‘I don’t have one.’
‘Why’d you come to Helsinki, then?’
‘They blackmailed me.’
‘Ah, right. So, what did they say they wanted you to do? I’m assuming they didn’t mention they were planning to hand you over to us.’
‘I was to… authenticate the letters.’ Eusden nodded towards the attaché case.
‘Strictly non-essential, sport. We faxed them copies of the whole lot. But I guess it sounded plausible to you. Fact is, though, we stipulated your head on a platter plus the big fat pay-off right from the get-go. And they never batted an eyelid. I got the feeling they didn’t mind us rubbing you out one little bit. Now, why might that be?’
‘They seem to think I know too much.’
‘What about?’
‘Tolmar Aksden.’
‘Ah. The Invisible Man. Well, do you?’
‘I know he has a secret.’
‘Don’t we all?’
‘Mjollnir want his kept quiet at any cost.’
‘Of course they do. That’s why they’re buying it from us at a price that makes it well worth our trouble cutting out the original buyer and compensates us for leaving twenty million kroner blowing in the Copenhagen wind, not to mention Ilya and Yuri splattered across an unlovely stretch of highway. So, working on the basis that it might, just might, persuade us not to kill you, why don’t you tell us what that secret is?’
‘You must know if you have the letters.’
‘Well, there’s the weirdest thing. I never did learn Danish while I was growing up in California. Spanish, right on. French and Italian? I can get by. I’ve even picked up enough Russian to understand Vladimir’s jokes on those rare occasions when he cracks one. But Danish? Somehow I let it slip past me. Careless, I know. But that’s the way it is.’
‘We should have kept Olsen alive,’ Vladimir growled.
Brad grinned. ‘Don’t you just love an after-the-event wise guy? Bet you’re wondering who Olsen was, sport, so I’ll put you out of your misery. He was our original buyer’s very own Danish representative. We were hired for the hands-on side of things. When we decided to sound out Mjollnir as an alternate buyer, Olsen tried to phone his boss. We had to cut him off, if you know what I mean. Unfortunately, he hadn’t quite got round to telling us what the letters were all about when that happened, so we’re… looking to you to fill us in.’
Eusden swallowed hard. Making the little he knew about the contents of the letters sound tantalizing enough to persuade them to let him live was a next to impossible task. But it was his only hope. ‘They chronicle the early life of Tolmar Aksden’s father, Peder, on a farm in Jutland.’
‘A farm in Jutland, huh?’ sneered Brad. ‘Why isn’t my pulse racing at the thought?’
‘I can’t read Danish either. But I know Tolmar’s secret has something to do with… Anastasia.’
‘Really? You’re sure he’s not Elvis Presley in disguise? The age would be about right.’
‘I don’t pretend to understand it. But it’s true.’
‘You’re saying Tolmar Aksden is related somehow to the daughter of the last Tsar?’
‘Yes.’
‘The one some mad old bat made a small fortune out of claiming to be?’
‘Anna Anderson. Yes.’
‘Anna Anderson. That’s right. Didn’t I catch some crappy mini-series about her on cable a few years back? Jane Seymour in the title role, maybe?’
‘Jane Seymour,’ said Gennady, sounding cheered by the mention of the name. ‘Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. I love her.’
Brad rolled his eyes. ‘You know what? We don’t have time for this, we really don’t. Anastasia doesn’t push any buttons for me, sport. I think we’ll bypass the kicking-the-shit-out-of-you phase and cut straight to the bullet in the brain.’ His affable features suddenly twisted into something tight and vicious. He pulled a gun out of his coat pocket, stepped forward and pointed it at Eusden’s head. ‘Now is the moment to give me one good reason not to pull this trigger. Believe me, there won’t be another.’
‘F-Fingerprints.’ Eusden heard the stammer in his voice from some strange detached place where death was imminent and imaginable and not quite the disabling horror he had always supposed it would seem in such a situation. ‘You should have… found a set amongst the letters.’
Brad shook his head slowly and emphatically. ‘No fingerprints.’
‘They must be there.’
‘But they’re not.’
