The Boy in the Suitcase (27 page)

The woman lowered the receiver for a moment and asked him something he didn’t understand.

“Bukovski,” he said, and then continued in English. “I have to see Bukovski.”

“Wait,” she said. “Name?”

He just gave her a look. Suddenly her gestures took on a nervous quickness that had not been there before. She rose and disappeared into the regions behind the reception, to emerge a few minutes later with the expected permission.

“You go in,” she said.

It was surprisingly spacious, thought Jučas. There weren’t any windows, but heavy-duty ventilation ensured that the air was cool and almost fresh. There were a couple of exercise bikes and two treadmills, but for the most part, the floor space was given over to numerous well-worn TechnoGym machines and a large freeweight area. This was no pastel-colored wellness center for fatfearing forty-year-old women or middle-aged men with aspirations to a “healthier lifestyle.” This was a T-zone. The worn gray carpeting was practically impregnated with testosterone and sweat, and Jučas felt at home immediately.

Dimitri Bukovski approached him with open arms.

“My friend,” he said. “Long time no see.”

They embraced in the masculine back-patting way, and Jučas endured the two smacking kisses Dimitri planted, Russian style, one on each cheek. Dimitri was an Eastern European melting pot product, a little Polish, a little Russian, a little German and a touch of Lithuanian. He must be over fifty by now, and balding, but he looked as if bench-pressing two hundred kilos was still no great challenge. Pecs and biceps bulked under his black T-shirt. Years ago, in a similar basement in Vilnius, it had been Dimitri who taught Jučas about serious training. Now Dimitri lived here in Copenhagen, and out of three possible Danish contacts, he was the only one who would not go squealing to Klimka the minute Jučas left.

“Nice place,” said Jučas.

“Not bad,” allowed Dimitri. “We’re running it as a club, so we have some say in who gets admitted. Some people here do serious work. You want a workout?”

“God, yes. But I don’t have the time,” said Jučas with genuine regret.

“No,” said Dimitri, “I understand this isn’t just a courtesy call. Still working for Klimka?”

“Yes and no,” said Jučas vaguely.

“Oh? Well, it’s none of my business. Step into the office, then.”

Dimitri’s office was little more than a cubbyhole. A desk and two brown leather armchairs were squeezed into the narrow space, and the walls were covered with photographs, many of which were of Dimitri standing next to some celebrity or other, mostly singers or actors, but also a few politicians. Pride of place had gone to a picture of Dimitri, grinning from ear to ear, shaking hands with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Home Sweet Home,” said Dimitri, with a vague gesture at his mementos.

Jučas merely nodded. “Did you find me anything?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Dimitri opened a small safe bolted to the wall beneath the Schwarzenegger photo. “You can have your pick of a Glock and a Desert Eagle.” He put the two weapons on the desk in front of Jučas.

Both were used, but in good condition. The Glock was a 9mm, the classic black Glock 17. The Desert Eagle was a .44, bright silver and monstrously heavy, and appeared to be somewhat newer than the Glock. Jučas picked them up one by one. Ejected the clip, checked that the chamber was empty. Worked the safety. Aimed at one of the pictures on the wall, and dry-fired. The pull on the .44 was somewhat stiffer than the Glock.

“How much?” he asked. “And are they clean?” He had no wish to acquire a weapon that could be traced to someone else’s crimes.

“My friend. What do you take me for? Would I sell you a dirty gun? Two thousand for the Glock, three for the Eagle. Dollars, that is. For an added five hundred, I throw in extra ammo.”

“Which one would you choose?”

Dimitri shrugged his massive shoulders.

“Depends. A Desert Eagle is kind of hard to ignore. Very effective as a frightener. But if you actually want to shoot someone, I’d go for the Glock.”

HE BOUGHT THE
Glock. It was cheaper, too.

N
INA DROPPED
M
ARIJA
off in Vesterbrogade at 4:47.

She noted the time specifically because the time on her own watch didn’t match that of the clock on the arch by Axeltorv. Hers was two minutes ahead, and she couldn’t help trying to calculate which of the two was correct.

