Carlos looked at his ravaged face. Hector had done that. Maybe they were quits now.
Carlos turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom. No, they weren’t quits in any sense. He knew that in his heart. But his heart wasn’t the issue anymore, this was now about a great deal more than that. He went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, and drank a large glass. He wouldn’t call anyone for the time being; he’d give it a bit longer, see how things developed. Then he’d decide whose lap he wanted to sit on.
There was a mass of papers on the table. Hector was reading. On a chair opposite him sat Ernst the solicitor. Aron was sitting at the end of the table checking everything through twice.
“I’ve registered the companies in the West Indies and in Macao,” Ernst said. “The companies are registered as investment firms, owned by you, Thierry, Daphne, and your father. You have fifty-one percent, Adalberto has forty-five, which will come to you in the event of his death. The reverse applies should you predecease him, your share would go to him. Thierry and Daphne together own four percent and are listed as subscribers of the company. They’ve signed over power of attorney, which I’ve got here.…”
Ernst pushed four sheets of paper across the table.
“This gives you total control of payments in and out of the companies.”
Hector quickly signed the documents.
“What happens if both Dad and I die?”
“Then someone else will inherit everything. That’s up to you to decide. I’ve got the papers here; you just need to fill them in and sign them once you’ve decided who that person, or those people, should be.”
Hector glanced through the power of attorney. He picked up the papers, folded them, put them in an envelope, and placed them in his briefcase.
Aron’s cell phone rang.
“Yes?”
“We won’t manage to hit our targets,” Svante Carlgren said, and hung up on him.
He had called the number, he had given them information. Now they thought they had him. But that was wrong, he’d got himself a reprieve.
Mostly he just felt bad when he thought about the way that damn whore had deceived him. He wanted to get hold of her head and smash it against a wall, and tell her that no one, absolutely fucking no one had ever managed to get the better of Svante Carlgren. But she had. He sighed deeply and felt that he had been crushed. He also wanted to kill the man who had threatened him, he wanted to kill him truly and properly. Recently he had been able to think of nothing except how to get out of this predicament. He had weighed up his ideas, contemplating different groups: the Russian mafia, biker gangs … weren’t they who you called when you were in the shit? But neither of them would be able to help him, he could see that. He’d thought about shooting the man himself with his shotgun, the Purdey that he kept for hunting pheasant. Well maintained, in the gun cabinet in the cellar. Shoot the bastard in the face—two shots ought to be enough. But Svante knew that this wouldn’t work either; he’d get caught, everyone who acted in anger did.
Svante Carlgren dialed a number, an internal number for Östensson in the security division. Östensson picked up with a breezy “Yep?”
“This is Svante Carlgren.”
“I see! Good morning.”
“I’m calling with a question, it isn’t about the company, but a friend who needs a bit of help.”
“Oh?”
“Is that all right?”
“Yes … I don’t see why not.”
“You worked for a private security company before you came to us, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“How does that work?”
“It depends what you mean.”
“Did you used to track people down?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Were you flexible?”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Were you flexible, I can’t be more specific.”
Östensson was quiet for a second or so too long.
“I suppose I’d say that we were.”
“I’ve got a friend who needs help.”
“So you said.”
“Can you give me a name?”
“Zivkovic, Håkan Zivkovic.”
“Thank you.”
“Svante.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not trying to tell me something?”
Svante laughed.
“No, like I said … I want to help a friend who’s got himself in trouble, but I understand that you have to ask.”
Svante hung up and dialed Håkan Zivkovic, and introduced himself as King Carl XVI Gustaf. He said he needed help finding a man whose name he didn’t know, but described him and gave details of the car he had been driving.
“We’ll do our best to help you, but your anonymity will cost you extra.”
“Why?”
“Because it will.”
“I see.”
Håkan gave Svante the number of a bank account and Svante promised that the money would be in Håkan’s account the following day.
In a practically empty apartment out in Farsta seven trustworthy individuals were sitting in front of computers and short-selling Ericsson shares through 136 different agents via encrypted connections. They spiced up their transactions with various financial options to provide extra leverage on the falling price of Ericsson shares. They were finished by five. Shortly afterward the stock market closed, and Ericsson’s value had remained largely unchanged throughout the course of the day.
Aron and Hector oversaw the whole business. They split up and slept badly that night, then reconvened with the seven trustworthy individuals in the same apartment the following morning.
The morning news was on the television set in the apartment. The female anchor sounded serious as she discussed Ericsson’s inaccurate forecasts in Asia and other things that none of them really cared about. The silent nervousness that had set in after the previous day eased slightly. When the stock market opened at nine o’clock, Ericsson’s shares fell sharply. They set to work buying back the shares and got rid of the options and warranties they had bought the day before. They looked happily at the computer screen showing the behavior of Ericsson’s shares—the graph looked like a ski slope. They made an enormous amount of money.
