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Michael sat up, but she wasn’t there. He stared at her empty, flaccid sleeping bag, looked at his watch and groaned. It was ten thirty in the morning and the night and the early morning had been an endless series of shifting, awkward sleeping positions.

‘Lene?’

He swung his legs over the sleeping loft and looked down between his feet, but could sense that the hut was empty. The sun was out, and he touched one of the warm roofing panels with his fingertips. Today was Friday. He had been away from home for seven days and it was two years and one month since Kasper Hansen and Ingrid Sundsbö were killed up in Finnmark.

Michael gingerly climbed down the ladder and straightened his back with a series of small cracks. He looked out of the kitchen window and spotted Lene walking up and down a small mound with some trees. She was talking on a new mobile, gesturing with her free hand, and would sometimes
pause and look up at the blue sky as if imploring it for help. Once she stamped her foot in anger.

As if they had telepathic contact, she suddenly stopped, turned her head and stared at him. Her facial expression didn’t change, but she greeted him with a ‘Hang on a minute’ hand signal and carried on walking. He held up the aluminium kettle, pointed to it, and she nodded and almost granted him a smile.

Michael thought that Lene was the most direct and uncompromising person he had ever met. He could see why she was good at her job and had reached the rank of superintendent while still in her early forties … but a little bit of … a little bit of warmth and human kindness wouldn’t go amiss.

Michael poured water into the kettle. Then he remembered Josefine and felt ashamed. It was a miracle that Lene could even put one foot in front of the other.

He carried the mugs filled with Nescafé outside and put them on the bench. There were already a couple of carrier bags there and a brand-new rucksack. She had been busy. A nice blue ladies’ bicycle was leaning up against a tree down by the path.

She ended the call, shook herself as if she were wet and marched towards him.

‘Your boss?’ he asked.

‘My ex,’ she mumbled, and took the mug.

‘He wasn’t too happy, I presume?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘Show me your hands.’

Michael held them out obediently and she delved into the plastic bags.

‘I went to the chemist while you were sleeping,’ she said. ‘Burn ointment, bandages, Band-Aids, anaesthetic cream. You really ought to wear plastic bags on your hands for a week. I think you have third degree burns on the back of them.’

‘Plastic bags on my hands will only get in the way,’ he said. ‘But is there enough anaesthetic cream for me to swim in it?’

‘No, but I can always cover your head and mouth with bandages,’ she said, and tore off strips with her teeth. She got to work on his hands, applying ointment to the raw, weeping blisters and covering them with cold compresses. Michael watched her with gratitude. She knew what she was doing.

‘How did you reach civilization?’ he asked, and she blushed.

‘I nicked a bicycle.’

‘Good move,’ he said. ‘What else did you get?’

She handed him a box.

‘A new mobile with a prepaid SIM card and a small laptop. I don’t think I make as much money as you do, so I’ve kept the receipts.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’

He turned over the box with the mobile in his hands. He was actually able to bend and stretch his fingers now.

‘They’re great,’ he said. ‘My hands.’

She warmed her hands on her coffee mug and stared into space.

‘Did you get some sleep?’ he asked.

‘A bit. And you?’

‘A little, I think.’

‘What do we do now, Michael?’ she asked; she sounded calm.

He leaned back and looked up at the sky. The weather was excellent. He wondered what it was like in northern Norway. Cold, probably. Snow. Ice on the lakes. Cold, basically.

‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said, then drained the mug and carefully avoided looking at her.

‘No way,’ she protested.

Michael smiled sternly and something burst on his cheek. He raised his fingers to his face and felt a scab and fresh plasma seep out.

‘Lene, this isn’t a democratic forum. I’ll take it from here. And that’s how it’s going to be,’ he said.

‘I can arrest you,’ she said.

‘What for?’

‘Vagrancy.’

Michael stood up and looked gravely at her.

‘Lene, you’d be walking straight into a kill zone. An arena. You’ve seen what they’re capable of. And they have plenty
of practice. They won’t care that you’re a police officer, trust me. They’ll do whatever it takes to eliminate you. You’ve seen for yourself how good they are. Besides, you wouldn’t be much help. You don’t have the right training or the experience to take them on.’

He regretted his next words even before he had uttered them.

‘And think about your daughter, Josefi –’

When he regained consciousness a few seconds later, he was lying on the threshold without knowing how he had covered the distance. It didn’t hurt very much and by now he was so bruised, battered and burned that he couldn’t tell new injuries from old ones. His central nervous system was overloaded and sparked impotently like a short-circuited transistor. He looked up at Lene, who was standing by the bench with her arms by her sides and her fists still clenched.

Michael rocked his lower jaw from side to side. He was able to close his teeth together and open his mouth. Almost normal functioning.

