The Other Son (47 page)

She couldn't stop crying.

Lothar got up from his chair. He stood there, looking at her. Instead of answering and saying
I forgive you,
he said, “It'll be OK.”

Then he left the room.

An empty feeling of nausea spread through her.

Gustave Peltier was still in Nice when he received the call from his Danish colleague, Ejnar Larsen.

The conversation took him by surprise. Sophie Brinkmann had appeared with a life-threatening knife wound at a hospital in a small town on Jutland in Denmark, and was picked up by armed men. And Ejnar Larsen had theories about some shootout in Malmö. But that would have to wait.

“Take what you've got and catch a flight to Stockholm,” Gustave said, then booked a flight for himself.

The lead investigator in the Trasten case, Tommy Jansson, met both men outside the airport and drove them into the city in his Volvo.

Jansson talked about things that were typically Swedish. Elves and trolls, reindeer and the Sámi people, Midsummer and drinking. Boats in the Stockholm archipelago, the Eurovision Song Contest, and painted wooden Dala horses.

He tried to sound lively and alert when he spoke, but it didn't really work. Tommy Jansson didn't seem to be terribly well. Gustave looked at Ejnar. He also seemed to find the situation rather odd, and had crossed his arms defensively. He tried to be lighthearted with Tommy, but Tommy didn't seem to notice.

On the island of Kungsholmen in Stockholm they parked outside Police Headquarters. Tommy led them inside and up to a conference room.

Ejnar filled their coffee cups to the brim. Tommy took a cinnamon bun and pushed it into his mouth, breathing through his nose as he chewed, then topped himself up with coffee and took another bun. It seemed to calm him down slightly.

“OK,” Gustave Peltier said. “Thanks to both of you for agreeing to meet at such short notice. I was contacted by Hector Guzman's sister-in-law, and she's given us information about Hector. Unfortunately we missed him. During our conversations with her, one name began to loom large, a Sophie Brinkmann. We don't have a clear picture of her, but she seems to be close to Hector, both personally and professionally. We decided to focus on her, and issued a warrant for her, which Ejnar here dug out when she appeared under a false ID at a hospital in Jutland with a serious knife injury.”

Tommy listened as Ejnar took over.

“There could be a link with a shootout in Malmö a few days before. Once again, in that instance the injured person was removed from the hospital.”

“Who was that?” Tommy asked.

“The description suggests that it could have been Hector Guzman. But that isn't certain,” Ejnar said.

Tommy looked at the men. Now he was going to start lying to them. It was one of his more accomplished skills. Tommy adopted a fresh attitude, calmer, more focused, more cop-like.

“We're in a hell of a mess up here,” he said.

The Dane and the Frenchman looked curious.

“We've been the victims of lengthy deception. Two of our close colleagues have been killed.”

Gustave Peltier raised his eyebrows.

“And we're in a mess because both of them were working on the Trasten investigation.”

“Explain,” Gustave said.

“It's a long story. But Antonia Miller led the investigation from the start. I thought she was mishandling it and not making any progress—she was simply doing a bad job. I said I wanted to try someone else. She fought to keep the job, then suggested Miles Ingmarsson, who she thought was good. I already knew him, and thought,
Why not?
But I deeply regret that decision. It turned out that both detectives, Antonia Miller and Miles Ingmarsson, were working together, and were totally corrupt. They were blackmailing the culprits and making a fortune from their activities. When I began getting close to them, they went up in smoke. They must have realized. This was just a week or so ago.”

“Last contact?” Ejnar asked.

Tommy sighed.

“It's a fucking tragedy….Miles Ingmarsson killed an amphetamine dealer here in Stockholm, Roger Lindgren. We found his DNA, blood, and prints at the scene. As we now realize, they were doing business together.”

Tommy looked distraught. Ejnar sympathized.

“It's impossible to predict everything, Tommy,” he said.

Tommy pursed his lips and met Ejnar's gaze in a tacit
thank-you.

“How has this affected the investigation?” Gustave asked.

“No change. It's ground to a halt, of course. And is seriously compromised.”

Gustave leaned back, coffee cup in hand.

“We'll pool what we've got,” he said. “Investigate what we can, and look for a way forward. Hector Guzman is going to be arrested. And Sophie Brinkmann is our ticket to him. There's an international warrant out for her, so she's bound to show up on the radar soon.”

“Sounds good,” Tommy said.

“Very good,” Ejnar said.

