Trophy

by Steffen Jacobsen

  *

  Lene watched Michael and suffered with him. His face had gone pale and drawn, and his hands, still holding the binoculars, were shaking. He had stopped breathing.

  ‘Who is it, Michael? Don’t forget to breathe.’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  The straight-backed man stopped fifteen metres from them. His grey eyes watched them with interest, but his mouth was a straight, anxious line under his moustache. His face was narrow and gaunt. He shifted his gaze from her to Michael, and the lines of his mouth and face softened. He folded his hands behind his back and nodded briefly, army-style.

  ‘Tell me how you do it, Mike?’ he asked very clearly in English.

  Michael smiled faintly, but he didn’t move.

  Lene took a step forwards, and the stranger immediately took one step back. Michael yanked her arm hard. The two men looked at each other, and not at her.

  ‘Do what, Keith?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re close to the North Pole in this godforsaken wasteland, and yet here you are in the company of a beautiful woman.’

  ‘I guess I’m just lucky. Lene is a police superintendent. What went wrong, Keith, and can they hear me?’

  Keith? Keith Mallory, Lene thought. Michael Sander’s friend. The trump card. She had known all the time he must have something up his sleeve; he was far too wise and experienced to walk into an ambush without having a backup plan.

  ‘They can’t hear us, Mike.’

  He held up his left hand. The last joint of his ring finger was missing.

  ‘Everything was fine until I bumped into them at Gardermoen Airport in Oslo. Old pictures from a forgotten past. My cover was blown immediately. They had really done their homework. All the arseholes I served with have written books about the regiment’s heroic deeds – including quite a few who were never even there. Pardon my French, miss, but they really were arseholes.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she mumbled.

  ‘They recognized me from a picture in a bloody book, Mike. That sodding finger I left behind in Iraq. So … Well, goodbye Magnusson, Norwegian-Scottish oil billionaire. An otherwise nice guy. S&W has done a fair amount of work for him over the years, so he was happy to have a doppelgänger for a couple of days. I’m the spitting image of him. Great idea of yours, Mike. And like you said, the money is good. But …’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect, Keith.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Keith Mallory laughed a mirthless laugh. ‘Do something to them, Mike. Especially the young one. He’s pure evil. A sick fucker.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Michael said.

  Michael Sander raised his head and looked over the Englishman’s shoulder to the higher ground, with moraine debris and willow thickets further up.

  ‘How many, Keith?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Where?’

  The Englishman smiled, but he didn’t move.

  ‘Somewhere right behind me. I’m sorry, Mike.’

  ‘So am I, Keith.’

  Mallory started to turn, to indicate a spot behind him, when the shot was fired. The bullet arrived at the same time as its echo. It hit the small man between his shoulder blades, then passed through his chest, and Lene heard and felt a spray of blood hit her face and clothing. The Englishman’s knees buckled and he stumbled forwards without trying to cushion his fall. His legs lay tangled under his body, and his arms parallel to his sides, as if he had fallen while kneeling in prayer.

  She started screaming, and looked down to her blood-splattered hands. She was about to run to the dead man when Michael grabbed hold of her. He was phenomenally strong and she couldn’t move.

  ‘Stand still, for Christ’s sake, woman!’ he hissed. ‘Look! Look, God dammit.’

  ‘What?!’

  Michael held his hand in front of her chest and caught a quivering red and a green dot in his palm.

  ‘Laser sights. Two of them. Right above your heart. Now do you understand?’

  She nodded and her legs nearly gave way under her.

  The red and green dots wandered up to the machine pistol she carried over her shoulder. Very carefully Michael removed it, emptied out the ammunition with exaggerated, slow movements and tossed it aside. The busy little dots dived down to the pistol in her hip holster and he repeated the procedure. The pistol pinged when it hit a stone some metres away.

  Then he meshed his fingers behind his neck and nodded to her.

  She copied him.

  ‘Michael, can’t we …?’ she began.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was your friend,’ she said, looking at the crumpled, immobile body.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what does it mean, Michael?’

  ‘Nothing. It means nothing at all. We’re finished. They won.’

