The Stolen Angel

by Sara Blaedel

  Before clicking into his seat belt he found a church recital among the CDs in the glove compartment, Michala Petri on the recorder, accompanied by Lars Hannibal, and seconds later the music flowed soothingly from the Bose system’s ten speakers. He turned the car around and went back to the highway, accelerating down the ramp in the direction of Roskilde.

  He felt himself relax as the car picked up speed. He ran through the checklist in his mind, satisfying himself he had everything he needed. The silicone hardener was in the trunk together with the tubs of silicone he had planned to take with him to the recycling station and dump in the chemicals bin.

  The streets of Roskilde were empty. It was as if the whole town shut down when the shops closed at five thirty. He pulled into the inner yard behind the hotel and parked parallel to the wall, sitting for a moment to steel himself before getting out and stepping around to open the trunk.

  The hypodermic was concealed in the space meant for the spare tire, wrapped up in Kleenex. He removed the tissue carefully and wiped the long needle before unscrewing the top of the small, transparent bottle of hardener and filling the syringe.

  31

  He knew the hotel well enough to know that room 101 was one of their so-called Nordic rooms in the new wing. He slipped in through a side door so as to avoid reception and walked briskly up the stairs.

  The room was the first on the corridor. He was expected. No sooner had he knocked than the door was flung open and Carl Emil drew him inside, closing it just as quickly behind them.

  Miklos Wedersøe studied his client: His hair was tousled and his crumpled shirt untucked. Carl Emil was pale, disheveled, and clearly at his wit’s end.

  Instead of making any comment the attorney stepped forward to the great glass icon that was leaning against the desk.

  How divine it was, he thought, hardly listening as Carl Emil twittered on about his sister, how he had texted her and called off the exchange at 9 p.m., and about his niece, who was at home in his apartment in Hellerup.

  Miklos sat down on the bed, his ears ringing, his eyes unable to move from the colors in the glass. That same compelling effect that had drawn pilgrims in droves to the Hagia Sophia, he mused.

  “Have you informed your contact?” Carl Emil wanted to know, now restlessly pacing the floor. “Is the car ready in Hamburg?”

  “Yes, of course,” Miklos replied, though it was far from true. He had not had time to make the necessary calls. After he had received the message from Carl Emil he had focused only on getting back to Roskilde as quickly as possible. “What about the girl?”

  “She’s fine.”

  It surprised him that Carl Emil had mustered the courage. Granted, he had said all along that he would make sure his sister fell into line in the event that she refused to help them of her own free will, but courage was not a word he connected with Carl Emil Sachs-Smith. Rather, he was gullible and naive, doubtful qualities that nevertheless occasionally had their own advantages.

  It had certainly been the case the day he had obligingly handed over the key to his parents’ property along with the code for the alarm, having readily believed that his attorney needed to pick up some of his father’s papers. They had both been under the impression that his mother had accompanied her husband to Fyn. As it turned out, she had not. All of a sudden she had appeared in the doorway of the office in her nightdress and dressing gown and stood staring at him, clearly wondering what on earth he was doing.

  Foolishly he had been caught in the act, the icon already in his hands. That was before they understood it was only a copy.

  His surprise had been so great that he had struck the woman. Not once, but several times. His first thought had been to take her back home with him to the cellar, but she was far too old and quite unlike the others. It was not until he carried her up to the bedroom that he discovered the sleeping pills.

  He crushed them into a powder on the bedside table, dissolving them in the half glass of water that was there before forcing her to drink.

  The rest had been easy. He knew there was insulin in the bathroom. A tiny jab was all it took.

  He had taken care of a problem, and now he would do so again.

  * * *

  “Come on, let’s get it downstairs,” Carl Emil said again, his silly, screeching voice returning him abruptly to the present. “We’ll take your car to Hamburg.”

  Miklos merely nodded. How telling it was that the little rich boy would expect to use someone else’s car.

  “Were you thinking of taking it like that?” Miklos indicated the fusty, damp-stained cloth that lay on the floor, scuffed halfway underneath the desk.

  “Have you got any other suggestions?”

  “Why not take the sheet off the bed? We can leave the other one in your car before we go.”

  He watched Carl Emil as he stepped into the corridor and called the elevator up to the first floor. It would be stupid not to accept some help carrying the icon to the car, he thought. On the other hand there was bound to be someone downstairs who recognized the Sachs-Smith son. Especially now that his sister was all over the media.

  Miklos pulled the cover off the bed and tossed the duvets aside so he could remove the sheet. When Carl Emil returned to the room and stepped up to the icon he was prepared, throwing the sheet over his head from behind and instantly twirling it around Carl Emil’s throat.

  He might not even need the hypodermic, he thought, pulling the material tight with both hands.

  Carl Emil thrashed and lashed out. Miklos felt a searing pain as he received a vicious kick to the shin, yet managed to keep his distance as he hauled him over to the bed and forced him down.

  A gurgling rattle issued from Carl Emil’s throat as his fingers desperately scrabbled at the material in which he was being strangled. But Miklos’s hands were unyielding.

