It took him two or three strenuous minutes to reach the edge of the skylight. He pressed himself against the tiles for a moment, listening, but all he could hear was the wind, and the chimney-ventilator whirring in fits and starts, and the bustling noises of Copenhagen on a busy afternoon. He decided to risk it, and take a look into the skylight.
At first he could see nothing at all, but one corner of the kitchen counter. He carefully brushed away the grime from the windows with his fingers, and it was then that a man stepped abruptly into view; a grey-haired man in a grey suit, smoking a cigarette. He was obviously talking, because he kept jabbing his cigarette in emphasis towards somebody on the other side of the room, but Charles found it impossible to make out what he was saying. No doubt about it, though: he was a secret-service type, of one persuasion or another, and he was looking for Charles.
The man moved out of sight again. Charles clung on to the roof wondering what he ought to do next. If he knocked on the front door of the apartment, and announced himself openly, the grey-haired man might very well blow him away without even asking what time of day it was. He knew what his old CIA training instructor would have told him (eyes squeezed tight, cigar clenched right in the corner of his mouth). Get the hell out, as quickly and as quietly as you can, and don’t go back there, ever. Once you’re a marked man, they won’t let you go. They’ll systemize you anywhere, any time, without warning; even if you’ve retired to the country with a plain wife, three children, and a second-hand stationwagon. “Systemized” had replaced the older euphemism of “terminating with extreme prejudice”. It had originated from “SYS 64738” which was the Basic computer command to wipe everything off the screen.
Charles’ old CIA instructor, however, hadn’t given his trainees, any suggestions for dealing with emotions. It was all very well getting the hell out, but supposing you had to leave behind a girl you happened to be more than extremely fond of, in the hands of a man you suspected of being a professional tomahawk?
Charles peered down through the skylight again. He didn’t have a gun, so his only weapon was surprise. He had never jumped through a window, although he could remember his instructor’s advice on how to do it. Jacket tugged over the head, arms folded tight over the chest, then dive like you’re diving into a swimming pool. With any luck, you won’t get anything important sliced off. Of course a skylight was something else. After going through the glass, there was still a ten-foot drop to the floor to think about. A fellow could very easily get himself hurt.
‘Shit,’ Charles muttered to himself. It was more out of frustration than anger. A large crow came and perched itself on the ridge of the roof, not far away from him, and stared at him beadily, as if he were some kind of ungainly and obtrusive bird who might have to be pecked out of its territorial airspace.
Cautiously, Charles edged his way over the skylight, and slid his left leg across until the welt of his shoe was perched on the dry crust of putty at the lower edge of the windowframe. Then, gasping, he raised himself up so that he was hunched over, head down low between his shoulders, scarcely keeping his balance. For one teetering second, he nearly fell backwards off the roof, and he knew that if he did that, there wasn’t much hope of tumbling on to the balcony. It would be a one-way express trip down to the yard. Cobblestones, broken back: a wheelchair at best.
‘God in heaven,’ he muttered. Then, just as quietly, ‘Geronimo.’
He fell into the skylight shoulder-first; heard the glass crack squeakily like ice; felt the cold brush of a broken edge across his cheek. Then the whole rotten frame collapsed and he was plummeted into the kitchen in a shower of wood and fragments and sparkling splinters, his right foot landing first so that for one split-second he was beautifully balanced with his arms clenched in to his chest, his left leg high-kicking, and then he rolled heavily over on to his hip, knocked his forehead against the door of the kitchen china-cupboard, and ended up flat on his face, winded and bloody.
He picked himself up, whining for breath, and lurched immediately towards the kitchen counter, where Agneta kept her carving-knives in a triangular wooden block. He snatched out the longest knife, and then threw himself backwards against the wall, right beside the door. Instantly, as if he had been given a cue by a stage-director, the man in the grey suit walked into the kitchen, and Charles unhesitatingly stabbed him straight through the back of his suit, gripping the carving-knife with its blade sideways so that it sliced with the minimum of resistance right between his lower ribs, into his pancreas.
