Project Nirvana (16 page)

Since his last stretch, he had developed a taste for freedom. A taste for the good life, with cash in his pockets and respect from smaller-time thugs. He had stopped smoking weed and snorting coke and had collected debts for Omar’s clients. A lucrative business. So fucking well paid. Housebreaking was just a lot of hard work for peanuts. That was work for crackheads and Eastern European trash. Tor had stopped taking shit from other people and was on his way up. Above the Yugos and Albanians. He and Jerry had made a name for themselves. They had gained respect, but had been blacklisted by their peers when they had started slashing their rates for debt collecting. That was all over now.

Yet, there was still a light at the end of the tunnel. He was still free and had a cop on his side. It might still come out right somehow. He had always landed on his feet, even with a nutter as a partner.

He listened for sounds of his pursuers, both two- and four-legged. Had they lost him? When no more dogs arrived, his hopes and strength returned. He grabbed the carrier bag and continued into the forest.

“The fog will
lift soon,” said Walter, looking at his watch. “Then we can get the helicopters airborne.”

“According to this map, he won’t get very far,” Jonna said. “One kilometre to the left of the gravel road is Mälaren lake and on the right side is a marsh that he will have to cross, unless he decides to go north.”

“The gravel road continues to the north?”

“Yes, it swings back around the nature reserve.”

“Are there any buildings in the area?”

“A few houses. The Command Centre has probably called and warned the residents.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Walter answered. “If the ice on Mälaren lake is still thick enough, he can walk over to the other side or one of the neighbouring islands. We must catch him quickly.”

“Continue straight ahead for another four hundred metres and we should meet up with the dog handlers,” Jonna said.

She compared the map on her knee against the car’s sat-nav. As they turned onto the small gravel road, Walter turned off the car’s headlights and coasted slowly through the darkness with the engine idling.

The police radio came to life. Jonna raised the volume. One of the SWAT officers briefly reported in a colourless voice that both police dogs were dead.

The radio went quiet.

Jonna looked at Walter. His face was expressionless.

After a moment, Meiton’s stern voice requested the dogs’ location.

“That’s just a few hundred metres to our right,” Jonna cried and drew her gun. Tor Hedman had killed two police dogs and Jonna felt adrenaline kick in once again. He really was capable of anything now. Perhaps it was lucky for her that he hadn’t been in that caravan after all.

“How were the dogs killed?” Walter inquired on the police radio while stopping his car.

“Looks like blunt force to the head,” answered one of the police officers.

“At least he’s not carrying a shooter,” Walter concluded. “If he was, he would have shot the dogs, with or without a silencer. It requires a huge degree of desperation to kill two angry Alsatians. If Meiton had listened to me, this would never have happened. Hedman is dangerous now. Damned dangerous.”

“What do we do now?” asked Jonna.

“Wait for the bloody fog to lift.”

Walter shut down the engine and got out of the car. He leaned over the front wing and gazed into the mist.

“Did you hear that?” he said.

“What?”

“Silence.”

Jonna listened to the sound of nothing.

The car cabin’s lights slowly dimmed and the car became a dark silhouette. She heard Walter take out his Sig Sauer and its mechanical sound as he got it ready to shoot. Jonna already had her gun out of her holster, cocked and ready.

“I bumped into Martin Borg shortly after I lost you,” she whispered.

“Really?”

“He and a couple of SÄPO guys just came out of the fog.”

Walter looked at Jonna in disbelief.

“I know,” she said. “I should have stayed with them and not rushed into the caravan, but that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

“What then?”

“I’m not sure what it means,” she hesitated, “but . . .”

Suddenly, a twig snapped.

Walter held up his hand and listened. After a few moments, he signalled to Jonna to crouch down. He pointed at a spot in front of them and off to the side. “Over there,” he whispered.

Jonna held her breath and stared in the direction of the sound. For an instant, she thought that she heard footsteps. Then another twig snapped. And yet another. Now she could hear the sound of somebody running straight towards them. Jonna gripped her pistol firmly and glanced across at Walter. He motioned her to follow him.