It had gone
better than Tommy had expected. He had created an image of himself as rather naïve, regretful, upright. Now he was going to invite Ejnar and Gustave home to his modest little row house and force them to endure a socially awkward dinner with him and his fatally ill wife and their two well-behaved daughters. And with that, their impression of Tommy would be complete.

He would be free to stroll on through the blazing inferno he had created for himself.

They landed after a bumpy domestic flight from Bogotá. Jens, Mikhail, and Lothar stepped out into the new world. Blinding sun, heavy heat, and new smells.

The taxi was an old Nissan, its shock absorbers long since dead. Everything shook, and the driver was drinking a can of beer.

They checked into a hotel in the center of Cartago.

The room was neither big nor small: two beds, and a television on top of a bureau with a minibar underneath.

Mikhail stretched out on one of the beds. Lothar did the same on the other and switched the television on.

Jens dialed the number of an old business acquaintance who had a direct line to Alfonse Ramirez.

A voice answered.

“Contact Alfonse Ramirez and tell him that Jens from Stockholm is in town and wants to meet. I'll call again in three hours.”

They ordered room service and stared at peculiar television programs. Three hours passed very slowly. Lothar passed out.

Jens dialed the number again. The man with no name gave him an address.

“
You can go right now
,” he told Jens.

He nodded to Mikhail and left the room, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

It didn't look
like much. A stuccoed building on a busy road, not many windows, surrounded by a low wall.

Jens opened the door. It was a restaurant, with music and a lively atmosphere. The ceiling lights were bright. Children were running around playing while the adults drank and danced.

Alfonse Ramirez walked up to him. He held out his hand and leaned close to Jens's ear to make himself heard over the noise.

“You look better than last time.”

Alfonse laughed at his own words, then indicated with his hand that Jens should follow him.

Last time…
Jens lying half-dead on the floor at Trasten. Alfonse Ramirez and Hector had killed Jens's assailant. They beat the bastard to death in the kitchen. Alfonse Ramirez's face had been beaming with joy when he emerged, Jens remembered.

They made their way through the sea of people, and reached a table where a pale, sweaty man sat watching Jens with a blank look in his eyes.

“Don Ignacio,” Alfonse said by way of introduction, and gestured for Jens to sit down opposite him.

Don Ignacio.
Jens hadn't been expecting that.

There was an energy field surrounding the man. A shield that everyone in the room seemed aware of. No one came too close, no one let on how scared they were. They were all playing a game: this was a party, and they were all happy. Because that's what
he
had decided.

“You already know each other,” Don Ignacio said, pointing briefly at Alfonse.

There were no bodyguards in sight, but they were there, everywhere, all the time.

“We met very briefly,” Jens said.

“Trasten…” Alfonse said. “I still count that day as one of the best of my life.”

Jens didn't.

“So, tell me why we're sitting here,” Don Ignacio said.

All traces of friendliness were gone.

Jens took a chance.

“I've come to take Albert home.”

Neither Ignacio nor Alfonse said anything. Jens tried to discern a reaction, any clue. But they just sat there with blank expressions, waiting for more. And that was enough for Jens. They had him, they had Albert.

Alfonse broke the deadlock.

“That day in Stockholm, Jens…when you were lying on the floor in the restaurant, after that Russian had kicked you black and blue. You were half-dead, but you kept goading him. In hindsight, that was probably what saved the lives of the rest of us. You dragged things out. It made me curious about who you were, so I checked you out when I got home. It wasn't easy. It was very difficult, in fact. It took time, and people were unwilling to help me. But a picture started to emerge.”

Jens didn't like this.

“You have a track record,” Alfonse went on. “You've worked with a lot of people. You're good at what you do. Possibly the best smuggler around at the moment. And so why don't we know you?”

Alfonse laughed theatrically. Then a pause, and he leaned forward.

“So, tell us, how were you thinking of getting what you want?”

“I want to exchange Albert for Hector Guzman's son, Lothar.”

Ignacio and Alfonse exchanged a glance.

“Lothar,” Ignacio said. “That kid's been subject to a lot of inflation. Like everything in this particular affair. Do you know the background?”

“Half,” Jens said.

Music, laughter, and partying around them.

“To start with,” Ignacio began, “it was all about business: the Hankes hurt Hector Guzman in Stockholm, ran him down in a car. As a warning. Hector raised the stakes and blew up Christian Hanke's girlfriend in Munich, even if his target was probably Christian Hanke himself. So it all got very personal. And when things get personal, they usually go to hell, wouldn't you agree?”