  Resistance ran its course, and then it was over: His arms flailed one last time, then dropped feebly to the bed.

  He did not much care for the wheezing of the larynx, nor indeed for the tremulous shudder that jolted through the torso and limbs. The body was lifeless, and yet in the grip of the nervous system’s final flourish, so impossible to decode: Was he dead, or was it still too soon?

  He could take no chances, certainly not now, and pulled the sheet still tighter.

  All movement subsided, and yet he persisted. His eyes returned to the icon. Its astonishing colors and the image of the archangel Gabriel holding his long, white lily. So emotional was the experience of beholding that the figure seemed almost physically to enter his being. Its sparkling silvers and blues, the scintillating shimmer of dark and light.

  He felt no pity for Carl Emil. He had given him no choice. Everything had its price, and he would not be alone.

  He remembered the myth.

  The Angel of Death, collecting the souls and returning them to God.

  32

  Rebekka was paler than before. She stood clutching the door for support, and for a moment Louise was afraid she was about to pass out.

  “Why are they calling it off all of a sudden?” she asked, her voice a sliver of despair.

  She had kicked off her flat shoes and her feet were now bare. It was as if she passed restlessly across the herringbone parquet without actually touching it.

  “They know we’ve got the icon. Why won’t they give me my daughter back?”

  Louise chewed on her lower lip and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied in all honesty.

  She had just had Rebekka’s ex-husband on the phone. Jeffrey was in a terrible state and wanted to come over to the house so he could keep up with developments firsthand. The suggestion had caused Rebekka to break down all over again.

  Thiesen had stepped in and closed the house off for as long as the negotiation unit was present, so now one of Nymand’s officers had been assigned to stay with the girl’s father, trying to calm him down while keeping him up to date.

  The tension was getting to Louise, too, though she
tried as best she could to keep it at bay. She sat with the Nokia in her hand. The message was brief and it was impossible to read anything into it other than what it said:

  9 p.m. canceled.

  She had replied asking for a new time. Palle had instructed her carefully: With the kidnappers calling things off so abruptly it was vital she hold back on forcing any new agreement before the morning; they needed time to fully prepare themselves so they could ensure that nothing happened to the girl.

  “Buy time and keep a level head,” he repeated, his hand on her shoulder.

  * * *

  Marybeth had been taken in for questioning at the police station but had now returned and had put some soft drinks and a plate of cookies out for them on the coffee table. She went around the living area switching on the big floor lamps with their elegant silk shades as darkness descended. A soft light spread through the rooms, and the girl drew the heavy curtains and switched on another lamp on the bureau.

  “I think we need to get hold of your brother and tell him the exchange tonight is off,” Louise said, closely observing Rebekka’s reactions. She saw that her shoulders had drooped and the look in her eyes was different in some way. Ever since Louise had entered the house, Rebekka had clearly been in a state of shock. Apathetic, she had sat staring into space, and it had been impossible for Louise to gauge what was going on behind her empty eyes. Until now that state had been interrupted only by sudden outbursts of rage in which she flared up at some piece of information, ripping into whoever happened to be nearest or taking Nymand to task for not doing enough to find her daughter.

  Her moods fluctuated, though mainly she seemed hardly to be present. Now she appeared even more despondent, as if something inside her had abandoned all hope of Isabella ever coming home again.

  “He said he was going to come, but that was over an hour ago. And now he’s not answering his phone,” she said with barely any emotion, sighing as if she were used to such behavior on her brother’s part.

  She crossed the floor and sank back into an armchair.

  “Can’t you try his number?” she asked, looking at Louise imploringly.

  Louise was momentarily taken aback but nodded even so. What good would it do her calling him? She went in to Thiesen in the other room and picked up the list of contacts. Palle had drawn it up when they’d first arrived. There was a little asterisk in black ink marking those they were monitoring.

  Carl Emil Sachs-Smith’s number was tagged with just such an asterisk.

  She called the number, only to be directed immediately to his voice mail. She left a message telling him to call back, then put the phone down on the table with a shrug.

  “Still no answer,” she said. “Do you know where he was when he called you?”

  Rebekka shook her head. “All he said was that everything was fine, he had the icon and it was nearby, so he could be here soon.”

  Louise nodded and went back to Thiesen and Palle in the far room.

  “Anything on his phone?” she asked.

  Thiesen shook his head. “It must be up and running now, though. I’ll get them to check.”

  “No contact,” Louise said with a sigh. “With either the kidnappers or the brother.”

  She ran a hand worriedly through her hair and could tell she wasn’t the only one who felt concerned. Thiesen’s lips had tightened, and a little frown had appeared.

  “To hell with these text messages,” he snapped. “Have you tried calling?”

  Louise nodded. “It’s switched off. Either that or there’s just no connection. Maybe they turn it off when they’re not using it. Presumably they realize we’ll be trying to find out where they’re calling from.”

  Thiesen nodded and rubbed his temples absently with the tips of his fingers.

  “Does Nymand know the exchange is off?” Louise asked, looking at Palle, who dealt with all communication with the chief superintendent.

