by Alex Archer
He needed to get out of there.
The glimmerings of an excuse formed in his mind: he could tell them that he’d tried to open up the tomb himself because he was impatient, and even go so far as to admit a little glory hunting, before he stopped himself. It might cost him his job on the dig, maybe even his tenure at the university if word got out, but it would deflect attention from the truth. He just needed to make the sword disappear, and for that to happen he needed help.
But he had no idea who he could trust.
* * *
ANNJA SLEPT LIKE the dead.
Even the insistent beep of her alarm clock didn’t rouse her until it had escalated to the point where the guest in the room next door was banging on the wall. She killed the alarm and lurched out of bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress, knuckling sleep out of her eyes. She didn’t exactly feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She’d set her phone to silent and turned off the vibrate function before hitting the sack last night, knowing that someone in New York was bound to forget the time difference and wake her up. The first thing she did was check for missed calls.
Five were showing, from two numbers.
Doug Morrell had called four times.
The fifth was from a number she didn’t recognize. It had a Swedish prefix, meaning it originated inside the country.
She wandered across to open the curtains while she checked her voice mail.
Looking out on the unfamiliar city she was left with a strange sense of dislocation. It took her a moment to realize which hotel room she was in, in which city; there had been so many over the past few years that it wasn’t always easy to tell one from another as they all sort of blurred together.
Annja yawned.
“Hello, Annja? It’s Lars. Lars Mortensen. We met at the dig today. You said you wanted to take a look at anything we found....” There was a long pause, like the speaker didn’t really want to go on and was fighting himself. She half expected him to hang up. She checked the cruel red glow of the time on the alarm clock while she listened to his mumbling. It was only a little after five, but the room was filled with bright daylight. The city was waking up slowly, too. “I’ve found something,” he said at last. “And I don’t know what to do with it. Can you call me when you get this, please? I need to talk to someone and I’m not sure who I can turn to so...you’re the lucky winner of tonight’s lottery. Oh, right...it’s early... Sorry if I woke you.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the halfhearted apology that ended the call. The message was time coded at 4:32 a.m. It was a ridiculous time to phone anyone.
So what had driven him to call at 4:32 rather than just wait for her to arrive at the site at 8:00 a.m. like the rest of them?
There was only one way to find out.
Annja hit redial and called him back.
“Annja?”
“Hi, Lars, thanks for the wake-up call,” she said. “It’ll cost you a decent cup of coffee.”
“Sorry. I—”
“Couldn’t wait to talk to me? I have that effect on men. Well, once in a while, anyway. What’s on your mind?”
“We’ve found something.”
“You mentioned. You don’t sound thrilled. It’s not a clay pot, I take it?”
“No. It’s not. But it’s best you see it for yourself and make up your own mind, rather than me just tell you what I think it is. Can I meet you somewhere?”
“Now that’s what I call an offer you can’t refuse. When and where?” There was something about his voice...he sounded agitated. It took her a second to realize he was on the move. She heard a car door slam on the other end of the line.
“There’s a café,” he said. “Does a decent breakfast.” He reeled off directions to a place down by the central station. “As soon as you can make it.”
“Give me an hour,” she said, despite the fact the address was only a couple of streets away. It wouldn’t take long to get showered and dressed; she’d just put her wet hair up and head out. She didn’t worry about makeup and making herself presentable; she was very much a take-me-as-you-find-me kind of woman.
“Let’s double down, last one there buys breakfast,” she said.
“You’ve got a head start,” Lars said, his voice a little more relaxed at least.
“Of course I have, no one said I had to play fair. See you soon,” Annja promised, and hung up.
He hadn’t spelled it out, but he didn’t need to.
He wasn’t happy about whatever it was he’d found.
They’d only opened the ground a few hours ago; what could he possibly have unearthed in that time that had him so conflicted?
She thought about calling Johan, but the cameraman wasn’t going to thank her for waking him this early so she decided to let him sleep in.
It was only when she was heading out the door that she knew what had been bothering her: why meet at a café? Any find would still be at the site, surely?
What are you up to? Annja wondered, walking out into the early morning to the chorus of traffic sounds, schoolkids and commuters.
* * *
HIS HAND WAS in agony.
Lars slid into the driver’s seat of his car.
He had done his best to apply a field dressing and bind it up once he’d rinsed it in half a bottle of Evian water, but the blood still oozed from the wound and his was getting light-headed from the blood loss and lack of food. He needed to get it seen to but he couldn’t waste time with hospitals until he had done something with the broken sword. No one ever died from a cut hand, he told himself, refusing to think about septicemia and all of the bacteria that could have been festering down in that hole. First matter of the day was getting Nægling out of Thorssen’s reach; he’d worry about his hand and his shoulder and all of those little cuts after that. He was banking on Annja’s connections to get the broken sword out of the country until the election was over and it was no use to the politician. What happened after that was a bridge to be crossed when they came to it.
