“Yes, we should,” Roland whispered.
“Are you sure Koen can do it?” Ralph asked.
“He ought to be able to.”
“How stupid is he?”
“Relatively.”
“But?”
“He’s got some sort of warped father complex. Wants our favor, wants approval, affirmation.”
“Let him have it then. Call him, explain, help him,” Ralph said.
“Hmm. Shall we bring Carlos in?” Roland asked.
Ralph thought for a moment, then nodded.
Roland got up from his armchair again, walked across the floor, and opened the door to the next room. Ralph heard Roland say a few short words. Then he went back to his chair. Behind him came Carlos Fuentes. The Spaniard, the traitor who had previously worked for Hector. Large, bald, unbuttoned white shirt, loose linen trousers, barefoot. He sat down on the sofa opposite Ralph, where Sophie had just been sitting. One arm along the back of the sofa. There was something smug about him, as if he felt this all revolved around him.
“What do you think?” Roland asked.
Carlos shrugged his shoulders.
“Did she come here of her own accord?” Roland pressed.
Carlos Fuentes had lost weight. Not so much from his body as his face. It hung loose, and there were large shadows cast under his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” Carlos replied.
“Why don’t you think so?” Roland asked.
Carlos threw his hands up in exasperation. “She was just a nurse. Hector was in love with her. And she was there at my restaurant in Stockholm when everything kicked off.”
He cleared his throat and went on: “So no, she didn’t come here of her own accord, then.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve never seen Hector in love, except with her. They’re close, he trusted her; he must have sent her, no question.”
“Why?” Roland asked.
“You could see for yourself. Was she threatening? No, she was cautious, quiet….”
“Why?” Roland asked again, calmly.
“Because they want time. She said so straight out.”
“Will they give us anything?”
Carlos had one hand inside his shirt, stroking his chest.
“No,” he said.
“Because?”
“Because I’ve told you time and time again…”
He was uncouth and blunt, the Spaniard.
“That Hector won’t give up?” Roland asked.
Carlos nodded, repeating the words quietly. “That Hector won’t give up.”
“But what if he’s dead? Perhaps Aron’s in charge? Or someone else,” Roland said.
“Does it matter?” Carlos said.
Ralph Hanke didn’t feel like sitting and listening any longer. He stood up and left the sitting room. Roland did the same, neither of them deigning to look at Carlos Fuentes.
Roland stopped on the way out and said, “You’ll be moved now, Carlos. This house is no longer safe. Get ready, you’ll be picked up within ten minutes.”
Their steps faded away toward the hall and front door.
“I don’t like the food anyway,” the Spaniard called.
But as usual, the men weren’t listening to him. The front door closed with a loud slam, then the house fell silent.
If it had been up to Carlos, he would have held the nurse, forced her to say where Hector was, with every available means. Because one thing was certain: if Hector was alive, he would kill Carlos Fuentes the moment he caught a whiff of his scent.
Koen de Graaf took a taxi from the airport to the center of Stockholm, to a multistory parking garage on Regeringsgatan. On the fourth floor was a nondescript silver-gray Mazda.
The key was under the mat in the rear footwell. He got in the driver’s seat and read the message on his phone. Three lines from Roland Gentz:
The shop on Västmannagatan.
Sophie Arlanda.
Ernst.
—
Koen typed Västmannagatan into his phone and the GPS searched for satellites.
He leaned over toward the glove compartment. It contained a white envelope. He opened it and took out a piece of silver foil and a small bag of heroin.
Koen prepared the drug with a practiced hand, heated the foil from beneath with his lighter, and the heroin quickly began to bubble and boil. He breathed in the fumes, held them inside him, releasing nothing but transparent air when he breathed out again.
Something that hadn’t felt good suddenly improved.
He followed the GPS and drove, high on heroin, through Stockholm’s morning traffic. This was what his life was like. Regular jobs for Ralph, and always a precisely measured amount of smack to keep his addiction and emotional life under control. That was good, it meant he did his job better.
He parked outside the right address on Västmannagatan and leaned back.
His cell phone rang in his jacket pocket.
“Get going,” Roland Gentz said.
“I need the nurse’s flight number. Have I got time?” Koen asked.
“Just get to Arlanda and follow her the minute you see her.”
Roland gave Koen Sophie’s flight details.
“And then bring that old man with me?”
Roland was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes. I sent you a list, didn’t I? Is it too much for you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? You need to concentrate, Koen. Can I rely on you?”
“Yes!”
He sounded like a teenager.
Roland sighed. “Listen. This is a chain of events, Koen. Everything has to work just-so. Can you handle it? Give me an honest answer.”
“Tell me again,” Koen said sluggishly.
“Once you’ve finished the job in the shop, that will send everyone running. They’ll go to ground, and gather in the same place. That’s what we’re hoping. You need to find out where, that’s the priority. You do that by following Sophie from the airport. Do you get that?”
“I get it,” Koen muttered.