‘Hidden in the case maybe.’
‘Check it out, Vlad.’ Vladimir opened the case and turned it over. The letters fell out on to the bench and slewed across it. ‘Whose fingerprints are we looking for, sport?’
‘Anastasia’s. Taken in 1909, when she was eight years old. I’m in contact with a genealogist from Virginia who’s bought a set of Anna Anderson’s prints, taken in 1938. If they match, it would prove she really was Anastasia.’
Vladimir was tapping the case and peering at it like a sceptical theatre-goer invited to inspect the conjurer’s top hat. ‘Nichivo,’ he muttered, which Eusden suspected meant Nothing in Russian or Ukrainian – or both.
‘The proof would be worth a lot of money,’ Eusden pressed on, willing Brad to listen to him – and to believe him. ‘It’d be a worldwide sensation. You could name your own price.’
‘Sounds great. Just a pity we don’t have that proof.’
‘It’s got to be there somewhere. Let me look.’
‘Stay where you are. Vlad?’
Vladimir had laid the case on the bench and was prodding at the insides of the lid and base. He shook his head ominously.
‘It’s looking bad for you, sport.’
‘For God’s sake, let me-’
‘Wait,’ said Vladimir. ‘I think, yes, I think there is something.’ He flicked a knife out of his pocket and cut a slit in the lining of the lid. A creamy white envelope slid out into the body of the case. He stared down at it in a mixture of awe and amazement. Then, slowly and deliberately, he crossed himself.
‘What the hell is it?’
‘Tsarski piriot.’
‘What?’
‘See.’ Vladimir held up the envelope. The front was blank. But when he turned it round, there, clearly visible, embossed on the flap, was the black double-headed eagle of the Romanovs.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The envelope was unsealed. Inside was a single sheet of vellum notepaper. At its top was the same black double-headed eagle clutching an orb and sceptre. Beneath, neatly arranged, was a full set of fingerprints in red ink, left hand, then right. Below the prints, in black ink, someone had written A.N. 4 viii ’09.
‘What exactly is this, sport?’ demanded Brad. He held the sheet of paper up. He had put his gun back in his pocket, but Gennady still had his trained on Eusden.
‘The fingerprints of the Grand Duchess Anastasia, taken aboard the imperial yacht off Cowes on the fourth of August 1909.’ It was true, then, though Eusden could scarcely believe it. The prints were clearly those of a child and the date was right. A.N. was Anastasia Nikolaievna. Nearly a hundred years had passed since Clem had entertained the Tsar’s precocious youngest daughter with a demonstration of the British police’s most recent advance in the science of detection. Eusden could almost see the sunlight sparkling on the wave-tops in Cowes Roads and hear the blue-blooded little girl’s gleeful laugh. Clem had always had a way with children. ‘This is how Scotland Yard keeps a track of those infernal anarchists, Your Highness. First one finger. Then the next.’ ‘They were there for the regatta. The Tsar, the Tsarina and all their children. The King and Queen came down to-’
‘Fuck the King and Queen. You’re serious about this?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And you can get a set of Anna Anderson’s prints to match with these?’
‘Yes.’
‘How soon?’
‘Regina will already have them. She’s in Germany. It’s just a question of-’
; ‘Phone her.’ Brad tossed Eusden his mobile. ‘Phone her now and get her to come here.’
‘What about Mjollnir?’ asked Vladimir.
‘We agreed terms with them for the letters. This is something else. This, boys, is what’s known as a bonus. And, hell, haven’t we earned one? Make the call, sport.’
‘OK. I’ll try.’
‘Do more than try.’
‘The number’s in my wallet.’
‘Get it out.’
Eusden took his wallet from his jacket and found the piece of paper with Regina’s number written on it. It was unfair to involve her, of course, but he had no choice. This was his only chance of survival. He placed the call. And started praying she would answer.
She did. ‘Hello?’
‘Regina, this is Richard Eusden.’
‘Richard. Hi. I didn’t recognize the number. I tried to call you earlier.’