‘But I’m open to suggestions,’ he mumbled.

Her shoulders heaved and sank, and the flames in her green eyes slowly died away.

‘Then I suggest that you bring me along, and I’m asking you again: what do we do? And why did we have that cryptic conversation about Thomas Berg if you weren’t going to take me? And I actually do think about my daughter, Michael. In fact, that’s all I do.’

Michael got to his feet and tried focusing on the bicycle. Something fixed and real.

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ he asked. ‘Again?’

‘It has to stop, do you hear me? It has to stop. Now!’

He nodded.

‘All right then! I think it’s time to flip the game, Lene. And as regards the hunters, dead or alive, I don’t expect you to do anything incompatible with your role as a Danish police officer.’

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Great … How do we flip the game? And forget about my job. Maybe I just quit.’

‘Bait,’ he said. ‘Irresistible bait.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Us, who else? Besides, we don’t have a choice. We need to lure them out in open terrain where we can see them. It’s our only chance.’

‘What terrain? Where?’

He told her and she didn’t interrupt him. When he had finished, she looked at the ground, massaged her forehead with her fingertips, and nodded. Her face gave nothing away; neither doubt nor enthusiasm.

‘That’s what I want to do,’ he said. ‘That’s where I want them.’

‘If that’s where they want to go,’ she said tentatively. ‘If all your one million and one assumptions are right and all your predictions come true.’

‘I don’t see that they have a choice, either. The difficulty
lies in preventing them from sabotaging our game plan before we get there.’

‘Do you think there’s anything up there?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure if that matters,’ Michael replied. ‘As long as no one can be sure that there
isn’t
, we all have to play the game to the end. Those are the rules. Unless the hunters discover a sudden urge to emigrate. We can’t prevent that, of course.’

‘To Antigua and Barbuda?’ she suggested. ‘That’s what I would do. They have plenty of money in the banks out there and they probably can’t be extradited unless they do something really bad, like cut off someone’s dreadlocks or burn portraits of Haile Selassie.’

‘Never underestimate male vanity,’ he said. ‘It’s a strong driving force. For better or for worse. They’ll be there.’

‘Remember Berlusconi.’

‘Remember Napoleon,’ Michael said. ‘Do you still want to come? You’ll be risking your life. You have a secure job. You have a future and a career, whereas I’m being paid extremely well to do this.’

‘I want to come. I
have
to come,’ she said emphatically. ‘And how did you get to decide the rules?’

‘That’s just how it has turned out. Or, at least, I hope so.’

‘There’s a word for unfounded omnipotence, you know.’

‘Megalomania?’

‘I was going to say insanity.’

*

Thirty minutes later, Michael left the forest track and joined the main road on the bicycle. It was half an hour’s ride from the scout hut to the nearest railway station. He hoped that he wasn’t arrested before he got there because he looked exactly what he was: an escaped, desperate burns victim with bandaged hands and balding, black patches where his hair used to be. And he was riding a stolen blue ladies’ bicycle.

He had been lying when he told Lene they were not in a hurry. The truth was that they had very little time if they wanted to keep the initiative – too many things of vital importance had already been left to other people.

He managed not to get arrested before he reached the station, but his fellow passengers eyed him suspiciously and stayed well clear of his seat, even though the train was packed. He didn’t blame them. He thought it likely that small plumes of smoke were still rising from his head.

Michael got off the train at Nørreport Station and walked down Nørre Voldgade to a menswear shop on Jarmers Plads. The shop assistants must have been exquisitely polite, well-trained or just strangely lacking in curiosity, as they made no reference to his appearance whatsoever. His various credit cards, however, were scrutinized, a control call was made to his bank, and they asked politely to see his passport – something that hardly ever happened. The edges of Michael’s wallet were singed, but its contents had survived the fire and the flood. Half an hour later he left the shop dressed entirely in new clothes and carrying several shopping bags.

From Nørrevold he took a taxi to a specialist shop on Østerbro. The shop was run as a kind of wholesale business by two seasoned mountaineers, and Michael moved slowly
through the basement, followed by one of the owners who pulled down goods from the shelves: two coils of eleven-millimetre climbing rope, sixty metres long, tubular tapes, climbing harnesses, belaying ropes, nuts, bolt anchors, a hammer, Jumar grips – useful for ascending ropes – a two-person tent, a couple of rucksacks, an iridium satellite telephone, hiking boots and more.

The bearded owner hummed happily to himself when Michael swiped his red-hot MasterCard through the terminal, and helped him carry everything up the basement steps to the pavement. Michael called a cab and smoked a cigarette while he waited. He thought about the superintendent and wondered where she had learned to fight so well. And about her other skills. She wasn’t the kind of woman you bumped into every day and that was probably just as well: too many bruises.

