by Ward Larsen
He nodded.
“If you kill this man in Geneva … don’t ever come back to me.”
TWENTY-TWO
Evita Levine stood in front of her dressing mirror with her nightdress hanging open. She was not unhappy with what she saw. On the lee side of forty, she remained an exceptionally attractive woman. There was not yet a line on her exquisite face, and her wide-set olive eyes shone as vibrant as ever. Her body, once lithe and thin, had come full in recent years, but she’d adapted well, learning to present her new curves to considerable advantage. Perhaps to prove the point, she had recently begun a running count of sidewalk stares and unsolicited smiles. Had she been of a more empirical nature, Evita would have foreseen that she kept no baseline survey against which to compare her tally. All the same, her analysis did uncover one unexpected new truth—the men who noticed her nowadays were of greater maturity themselves, and this she took as a positive. Like fine wine to a connoisseur’s palate, she had bettered with age.
A shuffling in the hallway outside the room, most likely her husband, caused her to close the folds of her nightdress. She registered the familiar squeak of the back door swinging open, and amid the midday Tel Aviv traffic Evita heard a hard clatter as he emptied the kitchen garbage into a can outside. It was the most initiative he’d shown in a month.
She went to her closet and dragged a long index finger across her options. There was the new set of black undergarments, but that would require stockings and heels. Or she could take a more virginal approach, a white slip under her beige satin dress, perhaps with the new pearls, the ones she kept hidden in the toe of an old tennis shoe. She sighed, knowing what he would want, and reached for the black stockings.
The phone call that put her into action had come yesterday. There was a time long ago—three years to be exact—when she would have gone through these same motions with breathless anticipation. Evita had married when she was eighteen, a consignment arranged by an ancient matchmaker, approved by her rabbi, and encouraged by virtually everyone. Her husband, sixteen years her senior, had in the beginning been wealthy, fit, and relatively kind. All this faded soon after he lost his job at the export bank. The drinking came first, followed by surliness and, when it came to her, disinterest. She tried to meet him halfway for a time, to mend their relationship. He’d responded with more drinking and ill moods that bordered on psychosis. She could today think of only two positives in their relationship—that they had not manufactured children, and that he had not sought a mistress. The later was a given, actually, as he’d not been able to perform in years, even with the colorful pills. Evita had fallen increasingly despondent, sensing she was doomed to a life of misery from which there was no escape. Then, one magnificent day, she had found salvation. His name was Saud.
The first time she saw him was at a showing for promising young artists at the Ashdod Museum of Art. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. He worked in stone, yet Evita thought this a problematic medium for a man whose chiseled features paled anything he might create. His work was good, as far as she knew, and critics raved about his potential. But for a young Palestinian boy from Jibaliya, potential meant little. To his credit, Saud never wavered. He worked day after day, his strong hands chipping and smoothing, his keen brown eyes appraising his creations with an intensity that could not have been bettered by Da Vinci or Michelangelo. And those sharp eyes held Evita in the same way, running brazenly over her body as if contemplating a work of art. That was how Saud made her feel—like a masterpiece.
They chatted at the reception that first day, and went for coffee afterward. A lunch two days later ran three hours, both of them lingering shamelessly. The next week she offered to pose naked for him, a project that took twice as long as it should have for predictable reasons, and the product of which was destroyed when knocked from its stand during a particularly enthusiastic sitting. For six months and two days, Evita Levine was happier than she had ever been. She and Saud made plans as best a married Israeli woman and a poor Palestinian sculptor could. In hopeful moments they imagined divorce and artistic discovery, and in the rest they plotted desperate trysts in attic flats.
Then had come the airstrike.
If Saud knew that his studio was adjacent to a Hamas safe house, he’d never let on. The bomb struck neatly, but failed to fuse correctly—or so Evita had later been told—penetrating one additional wall to explode in Saud’s kitchen as he was preparing a celebratory dinner to mark their sixth month of love.
