Project Nirvana (13 page)
“We need to go in through the main gate.”
The security guard took out a large bunch of keys.
“Of course,” she said, shaking the keyring. Her voice was deep and her eyes were intense.
Walter looked at the security guard. The woman seemed familiar in some way. The square face; the thin, crooked nose. Then it came to him. He had recently seen a programme about the World Challenge, the largest tournament of women arm wrestlers in the world. She was Sweden’s best hope for a medal. Unfortunately, he could not recall her name.
“One minute and counting,” Meiton announced over his personal radio.
They all got back into their vehicles. The security guard sat beside Walter in the passenger seat.
“You didn’t notice anything when you did your rounds?” he asked, driving to the front of the convoy.
“No,” the woman replied. “Who are you after?”
“A fugitive.”
“Who’s that?”
“We can’t disclose that yet.”
“Is he armed?”
“There is a possibility that he has a firearm,” Walter confirmed.
The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully.
“Then it’s my lucky day,” she said in a tense voice.
“You could say that,” Walter said, taking a cough drop. He offered one to the security guard, but she declined.
Walter parked a short distance from the main gate, so that his car was hidden by some trees. The
SWAT
team got out quickly from their vehicles and silently positioned themselves in front of the gate. The security guard unlocked two huge padlocks. The black-uniformed policemen fanned out in groups of three. Jonna took her Sig Sauer from her holster and removed its safety catch. Walter did the same. Together with one of the
SWAT
teams, they made their way along the fence. With torches set to dim, they began inspecting the caravan locks. The mist reduced visibility almost to zero. Like ghosts crouched against the rows of caravans, they examined lock after lock. It was time-consuming and, despite the cold and the damp air, Jonna was sweating. Transparent beads formed on her forehead and trickled down her temples. She felt the adrenaline rushing through her veins. The condensation from her breath mixed with the mist to form a milky-white cloud. She watched Walter’s silhouette, which was slightly to her right. Like a mirage, he floated in and out of the mist. Surprisingly, he moved nimbly for someone with a damaged spine. She held her gun with both hands, pointing at the ground in front of her. Jonna whispered to Walter, but he did not hear her. Instead, he disappeared into the fog. She looked up, so she would not lose sight of the
SWAT
officer ahead. She just had time to see the fog swallow him up as well. As she moved rapidly to catch up with the officer, whose name she did not know, she heard something snap under her shoe.
She froze and carefully lifted her foot. On the ground, she saw a broken twig. The sound made some birds fly away. She swore silently. Now she had also lost sight of the other two.
An eerie silence reigned. All she could hear was her own breathing. She scanned the area with her eyes, trying to get her bearings.
The light from the lamp posts cast dark shadows over the caravans. Something moved in front of her and she tried to make out what it was. From one of the shadows, she saw a figure coming towards her. She stood absolutely still, listening to her heart beating frantically.
With arms locked, she raised her Sig Sauer and aimed at whoever was approaching. Just a few metres away from her, the figure veered off into another shadow. She stood her ground with the gun pointed into the darkness for a few seconds before she lowered it and started to move forwards again. If she didn’t find anything, then no one else would, she thought.
With her back to one of the caravans, she advanced. As she came to its door, she stopped and shone her small torch on the lock. Just as she thought she spotted some damage to the lock, a shadow appeared at the corner of her eye. She span round and raised her weapon.
Mjasník parked his
car some distance from the woman’s building. It was five o’clock in the morning and the city was still sleeping. He had a good view of the main entrance and could still recline his seat without losing sight of it. Some metres from the entrance, there was also a garage door. She would probably leave through it if she had a car. Unfortunately, it would be difficult to see the driver in the dark. Mjasník would be forced to use the excellent mobile-phone app, conveniently made available by the Department of Transport, to identify her car.
