Invisible Murder (Nina Borg #2) (32 page)

Quit telling me stuff like that, Sándor pleaded silently. I don’t want to know that he’s married or where he lives. I don’t want to know anything about you two at all. I just want to get my brother and go home.

But Tamás.… How could he even find out if Tamás was still alive? He had asked to see him, be allowed to speak to him, even if just by phone. But aside from that repulsive video, they hadn’t given him any sign of life.

“You’re from Hungary, aren’t you?” Tommi asked suddenly, leaning forward.

Sándor stiffened. Sat even stiller, if that were possible. “Yes,” he said, without looking Tommi in the eye. No opposition, no provocation.

“How do you say ‘house’ in Hungarian?” Tommi asked, making an expansive gesture with his hand to illustrate what he meant by drawing Sándor’s attention to the derelict farmhouse they were sitting in.

“
Haz
.”

Tommi looked disappointed.

“Huh,” was all he said.

Frederik came back in again, now with an enthusiastically barking Labrador dancing around his feet.

“Okay, down! No jumping,” he commanded, with a certain lack of impact. “Go lie down, Tyson.” He pointed authoritatively to the shag rug under the coffee table. Tyson jumped up onto the sofa next to Tommi instead and settled there. Tommi shot him a dirty look.

“Okay,” Tommi said. “So, we have this damn thing out there in the shed. And apparently it’s leaking like crazy. What are we going to do about it?”

“Call the authorities, and get the hell out of here,” Frederik said. “Well, in the opposite order obviously.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Tommi said. “Then they have both Valby
and
this place. How long do you think it’ll take before they figure out we actually own them both? And what about the money?”

“Okay, so we dump it somewhere.”

Tommi held up his hand defensively, more or less in front of his crotch. “No way I’m going to have
my
onions toasted. I’m not touching that shit. Not again.” Then he suddenly looked pale. “You think we’ve already been affected? Fuck. That little shit. I would strangle him if he weren’t already dead.”

Frederik sliced his hand through the air as if he wanted to cut off the torrent of words. But it was too late. Sándor had heard and understood. If he weren’t already dead.

Something churned deep down inside him. Hot, fluid, and alien. He sat there in complete silence, noting the feeling, observing how it rose and rose, pouring like lava into every part of his body. He was looking at the two men who had let his brother die. Who had watched while he got weaker and sicker. As he lost the use of his limbs and his vision and finally his ability to breathe or make his heart beat.

Sándor split into two. One part of him was still sitting in the chair, watching, passive, neutral. He had never had an out-of-body experience before, but that was what was happening now. His rage
was
his body, and as he hurled himself across the coffee table and jabbed his elbow horizontally into the face of that little psychopathic wannabe cowboy, it was as if he could again taste the mixture of blood, saliva, and moisturizer from the
gadjo
woman who had once tried to take his siblings from him.

He only heard the screams from a distance. To begin with he didn’t even feel the pummeling blows he was receiving. He bit into something that felt cartilaginous and earlobe-like, hammered the base of his palm into a throat, thrust his elbow into a soft abdomen. Something struck him on the back of the head, making the sounds even more distant, but he didn’t stop hitting and kicking. Not even when he was picked up and hurled to the floor or when it got hard to breathe because someone was sitting on his battered ribcage.

The first thing that penetrated through the fog was a searing, white-hot pain in one of his hands. He instinctively tried to pull it toward himself, but that only made the pain worse. He was stuck. And suddenly he was back in the painful shell of his body, excruciatingly aware of every single blunt protest from his ribs, kidneys, and head, but especially the screeching, unbearable pulse pounding in his left hand.

“Fuckhead,” Tommi said testily. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Blood was pouring down the lower half of the pseudo-cowboy’s face, but Sándor didn’t care about that right now. He turned and stared at his left hand, which was stuck securely to the floor with two nails from a nail gun.

Frederik must have fired the gun, since he was still standing there holding it in his hand.

“Give me that,” Tommi said, yanking it out of Frederik’s grip. He put one knee on Sándor’s chest, forcing him onto his back again, and pressing the cold tip of the nail gun against his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Sándor instinctively tried to focus, squinting at the green Bosch tool.

“No.…” he said, in Hungarian,
Nem!
, but it didn’t really matter if that psycho cowboy understood him or not. The inevitability was palpable in the weight of the tip of the nail, in the pressure of the knee on his chest.

“Cut it out,” Frederik said.

“Why? He broke my nose!” Tommi said.

“Yeah, but you said it yourself.
You
don’t want to fry your onions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone’s going to have to move that thing out there. Are you volunteering?”

The nail gun vanished from Sándor’s squinting field of vision. The weight was lifted off his rib cage.

“Fuck,” Tommi said. “Fucking hell. Goddamn it!”

“Find a hacksaw or a pair of pliers or something and get him up off the floor. I’ll go get the first aid kit from the car so he doesn’t bleed out on us.”

Sándor lay there on the floor like a half-crucified sinner, his sense of relief struggling against the nausea. But maybe there was no cause for relief. If only that guy had fired, it would all be over now. No more pain, no more guilt. Then he would just be dead.

Like Tamás.

HITE AS SNOW
,
red as blood.…”

For some reason that fairy tale line was the first thought that struck Søren as he pulled the blanket away from the young man’s face. Even through his mask, Søren thought he could smell the sweet, rotten stench.

“And hair as black as ebony.”

