The Einstein Pursuit (14 page)

They were after him for something current.

He looked Sahlberg squarely in the eyes. ‘I’m going to ask you this one more time, and your answer needs to be clear and concise. No ramp-up. No side stories. The point, and only the point. Am I understood?’

‘You are,’ Sahlberg answered.

‘Good. Now tell me, what exactly were you working on before your retirement?’

‘I wanted to know the limits of perpetual cell lines – specifically, what is the connection between unchecked cell division and immunity.’

‘And how could that research be used?’

Sahlberg raised his palms. ‘I suppose it could have implications in several fields, but the science is still decades away. Certainly not in my lifetime. Why?’

‘I think someone out there is a fan of your work.’

After finishing their meal, Payne and Jones tried to piece together the details of Sahlberg’s attempted abduction.

Payne started the questioning. ‘Since we don’t know why the gunmen came after you, let’s concentrate on the timing of things. Why now? What prompted them to act today?’

‘It doesn’t have to be specific to your work,’ Jones added. ‘It could relate to any one of the people you’re connected to. Any new developments that caught your eye?’

Sahlberg thought back to his morning routine and the articles he had read online. ‘There was a troubling event in Sweden last night. A laboratory in Stockholm was destroyed. The newspapers are reporting it as a deliberate act that targeted the scientists who worked there.’

‘Did you know any of the victims?’ Jones asked.

‘Maybe, maybe not. No names were listed in the paper.’

‘But it is a possibility.’

‘Yes, of course it’s a possibility since it occurred in Stockholm, but I don’t have any connection to the lab. As far as I know, my troubles here and the explosion in Sweden are entirely coincidental. It wasn’t until you asked about any noticeable developments that I even remembered reading about it! It’s four thousand miles away. Surely you don’t think—’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ Payne interrupted. ‘But I’ve seen enough in my life to know that nothing can be dismissed as coincidence. We need to know more about what happened in Stockholm.’

‘If you have a computer available, I’d be happy to pull up the most recent news reports. The Swedish media has taken a keen interest in the story.’

Jones nodded. ‘Jon, why don’t you get your laptop, and I’ll take Dr Sahlberg—’

‘Mattias,’ Sahlberg said.

‘I’ll take Mattias into the living room where he’ll be more comfortable.’

Payne did as he was asked and retrieved his laptop from his bedroom nightstand while Jones directed Sahlberg to a plush, oversized recliner in the corner of the penthouse.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked.

‘Tea, if you have it.’

‘Tea sounds great – I’ll see if we have any.’

Payne returned with his computer and handed it to Sahlberg. ‘Here you go, Mattias. Take your time. Be thorough. We want to know everything that’s available.’

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ Sahlberg assured them.

‘Jon,’ Jones said, ‘I’m going to make Mattias a cup of tea. Can you show me where you keep your supplies?’

Payne raised an eyebrow. ‘No problem.’

The two of them walked to the opposite end of the penthouse, where they ducked into a large, mostly empty pantry. Jones closed the door behind them for privacy.

‘What gives?’ Payne blurted.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is there a reason we’re leaving him alone?’

‘Relax,’ Jones said. ‘He’s in your living room, using your laptop, with every keystroke being logged. Two of America’s most decorated and highly skilled soldiers are fifty feet away, and there’s a full detail of security guards ready to strike at the push of a button. Also, by the way, did you happen to notice that he’s like a hundred and twelve years old? I think we’re covered either way. He’s not going anywhere, and no one’s getting to him here.’

‘Still, if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to be in the same room as him …’ Payne paused and scrunched up his face. ‘Wait, did you say the keystrokes are being logged? Since when?’

‘Details,’ Jones said, avoiding the question. ‘You can go back in a bit. Right now, I don’t want him to hear us talking.’

‘About what?’

‘I doubt he’s going to find any leads regarding who’s responsible, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have angles to work with.’ Jones reached under his shirt and pulled out a pistol. He handed it to Payne. ‘What do you make of this?’

Payne examined the weapon, rolling it over in his hands. ‘This is same type of pistol the guys in the cable car were using. Where’d you get it?’

‘Took it off of the bastard I flattened outside the station.’