‘Sorry. Stupidly, I’ve mislaid my phone. I’ve had to borrow one. Where are you?’ There was a blur of sound in the background. He caught the ding-dong of a PA system.
‘Hanover airport. They should be calling my flight to Copenhagen any minute.’
‘You’ve got the 1938 fingerprint record?’
‘You bet. Any news for me your end?’
‘Yes. I have the matching record from 1909, Regina. I have it in front of me.’
‘You’re joshing me.’
‘No. It’s right here.’
‘But…how did you get it?’
‘I’ll explain when we meet. It’s… complicated.’
‘OK. Well, I should be able to make it to your hotel by around three thirty.’
‘Three thirty? That’s only…’ Belatedly, Eusden remembered that Finland was an hour ahead of Germany and Denmark. ‘Actually, Regina, I’m no longer in Copenhagen. I’m in Helsinki.’
‘Helsinki?’
‘Like I said, it’s complicated. Can you join me here?’
‘I… guess I could try to book a connecting flight before I leave.’
‘Meeting here’s much the safer bet. Werner’s sure to come looking for us in Copenhagen sooner or later.’
‘OK. Point taken. I’ll do it.’
‘Call me on this number when you know what time you’ll be arriving. I’ll meet you at the airport.’
‘Will do. Hey, Richard, have you been holding out on me? This has all happened very suddenly.’
‘I’ll tell you the whole story when you get here. See you soon. ’Bye.’
‘Nicely played, sport,’ said Brad as he retrieved his phone. ‘I guess you’ve negotiated yourself a stay of execution.’
‘We should kill him here,’ said Vladimir.
Brad sighed heavily. ‘We don’t know what the Virginian genealogist looks like, Vlad. And she’s expecting Eusden here to meet her. So, we’ll keep him on ice. Time?’
‘Less than an hour till we meet Mjollnir.’
‘OK. One more call, then we head out.’ Brad punched a number into his phone. While he waited for an answer, Eusden wondered queasily what ‘on ice’ actually meant. Then: ‘Bruno? Brad… Yuh… I have something for you. How are you with fingerprints?… Excellento. Haven’t I always said Orson Welles was way out of line with that crack about cuckoo clocks?…Talking of clocks, there’s one ticking on this job. We need you tonight… Helsinki…Yuh. Slip into your thermals before you leave. It’s the Ice Age here… Got you. ETA to follow. Understood… Of course, Bruno, of course. Standard fee. Standard percentage. When have I ever let you down?… OK. Ciao, good buddy.’ He ended the call and shot Eusden a smile. ‘Bruno will give us an authoritative yes or no on whether the prints match. If they do, we’re in business. If not…’ Brad’s smile remained in place just a little too long. Eusden knew they would keep him alive only as long as he was useful to them. And his usefulness was likely to expire once Regina had arrived with the other fingerprint sample. But airports were crowded, public places. There had to be a good chance he could escape once they were there, taking Regina with him. If all else failed, he could probably get himself arrested; Regina too. Until then, there was nothing for it but to do Brad’s bidding in every particular.
‘Let’s get moving.’ Brad pulled out his gun again. ‘Fetch the car, Gennady. Reverse it up to the door and pop the trunk.’ Gennady nodded and lumbered out through the wicket-door, leaving it open behind him. ‘Put the letters back in the case, Vlad.’ As Vladimir started on that, a car engine coughed into life outside. The rear of a silver Mercedes saloon eased into view. The boot sprang open. ‘You’re travelling in the trunk, sport. Can’t risk your Mjollnir buddies spotting you. Climb aboard.’
Eusden had only the briefest glimpse of the industrial wasteland Lund had dumped him in before the pressure of Vladimir’s hand on the back of his head told him to clamber into the boot of the thrumbling Mercedes.
‘Carpet and loads of leg room,’ said Brad, meeting his backward gaze with a smirk. ‘Gennady grew up in Kiev with four brothers in less comfortable and capacious surroundings.’
‘When do I get out of here?’
‘When we need you. Don’t worry. We’ll know where to find you.’ He reached up to close the boot, then stopped. His phone was ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and read out the number of the caller. ‘Means nothing to me. You, sport?’
