The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (42 page)

Towards the end, there was a look of terror in his eyes. He seemed to be waiting for something.

‘I’ve counted them, all those to whom I administered the ultimate punishment under the law,’ Karrek whispered, staring at Vlad. ‘You probably think that’s impossible, but I had a number inside my head, and I kept a tally of every shot.’

Vlad didn’t want to ask about the number, but Karrek coughed and went on. ‘Twelve thousand, three hundred and five.’ He lifted his right hand, the one that shook most after all the recoils. ‘By this … this hand. How does that sound?’

‘Incomprehensible,’ Vlad said.

Karrek was still staring at him with glassy eyes, but Vlad lowered his gaze and looked at his own right hand. For the first time, Aron thought about what it had done, and how often.

Had the index finger pulled the trigger thousands of times? Definitely.

And how many blows to backs and feet and heads with the
dubinka
? The number was incalculable. Most of those who had suffered were men, but there were women, too. Never children, however. There were sadists within the organization who beat children, even killed them – but not Vlad. His limit was the age of fifteen. Or thereabouts.

Traitors and enemies of the people. They got what they deserved.

Karrek died with a sigh. He fell asleep quietly and peacefully in his bed, unlike the twelve thousand, three hundred and five.

It is October, and Sputnik is whirling around in space, spinning and bleeping.

Aron is walking around Moscow, every bit as alone as the satellite. However, he thinks he sees familiar faces everywhere on the streets, and that frightens him.

Last week, he was recognized outside Kursky Station; he is sure of it. A middle-aged woman stopped just a few metres away and stared at him with terror in her eyes. What had Vlad done to her? Used the
dubinka
on her back? Kept her awake for three days? Or had he just broken her son’s arms, or shot her husband?

Aron doesn’t remember.

Whatever Vlad did, it was in a good cause.

A higher goal, a better future. Vlad and his colleagues had worked hard down in the cellar, clearing away one enemy after another, always looking to the future.

Is this the future? Has it arrived?

Aron has his doubts. He walks the streets and thinks about running away. Going to the Swedish embassy, a building he has never been anywhere near, or to Ovir, the official bureau for visa issues and registration, and telling them everything.

It is evening, a cold autumn evening, and Vlad seeks refuge from Moscow’s icy winds in an Azerbaijani restaurant not far from his apartment. He sits down at a corner table and orders vodka. He will have a kebab later, but the vodka is his main aim.

A chilled glass covered in condensation arrives, and Vlad drinks a silent toast to Stalin. Down with Khrushchev, the hypocrite who is himself up to his neck in blood.

He is drinking heavily for the first time in his life. The alcohol makes Aron feel sick, but Vlad orders one glass after another. When he has emptied his fifth and felt the vodka worm its way down into his belly, he looks up and sees his dead NKVD colleagues sitting at the table with him. They encourage him:
keep on drinking!
His stepfather, Sven, is sitting on his left; he and Aron are the same age now. Vladimir from the Ukraine is on his right, with shattered legs.

Old Grisha is there, too, and his stylish colleague Grigori Trushkin, whom Vlad interrogated for several nights until Trushkin was broken. But Trushkin is smiling and nodding at him.
Drink, Comrade! So many summers, so many winters.

Vlad raises his glass to the dead, over and over again. He empties each glass methodically; he closes his eyes after the eleventh or twelfth and feels the room spinning. He is a satellite, spinning out into space.

This is what it’s like.
This is what it’s like to be free and damned at the same time. Stupefyingly lonely, and increasingly drunk and sick.

Aron doesn’t remember any more.

Does he get thrown out of the restaurant, muttering in Swedish, or does he stagger out of his own accord? All he knows is that, suddenly, he is on his knees on the pavement, with his head hanging down and saliva dribbling from his mouth.

He has to get home; he will freeze to death out here. So he tries to stand up.

Then everything goes black, and when he comes round he sees nothing but cobbles. He has fallen over.

Where is he? He has no idea. He loses consciousness again.

Darkness.

A hand is shaking his shoulder. A slender hand, and he can hear a woman’s voice: ‘Are you all right, soldier?’

Her name is Ludmila, and her middle name is Stalina, but she never uses it. She calls herself Mila, and she helps him home. Once she has got him into bed, he looks at her and tells her, or tries to tell her, that this is the first time he has ever been drunk. He never, ever drinks.

