Project Nirvana (14 page)

“You are going to call Alice McDaniel and ask her to come to Stockholm immediately with the goods,” the old man said. “You’ll offer her ten thousand pounds for two days’ work.”

“I don’t think . . .”

The old man interrupted Leo again. “If there is one thing solicitors care about, it’s money. Trust me.”

The old man’s mobile phone rang. He answered and spoke a few words in English. Then he hung up. A moment later, the phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text message. He waved to the man with the accent, who took a fresh mobile phone from a black shoulder bag.

“This one’s clean,” he said and handed it to the old man, who then keyed in the number he had received in the text message.

“Say that you are ill, and you need your material delivered to Stockholm immediately,” the old man ordered, holding the phone next to Leo’s ear.

“You’ll deposit ten thousand pounds and the cost of a business-class ticket in their account today. You’ve also booked a room for one night at the Grand Hotel, which naturally you will pay for. The meeting will take place in the hotel foyer tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. If she’s unable to make it at such short notice, you’ll get her to come the next day. Don’t forget to apologize for calling her private number so early in the morning. The Brits can be a little oversensitive about inappropriate intrusions.”

Leo gathered his strength. He heard the telephone ringing at the other end. On the fifth ring, he heard a sleepy woman’s voice answer.

The skylight was
impossible to get through. It was too small and was more like a ventilation duct. Tor looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had gone by and he was still on the premises. He lost his temper. He roared and kicked in the door of the toilet. The hinges broke and the door latch was ripped out of the door frame. A feeling of impotence overwhelmed him. He sat on the floor of the caravan like an abandoned child. His eyes filled with tears of frustration and despair. He couldn’t take it any more. Being continuously on the run was taking its toll. And with a vengeance. His mind and body were constantly on edge. He couldn’t relax for a second.

He dried his eyes with his good, left arm, while examining the kicked-in toilet door. Maybe . . . , he thought, and stood up. When he was a kid, he and his mates had wedged an old door against a tree. By doing so, they were able to reach its lowest branches. All at once, his snivelling stopped and was replaced by determination. The door was his ticket out of here.

Tor dragged the door out of the caravan with his left hand. Despite being made of thin plywood, it was heavy. He placed the door at a sufficiently steep angle between the fence and the caravan. Using the caravan window and the door lock as footholds and the door as a stepping stone, he should be able to climb up onto the roof of the caravan. Once there, it would be a simple task to jump over the fence. He hurried back to get his bag of tools from the caravan. Just as he was lifting the carrier bag from the floor, he heard something. He turned and stared into the fog. Far away, he heard the sound of a bird’s wings. Somebody was out there.

He carefully picked up the carrier bag. It rustled. With eyes fixed on the doorway, he carefully made his way forwards. Just as he was about to leave the caravan, he saw a shadow moving in the fog. Tor froze. Like ghosts, the shapes moved slowly along one of the caravans. They were heading in Tor’s direction. He would never be able to climb onto the roof undetected. The noise would reveal his location. Carefully, he closed the door of the caravan and bolted it from the inside. They had no way of knowing that he was hiding in the caravan, unless they had dogs, and he hadn’t heard any. He took out his mobile and wondered if he should call the psycho cop again. His fingers nervously tapped the display for a brief moment before he put the phone away. The cop couldn’t help Tor now. He was completely on his own.

Jonna lowered her
weapon as Martin Borg’s face appeared out of the fog. His skin was pale, almost transparent, and his eyes as cold as the air she breathed. Behind him were two more Security Service agents, with guns drawn.

“Are you by yourself?” Martin asked, lowering his pistol.

“Yes,” Jonna whispered, her eyes fixed on Borg’s weapon.

“Where are the others?”

“Somewhere in this blasted fog.”

Martin smiled. “Stay with us; I promise you won’t get lost,” he said.

Jonna cursed both herself and the fog. Having to listen to Borg’s sarcastic remarks was the last thing she needed. “I’ll be all right,” she replied tersely.

“Not here on your own,” Martin said. “I don’t think your superiors would appreciate it. Breaking regulations, and so on.”