‘Regina.’
‘You’d better take it.’ He handed Eusden the phone.
‘Regina?’
‘Hi, Richard.’ She sounded breathless. ‘I’ve got to make this quick. I’m on my way to the gate. I’m booked on a flight from Copenhagen to Helsinki that gets in at seven twenty. Finnair six six four.’
‘Six six four at seven twenty. Got it. I’ll see you then.’
‘Likewise. ’Bye.’
Eusden passed the phone meekly back to Brad. ‘Would it do any good to tell you I suffer from claustrophobia?’
‘Not a bit. But, hey, it’s not like we’re going to forget about you. We’ll be checking on you regularly.’ Brad frowned thoughtfully, as if reviewing his tactics for the pending encounter at Koskinen’s house. He drummed his fingers on the boot lid, then plucked the envelope containing the fingerprints out of his pocket and slid it inside the lapel of Eusden’s crumpled jacket. ‘Look after that for me, sport. Like your life depends on it.’ Then he slammed the lid shut. And Eusden was plunged into darkness.
THIRTY-NINE
The boot smelt nine parts of carpet fibre and one of diesel. There was no light of any kind. Eusden spent some minutes trying to find a manual switch for the internal lamp before giving up. Gennady drove like a chauffeur for a wealthy old widow: smoothly and slowly. The car accelerated and decelerated, turned and straightened. Beyond the steady hum of the engine, sound was muffled and distant: horns, air brakes, tram bells and pneumatic drills drifting in and fading away as the Mercedes threaded through the Helsinki traffic towards its destination.
Eusden could not stop himself wondering – and doubting – whether his plan to escape his captors’ clutches at the airport would work. Brad would surely anticipate such an attempt and seek to forestall it. He had to pin his hopes on Brad’s greed skewing his judgement and he did not know the man well enough to assess how likely that was.
The consoling fact remained, however, that he had talked them into sparing his life so far and stood a good chance of outwitting them if he held his nerve. He would be outwitting Mjollnir into the bargain, since Lund no doubt assumed he was already dead. What had Koskinen told Pernille? he wondered. How had they accounted for his sudden disappearance? Whatever lie they had concocted, he intended to ram it down their throats once he was free. Pernille must think he had deserted her. He would make it his business to ensure she did not go on thinking that. She would be at Koskinen’s house now, with Matalainen, waiting and worrying. There was nothing he could do to help her or to explain his absence. But he promised himself she would know the truth – and others would be held accountable for that truth – before he was finished.
&nb
sp; He smiled at the irony that Brad had given the envelope containing the fingerprints to him for safekeeping. He tried to retreat into a fanciful recreation of events aboard the imperial yacht that August day in 1909 as a means of distracting himself from the grimness of his situation. But Clem in his Isle of Wight constable’s uniform and the Grand Duchesses in their white, lace-fringed dresses were figures from a dream. The sunshine he imagined had no warmth, the voices no strength, the smiles no permanence. He was where he was. And they were far away and long ago.
The car stopped, as it had several times. Then the engine stopped. This was different. They had arrived at Luumitie 27. The exchange was about to take place.
A minute or so passed. Then a door slammed. And then another. Brad and Vladimir had left the car. Something whirred and clicked close to the boot. The aerial, he guessed. Gennady had switched on the radio. He wanted music while he waited, though he evidently thought he should play it low. No sound reached Eusden. The silence of the suburban residential side street was total.
More minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The preliminaries must be over by now. Matalainen would be comparing the letters with the faxed copies. Soon, he would express his satisfaction. Then the combination of the case Koskinen had delivered to Pernille would be phoned through. Brad would open it up, check the bearer bonds and express his satisfaction. And then-
The noise hit him in a shock wave of air. His dark, cramped, silent world was split open by sound and light. The car rose and crashed back down as if struck by an earthquake. Something large and heavy crunched into the lid of the boot, driving in a deep dent to within an inch of Eusden’s face. As it did so, the lid jolted open. He was dazzled and deafened simultaneously and could only cower from the violent, roaring force of an event he could not comprehend.
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