He couldn’t even say why he trusted her, but he did. It certainly wasn’t because of the quality of her TV show; that was pure unadulterated drivel for the most part. But while those around her showed no discernible ethics she’d not resorted to their cheap tactics. That was something, wasn’t it? It suggested a level of investment in the subject. It wasn’t just about making history sexy; it was about getting to the truth. He liked that about her. She wasn’t a sensationalist, and right now a level head was exactly what he needed. It almost didn’t matter if she looked at the sword and decided it wasn’t Nægling. It had been found in the barrow where the legends insisted Beowulf had been buried; people would believe what they needed to believe. It was Nægling if they wanted it to be Nægling.
More than anything, he wished they’d refused Thorssen’s money and found some other way to finance the dig. He wished he’d ignored the man’s promises to use his connections to secure the hitherto impossible permissions and just continued to bang his head against that metaphorical brick wall.
He looked at himself in the rearview mirror.
Lies. All lies.
He wouldn’t have traded the discovery for anything in the world. The only thing he really wished was that it wasn’t “dirty,” and Thorssen’s involvement made it feel dirty. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he said to the man in the mirror, but even he didn’t believe him. He’d made a choice. He’d always known Karl Thorssen’s agenda; he’d just chosen to ignore it to get what he wanted out of the deal with this particular devil. It was only now that he was regretting it, because the sword so obviously served Thorssen’s agenda.
Which was why he was considering this plunder, faking an empty tomb rather than deliver the fabled sword into Thorssen’s hands. It was better to look like a fool than feed a fascist.
The two shards of the broken sword were on the backseat in a black garbage sack. It wasn’t the noblest manner of transportation, but it hid the contents from casual view.
He felt the slick, blood-wet ba
ndage on his hand sticking to the leather of the steering wheel.
He’d already taken more painkillers than he should have, but they weren’t dulling the pain.
He pulled up onto a grass verge to check the dressing.
There was nothing he could do with it except unwrap it, teasing the gauze away from the bloody cut before it clotted into the wound, and wrap it again, hoping that would help. He could see the bone and the white of shorn ligaments where the strange plate had sliced clean through the heel of his hand. No wonder it hurt.
He switched on the radio but the news bulletin was still full of talk and speculation about the bombing at Thorssen’s rally and the last thing he wanted to do was think about Karl Thorssen so he turned it off again.
The roads were almost deserted, which was unsurprising given the hour and the remoteness of the barrow. He had been driving for another ten minutes before he noticed the car in his rearview mirror. It held back at first, but slowly closed the gap between them.
Lars Mortensen tried to concentrate on the road opening up before him, but he could only think about the car chasing him on the road behind.
5
Lars Mortensen slammed his foot down on the gas.
He really didn’t like the fact the car was riding his tail so hard; it was stupid and dangerous. If the joker wanted to pass, he should just pass. Conditions were good, the road wasn’t wet, and like most roads in Sweden it was wide because they were designed to be able to function as emergency runways for planes during wartime should the need arise. He knew the road well enough; there weren’t any tricky bends up ahead. He gestured in the rearview mirror for the guy to pass, but he didn’t: he just tucked in a foot or so behind Lars’s fender and gassed his engine intimidatingly even as Lars accelerated.
He watched the needle on the dial climb.
The sound of the engine changed as he shifted gears.
The black car behind maintained the same far-too-close distance.
There were two men in it, both staring straight ahead fixatedly. Staring at him. It wasn’t just his imagination; he could feel the heat of their eyes burning into him. It didn’t matter how hard he pushed the car, they maintained that same intimidating gap. This wasn’t just a couple of guys being jerks, either. Were they part of Thorssen’s mob? Was that it? Did he somehow know Lars was trying to spirit away his treasure?
Or was that just paranoia talking?
He took his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to slow down slightly.
He didn’t want to hit the brakes—yet. Doing that would cause his lights to flare and tip his hand. Better they think he’s just a slow or erratic driver.
They slowed their pace to match his.
He gripped the wheel tighter. The pain in his hand increased fourfold with the added pressure. The salt from the sweat in the palm of his hand worked its way into the wound, stinging. He gritted his teeth against the swell of agony as his vision swam. He refused to black out, fighting to stay focused as he let the car drift toward the side of the road.
The engine began to strain, whining because it was in the wrong gear, threatening to stall out. He pushed in the clutch and it quit complaining, then slammed on his brakes, forcing the car behind him to pull out and maneuver around him or crash. It slid past at speed, the passenger glaring across at him as it did. The driver cut right across Lars’s path, forcing him to slam on the brakes again or plow into the side of them.
Thinking fast, he rammed the gearshift into reverse and tried to get out of there as the passenger door opened. His tires screeched, spitting rubber, and the engine stalled out. Lars twisted the ignition key, jamming down on the gas, only for it to sputter and die again.
The passenger walked toward him. He didn’t run. He was a brick wall of a man in a dark suit, a clone of every villain from every bad movie Lars had seen in the movies, but no less intimidating for it.
He leaned in and tapped on the window, his signet ring rattling on the glass.
