The Stolen Angel

by Sara Blaedel

  His deep voice answered straightaway. Camilla could hear the bustle of what could have been an airport in the background.

  “The code doesn’t work,” she said, raising her voice so he could hear her through the noise.

  At first he didn’t answer, but after a moment he cleared his throat.

  “They must have changed it,” he said. “You’ll have to call Carl Emil. No, wait, I’ll call him myself and get him to ring you back. Otherwise he’ll be suspicious and give you a hard time. What number are you calling from?”

  Camilla told him the number, and after ending the call she went down the steps and walked around to the back of the house. A brick archway with a black wooden door led between the main house and the wing to the garden. She went through and immediately saw the whitewashed structure that had to be the wood house. As she approached, she saw that the door was ajar. She ran up and opened it wide. It was obvious that someone had been there already: The neat stacks of wood were in disarray.

  She paused and glanced around. The only sound to be heard was a few crows perched in the trees. The wind was cold and damp, but there was no rain yet, though the sky was heavy with clouds. She began removing the logs that lay in the doorway, tossing them back inside before eventually crouching down.

  The floor was slightly raised from the ground, just as Walther had said. Camilla knelt and reached underneath. It was there. She could feel the rough iron of the frame through damp cloth and began to pull.

  And then she paused.

  A car came tearing up to the front of the house, the gravel crunching under its tires as the driver braked hard. She heard a man’s voice call out: “Who’s there?”

  She scrabbled to her feet and closed the door. Her hands were dirty, and glancing down at herself she saw that her trousers were wet and stained with grass. She wiped her hands quickly on her jacket and went back to the gate in the wall. A red pickup had pulled up in front of the main door. A man wearing a fleece was peering inside her Fiat.

  “Hi,” she called out, switching on a smile. “You wouldn’t be the estate manager, by any chance? Rebekka said I’d probably run into you.”

  She stepped up to the gray-haired man and put out her hand.

  “My name’s Camilla Lind. I’m doing a series of articles on preparing gardens for the spring. I spoke to Rebekka Sachs-Smith last week and she said I could stop by and have a look around, see if I could get an angle on the article.”

  He accepted her greeting, but withdrew his hand quickly.

  “And when might you have spoken to her?” he probed suspiciously. Camilla’s reply was preempted by the sudden appearance of a helicopter.

  “I must ask you to leave the property,” the man said loudly so as to be heard above the noise, making moot any explanation she might care to offer.

  She was about to protest, but he cut her off immediately.

  “You’ve got no business here. You’re trespassing on private property.”

  “I’m not trespassing at all,” she objected, feeling the plastic box in her pocket with the key inside it. If the estate manager discovered she had taken it he would almost certainly call the police.

  He pointed up at the TV news helicopter. “That’s the second time today they’ve been here sending their reporters snooping. As if that’s going to help the poor girl any.”

  At the same moment, Camilla’s phone rang and she stepped away to answer it. Although she hadn’t spoken to him before, she recognized his voice straightaway. It reminded her of Frederik’s and she felt a stab of emotion, even though the two brothers had little else in common.

  “I understand you’ve spoken to my father,” Carl Emil began, pausing as the helicopter passed overhead before retreating back over the fjord toward the town. “He asked me to give you the code.”

  “Your father’s estate manager has just ordered me to leave the property, so to begin with it would be a great help if you could explain to him that I’ve got business here.”

  “And what is your business exactly?” he asked.

  “The garden series I’m researching,” she replied, handing the phone to the estate manager, who listened for a moment before grunting a brief reply and handing it back to her.

  Camilla put her hand over the phone’s mike. “Is it okay to go back into the garden again?” she asked.

  The man nodded. “Can’t be too sure at the moment,” he mumbled by way of apology before turning back to his car.

  “No worries,” she said and lifted her hand in a wave.

  “What has my father actually told you?” Carl Emil wanted to know once she returned to the phone.

  “He’s afraid the police are so intent on catching the perpetrators that it’s going to compromise security when the exchange is made. Therefore he’s asked me to collect the icon on your behalf so you can ensure the kidnappers release his granddaughter.”

  “Is it somewhere on the property?” he asked immediately. Camilla could almost hear him hold his breath.

  “Yes,” she replied briefly, going back toward the garden again before suddenly halting as he barked into her ear:

  “Wait there until I arrive.”

  “No,” she said, turning back and walking over to her car instead. “Someone might be following you. We can’t take that risk.”

  She stopped him just as he was about to protest:

  “I’ll call you once I’ve got it,” she said, and hung up.

  She got into the car and started the engine before turning the vehicle around and reversing up to the garden gate. She ran to the wood house and flung the door open, dropped to her knees, and with both hands began to drag the icon out into the open.

  It weighed more than she had anticipated. The backs of her hands scraped against the coarse underside of the wooden flooring and began to bleed. But gradually it began to move.

  The Angel of Death was wrapped in a large cloth that was musty and damp, speckled with green mold.