18
At nine o’clock in the evening the doorbell rang. He was standing outside with a paper bag from the market in one hand and a bottle of bubbly in the other. Hector’s smile was genuine, as if he had won something. A whole host of thoughts was flying through her head. Albert … Jens is somewhere around … the microphones … Not now …
“I’ve brought food,” he said, holding up the bag in his left hand.
She tried to smile at him. “Hello, Hector. What brings you out here?”
“I didn’t want to eat alone.”
“Aron?”
“He’s here somewhere.”
Sophie looked over his shoulder.
“Come in.”
They were sitting in the kitchen. She had laid out glasses, plates, and cutlery. Hector had unpacked the food on the table. They picked at the food in the tubs, drank the Champagne, and chatted idly. Sophie was constantly aware of the microphone fixed to the kitchen lamp above them. The situation was wearing on her nerves, but to her relief he was the same as usual. A friend who had popped in with some food. He made no attempt to make veiled references, he was generous, inspiring a sort of calm. He looked more at her mouth than her eyes when she spoke.
“See how easy it is,” he said.
She took a bite.
“What’s easy, Hector?”
“Sitting here like this, you and me.” His tone of voice was different now, more serious.
She started to get worried, and gave a little smile.
“Yes … it’s easy.”
“Sophie?”
“Yes?”
He tried to find the right words.
“I’ve been thinking of getting a present for you,
maybe some jewelry.…”
She started to interrupt, but he held his hand up to indicate that he wanted to finish first.
“I’d like to offer you something personal, a trip, or tickets to the theatre, or a walk and lunch, I don’t know. But every time I make my mind up, I start to worry. Worries that say that this jewelry, or that play, or whatever it is, isn’t you. That you’re something else, something I don’t know, something I can’t have, no matter how much I try. So I don’t dare. I don’t dare make a mistake because I’m frightened of losing you.”
She was staring down at her plate, took a bite of something, deliberately not making eye contact with Hector.
He whispered to get her attention.
“When are we going to have a serious conversation? Talk about us, about everything that’s happened.…”
“Hello?”
The voice came from behind them. Suddenly Albert was standing there in the kitchen, like a gift from heaven, looking curiously at Sophie, then Hector.
“Hello, Albert.”
“Hello?”
“This is Hector.”
“Hello, Hector,” Albert said neutrally, taking a plate from the cupboard and cutlery from the drawer. Hector’s eyes followed him. Albert sat down at the table without any awkwardness, and briefly met Hector’s gaze.
“Hector? Isn’t that a dog’s name?” he asked as he put food on his plate, with a little spark behind his eyes.
“Yes,” Hector said. “It is, it’s a dog’s name. And Albert? I seem to remember we once had a donkey named that.”
Then they started talking and joking, as if they knew exactly what each other’s sense of humor was like, as if they’d always known each other—a sort of affinity that they probably weren’t even aware of themselves.
Hector laughed, Albert laughed and talked. Sophie looked on with a cheerful smile and a sense of great dread.
It was a warm evening. Jens was sitting on a bench in Stocksund Square. A group of dressed-up youngsters wearing graduation caps went past. A girl with a bottle in a brown paper bag was having trouble keeping her balance in her high heels. She shrieked as she spoke, but the others didn’t seem to be listening to her.
Jens was waiting for more darkness, but it was taking its time. He waited until the intoxicated youngsters were out of sight before picking up his flat black rucksack, standing up, and making his way through the narrow streets toward Sophie’s house. He passed it at a distance and made his way up a hill, into a garden where he had a good view of the whole area. The family didn’t seem to be home. Little evening lamps shone in different parts of the house—that seemed to be the rule out here when houses were left empty. Jens went up to the bushes at the top of the lawn, slid in among them, lay down on his stomach, pulled a pair of binoculars from his rucksack, and scanned the area.
He located the Saab, adjusted the focus, and saw a man in the driver’s seat. The car was parked on its own, among some trees. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking. Jens looked around the car with the binoculars, trying to find anything unusual. He widened his search and checked a larger radius, looking for any other people. Nothing.
His plan was simple, to get closer, photograph the man from a distance, and then identify him with Harry’s help. That was where he’d start.… The man in the car was most likely a cop. But Jens couldn’t work on probability anymore. He needed solid facts to make any sense of this whole business.
Jens lowered the binoculars and looked toward Sophie’s villa. He could see movement through the kitchen window and raised the binoculars again.