Roland spelled out the rest: “Then, when you’re finished, you bring that man back here to us. You’re very important, Koen. Both Ralph and I are very appreciative of all that you do.”
A flash of happiness ran through Koen as he ended the call; then he yawned, wiped his face with his hands, and opened the car door. He went around to the trunk. It was empty. On top of the spare tire under the floor was a jack, a wheel brace, and a Mini Uzi with an extended magazine. He tucked the weapon inside his jacket and crossed the street toward the shop.
Koen looked in the window. It was small and fairly unassuming, and contained beautiful things. Strongly colored textiles, spears, shields, ceramics—all sorts of things—old, ethnic, historical.
A little bell rang when he opened the door.
He saw a dark-skinned woman with a lot of thick hair. Proud, attractive. Behind her stood a man, tall, sinuous, smiling. The man was standing on a stool, rearranging things on one of the top shelves.
“Hello,” they said to Koen in tandem, cheerily.
He felt welcome, and realized he was smiling as he opened his jacket and pulled out the Uzi.
The man on the stool threw himself instinctively at the woman, landing on top of her and shielding her with his body.
Koen fired. And everything became very ugly.
Sophie paid the taxi driver in cash and was just getting out of the car when her cell rang. She answered.
“Daphne and Thierry have been murdered, they were shot in their shop an hour ago….”
Sophie headed for the door, her legs still carrying her even though she had fully understood what Leszek had just told her.
“Sophie?”
She managed to tap in the code, open the door with her back, and walk across the narrow carpet leading to the elevator.
“Sophie?” Leszek asked again.
She opened the door to the elevator.
“A
ngela and the boys?” she asked, pressing the button for her floor. The elevator began to rise.
“They’re safe. Where have you been, Sophie?”
She tried to pull herself together. “Nowhere. What happened?”
“They were found on the floor. Thierry had his arms around her, he was trying to protect her. There were a lot of shots, that’s all I know.”
An image conjured up by Leszek’s words flashed through her mind. She tried to suppress it. Leszek went on talking and she tried to listen in spite of the panic that was assaulting her from all sides. Leszek clarified the situation to her. Everyone could have been exposed.
She understood what that meant. Run!
The world came back. Sophie made a call to Albert as she unlocked the door and the security gate inside, but it went to voicemail. She hurried into the bedroom and opened the closet. From the back she pulled out her pre-packed case. It contained all she needed for a few days, as well as her real passport. The fake one was already in her handbag.
Without looking back she left the apartment, headed down the stairs, and left the building.
Sophie hurried toward Birger Jarlsgatan. Albert’s voicemail felt like a hopeless echo as she tried to call him again and again.
She looked up the number of the school, and reached an automated menu that asked her to press a button to be put through to the right place. She pressed the first option, which turned out to be the principal’s office. It rang a few times, then the call was cut off. She phoned those of Albert’s friends whose numbers she had in her cell. She called Anna. She sounded calm, friendly. No one knew where he was.
—
Sophie got hold of a taxi and jumped into the backseat. Gave the driver the address of Albert’s school. She felt horribly frightened. The outside world looked sharp, as if all the angles were wrong.
She prayed to God that they didn’t get stuck in traffic. She should have prayed to God about Albert as well, but she didn’t dare. It was as if her prayer would make the situation more real, more dangerous. It already was, of course, but she was unable to handle that.
Koen de Graaf had followed her back to her apartment from Arlanda. And he had waited until she emerged again. She was in a hurry, with a suitcase in her hand. News of the murdered couple had already reached her.
Now he followed her taxi as it wove through the city traffic, heading south. She would lead him right where he wanted to go.
Albert’s school was on Södermalm.
Sophie pulled the heavy door open, and was met by the smell of school: pencils, linoleum, stone, and something elusive that was found only in academic buildings. She hurried through the corridor, past the classrooms, windows in their doors, all the rooms empty, no one in sight anywhere. It was late in the afternoon, perhaps all the lessons were over?
She stopped to catch her breath and listened. The silence echoed emptily. Sophie tried to make out any sound at all. Far away in a muffled universe, she heard slippery sounds, a hint of voices shouting. A gymnasium.
—
Sophie headed down the main staircase and made her way along a long passageway toward two large doors. She threw them open.
A group of youngsters was playing basketball in half of the hall, while a few more sat on the stand. Toward the other end of the hall Albert was practicing throwing a ball at a hoop in his wheelchair while a friend caught the ball and gave it back to him.
She walked around the free-throw line, smiling with relief at Albert’s friend, Marcus.
Albert looked at her in surprise, and Sophie did her best to maintain her smile.
“Are you ready?” she asked softly.
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to set off first thing tomorrow morning?”
Albert looked at her curiously.
“Where are you going?” Marcus asked, standing there clutching the basketball to his chest.
“Rehabilitation,” Sophie said.
Marcus looked thoughtful.
“We’ve got a few things to sort out, are you ready?” she asked.
Albert was avoiding her gaze.
“See you,” Albert said, and pushed himself away from Marcus.
“How long are you going to be gone?”
