The bearded owner hummed happily to himself when Michael swiped his red-hot MasterCard through the terminal, and helped him carry everything up the basement steps to the pavement. Michael called a cab and smoked a cigarette while he waited. He thought about the superintendent and wondered where she had learned to fight so well. And about her other skills. She wasn’t the kind of woman you bumped into every day and that was probably just as well: too many bruises.
*
The awkward pantomime at the menswear shop repeated itself at the Hertz counter at Copenhagen Airport. Even though Michael was now well-dressed, the sight of his face, hands and scalp was enough for the young woman to call over her supervisor, who scrutinized Michael’s documents, passport and credit cards.
‘What did you have in mind?’ the supervisor asked him nervously. ‘We have a special deal on a fine Ford Focus.’
Michael acknowledged the offer without interest and looked at a laminated list of car models.
‘I was thinking of something a little faster,’ he said. ‘How about that one?’
His bandaged finger landed on the last car on the list. The supervisor took a sharp intake of breath and the junior didn’t move at all.
‘The Audi A6, V8-engine, 400 hp? Nought to 100 in 4.6 seconds?’ The supervisor gulped.
Michael looked at him.
‘That sounds nice. Is it available?’
‘Yes, but …’
The other man must have seen something implacable in Michael’s eyes because he began to nod.
‘Nothing. It’s available, absolutely. For how long will you be needing it?’
‘A week, I would think.’
The man smiled and produced the keys.
‘Take good care of it,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘There aren’t many of them around …’
He looked at Michael’s equipment on the luggage trolley and pulled another anxious face.
‘Mountaineering?’
‘That’s what I had in mind.’
‘Take good care of it,’ he said again, and asked the young woman to photocopy Michael’s passport one more time.
*
They put the last of the bags into the boot of the Audi, and Michael made sure that the safety catch on the superintendent’s service pistol was on before he put it in the pocket in the car door – close to hand. Lene got in on the passenger side and placed the machine gun between her feet. She ran her fingertips across the seat’s exclusive golden leather.
‘Why don’t I get to drive?’ she asked.
Michael pressed the red start button and the engine’s eight turbo charged cylinders awoke with a tiger roar.
‘We’ve been through this, Lene. Besides, it’s my name on the rental documents. It’s an insurance thing.’
She muttered a protest, but he revved the engine and drowned out her words.
A few minutes later they joined the Holbæk motorway. It was growing dark and the traffic had eased off. The road conditions were ideal and Michael put the Audi through its paces. He enjoyed driving, being in total control of a little speck of reality.
Lene leaned back. She seemed to have come to terms with her passive role.
‘I’ve spoken to my daughter,’ she said.
Michael stole a glance at her.
‘Will she be okay?’
Lene smiled and the rays of the setting sun deepened the sparkle in her green eyes. She shook her head in amazement. ‘She’s young. She’ll recover. I just know she will. Remarkable, really. She was upset, but at the same time, she was fine. She’ll be all right.’
Michael smiled too.
‘Of course she will,’ he said
He thought about Pieter Henryk’s daughter. She had ended up in a secure, private facility in Switzerland, she had stopped playing the flute, and was kept in almost a waking coma to prevent her from harming herself: a kind of pharmacological lobotomy. She had smeared herself with her own faeces to keep everyone – especially male carers – at bay.
He shook off his dark thoughts.
‘Have you spoken to your wife?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’
He pulled out behind a convoy of trucks and pressed the accelerator right down. The car leaped forwards with an offended howl and the motorway narrowed, becoming almost tunnel-shaped. He couldn’t handle the guilt, he felt exhausted at the mere thought of his wife’s silence or carefully worded reproaches, and he also knew that it was the thin end of the wedge. Didn’t a break-up always start with not wanting to call? He knew exactly what Sara would say and how he would respond, and he wondered when it had begun: this tiresome dance that neither of them wanted, but which neither of them had the energy to end.
‘Call her, Michael,’ Lene said as if she had read his mind. ‘She must be beside herself with worry. The fire is all over the Internet and on TV. You did tell her about me, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t tell her your name,’ he said.
‘Surely she can put two and two together.’
Charlotte Falster had announced that Police Superintendent Lene Jensen had been killed in a gas explosion in a house near Holbæk Fjord. It had been on the news. Falster had prepared a short press release and Lene had smiled when she heard herself described as an inspired and dedicated investigator. Police were treating her death as an accident, but were still carrying out technical examinations at the scene.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Okay. Please would you check what the weather is like up there?’
‘Of course.’
She got busy with the laptop and the wireless Internet modem and started looking for a suitable meteorological website, while Michael pulled over to call home.
*
Afterwards he put the mobile back in the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘De nada. Was it all right?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s fine, really.’