  Two figures began to emerge from the rocks and the crippled willow bushes half a kilometre away. They strolled along at a leisurely pace. They had all the time in the world.

  Chapter 53

  Victor Schmidt walked at the front with long strides and he carried a hunting rifle in the crook of his elbow. He was wearing the same camouflage clothes that Michael had seen on Elizabeth Caspersen’s DVD and had found in Kim Andersen’s rucksack: jagged lines and patterns in white, grey and black, well-suited to northern Norway. He had put up the hood of the jacket and a pair of sunglasses hung from a string around his neck. Henrik Schmidt, wearing an identical outfit, followed behind him. He didn’t wear sunglasses and his blue eyes sparkled.

  Lene jumped when she recognized those eyes, and Michael prayed that she wouldn’t lunge at him. Henrik Schmidt carried a loaded army carbine in his hands. The barrel was pointing right at her stomach and the young man’s finger was on the trigger.

  Father and son stopped three metres away. Henrik Schmidt smirked and Victor Schmidt pushed down his hood. They spent a moment looking at the dead man.

  ‘I hope your daughter is better, Lene,’ Henrik Schmidt said. ‘You should have listened to us. I’ll find her again. I promise you. What’s left of her.’

  He grinned at the superintendent.

  Michael glanced at Lene out of the corner of his eye. Her body was rigid, her face deathly pale and her green eyes flat and icy.

  Victor Schmidt swung the rifle over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry about the girl,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It was unnecessary.’

  He shot his grinning son a disapproving look.

  ‘Henrik …’

  ‘Why don’t you introduce us to your friend?’ Michael interrupted him and nodded to the landscape behind them. ‘Thomas Berg.’

  Victor Schmidt peered at him and checked his wristwatch. Then he shrugged and murmured a few words into a VHF radio.

  ‘Yes, why don’t I? In fact, he ought to be here, we all should. I like neat endings, even though explanations are really for children.’ He smiled to Michael. ‘I have to hand it to you, Michael, you did a great job. In some respects. I can see why Elizabeth hired you. She’s a great judge of character.’

  ‘She didn’t know her father very well,’ Michael said casually.

  ‘Flemming?’

  Victor Schmidt stuck the radio into his jacket pocket and kept his hands there while a tall, powerful figure emerged from the willows five hundred metres away.

  ‘I knew Flemming,’ Victor Schmidt responded. ‘He would have liked you, Michael. He judged a man by his skills.’

  ‘My skills don’t appear to be worth much,’ Michael said, and his knees felt like rubber. ‘If they were, I’d be on a beach in the Seychelles rather than here.’

  He couldn’t help looking at Keith behind the two men’s legs; boundless grief and guilt threatened to overcome him. He thought like crazy about Sara and his children. It was like staring into a black wall.

  ‘Being outnumbered isn’t the same as incompetence,’ Victor Schmidt said kindly. ‘Any organization will usually beat an individual, Michael. Ultimately it’s a simple question of resources. Flemming … he was a remarkable man. I don’t
think I ever found out what drove him … and kept driving him … He never stopped until he had got what he thought he wanted, and he was fantastic at overcoming setbacks.’

  ‘And he enjoyed killing people,’ Michael added, and managed with a huge effort to keep his voice under control. ‘Right here, in fact. You all did. Caspersen, Allan Lundkvist, Robert Olsen, Kenneth Enderlein, Kim Andersen, Thomas Berg and … your son, Henrik, I presume?’

  Victor Schmidt nodded, and smiled faintly. His glass eye was aimed at the ground, while his working eye sized Michael up. There was something regretful in his manner. He wasn’t crazy like his son, Michael thought.

  ‘When you’re rich … when you’ve tried most things … I think you need to have experienced it to understand. Personally I never got it. That urge. I have to admit that. I didn’t join in, as you know. Never.’

  He gestured towards his son.

  ‘Henrik was different. He and Flemming were as thick as thieves. Always. Flemming took care of him while I looked after the business. I made Sonartek what it is today. Anyone can get a good idea, Michael. That’s the easy part. Bringing it to fruition takes talent, luck and hard work.’

  He fell silent and stared into space.

