Dead or Alive (40 page)

Dominic laughed. “They’re all computer-generated, bro. Nobody’s ever seen them in person.”

“Bullshit; they’re real. How far is this place? What’s it called? Söderhamn?”

“Yeah. About a hundred fifty miles.”

Jack and Sam Granger had given them the briefing, and while the Caruso Brothers agreed with the chief of ops’s “long shot” assessment of the job, they also liked the idea of beating the bushes. Plus, it was a good way to sharpen their tradecraft. So far most of their work at The Campus had been in Europe, and the more time one got to train in a real operating environment, the better. They both felt more than a little naked without guns, but this, too, was an operational reality: More often than not, when overseas, they would find themselves unarmed.

How exactly Jack had found Hlasek Air’s connection to Söderhamn’s tiny airport neither of them knew, but wherever the missing Dassault Falcon had ended up, its last known touchdown had been there. It was, Dominic explained, a lot like tracking down a missing person: Where were they last seen, and by whom? How exactly they’d go about answering those questions once they reached Söderhamn was another matter altogether. Jack’s suggestion, which had been offered with a sheepish grin, would probably turn out to be prescient:
Improvise.
To that end, The Campus’s documents people, who lived in some cubbyhole office in the bowels of the building, had provided them with letterheads, business cards, and credentials from the claims-investigation division of Lloyd’s of London, XL Insurance Switzerland’s parent company.

I
t was early afternoon when they reached the southern outskirts of Söderhamn, population 12,000, and Dominic turned east off the E4, following aircraft pictograph signs for five miles before pulling into the mostly empty airport parking lot. They counted three cars. Through the eight-foot hurricane fence they saw a line of four white-roofed hangar buildings. A lone fuel bowser tooled across the cracked tarmac.

“Good idea to come on a weekend, I guess,” Brian observed. The theory was that the airport would be lightly manned on a Saturday afternoon, which meant, they hoped, less chance of them coming across anyone with real authority. With greater luck they’d find the office staffed by a part-time minimum-wager who just wanted to pass the afternoon with a commensurate minimum of fuss. “Score another one for cuz.”

They got out, walked over to the office, and went inside. An early-twenties blond kid sat behind the counter, his feet propped on a filing cabinet. In the background a boom box blasted the latest version of Swedish techno-pop. The kid stood up and turned down the music.

“God middag,”
the kid said.

Dominic laid his credentials out on the counter.
“God middag.”

 

 

 

 

 

I
t took but five minutes of cajoling and oblique threats to talk their way into the airport’s daily flight logs, which showed only two arrivals of Dassault Falcons in the last eight weeks, one from Moscow a month and a half ago and one from Zurich-based Hlasek Air three weeks ago. “We’ll need to see the manifest, flight plan, and maintenance record for this aircraft,” Dominic said, tapping the binder.

“I don’t have that here. It would be in the main hangar.”

“Let’s go there, then.”

The kid picked up the phone.

 

 

 

T
he on-duty flight mechanic, Harold, was barely older than the desk clerk and even more unsettled by their appearance.
Insurance investigator, missing aircraft,
and
maintenance records
was a trio of phrases no flight mechanic wanted to hear, especially when combined with Lloyd’s of London, which had for nearly three hundred years enjoyed and wielded cachet like few other companies in the world.

Harold showed them into the maintenance office, and in short order Dominic and Brian had before them the records they’d requested and two cups of coffee. Harold loitered in the doorway until Brian gave him a
you’re dismissed
stare that only a Marine officer can generate.

The flight plan Hlasek Air filed listed the Falcon’s destination as Madrid, Spain, but flight plans were just that: plans. Once outside Söderhamn’s airspace, the Falcon could have gone anywhere. There were complications to this, of course, but nothing insurmountable. The maintenance records seemed similarly routine until they got past the summary and read the details. In addition to a topping off of the Falcon’s fuel tanks, the on-duty flight mechanic had performed a diagnostics scan of the aircraft’s transponder.

Dominic got up, tapped on the office’s glass window, and waved Harold over. He showed the mechanic the maintenance report. “This mechanic—Anton Rolf—we’d like to talk to him.”

“Uh, he’s not here today.”

“We assumed as much. Where can we find him?”

“I don’t know.”

Brian said, “What’s that mean?”

“Anton hasn’t been to work in a week. No one’s seen him or heard from him.”

 

 

 

T
he Söderhamn police, Harold further explained, had come to the airport the previous Wednesday, following up on a missing-person report from Rolf’s aunt, with whom Anton lived. Her nephew had failed to return home after work a week ago Friday.

Assuming the police would have already done the customary legwork, Brian and Dominic drove into Söderhamn, checked into the Hotel Linblomman, and slept until six, then found a nearby restaurant, where they ate and killed an hour before walking three blocks to a pub called Dålig Radisa—the Bad Radish—which, according to Harold, was Anton Rolf’s preferred hangout.

After doing a walk-around survey of the block, they pushed through the bar’s front door and were struck by a wave of cigarette smoke and heavy metal, and engulfed in a sea of blondhaired bodies either jostling for position at the bar or dancing wherever free space was to be found.

“At least it isn’t that techno shit,” Brian yelled over the cacophony.

Dominic grabbed a passing waitress and used his halting Swedish to order two beers. She disappeared and returned five minutes later. “You speak English?” he asked her.

“Yes, English. You are English?”

“American.”

“Hey, American, that’s great, yeah?”

“We’re looking for Anton. You seen him?”

