Authors: David Hewson
‘He told you—’
‘He didn’t! Jens was never here. I looked at the computer after you left. I got Thomsen’s file and printed it out. I don’t know anything about your explosives. Jens
doesn’t either.’
She leaned forward, looked at him, wished he would believe her.
‘He was worried about Thomsen. He wanted to find her. There’s something funny going on. Don’t you know that?’
‘So you did meet him. Where?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
He got up, went to the window, hands on hips, face white with fury.
‘Of course it matters! He’s an escaped criminal and you’re an accessory.’
She grabbed his phone from the desk, held it up for him.
‘Go on then. Call the police. It’s your duty, isn’t it? That’s always more important than family.’
The hurt on his face was immediate and real.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘It was in the car park near the Oslo ferries. The police followed me there. If they’d had half a brain . . .’
‘So he called you beforehand and you agreed to meet? Even though you’d promised to tell me—’
‘He’s my husband! I’ve got duties too.’
‘Do you have any idea where he is?’ Søgaard asked gently.
‘No.’
‘Louise . . .’ His voice was close to wheedling, his face full of sympathy. ‘We need to deal with this.’
‘I don’t know,’ she repeated slowly.
There was a knock on the door. Said Bilal entered, looked at Louise, kept quiet.
‘You can talk, Bilal,’ Jarnvig told him.
‘The police forensic people are all over the munitions depot. They say it wasn’t the colonel’s code used to gain access. It was a different one. It’s not on our
list.’
‘How can it not be on our list?’ Jarnvig roared.
‘It’s some kind of master security code. I don’t know any more than that.’
Louise sat back, looked at her father, raised an eyebrow.
‘The police want to speak to you, sir,’ Bilal added. ‘They’ve found explosives identical to ours on an island in Sweden. In a house belonging to Lisbeth
Thomsen.’
Her father dismissed Bilal, waited till the young officer was gone.
‘Where did he say he was going?’ Jarnvig asked.
‘He didn’t.’
‘But he was asking about Thomsen’s house in Sweden?’
She didn’t answer. Jarnvig muttered something foul under his breath and left. After a while she got up to go.
‘Louise.’ Søgaard was next to her, strong hand on her arm. ‘Jens is sick. He needs help. More than we gave him. I’m sorry. If they’ve found the explosives at
least he can’t cause more trouble.’
‘That wasn’t him. How many times do I have to say it?’
‘You’re going to need to convince the police of that.’
‘Fine. Maybe they’ll lock me up too.’
He shook his head.
‘I’ll have a word with your father. They don’t need to know everything. It won’t be as bad as . . .’ He grimaced. ‘As this.’
‘Really?’
‘If it’s any consolation he’s kicked my backside much harder than that. Many, many times.’ Søgaard looked into her face. ‘He’s the colonel. He’s
here to look after us. I guess he feels that responsibility twice over when it comes to you. He means well.’
‘He means to keep me here for ever.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘I’ve got a husband . . .’
‘He ran away from you. I don’t know . . .’ He was so good at this, she thought. ‘I don’t know how any man could do that. But he did.’
His hand was on her arm. Fond and protective. Søgaard was predictable, safe, strong, and happy to show it. So unlike Jens who kept his emotions and his thoughts close and tight
inside.
‘Goodnight,’ she said and walked straight back to the house, down to the basement, to sit on the sofa and stare at the bare walls.
After a while she got up and sorted through the rubbish bags out the back. The phone he gave her was there, underneath a discarded pizza box.
She called the number she had, listened to the message.
Unavailable.
He could be in Sweden, she thought. Jens was chasing Lisbeth Thomsen, determined to find her. He would too. But he didn’t have those explosives. She felt sure of that.
The old cop was good in the forest. He was hunting Lisbeth Thomsen and Raben the way he tracked deer.
Deep in the woods he found a scrap of khaki fabric stained with blood.
‘Someone fell here and cut themselves. Not long ago. They can’t be far away.’
‘There’s a path over there,’ said one of the locals.
‘Going where?’ Lund asked.
‘East,’ the cop said. ‘Towards the harbour. If they go there we’ll have them.’
‘And they know it.’ She was getting sick of this. ‘What about the other direction?’