And it had been. Sara had cried, but not railed against things that couldn’t be changed. The children were great. They loved being at her brother’s cottage. There was a farm nearby they could visit whenever they wanted. There were kittens and puppies which the toddler could put on her lap like dolls and play house with, and there were pigs and sheep for the four-year-old to chase after, and a sea which Sara could gaze across. She said she knew that he would be back. She was sure of it.
He loved her and knew that he would never be able to get enough of her.
He glanced at the computer screen on Lene’s lap.
‘So what does it look like?’
‘Everything is fine right up to the border between Sweden and Norway,’ she said. ‘But after Kiruna everything turns white and it’s minus six degrees. In the daytime. Spring appears to be very late this year.’
‘But the E10 is passable?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Kiruna. Would they even make it that far? It seemed an incredibly long way away: 1,500 kilometres. At least. And from then, several hundred more kilometres across the mountains before they reached their destination. Anything could happen. The opposition had the advantage and all they could do was drive – and improvise.
Again, Michael checked the inbox of his mobile for messages: the last one had arrived two hours earlier and its brevity had been just as nerve-racking and frustrating as the previous ones: Stand by.
He knew it was how these things were done, but even so he was seething with impatience and every imaginable worry.
*
‘There it is,’ she said, forty-five minutes later.
Michael drove the Audi up a small, dark hill and stopped a hundred metres from Charlotte Falster’s white Passat, which was still parked in the lay-by near some tables and benches.
There were no other cars around. The area was deserted. No dog walkers, joggers or mountain bikers.
He turned off the engine and they sat quietly, watching their surroundings.
Michael got out, leaned against the warm bonnet and lit a cigar
ette. The sun had gone down behind Tuse Næs; the smell from the burned-down cottage still lingered in the air, but the birds were singing, unperturbed by it all, and the world seemed at peace. Holbæk Fjord extended its glittering surface beneath the dark blue sky and he watched a small, white ferry sail towards a distant, dark shape dotted with light from the islanders’ houses. The first stars had come out. He flicked aside the glowing cigarette butt and walked across to the Passat. He tried with every fibre of his body to detect whether he was being watched, but could sense no alien presence.
Charlotte Falster’s car was covered with dew. It was cold and wouldn’t appear to have moved one millimetre since they abandoned it last night.
Again his gaze scanned the tables and benches, and the trees near the lay-by. Nothing. He lay down on his stomach, switched on a small torch and carefully inspected the undercarriage, the silencer, the exhaust pipe, the suspension and the wheel bays. Everything looked perfectly normal. There were no blocks of plastic explosive, or a digital timer counting down to a deadly explosion if anyone tried to start the car.
Michael got back on his feet and looked at the motionless figure in the Audi. He waved to her, but she didn’t react. He opened the boot of the Passat and found the small Garmin GPS transmitter exactly when he had left it last night. It was still flashing its green, cheerful light.
Inside the car he checked under the seats and under the dashboard, and examined all stitching and welded seams before he was satisfied. Then he went back to the Audi and Lene got out and started dividing up their equipment.
She covered her mouth with her hand, yawned and arched her back. She looked up at the stars and the white band of moonlight across the fjord and shivered.
‘Sixteen hundred kilometres?’ she asked, even though she knew the answer. ‘And we can’t stop to sleep at any point?’
‘I don’t think it would be wise,’ he said, and swung a rucksack up on his shoulders. He swore when the strap pressed against the burns on his back. ‘We’ve been through this countless times, Lene.’
She stared at the ground and her shoulders slumped.
‘I know, but …’
‘But what?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. The GPS?’
‘Ours or theirs?’
‘Both.’
‘Theirs is still in place,’ he said. ‘And this one is for you.’
He handed her an ordinary sat nav.
‘It covers all of Western Europe. All you have to do is type in “Kiruna”,’ he said.
‘I know that.’
She picked up a rucksack, slung the strap of the machine pistol over her shoulder, and they started walking towards the Passat.
‘There were no bombs under the car?’ she asked.
‘None that I could see,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That I couldn’t see any.’
They put her kit in the boot of the Passat; she wedged the machine pistol in between the front seats, got in the driver’s seat and looked up at him. He handed her the key and she immediately stuck it in the ignition, and turned it while she pressed her eyes shut. The engine started humming. That was all it did.
Michael stared at her.
‘Couldn’t you have waited until I was gone?’ he asked.
‘You said there were no explosives.’
‘I said that I couldn’t see any.’
‘Same thing, surely.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Do you want to swap?’ she asked. ‘And I’ll drive your fancy car.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Are you sure that they’re still checking for a signal? I mean, they think we’re dead,’ she said sceptically.
‘I don’t think they monitor the bugs 24/7, but I’m sure that alarms will go off on various computers, smartphones and tablets the second that Passat is on the move.’
‘But if you’re –’ she began.
‘Drive safely,’ he said, and slammed the door shut. She shouted something from inside, but he just cupped his hand behind his ear, shook his head and turned on his heel.
