The prosecutor’s assistant typed any names Angela mentioned into a computer, where the databases did their job and pictures of the people appeared and were pinned up on a sort of bulletin board that was leaning against a sofa. In the center: Hector Guzman. In a circle around him: Aron Geisler, Leszek Smialy, Hasani, Sonya Alizadeh, Ernst Lundwall, and Sophie Brinkmann.
The prosecutor was sitting in an armchair, Angela and Gustave on chairs.
“What do you think happened there? Why didn’t Sophie Brinkmann and her son go with you?”
“I don’t know,” Angela replied. “It all happened so quickly. Hasani came up to the apartment and fetched us, told us it was urgent. We were bundled into his car and driven south.”
Gustave was studying the board and pointed at a photograph of Ernst.
“This one, the adviser, Ernst Lundwall. Where was he?”
“He came and went; he didn’t live there. I don’t think he was there that day. I don’t know.”
“Was his name ever mentioned by Leszek or Hasani?”
“No, they never talked about anything, just short phone conversations with Aron during the journey.”
Gustave scratched his head.
The prosecutor had been sitting there listening, and now she smiled apologetically at Angela.
“You’ve given us more than anyone could hope for, Madame Garcia. But there’s one thing missing. And you yourself are aware of what it is.”
Yes, Angela knew. There was no specific event that the prosecutor could build a case around.
Gustave went on again.
“We had been hoping we might be able to begin an investigation of Guzman from here. But we need to take a different route.”
“What route?” she wondered.
He pointed to the bulletin board.
“Sweden. That’s where the only investigation of any real significance into Hector Guzman has happened. A shootout at a restaurant in Stockholm six months ago. That was when he vanished.”
Gustave stood up, walked over to the board, and pointed at Sophie.
“If Ernst is the adviser, Hasani the bodyguard, and Leszek the middleman…” He turned to Angela. “How would you describe her?”
Angela thought for a moment.
“I don’t know. She was there because she had been forced into it. That’s what it felt like anyway.”
“Threatened?” Gustave asked.
Angela pursed her lips.
“Maybe. But on the other hand, she was also working for them. Sometimes she would disappear and then come back, and then have quiet meetings with Leszek. She was initiated into the secret things that were always going on around us. She had some sort of active role.”
Gustave turned back to the board and pointed to Sophie’s picture again.
“An active role? A central role?”
“Maybe,” Angela replied.
“What’s her connection to Hector?” the prosecutor asked.
“They had a relationship.”
Gustave raised his eyebrows.
“Hector was run down on a pedestrian crossing in Stockholm by a rival criminal gang that he was feuding with—Germans, I think they were. He was taken to the hospital, and spent a while there. Sophie Brinkmann was one of the nurses on his ward. That was how they met.”
Gustave made a noise to indicate that he was curious.
“Then what?”
“As I understood it, their relationship continued.”
“What sort of relationship?”
“I don’t know, but they were very close to each other. Sophie was in the same car as Hector when they were attacked on the way to Marbella. She’s been working closely with Aron and Leszek while Hector’s been in a coma.”
Gustave turned to the prosecutor and pointed at the board.
“I’ll organize an international warrant for her.”
“Because…?” the prosecutor asked.
“Because if we were to target one person in this group…”
The prosecutor nodded.
“Of course. Madame Brinkmann.”
The jacket and new shirt Monica gave him for his birthday were hanging in the bedroom.
Tommy got dressed in front of the mirror on the inside of the closet door, buttoned the shirt, thought he looked fairly smart. The absence of drink hadn’t exactly made him better looking, but more sturdy. There was something solid about him. And he was planning to keep it that way.
Monica was sitting by the large terrace window with the oxygen tank to her right, staring out at a magpie hopping around in the snow looking for food. She pressed the mouthpiece to her face and breathed.
He went and stood in front of her, holding the lapels of the jacket.
“This is the one you gave me. Smart, isn’t it?”
He tried to smile, offer a little of himself. It didn’t work. Monica looked away.
The front doorbell rang out piercingly. The nurse aide stepped into the hall. She was a Thai woman, about a meter tall and a meter wide, chirruping as usual. Tommy could never remember her name.
Then a nurse came in, bringing with her a new wheelchair, and shook Tommy’s hand.
“Hello, I take it you must be Monica’s husband?”
“Tommy Jansson,” he said quickly, and made to leave.
“We’re supposed to be having a talk.”
“A talk?”
“Yes, we did inform you about it.”
“I see, I must have missed that. So, what’s the latest?”
“First, Monica’s going to get this wheelchair. Then we need to talk about respiratory care, and the fact that we’re probably going to have to put Monica on a permanent respirator soon,” the nurse explained to Tommy.
“I see,” he said.
—
They sat in the living room, the nurse, Tommy, and Monica. Monica in the new wheelchair.