After a long while, the garage door opened and a silver Audi A6 drove out. Mjasník entered the registration number into his mobile phone and texted it to the Department of Transport number. Fifteen seconds later, he received the reply. The owner was one Alf Bronelid, born in 1952.
“Not you,” Mjasník said aloud.
Half an hour later, another car left the garage. A MINI Cooper that was not registered to Jonna de Brugge either. Mjasník looked up at the flat. It was now seven o’clock and most of the flats had their lights on. Except one.
By seven-thirty, the residents were leaving the building both from the main entrance and the garage. For each car, he had an answer within fifteen seconds and every time it was the wrong answer. Mjasník looked up at the darkened flat one last time before finally getting out of the car.
Leo Brageler awoke
to the familiar, metallic sound of the key turning in the door lock. The old man came in and sat down on the stool again.
The dawn light crept in through the doorway and spread a misty shimmer around the room. Condensation ran down the walls and formed small rivulets on the floor.
“Are you feeling better?” he began, pushing forwards a tray of bread and water with his shoe.
Leo squinted into the daylight and saw several figures enter the room. He answered with a nod of his head.
“Well, then,” the old man said. “Shall we continue where we left off?”
Leo tried to stand up. One of the men moved forwards and helped him to sit up. Since the doctor had treated his wounds, it did not hurt as much, but something was still wrong inside his body. His urine was red and the taste of blood in his mouth when he coughed had not disappeared.
“You’ll get what you seek in exchange for . . . ” Leo began, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. He sank back down and had to brace himself against the floor on his arms.
The old man’s face did not change. Instead, he signalled for one of the men to help the prisoner to sit up again.
“I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about your internal injuries,” the old man said, with a slight touch of sarcasm in his voice. “They require complex surgery and, unfortunately, we don’t have an operating theatre here in this humble dwelling.”
Leo struggled to look up. He watched as the man lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke from his thin nose. As always, his eyes were emotionless. His mean lips were cracked and the skin on his wrinkled face was scaly. He looked as Leo felt, terminally ill. Leo couldn’t fathom the reason behind the man’s unrelenting hatred. He poisoned the atmosphere with his destructive energy. His was the face of Evil, Leo thought. He knew this because he had also been filled with it – the hatred that corrodes and destroys. He had been an avenger of death and his deeds had made him feel fulfilled.
Leo cautiously took a sip of water and marshalled all the strength he had. He suppressed a minor coughing fit.
“You’ll get what you want,” he said. He struggled over each word and had to use every muscle not to collapse onto the mattress. The old man was unmoved, sitting quite still on his stool. He stubbed out his cigarette and blew out the smoke.
“Go on,” he said, in a flat voice.
“The formula for the compound is in a place that only I can access.”
The old man looked at the others. “Sounds like a tall story,” he remarked.
“You shouldn’t underestimate me,” he said, attempting to explain, but it sounded more like a threat.
The old man’s lips tightened. “Just tell us where to get your so-called compound and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“It’s not that simple.”
The old man didn’t seem to believe a single word that Leo said.
“Tell us what’s so difficult about it?”
Leo took a deep breath. “This is not a simple drug that can be injected as you please. Its manufacture demands great expertise in advanced pharmaceutical science and it’s extremely sensitive to the ambient environment. It has to be treated like a baby.”
“An amusing comparison,” the man said, his thin lips twitching slightly. “But you can let us wrestle with that problem. We’ll take good care of your baby, I give you my word.”
One of the men behind the old man laughed.
“You don’t understand . . .”
“Enough,” the old man interrupted and stood up. “We understand everything. You mistake us for a bunch of thugs looking for easy money.”
Leo looked straight into the old man’s rheumy eyes. “I believe only what I see here, nothing else,” he responded.
“There are many people conducting advanced research into DNA,” the old man continued. “We have sympathizers in many different fields who share our aims. What you yourself, or together with others, have achieved does not impress me. It’s possible to provoke psychopathic tendencies with several drugs, or a combination of other substances, that are already available on the market today. Admittedly, not as precisely as your concoction, but we are not interested in what the drug does. It’s the composition of the molecules and the structure of the ribosomes that we are interested in. Not the fact that the drug causes blind rage. There is sufficient hatred and anger in the world already.”