Chapter 49
Sweden was endless. And boring beyond belief. Lene drove the white Passat a few hundred metres in front of Michael. For hours they had followed the ruler-straight E45 through snow-powdered pine forests. The sun had shone through the right side window, but was now at her back. Michael’s only distraction had been the changing regional accents on the radio up through various Swedish counties.
They had stopped at the same petrol station, had drunk the same weak, Swedish coffee, and eaten the same bland sandwiches, but had ignored each other’s presence. Michael had waited until she had filled up the car, been to the lavatory and bought supplies. He had stayed close, but in the background, with a loaded pistol tucked into his belt behind his back, ready to blast anyone who approached her to the ends of the earth. He had monitored traffic patterns, memorized registration numbers, car models, and was convinced they had not been followed at any point.
South of a godforsaken place called Porjus, his mobile vibrated against his thigh.
‘Michael? I need to sleep. I mean it,’ she said.
‘Now? I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Lene. I really don’t.’
‘I’m pulling over at the next lay-by, Michael. I’m shattered. I need a break. This is going to kill me otherwise.’
‘All right then,’ he grunted.
*
The lay-by had a view of a small, dreary town by a dried out riverbed. Michael parked fifty metres from the Passat. Two sturdy truck drivers in green body warmers and clogs were chatting next to a couple of incredibly long trailer trucks loaded with pine trunks. The men held tall, steaming Thermos mugs in their hands and looked like they were enjoying themselves. Michael’s mouth watered at the sight. He hadn’t had a decent cup of coffee since the scout hut.
The Passat had stopped under the snow-covered branches that reached across the lay-by. White smoke was pouring from the exhaust, but he couldn’t see Lene inside. He tightened his parka around his neck, plodded across the tarmac and cupped his hands against the side window of the Passat.
She lay curled up in a foetal position on the back seat with her hands between her knees and her eyes closed. Michael could hear faint harmonica music from the car radio. He rapped his knuckles on the window, but she didn’t move. Then he opened the door and turned off the engine.
‘Lene?’
‘Go away.’
‘You’ll freeze to death,’ he said.
‘Turn on the engine,’ she mumbled without opening her eyes.
He straightened up and looked at the unbroken cloud cover. The truck drivers were watching him. Not much happened around here.
‘This is … not okay,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Just lying there with the engine running.’
One angry, green eye opened a fraction.
‘Are you worried about global warming? Tell me you’re joking, Michael. Please.’
He opened the boot and found a sleeping bag.
‘I’m going to stand here until you climb inside it,’ he said.
‘Die,’ she said.
He waited.
‘I’m still here, Lene. The door is open and the engine is turned off.’
He closed and locked the door when she had obeyed orders, and walked back to the Audi. The truck drivers left the lay-by with hissing air brakes and swaying cabins. He got into his own car, drummed his fingers indecisively on the steering wheel, yawned and realized how exhausted he was. Thirty minutes? What could go wrong in thirty minutes?
Everything.
He thought about the indefatigable GPS transmitter in Chief Superintendent Charlotte Falster’s white Passat fifty metres away, and muttered curses under his breath. One of them had to stay awake. He swore again and pulled his collar up around his ears. He opened the side window so the cold would keep him awake and turned on the laptop.
He would allow her a few hours’ sleep while he kept watch and felt very Christian, almost altruistic. They wouldn’t reach Lakselv until late evening anyway, and whether it was this side of midnight or the other really didn’t matter. All they had left to do was drive through the small Norwegian town at the bottom of Porsanger Fjord and onwards up Route 98 to Børselva. From then on it was roughly forty kilometres north-north-west to their destination. On foot.
He had studied every available map and satellite photo in detail, and the landscape looked terrifying: deep ravines with meltwater rapids, glaciers – and glacier crevasses – ridges … wild, scattered, impassable moraine ground, with thousands of rocks the size of anything from a car to a tower block. And only a few mapped paths.
Right now, hiking across Finnmark seemed utterly impossible to him, even if he had been well rested or relatively unhurt. But he was neither. They had everything they needed in terms of kit: good boots, warm, waterproof clothing, a small Trangia, a tent, freeze-dried food, energy drinks, sleeping bags and more – but it wasn’t about having the right gear. There was also the human factor. Especially his. Lene had the strongest possible motive for being here and to go on long after her body had hit a wall: she wanted to avenge her daughter but, more importantly, she wanted to stop the men from hurting anyone else ever again. His own motives were rather more prosaic, almost tawdry by comparison.
He closed Google Earth with the depressing satellite photos of the frightening landscape up north and looked instead at the sunny beach in the Seychelles he had chosen as the background screen on the computer. You could almost warm your hands on that picture, he thought. Then he sensed movement through the windscreen and saw Lene walk along the lay-by with her hands tucked under her armpits, and the short, stiff gait of someone who feels the cold and has just woken up.
Without a word she got in next to him and stared straight ahead.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
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