“Which Anton? There are many that come here.”

“Rolf,” Brian replied. “Mechanic, works at the airport.”

“Yes, okay, Anton. He has not been here for a week, I think.”

“You know where we can find him?”

The waitress’s smile faded a bit. “Why are you looking for him?”

“We met him on Facebook last year. Told him next time we were over here we’d look him up.”

“Oh, hey, Facebook. That’s cool. His friends are here. They might know. Over there, in the corner.” She pointed to a table surrounded by half a dozen twentysomethings in jerseys.

“Thanks,” Brian said, and the waitress turned to go. Dominic stopped her. “Hey, just curious: Why’d you ask why we were looking for Anton?”

“There were others. Not nice like you.”

“When?”

“Last Tuesday? No, sorry, Monday.”

“The police, maybe?”

“No, not the police. I know all the police. Four men, not white but not black. From Middle East, maybe?”

Once she was gone, Dominic shouted in Brian’s ear, “Monday. Three days after Rolf’s aunt said he didn’t come home.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” Brian replied. “Shit, man, it just had to be footballers.”

“So?”

“You never watched the World Cup, bro? These guys like fighting more than they like drinking.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to get a reaction, then.”

“Dom, I ain’t talking about boxing. I’m talking about rip-your-ear-off, stomp-on-your-guts street brawling. Add that whole group together and you know what you get?”

“What?”

“A mouthful of teeth,” Brian replied with an evil grin.

 

 

H
ey, guys, we’re looking for Anton,” Dominic said. “Waitress said you’re his friends.”

“Don’t speak English,” one of them said. He had a latticework of ropy scars on his forehead.

“Hey, fuck you, Frankenstein,” Brian said.

The man scooted his chair back, stood up, and squared off. The rest of them followed suit.

“Speak English now, huh?” Brian shouted.

“Just tell Anton we’re looking for him,” Dominic said, raising his hands to shoulder height. “Otherwise, we’re going to pay a visit to his aunt.”

Brian and Dominic stepped around the group and headed for the alley exit. “How long, you figure?” Brian asked.

“Thirty seconds, no more,” Dominic replied.

Out in the alley, Brian grabbed a nearby steel garbage can and Dominic picked up a piece of rusted rebar as long as his forearm, and they turned in time to see the door swing outward. Brian, standing behind the door, let three of the footballers come out and go for Dominic in a rush, then kicked the door shut on the fourth and stepped in, swinging the garbage can like a scythe. Dominic took out the lead footballer with a shot to the knee, then ducked a punch from the second and brought the rebar down on his extended elbow, shattering it. Brian turned as the door swung back open, rammed the garbage can’s rounded bottom edge into the bridge of the fourth man’s forehead, waited for him to go down, then tossed the can at the knees of the last two charging across the threshold. The first went down at Brian’s feet, then pushed up to his hands and knees, but Brian heel-kicked him in the head, dropping him back down. The last footballer, fists clenched and arms windmilling, was charging Dominic, who kept backing up, staying out of range, letting him come, before sidestepping and backhanding the rebar into the side of the man’s head. He crashed into the alley wall and slumped down.

“You okay?” Dominic asked his brother.

“Yeah, you?”

“Anybody awake?”

“Yeah, here, this one.” Brian knelt down beside the first footballer through the door. He was groaning and rolling from side to side while holding his shattered knee. “Hey, Frankenstein, tell Anton we’re looking for him.”

 

 

 

T
hey left the footballers in the alley and walked across the street from the bar into a park, where Dominic took a seat on a bench. Brian jogged back to the hotel, retrieved their rental car, then returned, parking on the opposite side of the park.

“No police?” Brian asked, approaching Dominic’s bench through the trees.

“Nah. Didn’t strike me as the police-loving kind.”

“Me neither.” They waited five minutes, then the front door opened and two of the footballers came out and shuffled toward a car parked down the block. “Good friends,” Brian observed. “Gullible but good.”

T
HEY FOLLOWED the footballers’ car, a dark blue Citroën, through downtown Söderhamn to the eastern JL outskirts of the city, then into the countryside. After four miles they pulled into a town, this one a quarter the size of Söderhamn. “Forsbacka,” Brian read from the map. The Citroën pulled off the main road, then took a series of lefts and rights before pulling into the driveway of a mint-green saltbox house. Dominic passed the house, took a right at the next corner, and pulled to the curb beneath a tree. Out the back window they could see the saltbox’s front door. The footballers were already on the porch. One of them knocked. Thirty seconds later the porch light came on and the door opened.

“What do you think? Go in now or wait?” Dominic asked.

“Wait. If it’s Rolf, he’s been smart enough to stay out of sight for a week. He’s not going to bolt before giving it some thought.”

 

 

 

A
fter twenty minutes, the front door opened again and the footballers emerged. They got back into the Citroën, pulled out, and headed down the block. Brian and Dominic waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner, then got out, crossed the street, and walked down to the saltbox. A hedge of overgrown lilac bushes separated the house from its neighbor. They followed the hedge, passing two darkened windows, until they reached a detached garage, which they circled until they could see the rear of the house: a back door flanked by two windows. All were dark except one. As they watched, a male figure walked past the window and stopped before a kitchen cabinet, which he opened, then closed. Ten seconds later the man emerged carrying a suitcase. Brian and Dominic ducked back. The garage’s side door opened, followed by a car door opening and closing. The garage door closed again, then the house’s back door slammed shut.