Then the sounds stopped abruptly. Walter stopped and crouched down again.

Jonna felt the hand holding her gun shake as adrenaline raced through her body. Soon she would not be able to hold it any more. Her Sig Sauer felt as if it was made out of lead. Yet it was her best defence at this moment.

Walter stood up slowly and began to jog along the road. Jonna followed.

Then the footsteps began again. This time to their left. Walter stopped and shouted that they were police. The sound of running feet disappeared in the fog and Walter set off in pursuit. He stopped after a short distance and listened, continued for ten metres and stopped again. Each time, he increased the distance that he jogged. Finally, he gave up. Walter tried to find a footprint in the wet ground, but he could not see any.

“We could use a dog patrol now,” he said resignedly and shone his torch on the ground.

Jonna took out her personal radio. “1235 to 70,” she requested.

“1235 – go ahead.”

“We made contact and need a dog patrol.”

“Thirty-five minutes,” replied Rolf Meiton after a short time.

Walter shook his head. “That’s too long.”

“Shall we continue into the wood?”

“Not a good idea,” Walter said. “We’ll just get lost. It would be useful to have night-vision goggles in every police car.” Walter angrily returned his pistol to his shoulder holster.

They turned back towards their car; Jonna opened the car door. Just as she was about to get in, she saw something at the corner of her eye. A shadow moved a few metres behind her. She spun around with her gun raised.

Chapter 10

“Alice McDaniel?
”
Leo
Brageler asked. He was struggling to keep a steady voice.

“Yes, this is Alice McDaniel,” a middle-aged woman answered, sleepily.

“This is Leo Brageler,” said Leo in perfect English. “Forgive me for ringing your private number at such an early hour, but I need your urgent assistance.”

“How did you get this number?” asked the woman abruptly.

“That’s not important now,” Leo said, hoping she would change the subject. “I need your services and I am prepared to pay a substantial amount.”

A pause.

“What kind of assistance do you need?” the woman asked, suspiciously.

“I want you to take the plane to Stockholm and bring the items that I left in your safekeeping. Ten thousand pounds sterling will be transferred to your account later this morning.”

Once again, the phone went quiet.

Leo could feel his strength dissipating. There was a click on the handset and Leo began to wonder if she had hung up.

“It’s not a service we usually perform,” she said finally.

“If an exception could be made, I would be most grateful.”

Alice McDaniel sighed quietly to herself.

“Please, you must help me,” implored Leo.

“I’ll need the code number,” she replied, reluctantly.

A weight fell off Leo’s chest and he saw that the tension in the old man’s face had relaxed. He had started a high-risk game. Perhaps, the stakes were too high. This time, Leo didn’t want any more innocent bystanders to get hurt. Alice McDaniel really could not be blamed for his situation, but he needed her help to succeed.

“You’ll receive the code in a text message to your mobile, along with the address of a hotel where we can meet,” he said.

“Will I be able to reach you at this number in a few hours?”

“It will be possible,” Leo terminated the conversation.

Alice McDaniel hung
up the phone and went to sit in front of her computer. She turned on her mobile phone and, one minute later, the text message appeared as promised.

As soon as her computer had started up, she logged into her law firm’s intranet. She checked that the code number in the text message matched the code that had been registered. The eight-digit password was correct.

She leaned slowly backwards in her chair, thinking. Three years had passed since she had met the unassuming Swede in her office in Douglas. McDaniel Solicitors was one of Britain’s oldest law firms, specializing in wills and testaments. Alice was a seventh-generation McDaniel and had recently taken over as senior partner. Leo Brageler had not been a difficult client, except for his somewhat eccentric wishes for the handling of his will. Her firm had to check with the Swedish Registrar of Births and Deaths four times a year to make sure that there was no death certificate with his name on it.

The procedure was both awkward and time-consuming. There was a sealed envelope that, in the event of his death, had to be sent immediately by courier to an address in France.