The man turned, surprised, and for a moment stared at Charles as if he were about to say something. Then he collapsed to his knees on to the tiled floor and let his head sink between his shoulders. With a sharp clatter, an automatic pistol fell on to the floor beside him, and Charles lunged forward and snatched it up.
‘Na pomasch,’ the man whispered. He reached around behind him, and tried to take out the knife.
Charles said, ‘Not on your life, chum. Agneta!’
From the living-room, there was silence. Charles nudged the grey-haired man, and said, ‘Are you alone? Or what?’
The man dropped sideways on to the floor and lay there panting like an Alsatian. Charles hefted the pistol in his hand; the good old Tula-Tokarev 1930 7.62mm. At least he knew now who he was up against. He called again, ‘Agneta? Are you okay?’
Silence. That meant that someone else was here, guarding her. Charles eased his way around the door-jamb, keeping the pistol raised, and made his way along the short carpeted corridor that led to the living-room. He paused, and listened. The corridor was lined with prints of the runic decorations found on Jellinge stones in Jutland; ancient, mysterious, elaborate. Charles could feel blood sticking to his collar, and hoped that his face wasn’t too badly cut. It was beginning to sting, all the way from his right eye to the right side of his mouth.
He eased his way into the living-room and there she was, sitting on the beige wool chair by the stove: white-faced, tense, upright as a statue. A thin man in a grey suit stood directly behind her, pointing an automatic pistol at her head.
Charles said nothing, but carefully took aim at the man’s head in the approved CIA manner, one hand steadying the butt.
The man said, ‘You have cut yourself, Mr Krogh.’
Charles said, ‘Put down the gun.’
‘Well, I don’t think so, Mr Krogh. I think for my own safety I would prefer to keep the gun aimed exactly where it is.’
‘You have a count of five to put down the gun. Then I’m going to kill you.’
The man smiled tightly. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Krogh. One flinch from you, and this lady will die instantly.’
Charles kept his gun raised. ‘Five,’ he said, in a level voice.
‘Now then, Mr Krogh,’ said the man, calmly. ‘You are being ridiculous. This is not what I expected from a man of your calibre.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘I expected co-operation. After all, you have not been behaving yourself, have you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Come now, Mr Krogh. Are you going to pretend that it wasn’t you who broke into the offices of Klarlund & Christensen last night, and caused such mayhem? Breaking windows, rifling files, and what did you do to my poor friend Lyosha? He was quite bruised and battered from falling out of that window. It was lucky for him that there was a ledge two floors down. Lucky for you, too, Mr Krogh. If Lyosha had died, there would have been a price on your head that almost every killer in the world would have found irresistible. Lyosha is special to us, you know. A personal favourite of the the premier.’
Charles said, ‘Four.’
The man smiled even more broadly. ‘Please don’t make the situation more fraught with difficulties than it already is, my dear sir. All we want to do is ask you some questions. You are no longer on the staff of the Central Intelligence Agency, you have no allegiances, what is the harm in answering one or two simple queries? Like, what were you looking for, in
an architect’s office? What did you expect to find? Why did you risk so much, and fight so hard?’
Charles said, ‘You know the answers to all of those questions, old buddy, even before you ask them. So, you know, don’t bullshit. Just put down the gun, and stand back.’
The man shook his head. ‘That is not possible, I regret.’
Charles said, ‘Three,’ and pulled the trigger. There was a single deafening report, and the man’s face imploded, like a speeded-up movie of a can of red paint being spilled. He disappeared behind Agneta’s chair, but he left behind him a whiplash of crimson spatters, all the way up the pale fawn Scandinavian wall.
Charles and Agneta held each other very close, tight with affection, tight with fear. Agneta touched Charles’ cheek with her fingertips. ‘You cut yourself. Look, you’re bleeding.’
‘It’s nothing. Jesus. Agneta, it’s nothing. What the hell were these guys doing here?’
‘They said they wanted to talk to you, that’s all. I told them you were away in Stockholm, but they didn’t believe me. But I managed to slip the marker out of the door.’
‘Thank God for that. These are Russians, Russian agents. KGB, I don’t know, or worse.’ He lifted the Tula-Tokarev automatic, turned it this way and that, then slung it aside. ‘Lousy monkey-made guns. I was lucky to hit him.’
