Blood Brothers

by Rick Acker

  “Except the ones who come to live with someone like you,” said Elena. “I can’t even imagine the sacrifices you’ve made over the years.”

  “We made no sacrifices,” said Sigrid. “We made choices. We chose to have children instead of more money or nicer vacations.”

  “Or enough sleep or clean cars,” added Henrik. “Or knowing that I can always sit in the soft chair in front of the television and turn on what I want. I have to disagree with my darling wife—those were sacrifices, not just choices. I would make them again, of course, but I would have stronger rules about children eating and drinking in my car.”

  Monday morning at seven thirty, Karl Bjornsen walked into his office. His phone was ringing, and a blinking light showed that it was his private line. He quickly walked over and picked it up. “Hello. Karl Bjornsen here.”

  “Hello. This is George at Cleverlad. I just saw an interesting article about your company. It says that you have developed a drug that makes people stronger and smarter. I think we could sell a lot of that. Please send me a sample.”

  Karl froze. “I’m sorry, George,” he forced out, “but that, ah, that drug hasn’t been approved by the FDA. We can’t sell it until we have a green light from them.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I don’t know. We’re in the middle of clinical trials right now. They’re going well, but they could take a long time. It will probably be at least three or four years before the drug is available for sale. I’m glad to hear that you’re interested, though. We’ll make sure to let you know as soon as the drug hits the market.”

  “That is a long time. Certainly you can make an exception for one of your best customers.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really can’t. Selling unapproved drugs is a serious crime. The company would be shut down and I would go to jail.”

  The line was silent for several seconds. “You would also go to jail if the authorities knew you used the money from my company’s purchases for bribes.”

  “I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Karl stammered.

  “Yes, you do,” replied George coolly. “For the last two years, the money my company paid to Bjornsen Norge was used to buy gifts and expensive vacations for some of your American directors and shareholders. Those same directors and shareholders then gave you complete control of the company. Through a convenient accounting error, both the money coming in from Cleverlad and the money going out in bribes got left off of your company’s books.”

  “Someone has been telling you outrageous lies!” Karl said, consciously injecting indignation into his deep voice. “I can assure you that—”

  George cut him off. “You waste your breath and my time. I have all the proof I need to put you in jail for a long time.” He paused for an instant and continued in a more conciliatory tone. “You don’t want that to happen—and neither do I. I want to keep doing business with you. I would never betray a business partner, so you want to keep doing business with me too, don’t you?”

  Karl’s hand shook as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I . . . Yes.”

  “Excellent! I will expect the sample by this time next week.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HISTORY LESSONS

  Ben and Sergei walked through Gardermoen, Oslo’s main airport. It felt good to stretch their legs, particularly for Sergei. Delta’s coach-class seats had been designed for someone about eight inches shorter than he, which was bad enough. But he also had been seated next to two unaccompanied girls, roughly twelve and fourteen, who had alternately bickered and chattered throughout the entire eight-hour flight.

  As they walked, Ben called Noelle on his cell phone to let her know they had landed and to finalize arrangements for the next day. They had scheduled an interview with Henrik Haugeland for the morning. Noelle thought he would make a good witness, but Ben wanted to see for himself. He also wanted to talk to Haugeland about some of the key documents Noelle had found over the past few days.

  Sergei had come primarily to help Noelle with the document review, which was taking longer than she had anticipated. Trial was only four weeks away, and Ben needed both his wife and the documents soon. Also, Sergei could take notes when Ben interviewed Haugeland. Ben didn’t want to take notes himself, because he might later need to put the notes into evidence. To do that, whoever took the notes would have to testify that the notes were accurate, and it would be awkward at best for Ben to put himself on the witness stand.

  Ben finished his conversation as they reached the baggage carousel. “We’re set for ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the hotel. They have a suite we can use for the interview.”

  “Good. Nice and convenient,” replied Sergei.

  “It’s, uh, Elena’s suite, so she’ll probably be there.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just thought I’d let you know, in case, you know, you’d rather we made other arrangements or something.”

  “No.” The tall Russian forced a smile. “I can take notes with her in the room.”

  “Okay, good.”

  They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the scuffed metal conveyor belt and waiting for their luggage to emerge from the depths of the airport. “So, what are your plans for dinner tonight?” asked Sergei.

  “There are a couple of seafood places on the water that got good reviews from Noelle,” replied Ben. “I was thinking of trying one of them. Care to join me?”

  “Sure, but what about Noelle? You haven’t seen her for a week.”

  “Well, she usually has dinner with Elena, so we were thinking it might be best for you and me to have dinner together, and for the two of them to eat someplace else.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re acting like we’re in high school. Elena and I are both adults and we can act like it. We can have dinner with friends without making a scene. Seriously, I’d like to have dinner with both of you, and it wouldn’t bother me at all if Elena is there too.”

  “Not at all?”

  “It will be a little weird—I haven’t seen her since we broke up—but I’ll be seeing her tomorrow morning anyway. We might as well get the weirdness out of the way now; tomorrow we’ll have work to do.”