Hector Guzman came into focus. He was the last person Jens expected to see there. Hector, Sophie, and Albert were sitting around the table. Hector? That must mean that Aron was somewhere nearby? Where? Jens checked the area again, quickly and intently. The man in the Saab was to the west of Sophie’s house, Jens to the north. He looked south and east: no parked car, and no Aron anywhere. Back to Sophie’s kitchen. Hector was out of sight. Then the Saab again, and back to the eastern part of the area. If Aron was here, then the situation had changed dramatically.
And he was here. Jens saw him through the binoculars, walking along a road off to the east. He was strolling along, on a direct collision course with the cop in the Saab. Jens followed Aron through the binoculars, working through possible scenarios in his head. He concluded that there was only one thing to do. He looked at Aron, then at the Saab, trying to figure out the distance, and how much time he had as a result. It was a matter of seconds, no more. And he couldn’t take the most direct route … and he’d have to stay hidden. And Aron was good at hearing people creeping about. Fuck.
Jens got to his feet and began running along the hillside, parallel to Aron, who was walking along the road below. He speeded up, and as a result made more noise. But that was a risk he had to take, he had to get there first, ideally well in advance. And he had to approach the car from behind in order to get himself under cover by the time Aron got there. So he ran in a broad circle, the distance was about twice as far as it was for Aron. He needed to move more than twice as fast as Aron … and silently.
Jens ran through the undergrowth, across several gardens, then found himself parallel to the car parked below. He tried to find Aron, couldn’t see him, and began to swerve down the hill in a wide arc. Jens was heading due south, down a slope covered in dew-damp grass, with the Saab to the west of him. He slipped and slid, somehow stayed on his feet, and rushed toward the Saab. Now he could see that Aron was heading straight toward him and the car. Jens had some twenty yards ahead of him where he would have no cover at all. He crouched as best he could and hurried toward the car from behind. He hoped the man inside was busy, that he wouldn’t look in the rearview mirror … and that he was sufficiently low to escape Aron’s notice.
Jens aimed at the back door, praying to God that it was unlocked. He grabbed the handle and pulled—Thank you!—then threw himself into the backseat, keeping his head low behind the driver’s seat.
“Drive away from here now!”
The man was calm and still.
“What?”
“Start the car and drive, Guzman’s bodyguard is heading this way right now!”
Jens raised his head a little and saw Aron approaching. The man behind the wheel seemed slightly retarded.
“Look left!”
The man did so. And then he seemed to realize.
The Saab started up and tore off. Jens stayed as close to the floor as he could. He opened his rucksack and pulled out his Beretta 92, then jammed it into the man’s side.
“Move the rearview mirror.”
It took a few seconds for the man to understand, then he twisted the mirror on the windshield.
They drove around for a while. The man seemed strangely calm.
“Give me your wallet.”
“I’m a police officer,” he said groggily.
“What’s your name?”
“Lars.”
“Lars what?”
“Vinge.”
Jens stuck the barrel of the gun behind his ear.
“Your wallet.”
It was on the dashboard. Lars reached over for it, then bent his arm back so Jens could take it.
“Your phone …”
Lars gave him his cell. Jens put everything in his pocket. Then he asked for the man’s gun, which he unloaded. He put the magazine in his trouser pocket and dropped the pistol on the floor.
“Where are we going?”
“Just drive.”
And Lars did. From his position behind the driver’s seat Jens couldn’t figure out where.
“Who are you?” Lars asked.
Jens didn’t answer.
“Why did you warn me?”
“Shut up.”
They circled aimlessly around the streets for a quarter of an hour before Jens told him to stop.
Lars pulled over to the edge of the road and stopped. Jens reached forward and took the key from the ignitio
n.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” he said, then got out of the car, leaving Lars with a thousand questions. Jens hurried away from the Saab and into the undergrowth of a nearby garden.
When he was out of sight he stopped and looked around. They were back in the area where Sophie lived. Her house was two blocks away. The cop had been driving around and around in circles.
Jens made his way quickly back to his car in the square. He wanted to get away from there, didn’t want to risk bumping into Aron or Hector. He got behind the wheel and headed off toward the Inverness junction and onto the main road. He pulled the identity card from the wallet, police ID: Lars Vinge. He looked at the photograph, it was the same guy. He put the ID card back in his pocket, took out Vinge’s cell phone, and began to look through the contacts. He found a few first names: Anders, Doctor, Gunilla, Mom, Sara … but that was all—an unusually thin list of contacts. Jens checked the last numbers dialed and the last calls received. Lars didn’t use his phone much, there were just a few calls to Gunilla. He looked at the list of missed calls, three from Sara and two from Unknown Caller.
The Andalucian Friend: A Novel Page 26