*

The awkward pantomime at the menswear shop repeated itself at the Hertz counter at Copenhagen Airport. Even though Michael was now well-dressed, the sight of his face, hands and scalp was enough for the young woman to call over her supervisor, who scrutinized Michael’s documents, passport and credit cards.

‘What did you have in mind?’ the supervisor asked him nervously. ‘We have a special deal on a fine Ford Focus.’

Michael acknowledged the offer without interest and looked at a laminated list of car models.

‘I was thinking of something a little faster,’ he said. ‘How about that one?’

His bandaged finger landed on the last car on the list. The supervisor took a sharp intake of breath and the junior didn’t move at all.

‘The Audi A6, V8-engine, 400 hp? Nought to 100 in 4.6 seconds?’ The supervisor gulped.

Michael looked at him.

‘That sounds nice. Is it available?’

‘Yes, but …’

The other man must have seen something implacable in Michael’s eyes because he began to nod.

‘Nothing. It’s available, absolutely. For how long will you be needing it?’

‘A week, I would think.’

The man smiled and produced the keys.

‘Take good care of it,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘There aren’t many of them around …’

He looked at Michael’s equipment on the luggage trolley and pulled another anxious face.

‘Mountaineering?’

‘That’s what I had in mind.’

‘Take good care of it,’ he said again, and asked the young woman to photocopy Michael’s passport one more time.

*

They put the last of the bags into the boot of the Audi, and Michael made sure that the safety catch on the superintendent’s service pistol was on before he put it in the
pocket in the car door – close to hand. Lene got in on the passenger side and placed the machine gun between her feet. She ran her fingertips across the seat’s exclusive golden leather.

‘Why don’t I get to drive?’ she asked.

Michael pressed the red start button and the engine’s eight turbo charged cylinders awoke with a tiger roar.

‘We’ve been through this, Lene. Besides, it’s my name on the rental documents. It’s an insurance thing.’

She muttered a protest, but he revved the engine and drowned out her words.

A few minutes later they joined the Holbæk motorway. It was growing dark and the traffic had eased off. The road conditions were ideal and Michael put the Audi through its paces. He enjoyed driving, being in total control of a little speck of reality.

Lene leaned back. She seemed to have come to terms with her passive role.

‘I’ve spoken to my daughter,’ she said.

Michael stole a glance at her.

‘Will she be okay?’

Lene smiled and the rays of the setting sun deepened the sparkle in her green eyes. She shook her head in amazement. ‘She’s young. She’ll recover. I just know she will. Remarkable, really. She was upset, but at the same time, she was fine. She’ll be all right.’

Michael smiled too.

‘Of course she will,’ he said

He thought about Pieter Henryk’s daughter. She had ended up in a secure, private facility in Switzerland, she had stopped playing the flute, and was kept in almost a waking coma to prevent her from harming herself: a kind of pharmacological lobotomy. She had smeared herself with her own faeces to keep everyone – especially male carers – at bay.

He shook off his dark thoughts.

‘Have you spoken to your wife?’ she asked.

‘Not yet.’

He pulled out behind a convoy of trucks and pressed the accelerator right down. The car leaped forwards with an offended howl and the motorway narrowed, becoming almost tunnel-shaped. He couldn’t handle the guilt, he felt exhausted at the mere thought of his wife’s silence or carefully worded reproaches, and he also knew that it was the thin end of the wedge. Didn’t a break-up always start with not wanting to call? He knew exactly what Sara would say and how he would respond, and he wondered when it had begun: this tiresome dance that neither of them wanted, but which neither of them had the energy to end.

‘Call her, Michael,’ Lene said as if she had read his mind. ‘She must be beside herself with worry. The fire is all over the Internet and on TV. You did tell her about me, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t tell her your name,’ he said.

‘Surely she can put two and two together.’

Charlotte Falster had announced that Police Superintendent Lene Jensen had been killed in a gas explosion in a house near Holbæk Fjord. It had been on the news. Falster had prepared a short press release and Lene had smiled when she heard herself described as an inspired and dedicated investigator. Police were treating her death as an accident, but were still carrying out technical examinations at the scene.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Okay. Please would you check what the weather is like up there?’

‘Of course.’

She got busy with the laptop and the wireless Internet modem and started looking for a suitable meteorological website, while Michael pulled over to call home.

*

Afterwards he put the mobile back in the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘De nada. Was it all right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s fine, really.’

And it had been. Sara had cried, but not railed against things that couldn’t be changed. The children were great. They loved being at her brother’s cottage. There was a farm nearby they could visit whenever they wanted. There were kittens and puppies which the toddler could put on her lap like dolls and play house with, and there were pigs and sheep for the four-year-old to chase after, and a sea which Sara
could gaze across. She said she knew that he would be back. She was sure of it.

