by Sara Blaedel
“Calle!”
His niece called for him, but before he had time to get to his feet his phone rang.
He grabbed it and jumped up.
“Yes?” he answered sharply, stepping over to the window where he leaned his forehead against the glass and looked down on the harbor. A couple of seagulls bobbed about.
“I’m at the Prindsen in Roskilde,” said Camilla.
Carl Emil closed his eyes. “And the icon?”
“The icon’s here, too. Are you coming?”
“Calle!” Isabella called again. She was standing right behind him.
He swiveled around and put a finger hurriedly to his lips to make her stay quiet.
“I’ll set off straightaway,” he replied calmly into the phone, signaling with a nod that she could go back to her room, he would be right with her as soon as he had finished his phone call.
His palms sticky with sweat, he dropped the phone into his pocket and dashed into the bedroom, where he grabbed his brown weekend bag out of the cupboard. Quickly he stuffed it full of trousers, shirts, and underwear before deciding simply to buy whatever he needed later.
“Are you going away now, too?” Isabella asked with obvious unease, watching him from the doorway.
Carl Emil had not heard her come in and forced a smile. “No, no, not all,” he reassured her. “It’s for one of my friends; he needs some clean clothes, that’s all.”
“Why does he need clean clothes?” she wanted to know.
Carl Emil’s thoughts raced in his mind. Couldn’t she just shut up for a minute and go back to her movies?
“Because,” he said after a second, racking his brains to come up with an explanation, “he fell out with his girlfriend and has to sleep at the office for a few days.”
“Does he have to sleep on the floor?” she asked.
“No,” Carl Emil answered, shaking his head. “Luckily he’s got a sofa in his office, but he’s run out of clean clothes and needs to change.”
He made sure the Nokia was in his pocket. It was muted, but he could feel it against his thigh if it vibrated. Leaving it behind by mistake didn’t bear thinking about.
“Okay,” said his niece, turning around in the doorway. “What time’s dinner?”
He glanced at the clock: It was nearly four thirty. All he could think about was getting out the door, and he was unable to hide his annoyance. “There’s loads of food in the fridge,” he snapped. “Snacks in the bottom drawer, and popcorn. Take what you want when you get hungry.”
“Aren’t you coming back?”
He paused and told himself this was no time to sound irritated with her. Instead he crouched down in front of her with his hands on her shoulders and nodded.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Of course I’m coming back. I just have to pop out, that’s all. As soon as I’m home again, we’ll give your mom a call, all right?”
His niece nodded, her dark eyes fixing him in their gaze.
“Is she home now?”
“I think she’s on her way. But we can ask her when she’s coming to pick you up.”
“But I want to stay here with you,” she complained. “We haven’t even tried SingStar yet!”
Carl Emil smoothed her hair with his hand and smiled at her as he nodded. “We’ve got lots of time for SingStar,” he said with a stab of guilt, and got to his feet.
She followed him into the hall and waved as he picked up his weekend bag and his keys. Outside on the landing he turned around and locked the door behind him.
* * *
As he drove the Ranger Rover out of the underground parking he tried to form a plan. How was he going to approach it?
The main thing was to get the journalist out of the way first. He had no idea if his father had promised her anything or how they even knew each other. Everything had happened so fast, and he was still rather shaken by their father suddenly have turned up like that.
He pulled onto Tuborgvej and headed toward the highway. The traffic was congested, and the thought of taillights holding him up all the way to Roskilde tensed him up.
What the hell was he going to do? He needed to keep the dialogue going with Rebekka and the police who were with her in the house, and in principle he still had until nine o’clock. As long as they had yet to confirm they were in possession of the icon, he could remain passive. The ball was entirely in their court at the moment; it was he who was waiting for them.
He realized he was driving too fast and took his foot off the accelerator. It would be idiotic if he got stopped now. Thoughts teemed inside his head. He would have to move the icon; he knew that. But where?
All of a sudden it occurred to him that he had not for a moment considered that someone might be following him. He scanned the rearview mirror, but the rush-hour traffic kept the cars strung out in a long, unyielding line, so spotting anyone who might be on his tail was basically impossible. Without signaling he swerved over into the next lane. There was a clamor of angry horns as he cut across the middle and positioned himself in the slow lane to make sure he could slip away at the next exit.
Høje-Taastrup and Sengeløse. He carried on without slowing down and had almost passed the exit when quickly he flicked the turn signal and lunged onto the tail of a black station wagon. Swiftly he assessed whether to take a left onto Roskildevej or else head through Sengeløse and into the town from the Jyllinge side. He took a right, thinking it would be easier for him to keep an eye on the cars behind him if he stuck to the minor roads.
Again he concentrated on keeping calm. At some point during the evening he would send a text to Rebekka and explain to her where her daughter was. By the time she received it, he would be out of the country.
As he turned toward Herringløse he felt confident there was no one following him. He pulled to the side and texted the journalist woman.