Evita had been crushed. She had never been a political creature, yet when Israel claimed Saud to be a terrorist, and thus a legitimate target, any residual affinity for her homeland was lost. She cursed Israel. She cried for a month. Even her husband, dolt that he was, noticed something amiss. He did what he could, more than once pulling down a second tumbler from the wet bar and offering a shot of whiskey to “dull whatever ache that’s found you.” Evita supposed he knew, in a general way, the source of her unhappiness, but if there was anger or pity she could never discern it amid his despairing nature.
Then a new man came into her life. He called himself Rafi, and said he was from Netanya, but she thought he might be Syrian. Perhaps even Hezbollah. Evita didn’t care. She listened to his stories of other Arab boys, like Saud gentle young artists and scholars who had nothing to do with Israel’s war yet were imprisoned and shot and vaporized all the same. From there, the rest was a small step for a woman of advancing age who had married misery and lost love. What began as an off-the-cuff suggestion by Rafi spurred her mind to action. Without asking who she might be aiding, Evita told him she wanted to hurt Israel. She told him there was nothing she wouldn’t do.
This Rafi had put to the test.
Evita was still at the open closet when her husband came into the room. She pulled her most dreary house frock from the rack and held it in front of the mirror.
“I thought you were going out to lunch,” she said.
“Yes, soon. The boys will wait,” he said, using his preferred term for the revolting band of sixty-something alcoholics with whom he spent most of his day. “What about you? Are you going out?”
“I may go to the market later,” she said.
“Get me some cigarettes, would you?”
He stripped off a filthy T-shirt and threw it onto a pile of the same.
Evita watched him disappear into the bathroom. She hoped he’d brush his teeth. Around the corner she heard him pissing, then a pause, and the toothbrush starting working. When he seemed done, rinsing and spitting noisily, Evita did something that surprised her. Pretending not to notice his reappearance, and with the dreary house frock in hand, she let her nightdress drop to the floor. She put her shoulders back and arched gently with a pile of worn cotton around her ankles. Sensing his pause, she turned to look.
He was there, his eyes on her naked ass—he was still a man, wasn’t he? Yet there was something in his expression she didn’t like. Frustration? No, anger.
“Teasing bitch,” he muttered. He pulled a fresh undershirt from his drawer and walked out.
Evita stood still for a very long time. She remained in front of the mirror, yet her eyes were fixed to the floor. Her stupor was broken by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
On hearing that, Evita Levine began to prepare.
* * *
If Sanderson had not been sleeping well to begin with, the idea that he’d just quit his job of thirty-five years did nothing to help. He stayed in bed past nine that first morning of his retirement, rose unrefreshed, and went straight to the medicine cabinet. He saw nothing stronger than ibuprofen, and minutes later was washing down a small handful with his first cup of coffee. He sat heavily at the kitchen table and wondered, perhaps with a dash of self-pity, what to do with himself.
For the first time in his adult life he had nowhere to go. His resignation was not yet official, of course. He had filed no paperwork, and certainly could go to Sjoberg’s office with his tail between his legs and sm
ooth things over. He would be sent home for a week or two, as long as it took to straighten out the reckless quacks, and then be assigned to a desk. His email inbox would overflow with interdepartmental memos, and he’d be granted authority enough to write a new policy manual on social tolerance, or perhaps if he was lucky, draft an update to the station’s Emergency Action Plan. He would bandy long-forgotten names and stories with the other hangers-on at the other desks, and in the months to come Sanderson would show up a little later each day. Answer the phone when it suited him. And then the party.
Not wishing to dwell on these dismal prospects, he skimmed the morning paper. He made every attempt to ignore articles relating to the investigation, yet failed as his eye was unavoidably caught by a police sketch of the suspect Deadmarsh. It had been drawn, of course, with the input of Blix and Officer Petersen, the two men who had stood at his side at the Strand Hotel. The image was just a bit off—it always was—and for Sanderson served as no more than another twist of the knife. He’d spent more time with Deadmarsh than anyone, yet his addled brain had clearly not been worth consulting. He tossed the paper into the rubbish.