Despite this odd request, he punctually paid his annual invoice, so there was no reason to question the procedure. Apparently, the client wanted to either change the procedure or even dissolve his agreement with McDaniel Solicitors. Whatever the reason, she would accommodate her client’s request. For her and her predecessors, putting the client’s interest first was a matter of professional honour.

She opened the British Airways home page and booked a business-class flight to Stockholm, in accordance with the client’s instructions. She was not against travelling if someone else was footing the bill. In two hours, she would be sitting on a plane to London and then a quick transfer would take her the rest of the way to Stockholm.

She had never been to Sweden, nor had any business in that Scandinavian country. A generous client, coupled with a slump in business because of the recession, had made this a welcome opportunity – despite the short notice. She looked at her phone and pressed autodial to get the last number saved in the “calls received” menu, to confirm her departure.

The whole arrangement seemed quite acceptable, except for one thing. How were they able to obtain her ex-directory telephone number?

Tor was running
as fast as he could. The throbbing in his injured hand had turned into a piercing pain and blood was seeping out of his damaged resin cast. He was taking short breaks to catch his breath and listen for pursuers. Each time he stopped, the pulsing in his hand seemed to intensify. He had to stop the bleeding. But how? It was hardly possible in the middle of the woods, surrounded by darkness and hunted by a police patrol.

He started to run again. After a while, he arrived in a clearing. At the bottom of a slope, a few metres away, he saw a gravel road.

Tor slid down the slope and crossed the road. Then he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be picked up on a gravel road. Perhaps this was the road. He was just about to change direction when someone shouted at him. Tor stopped dead in his tracks. The word he least wanted to hear cut through the darkness like a bullet. It was: “Police!”

He ran away from the voice and into the forest on the other side of the road. His legs felt heavier at each metre and he was soon back to jogging speed. He ploughed through a thicket and then tripped and fell. He painstakingly got to his feet and caught his breath. He cautiously examined his painful hand.

His luck had turned bad again. This was about as much freedom as he was going to get now. He knew that his escape was doomed to fail. It was just a matter of time before they caught him. Yet he kept going, driven by his survival instinct. He ran a few hundred metres more and arrived in a small field. The sky had changed colour. Slivers of light flickered over the horizon, dissolving the shadows around him. Visibility was getting better and he could now make out the outline of the forest. Then he spotted a house on the other side of the field. It seemed inhabited. Perhaps there was even a car.

The thought gave Tor’s legs renewed energy, but the field was heavy clay and, with each step, he sank ankle deep into the earth. Like an automaton, he kept mechanically moving forwards. Finally, he was across the field and approaching the house. He stopped and caught his breath. At the front of the traditionally Falun Red-painted cabin, there was a parked car.

He tried the door of the car, but it was locked. It was a newer Mazda model and they were difficult to steal without keys.

The house was dark and Tor carefully tried the front door. It was locked too. No stickers warning about dogs or burglar alarms. He took out his hammer and hit the small glass window in the middle of the door. He had to hit the window a few times to make a hole in the laminated glass. Taking care not to cut himself, he stuck his left hand inside and turned the lock.

When Tor got into the hallway, he saw that lights had gone on in one of the rooms. He could hear voices and the floorboards creaked from the weight of footsteps. Tor had to stop them from calling the police. He rushed in and bumped into a figure in the doorway of the room. Tor raised his hammer and roared. An elderly man backed into the room, terrified. Tor saw he was a scrawny old man with a wrinkled face.

The man looked unarmed, but Tor was not taking any chances and kicked him in the chest. He fell to the floor and lay motionless on his back. In the bed was a woman of a similar age. She had a phone in her hand. Tor threw himself over the old lady and tore the handset from her hand. She screamed and flailed with her arms in self defence. Tor hit her so hard in the head with the telephone that the plastic cracked. She lay silent and lifelessly in the bed.

“Where are the keys to the car?” Tor yelled at the man on the floor. He raised his hammer over the man’s head.