Mila doesn’t believe him, of course.

‘At least you’re not aggressive,’ she says quietly. ‘A lot of men turn nasty when they’re drunk.’

Aron is not aggressive, he promises her that. He is not dangerous. And he will never drink again.

Mila sits by his bed for a while. Gradually, he is able to see her more clearly; she is dark and pretty.

‘What work do you do?’ she asks.

Both Aron and Vlad hesitate. ‘Civil servant,’ they say eventually. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m a nurse.’

After a brief silence, Aron asks, ‘Can I see you again? Do you live here?’

‘My mother lives in Moscow,’ Mila says. ‘I’m staying with her for a week. I work … somewhere else.’

Aron realizes that she works with secrets, just like him.

Mila gets to her feet. ‘I have to go.’

‘I’d really like to see you again.’

Mila looks around the room. ‘You have a telephone.’

‘Yes,’ Aron says. ‘My office needs to be able to get hold of me sometimes.’

Mila smiles. ‘I’ll give you my mother’s number. Give her a call and speak to her, and we’ll see if she’ll allow you to talk to me.’

Kent Kloss looked tired; perhaps he had been drinking the night before. But he was sober now, moving animatedly back and forth and making Lisa’s caravan shake.

‘He was close last night. I could hear him creeping around down by the bunker, but he got away … Tonight, you two will be there, too, and we’ll get him.’

We?
Lisa thought. Was he including her?

But she didn’t say anything; she just sat quietly on the sofa listening to Kent. Paulina was over by the door; she didn’t say anything either.

Kent was on his feet as usual, his head almost touching the ceiling, and even though his face was pale and tired, there was an energy in his body. He kept opening and closing his fists, turning his head and listening, shifting position.

He had placed a black bag on the worktop.

‘He’s got a day,’ Kent went on. ‘Maybe two … Before his luck runs out.’

Lisa had heard what had happened, of course: a security guard had been found shot and buried in the resort. She was almost certain that it was the same man who had appeared in the forest on her first day here, but she had no intention of asking Kent any questions about the matter. This wasn’t the time to reveal that she had met him just before he died.

Instead she asked, ‘So what’s he doing down there in the bunker?’

‘He’s spying,’ Kent said. ‘He’s spying on me and my family. And he’s using the bunker as his operational base.’

Lisa noticed that Kent had started using military terminology, but she kept quiet, and so did Paulina.

Kent unzipped the bag and took out two small items made of black plastic. ‘You’ll need these tonight.’

Lisa realized they were walkie-talkies. No surprise there – Kent Kloss liked his gadgets.

He glanced at his watch and went on, ‘It will be dark in an hour. We’ll meet on the coast road down below my house at ten, and I’ll explain what you have to do. Bring torches and the walkie-talkies … Any questions?’

Lisa and Paulina remained silent.

For the first time in many years, Lisa wished the police would turn up. Knock on the door and start investigating the whole thing. But she knew that Kent Kloss didn’t want the police anywhere near him, whatever he was intending to do to the man in the bunker.

Kent picked up the bag and opened the caravan door. ‘Good. See you later… Wrap up warm – it could be a cold night.’

He stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

Lisa stayed where she was as the smell of Kent’s aftershave gradually faded. ‘Bollocks,’ she said to the closed door. ‘It’s going to be a warm night.’

She looked at her walkie-talkie, which looked like a large black toy mobile phone. But Kent Kloss was serious, so no doubt it worked.

Then she looked over at Paulina, who was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, a determined expression on her face. Lisa felt she had to say something. ‘So we’re going to do this?’

Paulina nodded. ‘We are.’

‘Why?’

Paulina was quiet for a moment. ‘Sick mother,’ she said eventually.

‘Your mother is sick?’

Paulina nodded again, and Lisa asked, ‘So Kent Kloss is paying you well?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘A thousand.’

‘A thousand kronor?’

‘Dollars,’ Paulina said, taking an old tea caddy out of her bag. ‘He give me a hundred already.’ She opened the caddy and showed Lisa the notes.

‘OK. Good,’ Lisa said.

Paulina looked at her. ‘And you? Why you do this?’

