and could almost hear him smile.
“You knew!” she exclaimed.
“Hmm,” he admitted. “What’s more, I know Politiken is planning a big feature article, so you’ve got every reason to celebrate.”
She blew a kiss into the receiver and told him how much she was looking forward to coming home. Then she finished her drink and decided to go back to her room and soak in a hot bath before dinner.
* * *
The wind was cool when a couple of hours later she started toward the restaurant, and though it was still early it was already turning dark. The sun descended toward the sea, and the twilight was slowly engulfing the pool area. From a distance the restaurant looked like a grotto filled with candles that flickered invitingly. She followed the walk that edged the hotel parking lot before turning down onto the little pathway that led to the entrance.
She did not see the shadow, yet sensed immediately the sudden snap of breath at her rear, unable to react swiftly enough before the cloth was pressed down over her nose and mouth. Seeking to lash out, she realized her arms were held immovably at her sides. Desperately she tried to kick her legs, only for her strong assailant to tighten his grip and quash her every effort. The bitter smell of ether stung in her nose and caused her to gasp for air, but she found her respiratory tract blocked, and her arms began to tingle and turn numb. The twinkling entrance of the restaurant up ahead dissolved before her eyes, the pungent liquid sending her tear ducts into alarm, abandoning her to fog.
Thoughts flashed in her mind: the movie, Jesper, their dog and cat, the new kitchen. Everything she had been so looking forward to coming home to.
During all the many hours she had spent with the laptop on her knee, immersed in her manuscripts, her creative mind had concocted all manner of scenes. Often, she had found herself moved by the stories she wrote, and occasionally she had delved so deeply into her characters’ thoughts and emotions they had seemed almost to become a part of her, inseparable from her own being. Yet never in all her life had she imagined that death would be so lonely an occurrence.
Her thoughts merged and vanished as the night drew close around her. Naja Holten felt fear, then lost consciousness and slumped in the arms of her attacker.
19
Her skin glistened as if she had just stepped out of her bath when he finished rubbing in the body oil. Meticulously he wiped his hands with a clean towel and scrutinized the results of his work to make sure there was nothing he had missed.
Not that it was actually necessary to finish the job in this way; it had just occurred to him at some point how fine it would be, like concluding a sentence with a neat full-stop.
He had not done so with the first of his women, having simply transferred her directly into the display cabinet once the silicone had hardened underneath the heat lamps. Her skin had been satisfactory enough, if lacking somewhat in luster. Actually, it had been rather dry and neglected-looking, he had begun to think, and that was when it had occurred to him to apply body oil.
He went into the next room, switched on the ceiling light, and satisfied himself that all was ready. He had assembled the display case and mounted it on the podium he had draped with black velvet. He paused and absorbed the moment.
Her final destination, he thought, returning to the gurney. Now she would rest, preserved for time to come, and all thanks to him. Her body transferred easily to the display case, but as he leaned forward to carefully lower her into position, she almost slid from his arms and her shoulder left a greasy smudge on the inside of the glass. He averted the danger deftly, his hand moving swiftly beneath her to grip her by the neck.
There was no give in the hardened silicone, and the oil made it difficult for him to hold her in place.
Abruptly, he froze. It felt almost as if she had moved in his arms. As if from some unimaginable beyond she had tried to resist and flee his grasp. Instinctively he released her, allowing her to slide down into the display where she then lay askew, her hair dangling untidily over the rim.
He knew it was silly, and yet he glanced quickly about the room as if in some rational attempt to locate the source of the unfamiliar fear that had suddenly come over him, the ridiculous notion that the woman was alive and reacting to her fate.
Shaken, he went out into the room containing the acetone freezer, finding a bottle of household spirits on the chemical cart and pulling a microfiber cloth out of the drawer. Now her fair hair was tarnished by the body oil on his hands. He poured some spirit onto the cloth and dabbed at her locks,
rubbing the scalp gently to remove the substance, though with no satisfaction at the result: A tuft of blond hair stood out, not nearly as silky smooth as the rest, despite his having washed her hair while she lay under the heat lamps, even applying conditioner for that perfect sheen.