“Do you have any more good advice?” Her irritation boiled over and Jonna had a good mind to wipe that smirk off Borg’s face.

“Do you need an escort back to the main gate?”

“No, thank you. I can find my own way,” Jonna replied and started to move back in the direction from which she had come. She soon passed a caravan that she had previously inspected – she had made a note of the sticker on the door: “Beware of the dog,” with a small poodle underneath. Then she went past the next caravan and saw the same sticker. When she passed a third caravan with same sticker, she realized that she was lost again. At the end of that caravan, she almost tripped over a black power cable. She followed the cable until it disappeared into the end of the caravan. It was a Polar 680, with two sets of wheels and the lower half painted dark brown. She didn’t remember seeing this one. Then she remembered that they had switched sides. Somewhere between the third and fourth caravan, they had crossed to the row opposite. Jonna turned around and tried to find a reference point. The wooden stool that they had gone past, or the upside-down, iron bucket. Nothing was where it should be. She had lost her bearings. Once again, she was by herself and, once again, she was lost.

Keeping her Sig Sauer lowered towards the ground, her gaze suddenly fixed on the slushy snow outside the caravan door. The ground was full of footprints, and they were of big feet. The doorstep of the caravan was also muddy. Her pulse started to race. What should she do? Break radio silence and call for backup? The element of surprise would be lost. Jonna crouched down, pressed the back of her head against the caravan and tried to think. One metre to her left was the door. She could call for backup and storm the caravan at the same time.

Crouching, she moved to the other side of the door. She stood up cautiously and shone her torch onto the lock. It had definitely been broken into. The lock cylinder was missing. She crouched down and took out her personal radio. Would she really be doing the right thing? Wouldn’t it be better to leave and find help? The hour and the fog made her decision so damned difficult. She carefully touched her bulletproof vest; her mind was racing. What would Walter do?

This time, she did not have an answer. She was completely stumped: this was her own decision and it was her head on the block if something went wrong. From her pocket, she took out the red distress flare that had to be used if contact was made. She looked up and took a deep breath. Then she lit the emergency flare, pressed the button on her personal radio and broke radio silence.

Tor was trapped
. Caught in a trap of his own making. Why had he come to this place, and how the hell had the fuzz found out where he was? He should have prepared an escape route. That was something that Jerry was always particular about. Never enter a room without having a safe getaway, he used to say. And now look what had happened.

There was no air in this damned caravan. Panic started to set in and his eyes began to wander like a cornered animal. Everything seemed to be going wrong. He was surrounded by idiots, slags, psychos and gays in one enormous, fucking conspiracy. He was caught between a bright future and a fate worse than . . .

Suddenly, there was another noise. He stared at the round door handle and thought he saw it move. He held his breath.

Jonna broke radio
silence as her emergency flare fizzled in the mud behind her. “1235 to 70,” she whispered over the radio, “Contact with target. I’m going in.”

She tore open the door to the caravan and quickly launched herself forwards. With both hands on her pistol grip, she yelled “Police!” so hard that her voice cracked. Adrenaline flooded every cell of her body as she crossed over the threshold. The light from the emergency flare lit up the walls like a flashing strobe light and she rapidly swept the room with her gun. She could hear her own, panting breaths echo in her head. It felt surreal. All at once, she was standing in the middle of the floor and no longer had her back protected. Something moved at the corner of her eye and she spun around. She almost shot her own shadow. Jonna lowered her weapon for a moment and exhaled. Only now did she see that the door to the toilet was closed. She threw her back to the wall, tightened her grip on her Sig Sauer and took a deep breath. One moment’s hesitation and then she kicked open the door.

The toilet was empty. The mirror on the wall showed a tense and terrified figure aiming a gun at her own reflection. Behind her, the flare was burning and bathing her in ridicule, or perhaps it was the glow of failure.

The radio crackled. She could hear the team leaders ordering their SWAT teams to re-deploy. Someone answered that they could see a red flare in the fog. “70 to 1235,” the police radio announced.