Lisa hesitated before answering. ‘I have a relative who needs money.’

‘Relative?’

‘My father … my dad. He lives in Stockholm and he uses the street drugstore, if you know what I mean.’

Paulina obviously didn’t understand.

‘He’s a junkie,’ Lisa explained. She quickly got to her feet. ‘OK, we’d better make sure we’re ready.’

She wished she hadn’t mentioned Silas. She just wanted to get away now, dump this last job and drive away from the island right now.

But she knew she had to stay.

The walkie-talkie was silent, but Lisa’s mobile rang when Paulina had left. Lisa was lying on the bed. She stared at it for a long time without answering.

She knew who it was.

The phone kept on ringing: eight signals. Nine. Ten.

But Lisa didn’t take the call. She just stared out of the window, where the fiery yellow sun was on its way down over the Sound. Eventually, the ringing stopped; Lisa stayed where she was.

After half an hour she got up, pulled on a dark jacket and covered her blonde hair with a black cap.

The sun had disappeared; it was time to go.

For the past week, Gerlof had been hearing stories about Veronica Kloss. How fantastic she was, how well she looked after the elderly.

‘Incredible energy,’ the staff in the residential home said. ‘Never gave up. Happy to chat or to listen. Kept the old ladies going. Used to read to them.’

But if Veronica was so considerate, why hadn’t she been here this summer? Gerlof knew that the Kloss family had had a number of problems to sort out down at the Ölandic, but even so … He hadn’t seen her once.

Last summer, Veronica had been here almost every week. According to the temporary care assistant he had spoken to, Veronica had got on well with Greta Fredh, and had made several subsequent visits to read to Greta and the others.

Then Greta had died after a fall in her bathroom, and Veronica had stopped coming. Gerlof had talked to several residents who missed her and wished she would come back.

But why had she stopped? Was it only Greta who had been important to her?

The door of Ulf Wall’s room was often ajar, but the room inside was dark even when the sun was shining down on the home in Marnäs, and Gerlof had resisted the temptation to call in. He didn’t know much about Ulf, just that he was at least five years older than Gerlof, and might be the father of Einar Wall, the huntsman and arms dealer. And that he had been Greta Fredh’s neighbour.

Finally, on the last day of July, Gerlof pushed open the door and peered in. ‘Hello?’ he said quietly.

At first there was silence, followed by a brief response: ‘What do you mean?’

This question was rather difficult to answer, so Gerlof said nothing. He stepped into the hallway; the room was familiar because it was decorated and furnished exactly the same as his own, but it didn’t smell quite as good. There was no movement in the air in here.

There was no movement in Ulf Wall either. He was wearing a grey cardigan, sitting in an armchair next to the window, which was covered by a roller blind.

Gerlof made his way slowly along the hall. ‘Gerlof Davidsson,’ he said.

The man in the armchair stared at him, and nodded. ‘Yes. I know who you are, Davidsson.’

‘Good.’

‘You were in the paper a while ago.’

‘That’s right. And I heard about your son,’ Gerlof said. ‘That was a little while ago, too. My condolences. Einar was your son, wasn’t he?’

Wall continued to stare at him, not moving a muscle, but after a moment he nodded again. ‘But I’ve got two more,’ he said. ‘They’re better behaved than Einar … they don’t drink and they don’t go poaching.’

There was nowhere for a guest to sit, so Gerlof remained standing, swaying slightly on his weak legs. ‘I heard about your neighbour, too,’ he said. ‘Greta Fredh.’

‘That’s right – Aron’s sister. She died last summer.’

Gerlof swayed even more.
Aron’s
sister.

‘So you know Aron Fredh?’

‘We got into conversation,’ Wall said. ‘He was here a few times.’

‘When was that?’

‘Early summer … He came and had a look at his sister’s room. Took one or two things with him.’

‘And what did you talk about?’

‘Greta, mainly … he wanted to know what had happened.’

‘I heard she had a fall.’

Ulf Wall nodded once more. ‘He wanted to know if any of the Kloss family had been around at the time.’

‘The Kloss family?’ Gerlof said.

‘I told him what I knew.’

‘And what did you know?’

‘That she was here,’ Wall said. ‘Veronica Kloss kept on turning up for a while last year.’