The girl stood by the curb, hunched and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure where to go. There was sand in her damp hair, Nina noticed, but apart from that, not much was left of the girl from the beach. She was no longer smiling.

Nina watched her in the rearview mirror until the girl turned to walk in the direction of Stenogade, narrow shoulders tensed and raised as though she were cold. An acidic, heavy puff of exhaust and hot pavement reached Nina through the open car window, and for a moment she had to struggle with a burning compulsion to turn around and drag the girl back into the car. But Marija hadn’t asked for her help, and Nina hadn’t offered. Nina had written her name and phone number on a piece of paper, and afterwards got the money to pay Marija from an ATM in Amagerbrogade. That was all she could do at the moment.

She thought it was probable the police were monitoring her accounts and would make a note of the withdrawal, but she told herself it didn’t matter. Not now.

She had sensed it at the moment she had heard the boy call for his mama at the summer cottage. Now she knew for certain. Mikas did not come from some orphanage in Ukraine or Moscow. He was not an orphan, he was not alone in the world. He had a mother, and from what little information Marija had gained from him, it seemed most likely that he had been abducted. Not sold, borrowed, or given away, but taken. And somehow he had ended up in the clutches of the man who had killed Karin. How and why, the gods only knew, but this was not Nina’s concern.

If the boy’s mother was still alive, she would probably have reported him missing to the Lithuanian police, and it should be a small matter to have the boy returned to Mama Ramoškienė, the daycare, and the trolleybusses of Vilnius. Even the Danish police ought to be able to handle that, she thought. They were usually surprisingly effective at getting people
out
of the country. They might even make an effort to investigate who was behind the abduction. If for no other reason, then because of Karin’s death. No one could murder proper Danish citizens with impunity.

So. It really was that simple.

A smooth, warm feeling of serenity flowed from her diaphragm into the rest of her body.

She could take Mikas home to Fejøgade, and call the police from there. She might be allowed to remain with him while the police checked up on the information Marija had garnered from him. Nina knew that her perseverance could be quite convincing, and no one could claim it was better for Mikas to be in the care of some burned-out social worker he didn’t know. She wanted to stay with him so that he wouldn’t be left in the hands of strangers, until his mother could be flown in from Vilnius and he would finally be in her arms again.

Nina imagined how the boy’s mother would arrive in a storm of smiles and tears, how she would take Nina’s hands in wordless gratitude. Suddenly, Nina felt tears well up in some soft, dark place inside her. She didn’t cry often, and certainly not in moments of success. Tears of joy were for old women.

But you don’t see all that many happy endings, do you? a small cynical voice commented inside her. Nothing ever really comes out the way you want it to.

“This time, it will,” muttered Nina stubbornly.

L
ARGE HOUSES MADE
Sigita uncomfortable. Somehow, she felt that the people living in them had the authority and the power to decide, to denigrate, and to condemn. No matter how many times she told herself that she was just as good as they were, there was always some little part of her that didn’t listen.

The house in front of her now was huge. So enormous that one couldn’t take it all in at once. It was completly isolated, perched at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea, and buttressed by white walls on all sides. Sigita thought it looked like a fortress, and she was surprised to find the gate open, so that anyone could just walk in. What was the point, then, of building a fortress?

The taxi left. She was still shocked by the cost of it. How could she have imagined that the hundred kilometer ride would be more expensive than the flight from Lithuania to Demark? Now there was almost nothing left of the money she had taken from Jolita. I should have taken all of it, she thought. But taking only some had felt a bit less like stealing. And in the end, Jolita had, after all, consented.

Now she was here. She had no idea what she would do afterwards, and she wasn’t even sure this was the end of her journey. The name on the brass plaque fixed to the white wall was the right one: MARQUART. This was where he lived, the man who collected her children. But she didn’t know if this was where Mikas was.

Trying to make a stealthy approach was pointless—discrete surveillance cameras had already noted her arrival. She began to walk up the drive to the white fortress.

When she pushed the doorbell, a ripple of cheerful notes sounded on the other side of the door, a cocky little tune somehow out of sync with the tall white walls, the endless lawns, the heavy teak door. She heard footsteps inside, and the door opened.