He loved her and knew that he would never be able to get enough of her.

He glanced at the computer screen on Lene’s lap.

‘So what does it look like?’

‘Everything is fine right up to the border between Sweden and Norway,’ she said. ‘But after Kiruna everything turns white and it’s minus six degrees. In the daytime. Spring appears to be very late this year.’

‘But the E10 is passable?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Kiruna. Would they even make it that far? It seemed an incredibly long way away: 1,500 kilometres. At least. And from then, several hundred more kilometres across the mountains before they reached their destination. Anything could happen. The opposition had the advantage and all they could do was drive – and improvise.

Again, Michael checked the inbox of his mobile for messages: the last one had arrived two hours earlier and its brevity had been just as nerve-racking and frustrating as the previous ones:
Stand by
.

He knew it was how these things were done, but even so he was seething with impatience and every imaginable worry.

*

‘There it is,’ she said, forty-five minutes later.

Michael drove the Audi up a small, dark hill and stopped a hundred metres from Charlotte Falster’s white Passat, which was still parked in the lay-by near some tables and benches.

There were no other cars around. The area was deserted. No dog walkers, joggers or mountain bikers.

He turned off the engine and they sat quietly, watching their surroundings.

Michael got out, leaned against the warm bonnet and lit a cigarette. The sun had gone down behind Tuse Næs; the smell from the burned-down cottage still lingered in the air, but the birds were singing, unperturbed by it all, and the world seemed at peace. Holbæk Fjord extended its glittering surface beneath the dark blue sky and he watched a small, white ferry sail towards a distant, dark shape dotted with light from the islanders’ houses. The first stars had come out. He flicked aside the glowing cigarette butt and walked across to the Passat. He tried with every fibre of his body to detect whether he was being watched, but could sense no alien presence.

Charlotte Falster’s car was covered with dew. It was cold and wouldn’t appear to have moved one millimetre since they abandoned it last night.

Again his gaze scanned the tables and benches, and the trees near the lay-by. Nothing. He lay down on his stomach, switched on a small torch and carefully inspected the undercarriage,
the silencer, the exhaust pipe, the suspension and the wheel bays. Everything looked perfectly normal. There were no blocks of plastic explosive, or a digital timer counting down to a deadly explosion if anyone tried to start the car.

Michael got back on his feet and looked at the motionless figure in the Audi. He waved to her, but she didn’t react. He opened the boot of the Passat and found the small Garmin GPS transmitter exactly when he had left it last night. It was still flashing its green, cheerful light.

Inside the car he checked under the seats and under the dashboard, and examined all stitching and welded seams before he was satisfied. Then he went back to the Audi and Lene got out and started dividing up their equipment.

She covered her mouth with her hand, yawned and arched her back. She looked up at the stars and the white band of moonlight across the fjord and shivered.

‘Sixteen hundred kilometres?’ she asked, even though she knew the answer. ‘And we can’t stop to sleep at any point?’

‘I don’t think it would be wise,’ he said, and swung a rucksack up on his shoulders. He swore when the strap pressed against the burns on his back. ‘We’ve been through this countless times, Lene.’

She stared at the ground and her shoulders slumped.

‘I know, but …’

‘But what?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. The GPS?’

‘Ours or theirs?’

‘Both.’

‘Theirs is still in place,’ he said. ‘And this one is for you.’

He handed her an ordinary sat nav.

‘It covers all of Western Europe. All you have to do is type in “Kiruna”,’ he said.

‘I know that.’

She picked up a rucksack, slung the strap of the machine pistol over her shoulder, and they started walking towards the Passat.

‘There were no bombs under the car?’ she asked.

‘None that I could see,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘That I couldn’t see any.’

They put her kit in the boot of the Passat; she wedged the machine pistol in between the front seats, got in the driver’s seat and looked up at him. He handed her the key and she immediately stuck it in the ignition, and turned it while she pressed her eyes shut. The engine started humming. That was all it did.

Michael stared at her.

‘Couldn’t you have waited until I was gone?’ he asked.

‘You said there were no explosives.’

‘I said that I couldn’t see any.’

‘Same thing, surely.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Do you want to swap?’ she asked. ‘And I’ll drive your fancy car.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Are you sure that they’re still checking for a signal? I mean, they think we’re dead,’ she said sceptically.

‘I don’t think they monitor the bugs 24/7, but I’m sure that alarms will go off on various computers, smartphones and tablets the second that Passat is on the move.’

‘But if you’re –’ she began.

‘Drive safely,’ he said, and slammed the door shut. She shouted something from inside, but he just cupped his hand behind his ear, shook his head and turned on his heel.