“Three weeks,” Sophie interjected.
—
Leszek drove up outside the school, braked sharply, got out, and quickly helped Albert into the car with a practiced hand, then put the wheelchair in the back. They drove off fast.
Sophie and Leszek talked quickly in low voices, what were the arrangements, was everyone safe, then details—cell phones, computers, other traceable items. Albert asked questions from the backseat, his voice loud, but they didn’t get through; no one was listening to him. They just carried on working through everything between them in a very focused, concentrated way.
“What’s going on?” Albert shouted.
Leszek and Sophie went on talking.
“Mom!” He was yelling now. They stopped talking. She turned around.
“We have to go into hiding,” she said.
“Why?”
“We just do.”
“Mom?”
A pleading look in his eyes.
“Two people have been killed.”
He tried to make sense of what she’d just said. “What?”
She didn’t answer.
Albert looked down, struggling with all the questions that came into his mind. “Who?”
She remained silent. Leszek took over.
“Daphne and Thierry,” he said.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Albert,” she said in a feeble attempt to sound calm.
“How can you say that?” he asked bitterly.
Then he turned his head away.
Sophie was struck by a flash of realization. What the hell was she trying to do, acting as the protective mother?
She turned back toward Albert.
“I’m sorry, Albert,” she said. “I’m not thinking straight at the moment. This is serious, we need to go into hiding. There’s a secure apartment waiting for us. That’s where we’re heading now.”
He looked at her.
“OK,” he said quietly.
Behind the wheel of the Mazda, Koen watched as their car stopped halfway along Norr Mälarstrand. Sophie got out, Leszek got the wheelchair out of the trunk of the car and quickly unfolded it and helped Albert in. They headed toward a door, Leszek tapped in a code, and they disappeared into the building.
Koen made a note of the address on his phone and sent it to Roland. This was going really well. Roland and Ralph would be pleased.
Now there was just old Ernst left….
They remained silent in the elevator as it carried them to the top floor. Leszek opened his jacket, drew a pistol from his shoulder holster, and let it hang down by his leg.
They reached the top floor. Leszek got out first, followed by Sophie and then Albert. He unlocked the door and looked inside, then held the door open for the others.
“It’s OK,” he said, gesturing them inside.
Everyone was there. Leszek introduced Albert to Angela, Hasani, and the boys.
Sophie found a quiet place in the passageway between the kitchen and dining room. She crouched down and breathed through the sleeve of her sweater with her head bowed. Paralyzed with a despair that stopped any tears from coming, just a pain in her throat, a terrible pressure in her chest, and, beyond the physical, a sense of guilt, guilt, guilt. Daphne and Thierry dead…
She wished she could stand at the edge of the world with her back to everything, facing away from everything and everyone….She wanted to make herself stand in the corner and never leave, if she could find such a corner….
“Sophie?”
Leszek’s voice calling for her. She took several deep breaths, trying to hide the truth somewhere inside her and hit the Reset button.
Hasani was leaning against the sink when she went into the kitchen. Leszek was looking out the window,
and he turned around.
“How secure are we here?” she asked.
“Secure, for now,” he replied.
“What do we know?”
“Nothing.”
“Has everyone been contacted?”
Leszek nodded. She could see he was shaken up.
“Right now you and Albert need to make sure your family and friends are calm. We don’t want them to start looking for you. Give them some sort of plausible explanation.”
Leszek hadn’t finished.
“Whoever did this has a goal,” he said. “And he’ll carry on killing until he reaches that goal. Understood?”
“Yes,” she said weakly.
“So from now on nothing gets done without serious thought. Everything has to go through me and Hasani.”
—
The wooden floor creaked as she walked toward Albert’s room.
Andres and Fabien were blissfully unaware; they were running around chasing each other with their shoes off, sliding on the polished parquet floor. They were enjoying themselves, and their happy cries formed a distant background of noise no matter where you were in the apartment.
Albert was sitting on the bed, his legs out straight in front of him. She went into his room and sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. He waited for her to say something. But she merely took his hand in hers. She leaned over and hugged him, holding him tight.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too, Mom.”
Silver and gold signs with company names next to the doorway on Mäster Samuelsgatan. Koen pressed all the buttons on the intercom except one. The door buzzed and he went in. The elevator took him up to the third floor. He knocked on a tall white door, which was opened by a man who was getting ready to leave.
Koen recognized him from photographs.
“Ernst Lundwall?” Koen asked lazily.
“No,” Ernst said.
“Yes,” Koen said, showing him the submachine-gun under his jacket. Ernst took a step back, and Koen walked in and closed the door behind him.
“Ralph Hanke wants to see you,” Koen said, pointing the weapon at Ernst. “You need to pack some things,” he went on, pushing Ernst farther away from the door.
Miles had a funny feeling in his stomach. A tingle, he’d have said if he were a child. But he wasn’t, he was grown-up, and the time for tingles was long gone. But whatever it was, it was directly connected to Sanna, who was performing onstage in front of him.
The Other Son Page 9