  ‘Flemming also took care of Jakob?’ Michael asked.

  A cloud passed over Henrik Schmidt’s sky-blue eyes. The barrel of the carbine swung around and pointed at Michael’s groin.

  ‘Easy, Henrik,’ his father said, but he sounded distracted. ‘Sander is just trying to provoke you. Don’t allow yourself to be provoked, Henrik. It’s childish.’

  Michael stole a glance at the machine gun on the ground before his gaze returned to Henrik’s face. It was out of the question. Henrik Schmidt never took his eyes off him. He might well be stark staring mad, but there was nothing wrong with his reflexes or marksmanship, and the machine pistol was at least four metres away.

  Victor Schmidt smiled to Michael. ‘Yes, Flemming took care of Jakob as well, that’s right. We all did, though it turned out that he would rather we didn’t. As you’ve already worked out, Jakob was the son Flemming so desperately wanted. We shared most things, Flemming and I, though I didn’t always realize what that actually implied.’

  ‘Did Jakob know?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Of course he did. He never liked me.’

  ‘Personally, I’m beginning to warm to him,’ Michael said.

  Victor Schmidt turned around at the sound of boots on rock.

  ‘Thomas. Let me introduce you to Michael Sander,’ he said, ‘and you already know Lene …’

  The new arrival stopped next to Victor Schmidt and his son. He had a straight back with a muscular neck and broad shoulders. He looked very much like Jakob Schmidt, Michael thought. His camouflage jacket was open and his shirt buttoned up to his neck. The scorpion tail curled up under his right ear.

  ‘It was you,’ Lene whispered, and her mouth contorted.

  ‘Don’t …’ Michael began, but Victor Schmidt held up his hand.

  ‘It’s all right, Michael. Let the superintendent speak. I think she has earned the right.’

  ‘It was you,’ she repeated, and stared furiously at the gamekeeper. ‘You took her. You took my daughter, you fucking arsehole!’

  ‘I hope she’ll be all right,’ Thomas Berg said with a pleasant, deep voice. ‘She’s a fine girl.’

  ‘Lene,’ Michael warned her again. ‘Stop it.’

  Victor Schmidt watched the exchange with interest. Then he smiled at Lene.

  ‘Perhaps you really should stop it now,’ he suggested. He pulled his other hand out of his pocket and looked at his wristwatch again. ‘The CD, Michael, where is it? Kim’s CD. I presume you escaped through the crawlspace. In the nick of time – to judge from your lack of eyebrows and hair.’

  Michael stared at him.

  ‘It was lost in the fire,’ he said.

  The financier nodded pensively and sent the gamekeeper a sideways glance. A black automatic pistol appeared in Thomas Berg’s hand as if by magic. The muzzle pointed right between Lene and Michael.

  ‘The CD, Michael?’ Victor Schmidt asked him again, but more harshly this time. ‘Now!’

  ‘So Flemming Caspersen really was the client?’ Michael asked.

  Victor Schmidt seemed genuinely surprised.

  ‘Of course he was. But he got the trip for free. It was a good hunt. Everyone was very excited about Kasper Hansen. He made a fine trophy. And his wife was almost better. Henrik found her.’

  ‘And cut off her head?’

  The financier made an almost conciliatory gesture.

  ‘Is there any need for these details, Michael?’

  ‘And Caspersen died peacefully in his sleep?’

  Schmidt pursed his lips and looked at him closely.

  ‘He did. His time had come and I don’t suppose the devil was prepared to wait any longer. We didn’t help him on his way, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘And you intended to use the DVD to blackmail Elizabeth Caspersen once she had been appointed her mother’s legal guardian,’ Michael said. ‘You planted the DVD in her father’s safe during the horn theft? Isn’t that right?’

  He looked from one to the other, but no one said anything.

  ‘Answer me, please.’

  Victor Schmidt seemed genuinely puzzled. Thomas Berg looked across the fjord and didn’t appear to be listening. Even the fanatical Henrik Schmidt looked mystified.

  ‘Isn’t that right?’ Michael asked again, and even he could hear how shrill his voice had become.