Snow White from Hell, Søren thought, looking at the long, greasy strands of hair that stuck to the boy’s forehead. His narrow face gleamed white under the floodlights the Emergency Management Agency had set up at the crime scene, and his chin was covered with dried brownish streaks of blood that had apparently come from both his mouth and nose. Just under his hairline at one temple there was an a crater of a wound that shimmered in shades of green and white, and a fresher sore on his cheekbone appeared to be the source of the broad reddish-brown streaks that ran across his cheek like war paint. Søren couldn’t help but wonder if it had been smeared like that before or after his death. He looked down into the dark, underground metal tank from which the body had just been pulled, and shivered.

“Can you say anything about the cause of death?”

One of the forensic technicians who had placed the young man on the stretcher shrugged his shoulders. The man’s nose and mouth were covered by his black respirator face mask, and the reflection of the lights in the glass visor meant that Søren only got a rather blurry view of his eyes. But his arms were drooping, and he looked tired. They had been working out here for almost twenty-four hours, Søren knew, even though they hadn’t opened the cover to the repair shop’s old gas tank until about 3 A.M.

“It’s too early to say, but at first glance he doesn’t seem to have been shot, strangled, or beaten, so I’d guess it’s either radiation sickness or suffocation that killed him. Personally my money’s on radiation.”

Søren raised his eyebrows behind his own protective mask. The tech leaned across the dead body and cautiously peeled back the shirt so Søren could see the top of the boy’s torso. He instinctively took a step back. The chest was mottled with blackish-brown hematomas. Like enormous blood blisters, Søren thought, feeling the nausea kick in his gut. In several places the hematomas had turned into open sores that stuck to the plaid fabric of the shirt in patches.

“I’m no doctor,” the technician said. “But that doesn’t look healthy. The coroner’s on his way.”

Søren looked at the bloody streaks on the boy’s cheeks again, and the half-frozen bread roll he had managed to wolf down in the car on the way out to Valby churned in his stomach. The boy on the stretcher under the floodlights looked like he had cried blood and then smeared it across his own cheeks, like a snotty five-year-old might have done with his tears. Søren had been a policeman for almost twenty-five years, but he occasionally still saw things he wished he could unsee. He caught himself hoping the boy had at least been dead before he was entombed in that damn gas tank. To think otherwise was near unbearable.

As far as Søren had been informed, it had started as a case for the police and the Emergency Management Agency early yesterday morning, but the investigation had been triggered because they thought the Hungarian Roma who had been staying at the garage had suffered an accidental contamination, perhaps from radioactive scrap somewhere back in Eastern Europe. That theory had crumbled when the Geiger counters started howling hysterically down in the covered inspection pit. They hadn’t found the actual source, but small amounts of radioactive sand were still there, revealing where the material had presumably been stored. And when they found the body in the tank, the alarm bells really started going off. Especially because of the passport they had found in his shoe. The police had run a routine check on the computer and called the PET.

Søren ran a hand through his hair, as if to brush the last remnants of sleep away. Morning fatigue still sat heavily in his body, but he could also feel his hunting instincts sending small surges of eagerness and heightened attention to his brain and muscles. Because the name in the
Hungarian passport was Sándor Horváth, which tied the find in Valby to the investigation of Khalid Hosseini and the weapons trail in a particularly ominous way.

Søren started walking back toward the barriers a few hundred meters away. His yellow protective suit was cumbersome and crinkled stiffly as he walked, but it was only once he had made it all the way out to the other side of the flashing cars that he was finally allowed to undo the silver-colored duct tape that sealed the suit at his wrists and ankles. He handed the gloves, suit, and mask to yet another spacesuit-clad younger man, whom he assumed was from the Emergency Management Agency or the National Institute of Radiation Hygiene and allowed himself to be taken to a hastily set up trailer with showers.

Once he was back in his own clothes, his hair wet in the morning chill, he was directed to the green minivan that was parked a little farther down the road. Outside the van, surrounded by a group of police officers in a heated discussion, stood a short, angular man with a phone in one hand and a heavily laden clipboard in the other.

“He certainly can’t,” the man barked into his phone. “He’ll have to do that later. I need him now!” He looked up as Søren approached. “This is hopeless. Half the people we need are off on that Secure Information Networks course. Are you one of the people from Radiation Hygiene?”

“Sorry. Søren Kirkegård, PET.” He stretched out his hand, and the man gave it a skeptical look as if he thought it might be contaminated. Eventually, though, he held out his own hand to complete the handshake and nodded curtly.

“Birger Johansen. Yes, I can see why you might also have an interest in this case. What do you need to know?”

“First and foremost, what substance are we dealing with, and what can it be used for?”

“Cesium chloride. I thought you knew that.”

“Yes,” Søren said patiently. “But what does that mean? For example, can it be used to make a bomb?”

The man snorted, clearly disgusted at Søren’s abysmal ignorance.

“Not an atomic bomb. That’s completely out of the question.”

Søren nodded. So far his conjectures were proving correct.

“But an ingredient in a dirty bomb?” Søren suggested. “Could it be used for that?”

It was as if Birger Johansen were yanked down out of his pulpit of know-it-all arrogance for the first time.

“Well, ultimately any kind of radioactive material could be used for that,” he said. “The explosive force comes from a conventional detonation, of course. The radioactivity is just a … way of making the effects more unpleasant for longer.”

“And how effective would cesium chloride be at that?”

“Unfortunately it’s one of the most suitable substances available, if widespread contamination is the goal. It enters the environment very easily because it’s a powder, not a metal, and it reacts with pretty much any form of moisture.”

Søren felt something tighten in his chest and thought about Snow White’s bloody tears. Personally, he would rather be blown sky-high than end up like that.

“But you haven’t been able to track down the main source?”

“No. We’re assuming it was stored in the inspection pit for a few days. We found a small amount of radioactive sand, and the radiation level in general is extremely high right around there.”