  “I think so, let me just check.”

  He picked up his cell phone and called the number, but was shaking his head even before finishing the call.

  “No,” he said into the phone, “we haven’t received any new instructions, we’re just waiting.”

  “And Sachs-Smith senior’s in transit, so we can’t get hold of him, either,” Thiesen added across the desk.

  Louise nodded.

  “How did Carl Emil get hold of the icon, do we know?” she asked, looking at her colleagues in turn.

  “No idea, but the old man phoned Nymand from nowhere insisting his son take care of the exchange. If the chief super would promise him that much, he’d make sure the icon was retrieved and ready at the appointed time.”

  Louise leaned against the windowsill, listening with the increasing feeling that something was wrong. There was a hidden agenda somewhere, but she couldn’t work out what it was and the fact was beginning to annoy her.

  It was there in Rebekka’s eyes and in Walther Sachs-Smith’s decision to make the exchange without police involvement, though he must have realized there would be quite some risk in doing so.

  “I don’t know how he got it organized, but it must have been over the phone,” Thiesen mused. “Now we just need those bastards to give word again.”

  Louise nodded and suddenly felt rather sure she knew who had retrieved the icon.

  “I need to step out for a bit,” she said, grabbing her coat and asking them to keep an eye on the Nokia for a few minutes while she was gone.

  * * *

  “They’ve called it off,” Louise said into the phone when Camilla answered her call.

  “Called what off?”

  “The exchange. The icon for Isabella Sachs-Smith.”

  “What about the girl? Is there any indication she’s still alive?”

  “None; it’s been ages since we last heard. They’ve gone completely silent. And we can’t get in touch with Carl Emil, either,” she explained, waiting for a second to allow her friend to pitch in with some information, but Camilla said nothing.

  “Where’s the icon, and where’s he?”

  “How long have you been trying to get hold of him?” Camilla asked instead of answering the question.

  Louise could hear noises in the background, a door being closed, followed by footsteps.

  “Are you outside?” she asked.

  Another door, this one heavier, an entrance door slamming shut, and Camilla running.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Have you tried calling where he lives?” Camilla asked breathlessly. Louise heard her getting into a car, the ignition being turned and the engine starting.

  “Camilla, you know where the icon is. Where are you going?”

  “Give me half an hour, I’ll call you back.”

  “No, absolutely not. Tell me where you’re going. The girl’s eight years old and we’ve got no contact. You’ve got to work with us on this. Rebekka’s not saying anything and there’s obviously something going on that we don’t know about. Something they haven’t told us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just know there’s something going on that we haven’t been involved in, and if you know what it is you’d be completely irresponsible keeping it to yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Camilla responded.

  “How many people know where the icon is now?” Louise probed in a more settled voice.

  “None.”

  “I’m scared there’s something going on that you don’t know about, either. I think there are several people involved and most likely they’ve taken you for a ride.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. No one’s taken me for any ride. I’ve spoken to Walther, and yes, I know where the icon is. And my guess is that Carl Emil is with it, so give me half an hour.”

  “You tell me where it is and tell me now, otherwise I’ll put a search out for your car,” Louise insisted, fully aware she had nothing on Camilla that would warrant such an action. “Maybe you know where t
he girl is, too? If you do, perhaps I can have her picked up and returned to her mother while you’re off playing Wonder Woman?”

  “That’s enough!” Camilla retorted, finally sounding like Louise had gotten to her.

  “She’s eight years old,” Louise repeated, stressing every word.

  The response came after a silence:

  “The icon’s in a room at the Hotel Prindsen, and a couple of hours ago Carl Emil was, too.”

  33

  He wasn’t normally the kind of person who allowed himself to stress about matters. He did not care for it, and nothing good ever came of it. But now was different.

  The Angel of Death was in the trunk of his car. He had moved the silicone tubs up in front of the passenger seat. His heart thumped in his chest and he was sweating. He had no idea how much time he had before the police put a warrant out for his arrest.

  He had to prioritize. And priority number one was to make sure he was safe. He needed some leverage in case he had to negotiate.

  Before getting into the car he satisfied himself again that he had the keys he had taken from Carl Emil’s coat pocket.

  Beads of perspiration dislodged from his neck and trickled uncomfortably down his back. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and looked quickly away.

  How unlike him his reflection seemed. A flustered, discomposed individual, flushed and sweating. The very sight made him sick to his stomach.

  He filled the car with music and drove out through the gate, leaving the hotel behind him. For a brief second he took his foot off the accelerator and closed his eyes, savoring the tones that enveloped him so warmly, then sensing the first spark of pleasure. It was a stubborn pleasure that encroached upon his unease like weeds taking over a garden. The only difference was that in this case it was the opposite: The pleasure was good, and the good smothered the bad.

  He breathed in deeply and exhaled gently as satisfaction kicked in.

  He had done it.

  Now all he needed was to take care of the remaining practicalities, though to be honest with himself this did not worry him unduly. The job was almost finished, he reasoned, and he drove away from Roskilde.