  On Tuesday morning, Berit Lundgren arrived at work at Bjornsen Norge. She wore her blonde hair back in a bun, and she was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that was slightly more conservative than is typical for a twenty-six-year-old. That was by design; she knew that her chances of getting ahead were better if she looked a little more serious than her peers. Also, it was useful camouflage.

  She sat down at her desk in the accounting section and frowned. The seat was higher than it should have been; someone had adjusted it after she’d left the night before. Papers on her desk had been moved too—none more than a centimeter, but enough for her to notice. She went through each of her drawers quickly, but found nothing amiss. Maybe someone had borrowed her chair last night and temporarily put something on her desk. She leaned over to the woman in the cubicle next to hers. “Kjersti, was there a meeting or special project here last night?”

  “Maybe. Einar said he was working late yesterday, though he was pretty mysterious about what he was doing. I also saw a couple of cars in the parking lot last night when I was driving past.”

  Berit stared incredulously. “They let Einar be here after hours? Unbelievable! I hope they had a security guard watching him like a hawk. You’d better check your desk to make sure there’s nothing missing, and lock it when you leave tonight.”

  “Yeah, good idea.” Kjersti rolled back to her desk. Berit stared at her computer screen but didn’t see it. What was that little thug doing here last night? Einar had never been caught stealing from the office, but she had heard about his legal problems elsewhere. She had also never liked the knowing way he looked at her when she came into the office a little high or when she developed a nosebleed. What business was it of his if she liked to party and had a wild side that no one at work knew about? As if he was any be
tter. What if he’s been going through my desk looking for something he can use to blackmail me?

  She went through her desk again more carefully. She made a real effort to keep her personal and work lives separate, but she might have scribbled down a phone number or an address that she wouldn’t want someone else to find. Twenty minutes later she sat back, relieved. Her desk was clean; if Einar had been digging for extortion leverage, he had come up empty.

  Then she tensed again. What if that’s not all he knows about? He had done prison time in Russia and might still have contacts in the Russian underworld. What if he told someone where he works and they know about me?

  She hurried back to the file room and opened the cabinet drawer containing the Cleverlad.ru files. They stuck up slightly, as if they recently had been removed and put back. Her heart raced as she pulled out the boxes containing the expense-accounting records for the past two years. They too looked as if they had been gone through.

  Berit began to shake and sweat, but she resisted the temptation to go out to her car for a quick pick-me-up from the emergency stash she kept in her glove compartment. I graduated at the top of my class from the Oslo Handelshøyskole, she assured herself. I can outsmart a street punk ten years younger than me.

  Thinking of her car reminded her of something Kjersti had said: She had seen a couple of cars in the parking lot. So Einar hadn’t been here alone. Who had he been with?

  Berit could feel herself calming down as her thoughts began to get some traction. All right, first things first. I need to know who I’m up against. And how do I do that? Well, there is a good chance that they will be back. The documents they need are not all in one place, and they are not easy to find. Some were in that pile, but some were not. Yes, they will be back, and this time I will know they are coming. And I will be watching.

  Karl called Gwen to let her know that he would be working late. She didn’t ask what would be keeping him, and he didn’t volunteer.

  He read through the weekly ream of management memos, reviewed the résumés of the finalists for the research position left open by the death of Dr. Chatterton, and polished a presentation he would be giving to the directors on the quarterly financial numbers. He even cleaned out his e-mail in-box. He went out for Chinese food at six thirty but was back at his desk by seven thirty. He killed more time as the shadows in his office lengthened and the parking lot below his window emptied. He took out a chrome-plated hand exerciser that his secretary had given him for Christmas several years ago and squeezed it absentmindedly until it snapped in one of his powerful fists. The cleaning people came and went.

  At eight thirty, he decided it was time. He walked along the quiet hallway, past rows of empty offices, and stopped at the elevators. He stepped into an empty car, waved his key card in front of the sensor panel, and pushed the button for the second floor—where the research labs were.

  He got off at the lab floor and walked to one of the conference rooms. His leather portfolio was sitting on a bookshelf in the back, right where he had intentionally left it to give himself a perfectly natural reason to come back down after hours. He retrieved it and left the room. Back in the hallway, he paused and glanced both ways. He was alone. Stepping across the hall to another door—one marked “Authorized Personnel Only”—he swept his key card across the security panel, pushed the door open, and walked inside. His eyes flicked over the shelves of numbered, pill-filled boxes until he spotted the one he was looking for: XD-463. To his relief, there was no quantity tally sheet on it. He grabbed five cards of pills, dropped them into his portfolio, and zipped it shut. Thirty seconds later, he was back at the elevator.

  The elevator doors opened and Karl started to get on—and nearly walked into one of the night security guards. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Bjornsen,” said the flustered guard. “I should watch where I’m going.”

  “So should I,” replied Karl. “How are you, Wayne?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain. Thanks for asking. Is there anything I can do for you tonight, Mr. Bjornsen?”