  Having dragged the first edge into view, she gasped for breath, her heart thumping so hard inside her chest she felt dizzy. She got to her feet and crouched, endeavoring to maneuver the heavy object toward her bit by bit. But it felt increasingly like it was stuck, as if the cloth was catching on something farther in. She heaved again, ripping her skin once more against the wood, when suddenly it gave and the icon came free.

  Carefully she drew it out onto the lawn. A large, heavy rectangle, like an oversize stable window, she thought, glancing at the wing building whose iron-framed panes were half the size and yet still seemed imposing.

  She manhandled the object upright, stooping to lift it and carry it out to the front of the house in a series of small, shuffling steps, a searing pain running through her hands.

  Having negotiated the gateway, she leaned the icon up against the wall in the courtyard and opened the trunk of the car. She had already put the backseats down but found herself now unable to lift the object inside, edging it instead over the lip of the trunk space and carefully shoving it the rest of the way inside.

  The sweat ran from her brow by the time it was done, and with filthy hands and blood trickling down her fingers she jumped into the car and drove away over the gravel with the stones kicking up audibly against the undercarriage. Her phone had rung while she had been struggling to extract the icon. Now it rang again, but she ignored it and accelerated away up the tree-lined driveway, her heart still pounding, sweat pooling under her hair at the neck.

  She could not help but glance back in the mirror, but there were no other cars on the narrow road. She lifted her foot slightly from the accelerator, moderating her speed and wiping her face and hands with a scarf she had dumped on the passenger seat. She considered phoning Walther, but decided to concentrate on finding her way to the Hotel Prindsen.

  Ten minutes later when she turned off the Stændertorvet square and passed the rear of Djalma Lunds Gård, her nerves had more or less settled again. She made a right into the hotel parking lot, continuing into the
inner yard and finding a vacant slot in the row of diagonal spaces. She flipped the sun visor down and looked at herself in the vanity mirror, running her hands through her hair and applying some gloss to her lips before leaving the car and going inside to get a room.

  28

  Police and the observation unit are searching the area surrounding the dancing school,” Louise repeated when Rebekka Sachs-Smith again jabbed a finger at her and accused them of not doing enough to locate Isabella. “We’ve got personnel all over the city out looking for her.”

  “Who says she’s even in the city?” came the despairing response.

  “No one’s saying she is,” Louise replied calmly, having already anticipated Rebekka’s charges. She knew they were a reaction to the powerlessness she felt and tried to answer as best she could. But she did not allow herself to be carried away by Rebekka’s deep-seated frustration.

  She had just returned to the living room after having spoken to Rønholt. The information he had passed on to her ricocheted in her mind, but she needed to keep her focus. The little girl had been gone almost twenty-four hours now and the details of the exchange needed to be in place before the kidnappers made contact again.

  The mood in the living area was thick with concentration.

  “Your father called Nymand,” Louise said to Rebekka. “He’s on his way home.”

  “From where?” she wanted to know. “Where’s he been all this time?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Louise replied, ignoring the woman’s aggressive tone. “But he has assured us that the Angel of Death will be available this evening. Your brother will be informed once it’s been retrieved.”

  Rebekka began to cry silently. “He should never have gone away. How could he even do that?”

  Now it was her father she was blaming. Louise shut her mind to them, but the accusations poured out, as irrational as they were unpleasant.

  “I understand this is hard, but believe me, we’ll get your daughter back, all of us together, without any harm,” she said comfortingly.

  “How do you know she isn’t harmed already?”

  The woman’s anger was again vented in Louise’s direction but abated as quickly as it had arisen as she sank back into the spacious armchair and closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “That’s all right,” Louise said, and glanced up at the board next to the sofa.

  At 1:21, they had received the instruction to have the icon ready at 9 p.m.

  At 1:30, Louise had messaged back asking for proof of life—the name of the doll Isabella had been given by her grandmother.

  At 1:32, the kidnappers had texted again: Greta Garbo.

  As Palle wrote the message times on the board, she had sent a new text asking for a photo of Isabella.

  It had yet to come.

  “What will they do to her?” Rebekka whimpered, addressing no one, then exploding suddenly in an outburst of rage, hammering her fist down into the armrest of the chair: “That fucking icon!”

  “What is it about the icon, Rebekka?” Louise inquired as if nothing had happened, sensing for the first time during the hours they had been together that something significant might be on the verge of being revealed.

  Rebekka’s eruption had been so sudden and swift it was hard to know for sure if it had occurred at all.

  “Nothing,” she said calmly. “I just fail to see how it can be so important that someone would take my daughter for it.”

  “What’s the story behind it exactly?” Louise went on, trying to sound interested without coming across as too inquisitive.

  “It was a coincidence it even fell into our hands,” Rebekka replied wearily.

  “Has it ever been appraised?”

  “No,” she answered, clenching her fist briefly, but long enough for Louise to notice. “But to a fanatic collector, I suppose it’s priceless.”

  “But you haven’t actually had a figure put on it?” Louise said.