Charles didn’t know what else to say. There were two dead men in his apartment, and Agneta was shuddering with fright, and Jeppe was gone, and Otto was probably dead, too, and he still didn’t know what in hell was supposed to be happening. This wasn’t the game the way he used to play it, back in the days when he was on active service. This was a different game: far more confusing, far more violent. In the old days, they wouldn’t have sent a killer like Krov’ iz Nosu after small fry like him. Something had changed: something fundamental. There was a big secret around somewhere, and it was being guarded with manic ferocity.
‘Listen,’ he told Agneta. ‘I want you to go stay with Roger for a while. You don’t mind that, do you? Roger will take care of you. Apart from that, he won’t give you any trouble, if you know what I mean.’
‘But what about these men – what about you?’
‘Just leave all this to me, okay? Everything’s under control. It’s just that I want you to go stay with Roger. Maybe a week or two, not more.’
‘And what will you do?’
‘I have to find Jeppe. Or at least what happened to Jeppe. I also have to find out why these goons broke in here today. I also have to have a drink.’
Agneta clutched him close. God, he thought, I love you. I don’t know why; I don’t care why; but I do. She smelled of Chanel No. 19 and clean hair and Danishness. Who could tell what that was? A kind of mixture of ozone, smørrasbørd and pine. He kissed the top of her head, and thought. I’m far too old for any of this. I should have retired by now to Whispering Palms in Southern California. I should be playing golf in checked pants and blue sport shirts with little crocodiles on them. Instead, I’m dipping my arm into the jaws of hell, and risking the lives of everybody around me, including the lady I love the most.
Agneta said, in Danish, ‘Do you want to go back to America? Do you think you should? Charles, I don’t mind coming with you. Please, if you want to go.’
‘No,’ he told her. He kissed her again. ‘Honey, I’d love to; but it doesn’t end here. Many are called, you know, but only a few are chosen, and for some reason I happen to be one of the chosen, and that means I’ve got to do my duty here and find out what the hell is going on. I mean, for Jeppe’s sake, if nobody else.’
He went to the phone and dialled the Politigården, 14 14 48. When the receptionist answered, he said, ‘Give me Politidirektor Isen.’
There was a silence. Agneta said, ‘Oh, God, Charles, I wish you would give this up, let this go. I will come to America with you, I promise.’
Charles said, ‘Povl? How are you doing? This is Charles. Charles Krogh, of course. Krogh with a K. Yes, that’s right. Povl, I have a problem here. I mean I have a problem at home. Well, it’s to do with the KGB. Well, yes. I have two KGB personalities here who seem to be disinclined to leave.’
God rot the Danish sense of humour, he thought, as Povl Isen asked him, ‘You want somebody to tell them to go? I have patrolmen who can do that.’
‘Not exactly, Povl. The problem is, they couldn’t go if they wanted to. They are ex-KGB. Systemized, you get me? Programme deleted.’
‘Charles, I thought you were retired.’
‘I am, Povl, but something’s come up.’
‘KGB? You can establish that beyond question?’
‘Are you kidding? They have grey suits from Daells, and Tula-Tokarev automatics.’
There was a long silence. Povl Isen was a serious, reputable policeman who had never taken kindly to intelligence antics in Copenhagen. It was arguable which organization he disliked the most: the KGB or the CIA. Both treated Copenhagen as if it belonged to them; both regularly incurred the wrath of the Copenhagen police headquarters. Povl Isen had spoken to both US and Soviet Embassies twice this year, and warned them that they were guests; no matter how strategically Denmark might be placed. ‘You are forbidden from practising your wars in my city,’ he had told them. Both ambassadors had expressed surprise and concern that Povl Isen should imagine for a moment that they were doing such a thing. The Russian ambassador had sent him a case of Mukuzani, which Povl Isen had promptly sent back.
‘I shall have to have you questioned,’ Povl Isen told Charles. ‘Whenever there are dead bodies, there must be an investigation.’