Jens didn't answer. Ignacio Ramirez wiped his face with the palm of his hand. He had dark rings under his eyes, and a five-o'clock shadow was starting to appear on his pale skin.

“How did you get hold of Lothar?” Ignacio said.

“Why do you want to know?”

Ignacio shook his head as if to say that there was no ulterior motive behind the question.

“I just want to hear how it happened,” he said.

Jens leaned back in his chair.

“We were looking for Albert,” Jens said. “We assumed that the Hankes had taken him, and started looking in Munich.”

“Who are
we
?”

“Sophie Brinkmann, me, and Mikhail…”

“Mikhail?” Alfonse asked.

“He used to work for the Hankes. You met him at Trasten. He was the one who saved our lives there, not me.”

“The big Russian?”

“Yes.”

“So you attacked that farm?” Ignacio said.

Jens nodded.

“How many of you were there? Who else?”

“No one else. Just the three of us.”

The men were quietly astonished.

“Weapons?” Alfonse wondered.

“Mikhail had an old pistol.”

“And you?”

Jens shook his head.

“Nothing?” Alfonse asked.

“No, nothing. We decided to get hold of weapons when we got there,” Jens said.

Ignacio laughed at this, followed by Alfonse.

“So you were able to just go in and take him?” Don Ignacio asked.

Jens didn't answer.

Don Ignacio made himself more comfortable in his chair.

“They got that wrong; thought there were more of you,” Don Ignacio explained. “They assumed it was Guzman's people attacking in force. But Albert had been moved the previous day. Ralph and Roland set off minutes before you arrived, and Lothar was going to be moved out, along with the remaining guards. You were lucky.”

Jens shook his head.

“No, we weren't lucky. We were there to get Albert. We didn't succeed.”

“You got Lothar, and without him you wouldn't be sitting here now.”

Ignacio changed tone.

“We'll give you Albert, on one condition,” he said.

Jens waited.

“That you're part of the deal, that you stay here and work for us.”

Jens wasn't prepared for that. This was bad….Really bad.

Alfonse and Ignacio sat there in front of him. Smiling slightly.
Bastards.

“What guarantee do I have that Albert will be taken safely to his mother?” Jens asked.

“We'll work that out,” Alfonse said.

“He has to get back to a European country without being noticed; he can't travel on his own passport.”

“There are several ways. He'll probably be flown out on a military flight. We often use those when we have to travel.”

“I want it organized as a diplomatic consignment.”

Alfonse nodded.

“It will be a diplomatic procedure, no problem.”

“And the exchange?” Jens asked.

“There again, you can decide how you want things. But you and Lothar stay here with us….”

Jens looked down. He had a fucking dark path in front of him; it sloped down somewhere ahead of him, probably straight to hell.

Mikhail was packing Lothar's suitcase, putting back all the things Lothar had taken out and put in the chest of drawers in the hotel room. The boy clearly liked to keep things tidy.

Lothar came out from the bathroom, toothbrush and toothpaste in his hand, and gave them to Mikhail, who put them in the case.

Lothar sighed. A nervous sigh, as if the oxygen in the room were running out.

“Sit down,” Mikhail said, holding up a pair of handcuffs.

“I'm not going to run.”

It was non-negotiable. Lothar sat down on the bed, and Mikhail cuffed him to the metal frame.

Mikhail finished packing the case and zipped it up. He turned to Lothar.

“I've met your father,” he said. “I ran him down with a car in a pedestrian crossing in Stockholm. He broke his leg and ended up in the hospital. I was working for Ralph Hanke back then.”

Lothar tried to get his head around what Mikhail was saying.

“Then I returned to Sweden a few weeks later and threatened Hector Guzman with a pistol, and told him to back off. It didn't turn out as we'd planned. Everything went to hell and we were overpowered. The man I arrived with, Klaus Köhler, had a gunshot wound in the stomach and I assumed he was going to die. But your father spared Klaus's and my life.”

Lothar had relaxed slightly as he listened.

“Later on, I got a chance to repay him when I came to their rescue in a restaurant in Stockholm.”

“Trasten? Sophie told me,” Lothar said.

“Yes, Trasten…”

Mikhail rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand.

“All the way through, your father remained strong, dignified, and he never allowed anything or anyone to get the better of him. The same goes for you. You're his son; never forget that you're strong, and never let anyone else get the better of you, no matter how much power they may have over you.”