‘You don’t think the police will notice that he’s missing his weapon?’

‘His weapon? The guy was draped with weapons. Besides, did you see the shit he had in his car? I could have taken a ballistic missile without anyone noticing. Between the Uzi and the grenade launcher, I doubt anyone will question why he didn’t have a sidearm.’

‘And if they do?’

‘I’ll play the “oops” card.’

‘What’s the “oops” card?’

‘I’ll go, oops! I must have picked it up by mistake.’

Payne grimaced. ‘I’m serious.’

‘I am too,’ Jones insisted. ‘I mean, bullets were flying and blood was flowing. Shit got crazy. Somehow I must have grabbed his gun thinking it was mine. Oops! My bad.’

Payne shifted his focus to the weapon in his hand. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘At first I thought it was a Beretta 92, but it’s not. It only looks like a Beretta. Same interchangeable grip and accessory rail to attach lights, laser sights, you name it. Same nine-millimeter semi-auto capabilities. Same seventeen-round-capacity magazine.’

‘If it’s not a Beretta, what is it?’ Payne asked.

‘It’s a one-off. A one-of-a-kind custom job.’

‘You mean someone modified a base model?’

‘No, I mean someone said, “I like the Beretta 92, so I’ll base my design on that.” They built this weapon from scratch.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Aim it at something.’

Payne did as he was told.

‘What do you notice?’ Jones asked.

In the heat of the moment on the incline, the only thing Payne had noticed about the gun was the palm-print safety feature. Now, as he examined the weapon more thoroughly, he understood what Jones was talking about.

‘It’s awkward,’ he said. ‘There are things about it that are just …
off
. The way the grip feels in my hand. The way I have to cock my hand to line it up to the scanner. Bending my finger to reach the trigger. Even the balance seems off.’

‘Have you ever held one as awkward as this?’

Payne had been trained on virtually every weapon in the military’s arsenal, from single-shot micro-guns that could be concealed inside a shirtsleeve to guided missile-launching systems that were mounted on the deck of aircraft carriers. He was proficient with all and highly skilled with most. Still, this weapon was uncomfortable in his hands. ‘No, not this awkward.’

‘Me neither. That’s because this wasn’t designed for either of us,’ Jones said as he took back the weapon. ‘The palm scanner is just the icing on the cake. Everything about it is unique. This whole piece was crafted for one specific user. Someone with narrow hands and short fingers. Someone who likes to hold his gun tilted just ever so slightly, like this.’ He pointed the gun at the pantry door and rotated his hand a few degrees. ‘Personalized in every way.’

‘Can you trace it?’ Payne wondered.

‘Maybe, but it won’t be easy. Obviously there’s no serial number, but it’s also missing a craftsman’s mark of any kind. Whoever designed it didn’t do it for show. In fact, I’m guessing he’d rather stay anonymous. Fortunately, we know some people who know some people who know some people. Hopefully someone might be able to point us in the right direction.’

‘Just from looking at the craftsmanship?’

‘Actually, we have more than that.’

‘We do?’

Jones nodded. ‘The palm-print scanner isn’t standard. It’s not even close. That’s a next-generation modification.’

‘Can you find out who deals with that kind of technology?’

‘Like I said, we know some people …’

‘Like who?’

‘Like Kaiser,’ Jones replied.

Payne groaned. He should have known where this was going. ‘Are you sure you want to get him involved with this?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Well, for one, he’s a black marketeer.’

‘Yeah, but he’s
our
black marketeer.’

‘And two, the last time we dealt with him, he lost an eye.’

‘No worries, Jon. I bet he’s forgotten all about that.’

‘Somehow I doubt it.’

‘I’m telling you: when it comes to us, he’ll be willing to turn a blind eye.’

Payne groaned even louder. ‘How long have you been waiting to say that?’

Jones laughed. ‘About a year.’

During his time with Interpol, Dial had slept in more hotels than he cared to remember. It was a necessary part of the job. Over the years he had developed an immunity to uncomfortable beds, scratchy pillows, noisy air conditioners, and all the other obstacles that kept the typical traveler from enjoying a good night’s rest. But the one thing he could never ignore was his cell phone.