‘I understand,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll wait. You know where I live, don’t you, on Larsbjørnstrade?’
‘I know where you live, Mr Krogh with a K.’
Charles put down the phone and then sat for a moment smiling at Agneta. ‘God, it’s a hard life,’ he told her. She came over and knelt beside him and touched the friendly creases of his face. ‘I think I’m crazy,’ he told her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think so, too. But I love you.’
Of course, he didn’t wait for the police. He cleaned up the cut on his face, which was long rather than deep, and changed out of his bloody clothes. He packed a bag with soap, razor, towel, shirts, and his second-best suit, while Agneta packed herself a larger suitcase with three dresses, a pair of jeans, half-a-dozen T-shirts, bras and cosmetics. No panties, she never wore any. They locked the apartment door behind them, and stood on the pavement waiting for a taxi that said FRI. They held hands in the back of the taxi as they drove around to Roger’s apartment in Peder Skrams Gade; then they kissed fleetingly before Charles went on to the Københavner bar on Gothergade.
Agneta said, ‘Call me tonight, Charles; even if it’s only quickly.’
Charles blew her a kiss. ‘I love you, you dummy.’
Charles walked into the Københavner bar and left his bag in the cloakroom. He approached the bar rubbing his hands, while the barman regarded him balefully. ‘Hallo, Mr Krogh. What happened to you?’
‘Hand slipped, shaving.’
‘I’ll believe you. What do you want to drink?’
‘Jack Daniel’s, on the rocks. What else?’
‘Maybe Suntory?’ asked the barman, bending down to find a glass, his blond hair shining in the unexpected gleam of a spotlight.
‘Suntory,’ Charles intoned. ‘Do they make smørrasbørd in Peru?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’re right, Frederik. Neither do they make whiskey in Japan.’
Frederik poured him a straight measure of Jack Daniel’s, on the rocks. Charles drank it as quickly as if it were Coca-Cola, then held out his glass for another. Frederik filled him up, and watched as he took the first sip.
‘You look tired, Mr Krogh, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You had some calls.’
‘Calls? How many?’
‘Six or seven. All from the same lady.’
‘
I had calls from a lady and you didn’t tell me?’
‘Peder thought, better not to call you at home, in case of upsetting the cart of apples.’
‘Is that right?’ said Charles, a little irritably. ‘So, who called?’
‘The lady said – just a minute, I should have a note of it here – here it is, the lady said she worked for the Hvidsten Inn, in Jutland.’
Charles felt the logical coldness of terrible and inevitable destiny run through his veins, like mercury. Hvidsten: that was where Krov’ iz Nosu had killed Nicholas Reed. And nothing in the world could persuade Charles that he could hear the name of a boondock village like Hvidsten twice in one week without there being some threatening connection.
He shook out a cigarette, and lit it one-handed. ‘Did she leave a number?’
‘No, sir. She just said the Hvidsten Inn, and something about “the old code”. And one thing more, I didn’t understand it, but she said you’d probably know. Lamb prix. I kept saying, don’t you mean grand prix, but she said no, lamb prix.’
‘Lamb prix?’ frowned Charles, through a tangle of smoke. But then he realized what he had just said. ‘Lamprey. That’s what she meant. Lamprey.’
‘I still don’t understand it, Mr Krogh.’
Charles said, ‘I know you don’t, my friend, but I do. Pass me your phone.’
The barman set down the phone in front of him. ‘You’re not calling long distance?’
Charles was sorting through his untidy pigskin wallet. At last he found a dry cleaning ticket, with a telephone number written on the back in neat Continental numerals, all the 7s crossed. ‘Long distance?’ he asked the barman, as he dialled. ‘It depends what you mean by long distance. Is Bonn long distance?’
‘Bonn?’ queried the barman. ‘Bonn where?’
Charles cheerfully patted his cheek. ‘Are there two Bonns?’
The phone rang for two or three minutes before somebody answered it. A girl’s voice said, ‘What number are you calling, please?’
Charles repeated the number with exaggerated care. ‘And the password is Mentionable. At least, that’s the only password that I’ve been given.’
Sacrifice Page 20