Jonna stiffened. It was her call sign. Slowly, she began to realize the consequences of her fateful decision.

It was just
shadows playing tricks on Tor’s mind as he moved about. He turned cautiously towards the window on the other side. If he got out of the caravan that way, the toilet door would be directly to the right of him. He would be able to get up onto the roof as planned and then jump over the fence and disappear into the mist and the forest. But it was impossible to do that without making a noise. The cops would come around the side of the caravan and push Tor face down on the floor, with their MP5s aimed at his head. The alternative was to wait for the inevitable storming of his caravan with blast grenades and tear gas, which would be much worse. He carefully opened the window. As he shifted his body weight on the bench, the floor creaked. He froze, and listened for any movement outside the door.

It was quiet. He got one leg outside the window and carefully slid down towards the ground, before suddenly getting stuck. The buckle on his belt was snagged on a tent hook on the outside of the caravan. He pushed with his elbows and tried to get loose, but his own body weight held him as firmly as a carpenter’s vice. He attempted to pull himself up a few centimetres, but the strength left in his arms was not enough. Using his knees, he pushed backwards and outwards, but the admonishing finger of the tent hook stubbornly held onto him. He pushed with all his might and suddenly his belt broke. Tor fell to the ground but, luckily for him, landed on his feet. Even so, he lost his balance and fell against the fence with a crash.

The noise made by the fence would have made a nest of dormice scuttle from their hibernation. Quickly, he got to his feet and made a run for it. He bounced onto the door and when he felt the door lock beneath his shoe, he knew he was going to make it onto the roof.

Chapter 9

When the woman
came out of the street door, she cast a sullen glance over her shoulder towards Mjasník, who jammed his foot in the door just as it was about to shut. He entered a stairwell filled with expensive ornaments from the 19th century, hanging from the ceiling and adorning the walls. The floor was of solid marble, consisting of mosaics on several ancient Egyptian themes. Images of pyramids and a sphinx formed a pathway to the stairs. The tenants of these flats had expensive tastes and obviously a good deal of money as well. How could a young, woman police officer afford to live here? It would be impossible in Russia unless she were taking bribes.

The lift started up and its counterweights were lifted by strong cables. It was an old model with iron, accordion doors. Mjasník started to climb the stairs. He had his eyes trained ahead constantly, so he would be able to avoid a face-to-face encounter.

As he approached the third floor, one of the doors opened. Someone rattled some keys. He had to keep walking, stopping midway between floors would only attract more attention. That was a mistake he had once made in Kiev.

Back then, the hit was supposed to look like a mugging gone wrong. Yet obvious enough to send a clear message. The target had come towards him from the second floor. Mjasník had been unprepared and surprised by their sudden meeting. The man should have stayed in his flat for at least another hour. Instead, he had been hurrying down the stairs with his briefcase in his hand. Mjasník had had only one chance. His dagger was still in his back pack and he had had only seconds before they passed each other. In one of his trouser pockets, he had a folding knife. He had pulled out the knife and folded out its longest blade, just as the target was coming around the bend in the stairs. Mjasník had averted his gaze and pretended to be looking for something. That had been a big mistake.

The man had halted a few metres in front of Mjasník and, when Mjasník looked up, the target had lunged for him. Both of them had fallen down the stairs, head over heels. The knife had fallen out of Mjasník’s hand as they both landed on the floor below.

The target had been the first to get to his feet and he had fled down the stairs towards the entrance and safety. Mjasník had grabbed the knife and rushed after him. As the target was opening the door, Mjasník had grabbed his arm. The man had swung around to defend himself, but he missed his chance. His fist had struck thin air. Mjasník had thrust the knife blade into the man’s throat, while simultaneously twisting his head and snapping the vertebrae in his neck.

He had left that target to his death throes on the floor.

Mjasník climbed the stairs to the next floor and met a man in a black, quilted jacket and a tie. Mjasník tried to appear as if he had forgotten something, and was trying to remember. The man was in a hurry, but still took the time to exchange a puzzled look with Mjasník as he got into the lift.