On my way, he wrote, hoping she would not become impatient and start ringing his father. His father! Was he on a plane at this very moment? Abruptly he felt himself overwhelmed by the emotions that had been packed away all these months when they had thought their father to be dead. His stomach knotted, and as he reached Gundsømagle he was forced to pull over again and collect himself.
He missed the old man and wanted to see him again, but he knew he never would. Once he had the icon he would have to break off all contact. It would be his turn to be missing.
Until now he had only thought he would be walking out on Rebekka. And Isabella, but he could live with that. Sacrifices were inevitable if he was to live a life in freedom. It couldn’t be any different, he told himself, and pulled back onto the road.
Reaching the lights, he turned left toward Roskilde.
Clearly, there would be things he would have to forgo; it stood to reason. On the other hand, he would be a very wealthy man indeed.
* * *
“Room one-oh-one, would that be first floor?” he asked the young fair-haired girl in reception.
She nodded, and he could feel her eyes on his back as he went toward the staircase. She had recognized him, but there was nothing he could do about it, he told himself, and took the stairs two at a time.
The journalist opened the door straightaway as if she had been standing behind it waiting.
“I saw you through the window,” she said, putting out her hand.
Carl Emil shook it and studied her. Tall, blond, he noted, his eyes then darting briefly about the room. The icon was easily located, leaning up against the desk, wrapped in a dirty sheet.
He stepped inside and immediately began unpacking it as the journalist closed the door behind him. He felt like something was stuck in his throat, impeding his breathing.
“I’ve just had a message from your father,” she said, helping him remove the cloth. “He’ll be landing in Copenhagen first thing tomorrow morning.”
Carl Emil wasn’t listening. He tipped the icon forward to remove the cloth from its rear, supporting its weight against his body as he did so and allowing th
e cloth to drop to the floor before leaning the artifact back against the desk and stepping away to admire it.
It was truly magnificent, yet seemed in a way far too striking for where it was. Obtrusive, almost. He moved the chair to the side and went and stood over by the window. It looked like the one his father had kept in his office. Exactly like it. Yet the experience was incomparable.
The colors of the glass seemed that much more striking, he thought, the religious content brought so much to the fore that it was almost disquieting. But then he thought of the myth. Whoever prayed before the icon would be absolved of their sins. He could nearly believe it. The effect was so potent. Perhaps one day he really would be forgiven.
Carl Emil gave a heavy sigh. The journalist was now standing at his side. She said nothing, but stared at the icon in front of them.
“It’s beautiful,” she said after what seemed like a long time, and sat down on the bed.
He nodded.
“How do you think the kidnappers knew about it?” she asked him.
“From the history books, I imagine,” he answered, sensing an equilibrium now, in contrast with his hectic unrest of before. “I’ll drive out to my sister and tell her we’ve got it, and then hopefully everything else will go off without a hitch and my niece can be returned unharmed.”
Camilla nodded.
“I think my father would like to keep this quiet for a while, allow us to catch our breath as a family before the media get wind of what’s happening,” he went on.
“That’s my impression, too,” she said, adding that Walther had called Nymand himself to say he wanted his son to personally take care of the impending exchange. “As it happens, the negotiator who’s with your sister now is a good friend of mine. She’s the one who’s in contact with the kidnappers. I could get in touch and tell her, if you like.”
He felt his pulse leap again.
“No need,” he replied quickly. “I’ll get out there and talk to them in person, explain that we’d like to take care of the matter ourselves. But I’d like to thank you for what you’ve already done.”
He tried to smile, aware of how feeble it came across.
“How do you actually know my father? You obviously know him rather well or else I doubt he would have involved you to this extent.”
“Well enough for him to trust me, at least,” Camilla said, rising to her feet and picking up her coat.
Only then did he notice the wounds on her hands and the stains on her trousers, but he refrained from comment. Nor did he inquire as to where the icon had been hidden. He stepped over to the door and opened it for her to leave.
“Thank you very much indeed for your help,” he said again, and shook her hand good-bye.
* * *
If he were to take the death threat seriously he had perhaps seven hours left to live, he pondered, sensing immediately that he took it very seriously indeed. He felt like a hunted animal, though he had no idea from where the threat had come, much less who to keep an eye on. The thought rotated in his mind and made it hard for him to focus. All he knew was that he had to get away, and soon.
After the journalist left, he had closed the door behind her and stretched out on the bed. He tried to compose himself and maintain perspective but felt the only thing he wanted to do was to carry the icon down to the car and vanish before anyone could get to him. At the same time, he knew that such rash behavior was not what was required. Things had to happen in the right order, he told himself, pulling his phone from his pocket before sitting up with the pillows in his back and calling Rebekka’s number.
It rang four times before she answered.
“I’ve got the icon,” he told her. “You can confirm now that it’s with us.”
He could almost hear the relief that rippled through his sister’s body.
“Where is it?” she asked.
“It’s safe and close by.”
“Thank God,” she breathed without pursuing the matter. “Thank God.”