Angrily he tossed the cloth onto the floor, immediately taking a series of deep breaths to calm himself. It was imperative he keep a cool head now. He had taken such care throughout the entire process, and everything had turned out exactly as he had wished. Yet now, suddenly, he was losing his head, and there was no one to blame but himself. Here, in the final stages, he had begun to waver, his thoughts wandering this way and that. He realized the fact, but felt powerless to make them stop.
He stepped up to the wall and leaned momentarily against the cold brick for support. It occurred to him that he might have collected fine wines like so many other men with a passion and money to spend on it. Perhaps he might even have gained some of the same pleasure, passing through his cellar, noting with satisfaction the labels of his many vintages. But he knew his desires did not extend in such a direction. The pleasures might well be similar, but vintage wines were too banal, collectible to anyone, providing they could afford it.
His collection by contrast was unique. No one else in the world had what he had in his cellar. The joy that gave him was the ultimate satisfaction. Now and then he would imagine owning his own island with no access permitted for anyone. He would be gripped by the fantasy of moving freely amid the beauty he had created around him without having to hide it all away under the ground. And when he closed his eyes he was almost there in his mind: his very own paradise.
Many times he had indulged himself online, searching for such a place. But private islands cost money. He was a wealthy man, certainly, but twenty to forty million dollars was completely beyond his means.
He opened his eyes again and beheld his women, and all of a sudden it struck him that he had never before seen them for what they were: four corpses laid out in his cellar. He had always enjoyed them as individual works of art, each with its own particular expression and warmth. And there was the erotic aspect, too, the artist’s ever-compelling motive.
But here they were, four corpses in their transparent coffins, and the exquisitely illuminated room transformed at once into a burial chamber whose walls seemed almost to be closing in on him. Instinctively he moved toward the door, his chest and shoulders rising and dropping as he again endeavored to take deep breaths and return to some semblance of control.
Don’t panic. Stay calm.
He knew that nothing had changed merely because his perspective had altered. He had to pull himself together. Had Picasso destroyed his earlier works at his every development as an artist? Of course not, and thankfully so.
Yet he had to acknowledge that he could no longer resist. He had tried. Certainly, he had tried. But still the Angel of Death had returned to him. Now that it had been confirmed that the icon was still in existence, he had to have it. He needed to own it, to take it into his exclusive possession. There was no turning back. He could no longer fight it, and his thoughts continued to revolve around one thing only: how to create the perfect setting for its display.
Black velvet, as he had used to set off his glass cabinets, would be quite insufficient. The religious artifact required more light, and from every conceivable angle. It would hang in his cellar, yet the figure in the glass had to be coaxed to the fore, to cast its ring of light before it, just as it had done inside the Hagia Sophia all those centuries ago. He had already imagined how utterly compelling an experience it would be to step into its presence.
He closed his eyes once more and saw a large, illuminated room, white and Spartan; on the far wall would be the Angel. It occurred to him he needed to investigate backlighting if he was to achieve the desired effect, and as he stood there he found himself overwhelmed by a near-irresistible urge to break open the bricked-up windows and let the light flood into the entire cellar. Suddenly there was something claustrophobic that had not been there before. But there was something else, too: There was an emptiness.
His eyes passed over the rectangular freezer, the chemicals lined up on the stainless steel trolley, the gurney. These were objects that had filled his life and thoughts. He felt a stab of grief run through his being, like the pain of a failed love affair. A terrible longing for something good that had come to an end and was now impossible to recall.
He left the room and closed the door of his exhibition, resolving there and then to discontinue the project and shut everything down, the sordid rooms with their vile equipment. All at once he found them repulsive. It all had to go.
The project had been gratifying while it lasted, bestowing joy on his life and occupying his thoughts so completely. But he realized now that he had come to the end and needed to move on. Nothing was lost. He still possessed his women. But the fifth display case would no longer be required.
