The Other Son (6 page)

The razor slid through the white shaving foam on Hector Guzman's cheek, gently, with a practiced gesture, before moving on to the skin between his nose and top lip. The process was accompanied by the wheezing sound of the respirator, the subdued bleeping of the heart monitor, the sinusoidal curve showing his ECG, and the drip that was slowly running through the rubber tube to the needle attached to the back of his right hand.

The moment Hector had slipped into his coma, security arrangements kicked in. He was moved in secret to this farm in the mountains, hooked up to machines, and looked after day and night by a nurse, Raimunda.

She was sitting there now on the edge of the bed as she finished shaving him, and she wiped his face, first with a warm, damp flannel, then with a dry towel. Then she rubbed some moisturizing cream into his cheeks and neck.

Farther away in the large room Sonya sat on a sofa reading a book. Sonya Alizadeh, always at Hector's side, like a sister to him. She was Iranian; her parents had been business partners of Hector's father, and they had been murdered in Switzerland when she was young. Adalberto Guzman took her under his wing and she grew up as part of Hector's family in Marbella.

On the floor by her feet lay Hector's father's old dog, Piño.

Aron was leaning over the large mahogany dining table.

The atmosphere in the room was tranquil. They were waiting, just as they had been for six months.

The entire table was covered with notes and scraps of paper taped into place, complete with Aron's personal annotations. This was how he liked to work. It was all about their business, their partners, enemies, costs, expenses, profits….He was like an officer in a bunker, trying to develop a strategy and stick to it, doing all he could to hold Hector's empire together even though it was gradually disintegrating. But one thing was more important than everything else: the Hankes. He had paid agents out there. They were searching and hunting, then reporting back. They were looking for Ralph Hanke and the traitor, Carlos Fuentes…the bastard who had told the Hankes where Hector was after the incident at Trasten. That bastard was the reason Hector was in his current state. Aron was going to kill Carlos. He had promised himself that, and had whispered it in Hector's ear more than once. Aron was convinced Hector had heard him, deep down where a little flame of consciousness was flickering. And that gave him strength.

Aron knew that the Hankes were doing the same thing, trying to find them. And they had managed to lure him into the open with that deal in Istanbul. Aron cursed himself for that. Now everyone was dug in on both sides, aware of what would happen if they showed themselves. After the shootout in Marbella when Adalberto Guzman was killed and Hector wounded, things had been quiet. Nothing on the radar. Then suddenly a bleep. A faint echo of someone or something. Almost invisible. They would check—usually it was nothing. But Istanbul…Aron and Sophie had walked straight into the trap. That mustn't happen again.

There was an acid shower installed above the table, in the form of three showerheads fastened together. If anyone approached, or if their cover was blown, Aron would only need to back three meters away from the table, pull the little chain, and a thin cloud of tiny acid crystals would obliterate everything.

He examined his two-dimensional world, leaning on the table with both hands. He usually stood like that. Building up images, planning, trying to understand.

Don Ignacio. A longtime business partner. A rapacious business partner. Unreasonable, dictatorial, insane. A drug baron who had oppressed Hector's organization for years, sucking money from it. Impossible to negotiate with, impossible to walk away from…

Why did he back down?

Aron turned to Sonya.

“Why did he back down?” he asked her.

Sonya didn't answer. She was used to him asking questions without actually wanting an answer.

“Sonya?”

She looked up from her book. “What?”

“What's he like?” Aron asked.

“Who?”

“Ignacio.”

“You've met him yourself.”

“Toward women?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, putting the open book down beside her.

“What's he like toward women?”

Sonya wasn't following him. Aron went on: “Men behave differently toward women, don't they? Some flirt, some do other things. Maybe some don't even care at all?”

“You're very narrow in your analysis of relationships, Aron,” she said with a smile.

He threw up his hands in irritation.

Sonya thought about the question for a few seconds. “Which one of those categories does Ignacio Ramirez fit into?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn't care at all,” she said.

“How do you mean?”

“He isn't interested. Feminine wiles don't work on him. Some men are like that, believe it or not.”

She went back to her book.

Sonya's words took root in Aron's head.
He doesn't care at all.
But Hector did, at least when it came to Sophie Brinkmann. He had cared as much as was possible to care, all the way. Hector had fallen in love with her. And consequently had become less cautious.

What had she said? What had happened at Don Ignacio's that had made the Colombians so calmly stop demanding more? Because that was what they always did; it was in their nature. And if it wasn't possible to charm Don Ignacio, why would he let Sophie go home with a guarantee that everything could simply carry on as usual?

After all, that wasn't why he had sent her there; he could never have dreamed that it would have gone as well as that. He had sent Sophie to show Don Ignacio and Alfonse that they were listening to their demands. And Aron had been counting on the fact that she would come home a wet rag, roughed-up and dejected, to pass on a list of mad and unacceptable criteria for their ongoing collaboration. Because that was how Don Ignacio worked. That was how he did business. Always, without exception. But not this time, evidently.
Why?

His mind was whirring; there was no clear structure.

The table again. The whole of his universe was laid out there. Aron was stiff with concentration, trying to reason with himself.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a different thought forced its way in. Purer, clearer. Less opaque, easier to understand:
Sophie.

A beeping sound from one of the machines by Hector's bed interrupted Aron's thoughts.

Raimunda flew up from her chair and hurried over. Aron stared.