A boy stood in the doorway. She knew at once who he must be, because of his likeness to Mikas.

“Hi,” he said, and added something, of which she didn’t understand a single word.

She couldn’t answer. Just stood there looking at him. He was dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt, with a pair of shiny racing red Ferrari shoes on his feet, and a matching red Ferrari cap on his head, back to front, of course. He was slender and small for his age; no, more than slender, he was bonily thin. In spite of that, his face looked oddly bloated, and his tan couldn’t conceal a deeper pallor, particularly around his eyes. One arm sported a gauze bandage under which she detected the contours of an IV needle that had been taped to his skin. He was ill, she thought. My son is very, very ill. What has happened to him in this alien country?

Again, he spoke, and from his intonation she thought it might be a question.

“Is your mother or father home?” she asked in Lithuanian, unable to absorb the sudden knowledge that of course he wouldn’t be able to understand. He looked so much like Mikas, and she could see a lot of Darius, too, in eyes and in his smile. It seemed absurd that she wasn’t able to talk to him.

“Is your father at home? Or your mother?” she tried again, this time in English, though she thought he would be too young to understand any foreign language. But he actually nodded.

“Mother,” he said. “Wait.”

And then he disappeared back into the house.

He returned a little later with a delicately built woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. Sigita looked at the person who had become her son’s mother. A pale pink shirt and white jeans underlined her pastel delicacy, and there was something tentative in her manner, as if she were uncertain of her bearings, even here in her own house. Like the boy, she was fair-haired and quite tanned; the superficial likeness was such that no one would ever question their relationship.

“Anne Marquart,” she said, offering her hand. “How may I help you?”

But the moment she saw Sigita’s face properly, she froze. There was clearly the same jolt of recognition Sigita had felt on seeing the boy. The genetic clues could not be erased. This woman saw her son’s traits in Sigita’s face, and was terrified.

“No,” she said. “Go away!” And she began to close the door

Sigita advanced a step. “Please,” she said. “I just want to talk. Please… .”

“Talk … ?” said the woman. And then she reluctantly opened the door. “Yes, perhaps we’d better.”

THE WINDOW STRETCHED
for the whole length of the living room, from floor to ceiling. The sea and the sky flooded into the room. Too much, thought Sigita, especially now that the wind was stronger, and the waves showed teeth. Had they never heard of curtains, here? Houses, after all, had been invented to keep nature out.

The space was huge and cavernous. At one end was an open fireplace, with a fire that Anne Marquart turned on with a remote control, like a television. The floor was some kind of blue-gray stone unfamiliar to Sigita. In the middle of the room, with several meters of empty space on all sides of it, was a horseshoe shaped sofa upholstered in scarlet leather. Sigita knew that this was the kind of interior that magazines begged to photograph, but it surfeited even her need for order and clean lines, and she felt ill at ease, sitting here in the middle of this stone and glass cathedral.

“His name is Aleksander,” said Anne Marquart, in her neat British accent that sounded so much more correct than Sigita’s. “And he is a wonderful boy—loving and smart and brave. I love him to pieces.”

Something uncoiled itself inside Sigita. Ancient knots of guilt and grief came undone, and an instinctive prayer sprang to her lips. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Thank you for this moment. Whatever else happened now, at least she knew this much: that her firstborn child was not drifting in the dark, alone and bereft, like the naked fetus-child of her nightmare. His name was Aleksander. He had a mother, who loved him.

Aleksander himself had disappeared again, she knew not where to. Anne Marquart had said something to him in Danish; his face had lit up in a pleased grin, and an enthusiastic “Yesssss!” had hopped out of his mouth. Sigita had the feeling he was being allowed something that was otherwise strictly regulated. Video games? Computer? It was obvious that they were wealthy enough to provide him with anything he wished for. Sigita felt a peculiar pain. If Mikas ever found out what kind of life his brother was living, would he be envious?

The thought brought back all her fear for him.

“I am not here because of Aleksander,” she said. “But because of Mikas. My own little boy. Is he here? Have you seen him?”