‘That’s a caravan park,’ said the local. ‘But it’s closed for the winter. No one comes to Skogö when it’s cold. Though the
fishing’s—’
‘Is there a harbour there too?’ Strange asked.
‘Just a landing stage.’
Lund looked at Strange.
‘There was an outboard engine in front of Thomsen’s house. In pieces. Some buoys and a rod,’ she said.
‘Everyone goes fishing in Skogö,’ the cop said. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ He took off his cap and scratched his grey hair. ‘Lisbeth has a boat, of
course.’
Lund was striding back to the truck already. The cop was on the phone to the coastguard.
‘If they put to sea . . .’ she began.
‘Then,’ the cop said, catching up with her, ‘we’re in trouble.’
A thin low mist was starting to roll through the trees. Raben was in front, Thomsen limping behind on her bad leg. There was a hut in the woods then, fifty metres away, a
jetty, little more than a line of planks running out over the still, black water. A white dinghy at the end, the engine hooded, prop out of the water.
She stopped him by the hut. Arm on his.
‘Everyone knows I’ve got a boat here. They’ll bring in the coastguard.’
He nodded at the sea. The mist was getting thicker all the time.
‘Come on,’ he said in his old military voice. ‘We can run rings round these people.’
‘I left my best outboard at the cottage. I don’t know if the thing on this works. Jens . . .’
He looked into her bloodless, strong face, and thought to himself: we could be on exercise now. In Canada or Jutland. Part of the never-ending game.
‘They’re not here yet,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go.’
There was a tarpaulin by the jetty. She turned from him and dragged it away. Beneath was a scarlet kayak, a paddle in the bows.
‘Row north with this. I’ll go the other way. The coastguard will follow me. They’ll hear the engine.’
‘We stay together.’
‘Listen to me for once!’ Her voice was too high. He looked back into the woods. ‘You’re an escaped criminal. I’m not. The police will let me go. They’ll throw
you back in jail.’
‘They need to catch me for that,’ he said, trying to grab her shoulders.
‘We’re not in Helmand any more. This is your one chance. I can talk to them. You can’t.’
Raben nodded.
‘Nice try,’ he said, pushing her towards the boat. ‘We’re going together.’
‘OK!’ Too loud again. ‘But we need some fuel. There’s a jerrycan in the shed. You get it. I’ll prep the engine.’
Breathless, exhausted, he hesitated.
‘Just do it, will you, Jens? I’ll be on the boat. I can’t exactly run away, can I?’
He watched her walk to the end of the jetty then he went back into the woods. The door was at the back of the timber hut. The chain was off, padlock on the ground.
Raben pulled gingerly on the handle, looked round as the gap opened, took out his torch, ran the beam around the interior.
On the floor was a canvas bag with Danish army markings. Wires from the flap to an unseen detonator that had to be hooked to the wooden door he was now opening.
His fingers let go. His feet took him swiftly backwards, hand shaking, the torch beam quivering in the night.
From the jetty he heard a sound. Something moving in the water. An oar maybe.
Raben ran.
The dinghy was edging slowly away on the black water.
She was a couple of metres off already, oar in hand, trying to get away without his hearing.
‘Lisbeth!’ he yelled, running, still some way short of the planking.
She heard, looked up.
‘Take the kayak, Jens,’ she shouted. ‘Like I said. It’s best . . .’
‘He’s here! Don’t . . .’
She was in the back, starter rope in hand. Jerked it once.
‘Don’t start the . . .’
Jerked it twice and then the world lit up in a ball of fire, its breath warm and rank, chemical and wet.
The force of the blast blew him off his feet and, for a long moment, took away his consciousness. When he came to amidst the clearing mist and smoke, panting, mind racing, he was face down in
the shallows by the jetty, water against his cheek.
He crawled to his knees, wiped at his face. Could taste something. The torch in his hand moved, ran across shattered timber and wreckage. Found his own reflection in the water.
A familiar face, tired, unshaven, lost. Scarlet with blood like a murderer.
Raben bent down, washed himself, checked again.
It was worse.
Looked again.
She was floating no more than an arm’s length away. Or her torso was. Khaki jacket shredded, naked flesh torn beneath, savagely cut off at the waist where . . .
He didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.