Sonya stared.

Raimunda examined the machine.

“What is it?” Aron asked impatiently.

She didn't answer, but lifted Hector's eyelid.

“Raimunda!” he said sharply.

She turned around.

“I don't know. It might be a sign,” she said.

“A sign of what?”

“That he might be with us.”

The boys sitting on the sofa on either side of their mother looked sad. Their mother was also sad, but she seemed to have run out of tears.

Sophie was sitting opposite them, perched on the edge of the seat of an armchair. She looked at the elder of Eduardo and Angela's sons, the seven-year-old, Andres. The boy was picking at his fingers. The younger one, Fabien, was shut off, clinging to his mother, unwilling to look at Sophie or anything else in this strange new world.

They were sitting in the living room of Daphne and Thierry's villa, out in the suburbs to the south of Stockholm. Hasani was sitting on his own on a chair over in the corner. He was quiet and relaxed, his gaze focused slightly below everything, as if that were his way of keeping his senses alert the whole time.
If you don't look at anything, you see everything.

Daphne came in carrying a tray with a carafe of juice and some glasses. She put it down on the coffee table and served the boys first, then Angela, and Sophie last.

“Have you got everything you need?” Sophie asked.

Angela made an effort to smile. “We're staying in the basement. Daphne and Thierry are giving us everything we could ask for.”

Sophie looked at the devastated family: the boys seemed somehow hollow, empty and alone in their grief.

Sophie gave Daphne a look she understood.

Daphne went over to the boys and spoke to them in French: “Come with me, I'll show you the workshop. Thierry's got all sorts of funny things in there.”

Andres looked at his mother, who indicated that it was OK. He took Fabien by the hand and the boys got off the sofa. Hasani stood up from his chair and followed them and Daphne out into the garage.

Angela's smile faded. She was pale and brittle. Nothing could be controlled; the world was a lethal place. That much was clear from her eyes.

“Is Hector alive?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know,” Sophie said. A lie that didn't make any difference.

“It's his fault,” Angela said.

Sophie said nothing.

“If it wasn't for Hector, Eduardo would still be alive. We picked France and Biarritz to get away from all this.”

Angela was struggling to control her feelings, but they slipped out anyway.

“I almost felt relieved when I heard Adalberto had died,” she said. “Not because I'd wish that on anyone, he was Eduardo's father, after all, my father-in-law—but it lowered the risk for us. Do you understand what I mean?”

Angela looked weighed down by guilt.

“Yes, I understand,” Sophie said.

They could hear laughter from Daphne and one of the boys out in the workshop.

“Who did it? Who killed Eduardo?”

“I don't know.” Lying came automatically now.

Keys in the lock of the front door, a door opening and closing.

Thierry appeared in the living room. He always had the same cheerful expression on his face. He was holding a bag of groceries in each hand.

“Hi,” he said. “Daphne and the boys?”

“In the garage,” Sophie said.

He looked at the two women, and perhaps he noticed the somber mood.

“Come with me,” he said. “Help me prepare dinner.”

The three of
them stood in the kitchen. There was a lot of food, all of it vegetarian. Thierry gave them instructions on how to prepare it all. Halfway through the chopping and slicing Daphne and the boys came back, with Hasani following behind them. The boys were happier, and they sat down at the kitchen table together and were given something to drink and crayons and paper to draw on.

Daphne and Thierry. Smugglers in Hector's organization who used the cover of a shop in Stockholm that sold ethnic artifacts. They were currently a dormant resource now that everything had ground to a halt in Hector's absence. They seemed to be enjoying it, living the quiet life in the suburbs for a while.

Daphne kissed Thierry on the cheek and helped a bit with the food but mostly stood close to Thierry making small talk. They were always like that. Sophie watched them discreetly. They appeared to be naturally in love, whatever that meant.

Everyone ate dinner together at the kitchen table in silence. It wasn't oppressive, the silence among them, just no one felt any need to talk. Hasani picked at his vegetables, and the boys noted his reluctance. When he tentatively asked if there was any meat, the atmosphere lightened and they started laughing. Angela got up and fried a piece of steak for Hasani. A quiet, hesitant conversation developed, and soon they were all chatting. Everyone but Sophie. She kept her distance, reluctant to get too close.

But the atmosphere around the table affected her nonetheless, and she couldn't help seeing the boys' temporary happiness, Angela's smile, Daphne and Thierry's warmth, and Hasani and his fondness for meat. They were all individuals who wanted nothing more from that moment than to feel a bit of human camaraderie.

But she knew something they didn't know: she knew who had killed the boys' father. She also knew that she couldn't tell anyone, because the consequences would be uncontrollable. She saw it all the time: Aron's progress, the risk-taking, the proximity of violence…And that was how everything would develop. Aron would fight to the last. Leszek would follow him. That was just the way it was. Predetermined, decided by fate…

Andres and Fabien were laughing so hard now that they almost spat their food out.

Sophie looked at the boys, unaffected by their laughter. Just as she was considering giving up everything, something began to grow in her mind. The germ of an idea. The last of all ideas, the one that really shouldn't be there. The people around the table laughed, and the thought inside her pleaded and begged to be allowed to live, if only for a short while.

Sophie ate, trying to ignore the idea. But it was impossible. The idea grew too strong, taking clearer shape, assuming a face.

Ralph Hanke's.