Sanderson did a load of laundry, and for an hour he clattered around the house looking for chores, finding a few, and ignoring them without exception. He ended where he’d begun, seated at the kitchen table and rubbing fingers on his temples, soothing circles that worked wonders. With a newfound clarity he succumbed to the inescapable.
There was really no question. He had to go in to headquarters. All he needed was a sound excuse, and he settled on the most obvious. It was time to clean out his desk.
* * *
He arrived at the station at ten forty-five. Sanderson’s gait was well known around the place—quick and direct, or as he’d once overheard, “like a short train on a narrow-gauge track”—and he passed through the entrance unchallenged, nodding to the familiar face at the security podium.
On the third floor he circumnavigated Sjoberg’s office, and in the hallways a few of his coworkers said “Good morning,” although some with more sympathy than they should have. The rumors had to be rampant by now, he supposed. Have you heard why the old man was pulled? He’s gone daft. Can’t keep track of his car keys, poor bugger. Worse still were those who seemed not to notice him, men and women half-sitting on desks as they volleyed theories back and forth, much as he’d done back in the day—a fond and familiar diversion he would never take part in again. Sanderson was ruminating on that cheerless thought when the man he was looking for came up from behind him in the main hallway.
“Hello, Inspector,” Blix said.
Sanderson turned. If anyone on the force was going to help, it was his well-versed deputy Gunnar Blix.
“Good morning, Gunnar. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
Sanderson shunted Blix toward an empty conference room and closed the door. “I suppose you heard about my blow-up with Sjoberg yesterday?”
Blix grinned. “I only wish I’d been there to see it.”
“I’m clearly persona non grata around here for the time being. They’ve told me to go home and not be seen. Honestly, I’m rather warming to the idea.”
“You? Sit around the house? Please.”
“A doctor has told me, however, that mental exercise is just the thing for my deteriorating condition.”
“You’re going to work the case on your own.”
“I might make an inquiry or two … in the name of my recovering mental health, you understand.”
“And it would help if you had someone inside the department with a sharp ear?”
Sanderson regarded his protégé. “I knew I saw something in you.”
“Consider it done, Inspector. Least I can do. Call me anytime on my mobile—but we will have to be discreet.”
“Done. Anything new today?”
“No headway at all with Deadmarsh. SÄPO has asked the FBI for more information. They’ve been on a hunt for friends and family, and found few of the former—neighbors and his most recent employer—but none of the latter. The official records are all a blank. His driver’s license and passport seem to have never existed. He and Dr. Palmer keep a joint bank account that was recently drawn down, but there’s nothing in their credit report that speaks of money problems. He and the missus took out a mortgage for a small home a few months back. We’ve researched him the usual ways, search engines and social networking sites. Everything’s a blank. The man entered Sweden a few days ago like a million other tourists, and since then he’s faded to nothing.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why is that?”
“Because—”
A young constable with a stack of files under her arm burst through the door. “Oh—sorry,” she said. “Didn’t know the room was in use.”
“No, we were just leaving,” Sanderson said. He walked out with Blix, and once in the hallway whispered, “Sjoberg won’t listen to anything I say, but if an astute investigator were to go to Saint Göran Hospital and ask for Dr. Gould he might find something useful. Apparently the man who’s now in a coma was babbling in tongues when he first arrived.”
“An astute investigator, you say? Not sure where I’d find one of those round here, but I’ll keep an eye out.”
Sanderson smiled, and added, “Yes, do that.”