* * *
The text came after five minutes.
The Nokia thrummed with his sister’s message, sent by her negotiator, informing the kidnappers that the Angel of Death was now in the family’s possession and that they were ready to make the exchange. They asked for instructions and a meeting place.
The unrest he felt was like electricity, his body struggling against the urge to flee. Again, his courage failed him. Just as it always did, when he was halfway there. It seemed to be his lot to be unable to carry a matter to its conclusion, he thought, comparing this to the several occasions when nerves had gotten the better of him and he had failed to show up for an exam.
But this time would be different.
He stretched out his foot and felt the icon with his toe. He had to get hold of Miklos, he thought, aware of how he faltered, his nerves wriggling in his chest, tentacles of fear clutching coldly at his diaphragm. But he had obtained the icon as promised. Now Wedersøe could deal with what remained.
He sat up straight on the bed, reached out for his phone, and sent a message:
I’ve got the Angel. Prindsen, rm. 101. Get over here now.
30
He was angry as he approached the rest area outside Slagelse. In fact he was seething. The supplier had not disposed of the body. It was still in his car and he was refusing to get rid of it. He wanted his money according to the agreement.
The air was streaked with sleet, the road wet and treacherous, prompting him to keep his speed down.
The evening before, he had phoned to make sure everything was all right. He had imagined the supplier would be coming from Germany somewhere. He had even offered to up the price, sensing the man’s reluctance, but his Spanish contact had responded by simply hanging up.
He would have to try again. There was no way he could run the risk of ending up with a woman’s corpse on his hands. The ones in his cellar were different. This one was to be disposed of.
He had half an hour until the agreed meeting time at the rest area. He wondered how the man might be persuaded. As the time approached he found himself willing to pay whatever price might be demanded. He would offer any amount of money to make sure that the supplier would be the one to get rid of the body.
He pressed the call-back function on his phone and proposed putting off the meeting for another hour so as to allow the supplier to find some suitable back road where it might be done.
“No,” came the curt reply. “I want my money. You order, I deliver.”
Immediately he felt he could no longer control himself. His anger welled up inside him and he raised his voice into the receiver.
He had not intended to lose his temper, yet his emotions had momentarily gotten the better of him. He turned the wipers to fast, spelling it out once and for all that unless the supplier got rid of the body he could expect no payment.
The man at the other end responded angrily. The ensuing bombardment of Spanish invective forced him to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment.
He was about to respond in kind when the man’s voice suddenly broke off. To begin with he thought the connection had been lost, but then came a screech of tires followed by a hideous grating of metal, and then the crash.
The impact was a tumultuous clamor in his ears as the supplier’s vehicle slammed the crash barrier. Shocked, he dropped the phone and heard the man’s tinny scream issue from the receiver as the car was crushed.
He took his foot off the accelerator and pulled onto the shoulder, his emergency lights blinking. His heart hammered in his chest as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. He tried to work out how far the supplier would have gotten. Nyborg, he guessed, but maybe he had been ahead of schedule and had crossed the bridge already.
He tried to steady his breathing, inhaling deeply before deciding to carry on and find out where the accident had occurred. Reluctant to drive over the bridge and be picked up by the CCTV, he nevertheless felt he had to do something. The body was still
in the supplier’s car, and his own cell phone would be easily traced by the police.
“Shit,” he seethed as he switched on the radio. He found the traffic information and waited for a gap so he could pull out. At the same time, he realized it was the first time in days that the Angel of Death had been supplanted from his thoughts. But now she returned, an insatiable lust ablaze inside him. He would not allow the supplier’s misfortune to ruin everything. Still, he needed to know what was happening.
He put his foot down and cut into the fast lane, speeding toward the giant span of the bridge, every muscle tense with rage.
The bulletin came as he approached the Vemmelev exit.
“Reports of a serious solo accident on the eastbound lane of the Storebæltsbroen. Motorists crossing the bridge on their way to Zealand are advised to proceed with caution. Emergency units are on their way to the scene…and we’re informed now that the bridge has been closed to traffic while rescue work takes place.”
“Damn it!” he spat, realizing that police would already be there.
He flicked the turn signal immediately and veered off the highway at the exit. There was no sense in continuing now.
He turned right and drove back toward Slagelse, pulling off to the side of the road after a couple of minutes to get some air. Outside the car he lifted his face to the sky and let the sleet cool his brow while he racked his brain. It was by no means certain the police would check the trunk of the vehicle at first. It might easily be some time before they discovered what was in the back, so perhaps he had a head start.
As he got back in, his phone beeped loudly on the floor. He was so taken aback he almost dropped the key, and a moment passed before he felt able to bend down and retrieve the phone. When he did, he stared at the message on the display:
I’ve got the Angel. Prindsen, rm. 101. Get over here now.
* * *
For a long time, he simply sat and stared. A moment ago the icon had seemed so far away, but now it was close, so very close. He smiled and took a deep, satisfied breath.