Even while dreaming, Dial could distinguish his cell phone’s ring from other ambient sounds. In many ways he was like Pavlov’s dogs, but instead of salivating in anticipation of food whenever their master rang a bell, Dial would force open his eyes whenever he heard his phone, locate his bifocals, and then grab the pen and paper that were always at his bedside.

It had become a reflex.

The expectation of food excited the dogs, regardless of the hour.

But Dial was rarely happy to take the call.

‘Dial,’ he announced without bothering to look at the caller ID.

‘Nick, it’s Henri. How are you?’

‘
How am I?
’ Dial snapped. He checked the clock. ‘It’s four in the fucking morning. How do you think I am? I’m tired.’

‘Then you should get some sleep,’ Toulon teased.

Dial growled into the phone. Literally growled. ‘Henri, there’s a popular expression in America that applies to this situation:
don’t poke the bear
. Do you know what that means?’

A hundred different responses flashed through Toulon’s head, each more obnoxious than the last, but he knew a warning when he heard it.

‘
Oui
. It means I should get to the point.’

‘Either that, or start updating your résumé.’

Toulon nodded in understanding. ‘Did the Swedish police ever identify the property owner?’

Dial flipped through his notes. ‘Not to my knowledge. Why?’

‘Well, I think I did.’

‘Really? How’d you manage that?’

‘They were looking at tax records and deeds. I took another approach. I looked into insurance records.’

‘And?’ Dial asked.

‘I found an old policy from the previous landholder of that address. The policy was terminated in 1990 because of the sale of the land, and someone noted that they should approach the new owner to offer continued coverage. The new owner is listed as Asgard Rhymä.’

Dial shook his head and grinned. Sometimes cases were broken through sheer luck. This time it was the note of an insurance salesman hoping for new business. ‘Asgard Rhymä. Is that Swedish?’

‘It’s Finnish. It translates to “the Asgard Group” in English.’

Dial scribbled the name in his pad. ‘Should that mean anything to me?’

‘I’m not sure. Asgard was the home of the Norse gods of Æsir. It was one of the nine worlds of their mythology, ruled by the god Odin and the goddess Frig. It was the location of Valhalla, a beautiful palace that served as the reward for Norse warriors who died valiantly in battle.’

‘In other words, it means
nothing
to me.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Who owns the Asgard Group?’

‘A shell company. Actually, it’s a shell company owned by a shell company owned by a shell company, but if you look deep enough, you eventually find a real person. The land and the building are owned by Dr Tomas Berglund.’

‘And he is?’

‘A scientist,’ Toulon replied. ‘And a brilliant one at that. Since you’ve been in Sweden, has anyone mentioned the Karolinska Institute?’

‘I was there last night. My liaison has a connection there.’

‘Great. Ask him if he’s ever heard of Berglund – I bet he has. Apparently he was a wunderkind at the institute. Graduated at eighteen with highest honors. Then he bounced around for a couple of decades, jumping from field to field and mastering them all. The guy has more than fifty published articles to his name, on subjects ranging from ethics to endocrinology.’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘Nobody knows. Two months ago he just disappeared. No papers, no speaking engagements, no anything. The only indication that he’s still alive is his tax returns. Apart from that, it’s like he dropped off the face of the earth.’

‘How’d you get his returns so quickly?’

‘Scandinavian tax returns are public records. Sweden, Finland and Norway actually publish every citizen’s return online. It’s just a click away. Berglund filed a recent return with a very modest salary, listing his current residence as the address of his childhood home. It’s a small community outside of Turku, Finland.’

‘He’s probably just using his parents’ house as cover,’ Dial said.

‘That’s what I figured, too.’

‘Either way, send me the address. In fact, send me everything you have on the guy. I’ll mention his name around here and see if anyone has anything to add to his file. In the meantime, notify the Finns. Ask them to send someone to Berglund’s address. If they happen to find him there – which I doubt – tell them to make him comfortable, but give him as few details as possible. Finland is only an hour by air. If he’s there, I’ll fly over for the interrogation myself.’

‘Sebastian is going to love that,’ Toulon said sarcastically.