The Thai woman was making coffee in the kitchen. The nurse laid out brochures and talked about the various procedures and options as far as respirators were concerned.
Tommy looked at his wife, and Monica met his gaze. They both knew what this meant.
Help me to go when the time comes….
She looked so gentle sitting there, Monica. How could he possibly do that? His Monica…
He felt sick.
Tommy excused himself when the aide came in with coffee on a tray.
He hurried into the bathroom and leaned over the toilet. He retched, but nothing came up.
The operation took six hours. Sophie had been fighting for her life.
Now she was lying awake but out of reach, heavily sedated, drifting through an in-between world.
“Will she be OK?”
The question came from Ejnar Larsen, a police superintendent from Kolding. He was standing at the foot of Sophie’s bed with her doctor, Vibeke Steen, in his police overcoat, because of the bad weather, but otherwise in plain clothes.
“The patient was technically dead when she arrived. Brain activity had ceased,” the doctor said. “We managed to revive her. Her injuries were extremely complicated. Whoever stabbed her knew what he was doing.”
“He?” Larsen wondered.
“Yes, he. When was the last time it was a she?”
“You can never be sure,” Larsen replied.
“Yes, you can. And I’m going to carry on saying he when we’re dealing with extreme violence like this.”
Larsen laughed. He knew women were capable of just as much.
“OK…”
Larsen was holding the passport that had been in Sophie’s pocket, as well as a pad he proceeded to read out loud from.
“Two men in a car handed her over to the paramedics on a road, and one of them went with her. Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“Have you seen anyone who might have anything to do with the woman?”
“I’m afraid not….According to her passport, she’s Swedish,” Dr. Steen said.
“Yes, so I see,” Larsen said.
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“And she shouldn’t have made it.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was dead when she came in, but something brought her back.”
“That honor belongs to you, surely?” Larsen said.
“Hmm,” she said, without conviction. “Well, it’s not over yet. We’ll have to see how she recovers.”
Larsen looked down at the passport.
“Are we done?” Dr. Steen asked.
Larsen seemed absorbed, but looked up.
“Yes, yes. Thanks very much for your help,” he said.
She walked toward the door. He went on staring at the passport.
“Excuse me,” Larsen called after her.
“Yes?” Dr. Steen turned around.
Larsen held the passport up to her. “Is this really the same person?”
She was taken aback by the question, but retraced her steps into the room.
Dr. Steen looked at the picture of Antonia Miller, then at Sophie in the bed.
“Hard to say,” she said.
Ejnar Larsen seemed irritated, and kept looking from the passport photo to Sophie.
“It might have got through customs OK,” he said, “but this isn’t the same person. The nose! Look at the nose.”
She shrugged.
“You’re the policeman,” she said. “I’m here all night if there’s anything else.”
She left the room.
Ejnar Larsen remained where he was, frowning to himself with the passport in his hand. He pressed the radio microphone that was attached to his left shoulder.
There was a crackle, then someone answered.
“Ejnar here. I want to check a Swedish ID number,” he said, then read the number out from the passport.
Denmark and Sweden shared their databases.
Ejnar Larsen waited, then was told that there was no such ID number.
“Try again,” he said, and read the number out once more. Then he asked them to search by name.
The same answer: there was no real person listed under either the number or the name.
“OK, thanks.”
The noise from the radio stopped.
Larsen sat down on a visitor’s chair and inspected the passport, holding it up to the light, checking the numbers and the way the photograph was laminated. He couldn’t tell if it was a forgery or not.
It would soon be evening, and he had no desire to do any overtime. He wanted to go home and play with the kids, pinch his wife’s bottom, and watch television. That English series about the country house…
Ejnar looked up at the woman in the bed. Who was she? Why was she lying there? Who wanted her dead?
He looked at her carefully. There was something classical about the way she looked. Privileged, perhaps. But something else, too…something good-hearted. Ejnar liked to think he could see things like that. Even if he knew how unlikely that was. But he still thought it…a sort of conviction that he could actually tell a lot about a person’s inner self just by looking at their exterior. And this woman had been a victim of something. Something she didn’t have any control over. He could tell. And in his world, people like that needed protection….
Well, that decides it, Ejnar thought. He called the duty officer at the station and explained the situation.
—
An hour later, two men from Forensics rolled in and photographed the patient, took DNA samples in the form of saliva and blood, and scanned her fingers to get some good, old-fashioned fingerprints.
A recently graduated police constable showed up half an hour after that and mumbled that he was going to be on guard at the door.
“Go ahead,” Ejnar Larsen said, gesturing to an empty chair. “Take that with you and go and sit outside the door. You know what to do?”
“Don’t let anyone in except hospital staff, and call in anything suspicious.”
“Good,” Larsen said authoritatively.
The constable went out, the pair from Forensics carried on for a few more minutes until they were finished, then they packed their equipment away in their cases.
“What happens now?” he asked one of them.