Panic was for others. Never him.
Raben crossed to the far side of the jetty, washed his hands and face in the cleaner water there. Climbed into the red kayak, pushed it out onto cold and gentle waves, got in and began to pull
on the paddle.
After a minute the mist swallowed him. But through it there was faint light ahead, the moon. Soon, if he kept a straight track, there would be land.
Noises behind and lights. A siren. Shouted voices.
Raben stabbed the paddle into the water and fell into a rhythm, first one side then the other.
He was the last one alive now. A final target in the sights of a ghost who’d emerged from the nightmare of Helmand two years before. A phantom with a name.
Perk.
The press conference was assembled in the room beyond Buch’s office. Fifteen minutes after it was supposed to start Buch was still behind his desk, trying to track down
Gert Grue Eriksen. Ruth Hedeby had called with the first reports of the incident in Sweden. The last thing Buch wanted at that moment was to face the press.
‘We can’t wait any longer,’ Plough said. ‘Krabbe’s going frantic.’
‘Why can’t I speak to the Prime Minister?’
‘He’s on a plane,’ Karina said. ‘Coming back from Oslo.’
‘Dammit. This is going to be on the news before I can raise it with him. Isn’t it?’
Ear to her phone, she nodded.
‘The Swedish police are putting out a statement. If . . .’
The door opened. Krabbe stormed in.
‘What in God’s name is happening?’ he bellowed. ‘We’ve got every political hack in Copenhagen out there and you’re keeping them waiting.’
‘I’m sorry, Krabbe. Something’s come up.’
Krabbe stood over Buch, threw his long arms in the air and laughed.
‘Oh for God’s sake. What game are you playing now?’
‘I can’t tell you. But believe me, it’s important and unavoidable.’
‘So important you’ll put off our deal for it? I don’t believe Grue Eriksen would want that.’
Buch was growing tired of this pompous, small-minded man.
‘Neither of us wishes to make a hasty decision—’
‘Stop this now! I know you don’t like this compromise. I also know Grue Eriksen ordered you to accept it. Our country’s waiting for us to take action.’
Buch wanted to scream.
‘Oh please. We don’t need the histrionics. There’s no audience for you here but us and frankly we’re tired of it.’
The door opened. They could hear the low grumble of the hacks in the conference room beyond.
Krabbe’s voice turned to a whisper.
‘The Prime Minister gave you your orders. I want a damned good explanation for this nonsense. Either that or I walk straight out there and tell them this administration’s rife with
incompetence and useless at making the decisions this country needs.’
A press officer put her head round the door and announced the reporters were demanding an explanation.
Vacillation. Thomas Buch loathed it.
‘Last chance,’ Krabbe said. ‘You should put on a tie for pity’s sake. I won’t say—’
‘Oh shut up,’ Buch spat at him then marched into the conference room, aware Krabbe was rushing to keep up behind, walked to the desk and the line of microphones.
‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ Buch said as a beaming Krabbe raced into the seat beside him. ‘It’s a busy day in the Ministry of Justice. The government is pleased to
present the new anti-terror agreement which we have reached with the People’s Party.’
A sea of faces, a few them familiar. Thomas Buch never cuddled up to the press. It seemed tacky.
‘Terrorism has sadly become a fact of life,’ he said, improvising all the while. ‘It’s the duty of the government, any government, to ensure the security of the nation
under all circumstances. As much . . .’
Plough was at the back of the room, listening intently.
‘As much as we can. These threats must not force us to compromise our democratic values. To forget who we truly are. A generous, open, liberal country, offering justice to all. We must
protect these freedoms and fight the dark forces who wish to destroy them.’
‘Quite,’ Krabbe said too loudly by his side.
‘Since the recent killing of Danish soldiers on our native soil the need for such vigilance seems more urgent than ever before. Before we discuss the package itself Erling Krabbe will say
a few words.’
Buch sat down, unable to think about anything but Sweden and Frode Monberg. Krabbe fiddled nervously with his tie. This was the most important single victory his party had won in years. He was
bound to make the most of it and he did, grinning as he recounted how difficult the negotiations had been, the way the People’s Party had to stick out for ‘the right agreement’ in
the face of opposition even – at this he glanced at Buch – from those in the heart of government.