  Rebekka shook her head. “We’ve never had any plans to sell it, and as far as I know there’s no certificate attached that would mean it could be sold aboveboard. To be frank, though, I’ve never bothered to look into it.”

  “But those kinds of objects do change hands quite often,” Louise ventured. “Illegally.”

  Rebekka gave a shrug.

  “Why aren’t they sending that photo of her?” she snapped, changing the subject in a flurry of agitation.

  “They’re just playing for time. It’s not that important. But we’ll have a problem on our hands if we don’t have the icon by nine o’clock.”

  The Nokia vibrated harshly on the table.

  Confirm exchange 9 p.m., the display said.

  Louise got to her feet and went to consult Thiesen, who was sitting in the far room with Palle. Besides updating the boards, Palle Krogh collated the stream of information from the Roskilde Police and together with Thiesen picked out what Louise would pass on to Rebekka and what for the time being they would keep to themselves.

  Although Thiesen was in charge of the negotiating unit overall, for this operation he had appointed himself as tactical adviser to the three-man negotiating cell he had been instrumental in setting up. He stood up and followed Louise back into the living room where Rebekka was seated.

  “Do we confirm?” Louise asked as he stepped over to the window and stared out at the fjord.

  “In my estimation, it’s too early,” he said, having considered the issue for a moment.

  “Of course we confirm!” Rebekka burst out, leaping to her feet. “You tell them we’re sticking to the agreement. If my father promised to retrieve the icon, then that’s exactly what he’s doing!”

  “We confirm nothing until we have the icon,” Thiesen determined, turning to Louise. “You must keep them hanging on. Ask again for a picture of the girl and tell them we can confirm nothing until we know she’s alive and well.”

  Rebekka slumped back into her chair. She was pale, but no more tears were forthcoming, and no more outbursts.

  Louise sat with the little Nokia in her hand and worked out what to say before her fingers began to type in the words:

  Unable to confirm until photo received.

  To begin with they had considered allowing Rebekka to type in their messages herself, but had eventually agreed that Louise would handle such practicalities. The media had already broadcast the fact that the negotiating unit was operating from the child’s home.

  She sat for a moment and read the text through before pressing SEND. It was the first time she had communicated entirely by text messages in a negotiation situation.

  Nymand’s people were hard at work on a trace, but such things took time and were a highly complicated matter when pay-as-you-go was involved.

  Cannot guarantee child’s well-being if deal unconfirmed within hour.

  Rebekka sat up in her chair as the new message beeped in. Louise smiled at her reassuringly.

  “They know it takes time,” she said to her, returning immediately to Thiesen to confer.

  “They’re issuing threats now,” she whispered, showing him the message. The two of them exchanged glances without speaking before Thiesen gave her a nod and Louise sat down on an armrest to write back.

  Isabella your responsibility. Deal off if harmed. Proceed or stop?

  Louise sent the text and sat for a moment with the phone resting on her thigh as she looked out over the water.

  She felt her pulse rise and knew the message she had just sent could be a very unpleasant turning point. The best thing was always to negotiate face-to-face where you could decode the body language, read their faces, and use gestures to shade your words. Second best was to speak on the phone where you could read the tone in their voices. Text messages were a much more difficult medium. The words were so stark and irretrievable and could never say enough.

  She went back into the living room and sat down in front of Rebekka. Neither of them spoke, but Louise could tell by
looking at her that she had sensed something had happened. Something not very good.

  Her gaze was a shadow, but she remained silent, watching Louise from her chair as the stillness gradually became oppressive.

  Then suddenly the Nokia beeped again and Rebekka jumped.

  Proceed, said the text. A moment later it was followed by a photo.

  Louise got up and went over to the armchair to show Rebekka the image of her daughter smiling obligingly against a nondescript white background. It was not an exuberant smile, by any means, but neither was there any fear to be traced in it. All it revealed was that the person taking the photo had asked her to smile.

  “Oh, thank God,” Rebekka gasped, clutching the phone in both hands, an immense outpouring of relief despite the brevity of the utterance. For a moment she sat there silently, pressing the phone to her chest, then studying the photo again before handing it back to Louise.

  29

  He could no longer think straight and could hardly sit still. Restlessly, he went about the apartment hoping his unease would not transfer to Isabella, who was in her room watching Strictly Ballroom. The dancing movies absorbed her attention completely.

  The whole thing had taken an unexpected turn. Carl Emil had not even entertained the idea that his father might suddenly emerge. Nor had he been able to foresee that a journalist he had never heard of would appear out of nowhere and remove the icon from his parents’ property.

  He flopped down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

  At this moment an unknown woman was driving around with his billion kroner in the back of her car. She had promised to phone him back, but he had heard nothing. All along, he had been anticipating that the police or Rebekka would produce the icon, after which he would make it disappear again.

  If only this journalist woman would call him back he might still be able to slip away before the exchange was set to take place. His thoughts swirled. He put the phone down on the sofa, buried his face in his hands, and tried to focus. He needed to work out his next move.