  “Nope.” He held up his portfolio. “I just remembered that I’d left this in the conference room down here and came to get it.” The elevator began to ping impatiently. Karl stepped aside to let the guard out and then stepped inside. “Have a good night, Wayne.”

  As the doors closed and the elevator surged upward, Karl leaned against the back of the car and let out a long breath. What if Wayne had come down a minute earlier and found him in the drug-storage room putting pills in his portfolio? Well, he hadn’t, but this was the last time Karl would take such a chance.

  The sun had set by the time he got back to his office, filling it with dull reds and black shadows. He shut his door, unzipped the portfolio, and tossed the pills on his desk. There were seventy capsules—enough for a sample, but nothing more. And there was no way he could get enough to sell commercially, even to one customer, without terminating the research program and letting both the manufacturing and shipping departments in on what he was doing. That was impossible, of course, but so was refusing George’s request. Karl had no idea how George had found out about the off-ledger gifts to a few key directors and shareholders, but he had. If that got out, Karl knew he would probably go to jail. Worse, Gunnar would march back into the company and assume complete control. Karl’s jaw clenched. He would rather burn the company to the ground than let Gunnar have it.

  So what could he do? There were no good options, but which one was least bad? He stared at the pills for several minutes as the darkness deepened around him. Then he reached his decision, picked up the pills, and put them in an inner pocket of his briefcase.

  Tom and Markus sat in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. The sun was hot on their heads and shoulders, and the wind was blowing out. Two innings ago, Markus had caught a home-run ball—unfortunately hit by the visiting Giants—which he had given to an eight- or nine-year-old boy with a glove and a Cubs hat in the row behind them. The Cubs were still ahead, though, and the Bjornsen brothers drank flat beer from plastic cups and were glad together.

  “By the way, congratulations on the Financial Advisor of the Year Award,” Markus said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the dinner on Thursday to celebrate. I didn’t feel up to it.”

  “An acute case of Daditis?” asked Tom.

  “Something like that,” replied Markus. “Anyway, nice job.”

  “Thanks. Mom mentioned over dinner that you are going to be keeping your role in The Gamester, even though the guy you replaced is out of his cast and ready to go back onstage. That’s a promotion, isn’t it?”

  Markus shrugged. “I guess so. We’ve had a very good run, and I’m sure they don’t want to mess up our onstage chemistry.”

  “Well, Mom also mentioned that you’ve been asked to audition for leading roles in a bunch of other plays after The Gamester closes.”

  Markus smiled. “I don’t know if I’d call three a lot, but—”

  Tom gave his brother a friendly shove. “Listen to you! I practically have to force good news out of you. It’s too bad you weren’t there on Thursday; we could have made it a double celebration.”

  Markus’s smile faded and he turned back to the game. “No, we couldn’t have.”

  “All right, three of us could have.”

  “And Dad would have sat there and made comments that ruined the evening for everyone else.”

  “You just have to ignore him when he’s like that,” said Tom.

  “Maybe you can. I can’t.”

  “If it bothers you so much, why do you provoke him into criticizing you? For starters, why do you drink in front of him? I know you can go all evening without a drink; I’ve seen you do it. So why break his two-drink rule every time you see him? You should know he’s going to say something.”

  Markus glared at his brother. “And you should know that if it’s not my drinking, it’s something else—the theater, my hair, my friends. If I’m going to have to sit there and listen to his crap anyway, I might as well be a
little buzzed while I’m doing it.”

  “Hey, all I’m saying is that there are some little things you could do that would help take the edge off of family get-togethers, that’s all. Make small talk about the drug business or Norway, laugh at Dad’s jokes, don’t react when he makes some crack about your lifestyle. Or if you’re going to react, treat it like a joke and laugh. You’re an actor; it shouldn’t be that hard.”

  “Unlike you, I don’t think having a civil dinner with my father should require me to act.”

  “Fine, it shouldn’t. But guess what? It does. Pretend that he’s some new producer that you have to make like you. I have to do that sort of thing all day long. You can do it once a week during family dinners.”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I guess I’m not as good an actor as you. Or maybe being a glad-handing sycophant isn’t an act.”

  Tom stared at his brother for several seconds. Then he said, “You know, I’m going to give you a pass on that one. I’m going to assume it was the beer talking.”

  Markus sighed. “It wasn’t the beer. It was the jealousy. I’ve always been amazed by you. You’ve got a gift for making people like you, for fitting in to any social situation. If you’re stuck at a table with a bunch of golfers, you get them talking about all the courses they’ve played, and you seem genuinely fascinated by their stories. And if they have some bad jokes to tell, you’ll laugh at every one. You’re a chameleon. Whatever the situation calls for, that’s what you are, naturally, effortlessly. I can’t do that, at least when I’m not on stage. I can’t hide what I’m thinking and feeling. I can’t make unlikable people think I like them. I can’t pretend that the company is the be-all and end-all for me, or even that I think it’s okay that it’s the be-all and end-all for Dad. Sometimes I wish I could just blend in, go along and get along, but I can’t.” He paused and smiled wryly. “I guess I’m like Dad that way.”