“We run everything through our system and then send it on to the Swedes. We’ll see if we get a response anywhere.”
Jens walked slowly along the corridor. A police officer was sitting on a chair outside Sophie’s room a short distance away.
Two plainclothes officers emerged, each carrying a rectangular case.
Forensics…Jens thought as he passed them. Dangerous. He assumed that Sophie’s fake ID had been blown. And if they were any good, they would soon figure out her real identity….
Jens passed the policeman on guard, then walked to the end of the corridor and out the other side.
Kennet Wessman was short and had cropped hair. He shook hands with Miles Ingmarsson at U Malého Glena, a pub a few blocks away from the Swedish embassy.
“Welcome to Prague,” Kennet said with a smile. “So you’re Miles, Ian’s brother. They say we’re supposed to have met a few times.”
He said this without any great conviction, then pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
“But that’s totally fucking irrelevant right now, isn’t it?” he went on.
“Completely irrelevant,” Miles said, sitting down opposite him.
“OK,” Kennet said, putting his hands on the table. “You seem to be in a bit of a mess. Personally, I’m not interested in knowing anything. But according to your brother, you need a job, apartment, and anonymity, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Miles said.
“What job do you want; what do you want to do?”
“Research. I need access to pretty much everything.”
“Internationally or just for Sweden?”
“Internationally.”
“This is going to be expensive. And you say ‘access to pretty much everything’—what do you mean by that?”
“Intelligence.”
Kennet looked surprised.
“I see. Well, that’s going to be even more expensive. And fucking risky.”
“What’s Ian told you?”
“He said he’d help me with the next step up the career ladder. But that I should take up the money side of things with you.”
“Give me a price for the job, anonymity, access to most files, and somewhere to live,” Miles said.
Kennet thought for a moment, turning things over in his head. Then he gave Miles a hefty six-figure number.
“OK,” Miles replied. “We need to sort out a doctor as well.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes, a general practitioner of some sort. With access to equipment and medication, someone who’ll keep their mouth shut. Can you do that? Then I won’t argue about the price.”
“Are you sick?”
“No, not me.”
Kennet Wessman didn’t ask anything else.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“That’s not enough.”
A pause.
“I’ll find a doctor,” Kennet said. “When, and for how long?”
“I’ll get back to you about that.”
They stopped talking, and everything else just lay there unsaid.
“Do you have your passport, Miles? The fake one?”
Miles handed him the passport. Kennet tucked it away in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Good, I’ll employ you under this name. You’re an IT technician, and will have access to pretty much everything in the embassy.”
“I don’t know anything about computers; what do I do if anyone asks?”
“You used to be a diplomat, didn’t you?”
Miles nodded.
“Then lie, for fuck’s sake. That’s what we do best.”
—
The Swedish embassy was just a few blocks north from the pub. They walked up the cobbled streets toward the Castle District.
Kennet pointed to a building to their right.
; “You’ll be living there; a friend of mine has an empty apartment, I’ve booked it for you.”
Everything was nice and close. Miles liked Prague.
Kennet Wessman led him into the embassy, then sorted out the details of his employment, and a pass card. Everything was prepared, and went very smoothly. Miles was starting to like him.
Then down into the basement, a dark corridor with a room at the end. No windows, three computers, standard-issue Swedish public-authority furniture, several servers, a kettle, and some instant coffee.
“Will this be OK?” Kennet asked.
The room was claustrophobic and nondescript.
“Couldn’t be better,” Miles said as he hung up his coat.
Jens and Mikhail strode into the hospital at twenty minutes past three in the morning. The blue-shirted policeman outside Sophie’s room was pouring coffee from the flask he’d brought with him. In his lap were a pen and a book: Kamikaze Sudoku.
He started to get to his feet when he saw the two big men rapidly approaching him.
“Stop,” he said loudly, fumbling for his holstered pistol. He went for his radio instead and tried to press it, realized that time was running out, and switched to the pepper spray kept in a leather pouch on his belt. His panic was the cause of his downfall. Mikhail grabbed him and dragged the police constable into the sickroom and laid him down on his stomach, taped his hands and mouth with electrical tape, then took him into the bathroom. He removed his pistol and radio, then closed the door.
Jens had released the brakes under Sophie’s bed and they rolled her out into the corridor and set off toward the rear entrance of the hospital.
Dr. Steen bumped into them as she emerged from the staff room.
“Stand still,” Jens said in Danish.
Vibeke froze, and looked first at Mikhail’s huge bulk, and then at the policeman’s pistol in his hand. Jens took her by the arm and led her to a medicine storeroom.
“Unlock it,” he said.
She did as she was told, her hand trembling as she found the right key on her key ring, put it in the lock, and opened the door.
Jens grabbed the keys from her hand and shoved her into the storeroom.
He was about to close the door when Vibeke said, “She’s in a very weak condition; she won’t make it if she doesn’t get treatment.”
The Other Son Page 32