Leo listened in surprise to the old man. His fears were beginning to be realized. “Why are you interested in that information?”
“The source,” the man replied. “What you yourself used as the starting point for your anger drug.”
Despite his pain, Leo shuddered. How much did they really know? “It’s all stored as data fragments on computers all over the globe,” Leo protested. “You will . . .”
“We know that you’ve been using WCG’s network of roughly seven hundred thousand computers,” interjected one of the men behind the old man. He spoke quickly and had a slight, West-coast accent.
“We’ve been in touch with the World Community Grid,” he went on, “and they confirmed that you’ve been allocated processing time. To be exact, thirteen hundred hours over a period of three years. We also have the names of the seven researchers who helped you. All this was done under the pretext that you were working on HIV and therefore needed the data capacity. Not a bad lie.”
The old man clapped his hands slowly. “And the lies continue,” he said.
Leo followed him with his eyes.
Suddenly, the man turned around. “I want to hear the truth. And nothing but the truth.”
His voice hardened. The others seemed taken off guard as the old man bent down to Leo. He grabbed Leo’s hair and pressed his head backwards against the wall.
“Our patience is nearly exhausted,” he hissed, so that only Leo could hear.
The old man was right about Leo. Leo had lied and had deceived to accomplish his mission. To satisfy his hatred and hunger for revenge. He had stolen the research that he and Günter Himmelmann, together with others, had worked on for so many years. Extracted what he needed to create the anger drug. Appealed to WCG for processing resources, so that he could test vital parts of the research. He had saved many years of research thanks to WCG’s global computing networks. Seven colleagues had volunteered their assistance. Unwittingly, they had helped him to instigate homicides, instead of shedding any light into the origins of HIV. Leo had been perverted by his thirst for revenge.
These psychopaths had now opened his eyes. A new vision was taking shape for him. Redemption. “How will you retrieve something that is distributed over thousands of computers?” he asked, stifling a cough.
The old man fixed his gaze on Leo. “You’ll be given a computer. You will use it to give us what we want.”
“Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Crucial pieces of data are stored elsewhere,” Leo explained.
“Where?”
“With a solicitor.”
“A solicitor?” The old man contemplated Leo intently. “What’s the name of the solicitor?”
“She lives abroad.”
“Where?” The old man raised his voice.
“The Isle of Man,” Leo explained.
The old man released Leo’s hair and he fell back onto the mattress. A hint of resignation appeared in the old man’s face. The fire in his eyes had gone out.
“We have comrades even in Britain. Don’t bother yourself,” he said.
“I have to go in person,” Leo added.
“That can be arranged. Just give us the name of the solicitor.”
“Alice McDaniel,” Leo said. “Of McDaniel Solicitors in Douglas.” A cough escaped him, and his body shook.
The old man got out his mobile phone and went out of the room. He called a number and waited. After a moment, a voice answered.
Leo had difficulty listening to the old man. He tried to suppress his coughing, but the man’s voice was distorted by the echoes off the cold walls of the corridor and became unintelligible. Shortly, the old man came back into the room. The fire in his eyes was back. “If the mountain won’t come to Moses, then Moses must go to the mountain!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t harm her,” Leo pleaded. “She has nothing to do with this.”
The old man laughed. “We are not barbarians. Call your solicitor and kindly ask her to come to Sweden with the material that she is keeping for you.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“Alternatively,” the old man interrupted, “we can extract the information from her in our usual manner. The choice is yours. I must credit you for complicating everything. You have now made yourself indispensable for the forseeable future, which I assume was your plan. In your place, I would have done exactly the same.”
Leo needed to come up with something else. But first he had to become strong enough to leave this place. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