He would have to contact his supplier. He would pay for the one who perhaps even now was on her way, but the supplier would have to get rid of the body himself.
Right now though, he needed to concentrate on one thing only: keeping a cool head. After the first failed endeavor, he knew it would be no easy matter to secure the icon. But he was prepared now to go all the way and would not yield until the Angel of Death was his.
20
Carl Emil’s hands were shaking. He tightened his grip on the wheel and glanced at the time. It was too early to drive to the dancing school, so he pulled in up a side street a short distance away and counted the minutes. He rolled his window down and lit another cigarette.
He had thought the procedure through so many times in the last twenty-four hours, it had become a looping sequence in his brain. On his way he had stopped off at the bank and took out some more cash, not knowing how long it would take before he found the icon.
Restlessly he flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the road and looked again at the time. Ten minutes. His plan was to park outside the school just after half past six. Now he hoped the au pair would not be on time for once.
He had spent the day making his final preparations. He had bought a few items of clothing for Isabella—some underwear and nightclothes—before driving out to the Fona electronics store in the Lyngby mall. It was a busy place, and no one would remember him being there. Standing in front of the shelves, he had spent some time selecting games for the PlayStation he normally used to play race-car and first-person-shooter games. Eventually he decided on a couple that looked like they were for girls, and then the newest SingStar complete with two mikes so they could sing together. He didn’t want Isabella to endure any hardship just because he was trying to put pressure on his sister.
With the games in his basket he had moved on to the movie section. She would need something to pass the time when he wasn’t there. Dirty Dancing or Strictly Ballroom. Saturday Night Fever. Anything to do with dance. He hoped she was old enough to watch them, and picked some Hannah Montana just to be on the safe side.
He took a deep breath. He wanted them to have a nice time, to lounge about on the sofa, eating takeout and candy. She loved that, but her mother hardly ever had the time.
It was now or never. He thrust the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, more nervous than he had imagined. Slowly he drove up to the junction and flicked the turn signal.
All the wrong thoughts suddenly flashed through his mind. What if he got stopped by the police? What if someone crashed into him?
It mustn’t go wrong. It had to work.
The sight of the headstone outside his door returned to him. He saw the lettering, the stark white of his name on the stone. Someone wanted him dead the day after tomorrow. He had forty-eight hours to find the Angel of Death, and although he had found it hard to think clearly these past few days, he knew exactly what he would do the moment he found it. Everything was agreed with Wedersøe.
They would drive out of the country so that the icon could not b
e traced. Using the airport was out of the question. Wedersøe had already made arrangements for a car with German license plates to be waiting for them in Hamburg. From there the plan was to drive on to Luxembourg, where their contact was arranging for the deal to be completed. And when it was, he would no longer care about death threats. He would be out of there, and with a billion in his pocket he would never need to return to Denmark again. Nor to Rebekka, for that matter.
He had the keys to a house on the Rue des Prés and could avoid the Luxembourg hotels. There was no reason to register anywhere else but the bank where he would set up his account.
He pulled up at the curb a short distance from the arched entrance door of the dancing school. Children were already coming out along with their parents, but Isabella as usual would be expecting to be one of the last to be collected.
A little boy emerged and stood in the doorway, scanning the arriving cars.
Rain began to spot the windshield. Damn! Carl Emil thought. If it started raining harder his niece would stay inside. He hadn’t thought of that. Then he saw the lights in the tall windows being turned off one by one.
The boy was still standing in the doorway when Isabella finally appeared. He wondered if the boy had been waiting for her.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. It was a bad habit, but he was unable to keep still.
The two children stood there larking about. The boy was throwing his bag in the air and catching it again, most likely an attempt to impress her.
All of a sudden a car sounded its horn and came toward them, its headlights flashing once. The boy dropped his bag but picked it up quickly again before scurrying over the road without looking. Isabella was on her own now. She waved at the car; it flashed its lights back at her.