Lars couldn’t move.
He couldn’t even check if the car doors were locked.
He was frozen in place by fear. There wasn’t a single muscle in his body that would obey him. It was all he could do to breathe.
It was the pain that finally broke through to end his paralysis. He turned the key over again, shaking like a leaf. The tapping was more forceful the second time it came and he heard a muffled, “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Mortensen,” as he fumbled with the key again. “Open up.”
Reluctantly, Lars opened the window a crack. It wasn’t exactly meeting the goon halfway, but he hoped it’d buy him a few seconds to think.
“Leave the key alone, Mr. Mortensen,” the goon said, leaning in close to the cracked window. By repeating his name he was laying down a none-too-subtle hint that he knew exactly who Lars was and what he was doing. “I think it might be a good idea if you turned around and went back to the site, don’t you?”
“Who are you?” Lars said. It came out more as a plea for knowledge than a demand.
“It doesn’t really matter who I am, does it? All that matters is that you don’t do anything stupid. Stupidity can be very dangerous for your health, Mr. Mortensen.”
The car started suddenly, catching Lars by surprise. His hands had been working at the key without him thinking about it.
“Don’t,” the goon said. One word, filled with menace.
That one word said it all.
Lars threw the car back into gear and stamped the gas to the floor, sending his car lurching back.
“You don’t want to do that,” the goon called out, still calm, still full of menace.
That was when Lars realized the driver hadn’t been sitting by idly twiddling his thumbs—even as he tried to peel away from the makeshift roadblock the driver of the black car floored the gas, fishtailing around in a crazy hand-brake turn, and rammed him full-on.
The impact threatened to drive Lars off the road.
The engine grunted and died.
The windshield shattered, showering Lars with fragments of glass.
His hands moved frantically, but he couldn’t get the car moving again.
“I asked you not to,” the goon said. There was a gun in the guy’s hand and it was pointing straight at Lars’s face. They were no more than three feet apart. There was no way he could miss. “I’m done asking.”
6
The café was nice enough, hand-painted forest scenes on one wall, a rather Rubenesque nude reclining on another. It took Annja a while to recognize the full-figured beauty was actually the woman behind the counter. She smiled as she ordered her latte, admiring anyone who could put themselves out there like that. There were other pictures and hand-painted signage promising forty blends of coffee and a vast array of unhealthy eating options. She refused to give in to temptation, no matter how good the pastries looked. It was too early for anything apart from toast.
There were three other couples in the place, and one lone diner. Lars had not arrived yet.
Some sort of soft jazz hummed in the background, perfectly in keeping with the boho-chic furniture.
Annja checked her watch. Not much time had passed since Lars’s call. She took a seat by the window to wait.
And wait.
She didn’t know any of the tunes, and couldn’t read the newspaper on the counter, so all she could do was people watch as customers came and went, ordering their nonfat skinny lattes and caramel mochaccinos to go.
She could have stayed in bed for another hour, she realized, polishing off the ice-cold dregs in her cup. She wasn’t impatient, but it didn’t take that long to get from the dig site to town. Forty minutes tops. And he’d already been on the road. Of course she was assuming he’d been at the site when she’d called him. It had been ninety now, if the clock on the wall was anything to go by.
She decided on a refill and a cake, and promised herself she’d give Lars another half hour, and then she was off to the site to see what what was going on
.
Annja finally decided she should call him, just to be sure she hadn’t gone to the wrong café. The city was full of them, after all. Though surely he would have called her....
She punched in his number.
“What is this, treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, Lars? I’m here. Where are you? Call me, okay?” she told his voice mail. “I’m on my second cup of coffee and I’m about to gorge myself on cake. This isn’t good. There’s only so much temptation I can resist. If I put on twenty pounds, you’ll pay—just remember that.”
She hung up and put the phone on the table in front of her.
“Boyfriend trouble?” the owner asked, offering a sympathetic smile.
“Nothing that a slice of carrot cake won’t fix,” she said.
“That’s lucky, then, considering,” the owner said, putting a hefty slice of carrot cake on the table in front of her.
Annja jammed her fork into the middle of the carrot cake and pulled it apart.
“That’s the spirit,” the woman said, and left her to it.
Annja smiled. If it had been a date she’d have been out of there an hour ago. Work was different. So she waited, concentrating on the carrot cake, which had just the right amount of sweet to take her mind off being stood up.
The pleasure was interrupted when her phone began to vibrate against the tabletop. The screen lit up with Lars’s number in the middle of the display.
Annja picked it up and, without missing a beat, said, “You get lost?”
There was a long silence before a slightly accented male voice spoke. “Who is this, please?”
Annja gave her name without thinking. “Who is this?”
“This is the police, Miss Creed. Are you a friend of Mr. Mortensen’s?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m doing a segment about the dig that Lars...Mr. Mortensen is working on.”
“Dig?”
“Yes, the archaeological dig at Skalunda. You might have seen it on the news last night? Karl Thorssen broke the ground? I was due to meet Lars this morning.”