He broke away and made straight for his desk. Along the way he picked up an empty cardboard box that had been discarded near the printer. When he reached his desk, Sanderson set the box on top and began filling it. The first thing in was a framed picture, at least twenty years old, of him and Ingrid and their daughter—they were all smiling stupidly and standing on snow skis at Sunne. He lifted files from the bottom drawer without even looking at their labels, and from the middle drawer he removed a mildewed address book, a dog-eared calendar from 1997, and an alarm clock he didn’t even recognize. He then went to the top drawer, felt toward the back, and found what he was looking for. Sanderson pulled the item clear palmed beneath an old calculator with long-dead batteries.
Fixing a look of winsome nostalgia on his face, he then closed the box, took it under his arm, and gave a chain of somber nods all the way to the elevator.
* * *
The seaplane touched down sharply at eleven o’clock. Minutes later Slaton was shin deep in cold water, his hands pushing on the wing struts to steer the craft’s nose back out to sea. He pulled open the passenger door and was greeted by a smiling Janna Magnussen.
“Good morning!”
Slaton slid inside. “Good morning. Thanks for being on time.”
“We were correct to have not waited any longer. There is a heavy marine layer slipping down from the north—in another hour it will cover everything.” She seemed to gauge him for a moment, then remarked, “I see you are alone.”
“Yes. Things didn’t go as I’d planned.”
Magnussen paused, perhaps waiting for more. Slaton suspected she was enjoying this contract more than most, her usual crowd likely being hunters who would stuff rifles and tents and slabs of bloody venison into her airplane. Tangled romance was undoubtedly more entertaining.
She finally said, “Does this mean you won’t be doing any sightseeing?”
His eyes flicked to the fuel gauges. As promised, he saw nearly full tanks. “Actually, I was still planning on it. Let’s start with an aerial tour of Stockholm.”
“You won’t see anything. North and west, the cloud cover is nearly a solid undercast.”
“I’d like to try anyway. That was our agreement, and I’ve already paid half, haven’t I?”
She gave him a shrug that said It’s your money, and pushed the throttle forward. The Cessna began to accelerate, and was soon stepping onto the light waves and rising into the air. Slaton saw the altimeter register a thousand feet, then two. His eyes scanned to the north, and he did see a heavy cloud layer sweeping in low over the blackening Baltic. Christine had already weighed anchor and was under way, moving north to a differe
nt island. He’d given her most of his cash and specific instructions on how to get more. Slaton knew he was asking a lot from his wife, but he hoped it would be the last time.
“It’s a quick trip, twenty miles,” Magnussen said. She pointed ahead. “As you can see, the clouds are nearly covering the city.”
In fact Slaton did not see, because at that moment his eyes were riveted elsewhere. Just over his right shoulder, through a slim break in the undercast, he saw a tiny boat bobbing northward. He could even make out the name on the stern, prominent block letters in fresh blue paint. Slaton watched as long as he could, but soon the image fragmented, broken by thickening wisps of gray vapor.
Then all at once, she was lost to the mist.
TWENTY-THREE
Magnussen was busy talking to air traffic controllers as the little seaplane ventured into what had to be unfamiliar territory—the busy air corridor over Stockholm. The view was exactly as she’d promised, the leaden topside of a cloudbank with only a few breaks, the highest buildings and a few radio antennae stabbing through like so many urban periscopes. Slaton didn’t mind the featureless cityscape. He had not come to sightsee.
He pulled the three prepaid cell phones from his backpack, pocketing two and waking the third.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
Magnussen laughed. “This airplane doesn’t have many instruments to interfere with. Go ahead and call. You should get good reception as low as we are.”
The phone was already activated, and indeed he saw good signal strength. Slaton pulled a business card from his pocket and dialed Detective Inspector Arne Sanderson.
* * *
Sanderson was closing the trunk of his car when it dawned on him that he should check his email one last time—Sjoberg had likely forgotten to pull up that anchor. He had just entered the headquarters building when his phone vibrated. He looked at the number but didn’t recognize it. Thinking it might involve one of his mandatory medical probings, he answered reluctantly.