  ‘Horn theft?’ Victor Schmidt asked. ‘Is that what that bloody woman told you? Flemming had that damned DVD all along, but even in my wildest dreams I didn’t believe that he would ever put it in his own safe.’

  Michael felt as if he had been hit in the solar plexus with a battering ram. All his instincts screamed that Schmidt was telling the truth. His hands started to release their grip at the back of his neck, but some friendly encouragement from Thomas’s automatic pistol made him interlace his fingers again.

  And yet he repeated stubbornly, ‘Did Kim Andersen break into Flemming Caspersen’s house and steal a pair of rhino horns? I mean, they’re worth $50,000 per kilo?’

  Victor Schmidt looked blankly at him. Then he turned his gaze, reluctantly, towards his son and the gamekeeper.

  ‘Henrik? Thomas? Rhino horns? Any ideas?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Henrik Schmidt said. ‘If he had, he wouldn’t have needed to clear out his account with the casino to pay for his wedding. And, anyway, he wouldn’t have known how to go about it. Flemming always had the latest in security systems.’

  ‘I agree,’ Thomas Berg said. ‘If he had sold ten kilos of rhino horn on the black market, he wouldn’t have needed his Running Man money. He knew that we weren’t to touch that money for the next five years. At least. He knew what would happen if he did it and was found out. But why does that matter now?’

  Victor Schmidt turned his attention back to Michael.

  ‘The CD? I’m not going to ask you again.’

  Michael’s mouth was as dry as sand. So this was the end.

  ‘One more thing …’ he said.

  ‘Dad …’ Henrik Schmidt whined. He sounded like a child who had been refused his Christmas presents.

  ‘Hang on,’ Victor Schmidt said and ran his palms over his stubble. ‘What?’

  Michael looked at his dead friend behind the trio. His eyelids stung, but he would rather die than show them his grief. No regrets, nothing. Suddenly that became terribly, terribly important.

  Victor Schmidt followed his gaze.

  ‘One of your former colleagues from Shepherd & Wilkins, I presume? Elizabeth must have written one hell of a cheque to get him up here. Senior consultant, I believe? Christ, I can’t even begin to imagine his hourly rate. Because I don’t suppose he joined Running Man as this Magnusson from Aberdeen for sentimental reasons?’

  He stared hard at Michael.

  The man w
as a pedant, Michael thought. An anal, vengeful and rejected little man. He could see why his wife had ended up the way she had and why Jakob despised him.

  ‘Not exclusively,’ he said.

  Which was true. Keith Mallory had been his friend, but the Englishman was also a professional, and he never mixed business with pleasure.

  Victor Schmidt finally looked at his son with a hint of approval in his working eye. Henrik Schmidt blushed faintly.

  Michael shuddered at the sight.

  ‘It was Henrik,’ the financier smiled. ‘He claimed to know everything about this Magnusson and I challenged him. I said that you can never know everything about someone. Fortunately Henrik rose to the challenge and decided to investigate Running Man’s latest client.’

  He smiled to Michael.

  ‘It was a good ploy. It really was. The timing might have been a little too convenient for it to be entirely convincing, but it could have worked out. For you.’

  He turned and looked at the dead Englishman.

  ‘And then it would have been us lying dead over there. Henrik, Thomas and me, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That was the plan,’ Michael nodded.

  He could feel Lene’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look at her.

  ‘But Dad,’ Henrik implored him again, and Victor Schmidt nodded.

  ‘Where is the CD?’

  ‘I …’ Michael began, but was interrupted by a shot from Thomas’s pistol which sounded as if it was fired inside his own head.

  Lene screamed and Michael watched her collapse. His hands reached out for her, but Thomas took a step forwards and kicked his feet away from under him. He hit the rocky ground with his shoulders and back first and the air was knocked out of his lungs. He ignored it and looked around for Lene. He scrambled around on his stomach while his chest pumped in vain to get air into his lungs.

  Her ashen face was turned towards him and her eyes sought out his.

  Michael gasped like a new-born baby and finally managed to open his throat.

  ‘Lene … Lene, Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘Lene …’

  She was lying on her back and looked at him with eyes wide with shock. She sent him an embarrassed smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Michael … I’m sorry.’