The Purity of Vengeance (41 page)

It was their driver.

“Yes, Mikael, what is it? Did you get hold of Nørvig’s archive?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Wad.”

Curt frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Two men in a dark blue Peugeot 607 got there first. Police, I reckon. You can spot them a mile off.”

Curt shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. “Was one of them an Arab?” he asked, already sure of the answer.

“Looked like it, yeah.”

“Describe them to me.”

He scrutinized the features on the computer screen as Mikael reeled them off. He had a keen eye, Mikael. It all matched. It was a disaster.

“How much did they take away with them?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure. But the four filing cabinets you told me about were empty.”

More bad news.

“OK, Mikael. We’ll need to get it all back somehow. And if we can’t, we shall have to make sure our two friends meet with an accident. Understood?”

“I’ll tell the lads, make sure they’re ready.”

“Good. Find out where our two friends live and keep them under surveillance round the clock so we can go in at the first opportunity. Call me for the go-ahead when the time comes.”

 • • • 

Caspersen appeared at Curt Wad’s home a couple of hours later. Wad had never seen him so unnerved. This unscrupulous lawyer who wouldn’t hesitate to take the last fifty kroner from an impoverished single mother of five and hand it over to her violent ex-husband.

“I’m afraid that as long as Mie Nørvig and Herbert Sønderskov aren’t here to personally file a complaint with the police, our chances of recovering the stolen archives are rather slim, Curt. I don’t suppose Mikael took pictures of the offense as it was being committed?”

“No, he got there too late for that. Otherwise he’d have given them to me, don’t you think?”

“What about the neighbor? Could she give us anything to go on?”

“Only that it was two officers from Copenhagen. But she’ll be able to identify them, of course, if needs be. They don’t exactly blend in, as far as I can make out.”

“Quite. But before we get as far as retrieving these documents, the whole lot will have vanished into the depths of Police HQ, we can be sure of that. We’ve no direct evidence of these two being responsible for the break-in.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Out of the question,” came Caspersen’s reply. “They were at Nørvig’s house the day before on legitimate business. As far as I’m aware, science hasn’t proceeded as far as to be able to pinpoint fingerprints in time.”

“Well, it looks like our way out of this will need to be rather more dramatic than would be ideal. I’ve already set the wheels in motion. All I need now is to give the signal.”

“Are you talking about killing people, Curt? If that’s the case, I’m afraid I can no longer be part of this conversation.”

“Calm down, Caspersen. I’ll keep you out of it, don’t worry. But you should be aware that things may become rather violent for a time and that you should prepare yourself to take over the helm.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Just as I say. If this all ends the way it looks like it might, then you will have a political party on your hands, as well as an estate to administer here on Brøndbyøstervej. No traces will be left, and in the nature of things I shall be unable to take the stand in any court of law, if it should come to that.
Alea iacta est
.”

“God forbid, Curt. Let’s just concentrate on recovering Nørvig’s archives first, yes?” Caspersen replied, following the golden rule of all lawyers: what was never discussed had never occurred. “I’ll contact our man at Station City. I think we can assume the files are at Police Headquarters as we speak. Department Q is in the basement, so I’ve been informed. There’s no one down there at night, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for another officer to remove Nørvig’s archive material.”

Curt looked at him with a sense of relief. If Caspersen was right, they’d pretty much be back in business.

It was a positive state of mind from which he was almost immediately wrenched when the phone rang and an incensed Wilfrid Lønberg informed him that the two policemen had appeared at
his property.

Curt turned the speaker on so Caspersen could hear what was being said. He had almost as much at stake here as Wad himself.

“They just turned up, completely without warning. And there I was, burning documents. If I hadn’t been quick and chucked the whole lot on the fire, we’d have been in a terrible pickle. Watch out for them, Curt. Before you know it, they’ll be on your doorstep, or at someone else’s in the front line. You must issue a warning so people are prepared.”

“What did they want?”

“I’ve no idea. I think they were just trying to put the wind up me. Which worked rather well, I can tell you. Now they
know
something’s going on.”

“I’ll set off a new text-message chain right away,” said Caspersen, withdrawing slightly.

“They’re thorough, Curt. I get the feeling it’s you they’re after primarily, but believe me, they know more than is good for us about other things besides. Not that they were specific about anything, but they did mention Benefice and someone called Nete Hermansen. Does that ring a bell? I understood they were on their way to Nørrebro to have a word with her. They may be there by now.”

Curt rubbed his brow. The room felt stuffy all of a sudden.

“Yes, I know who Nete Hermansen is, though I must say I’m rather surprised she’s still alive. Nevertheless, that can be remedied. Let’s wait and see what happens during the next twenty-four hours. I think you may be right in that they’re mostly interested in me. I don’t know why, but then I don’t need to either.”

“How do you mean? Surely you need to know that?”

“What I mean is simply that everything might all be over before we know it. You look after the Purity Party and let me take care of the rest.”

After Caspersen had left, clearly weighed down by the latest developments, Curt called Mikael again and told him that if they got a move on they might just be able to intercept the two police officers at Peblinge Dossering and tail them from there.

An hour and a half later Mikael called him back to inform him that they’d been too late, but now they had a man posted in the parking lot outside Carl Mørck’s address, and Mørck had just arrived home. Hafez el-Assad, however, had given them the slip. At any rate, the flat on Heimdalsgade that was registered as his home address was completely empty.

 • • • 

Early on Sunday morning Curt called the doctor. Beate’s heavy sighs and irregular breathing next to him in bed seemed to have grown so much more pronounced during the last couple of hours.

“Well, Curt,” said the doctor, whom Curt knew to be an excellent GP from Hvidovre. “As your own professional opinion already suggests, from what you were telling me on the phone, I fear your wife doesn’t have much time left. Her heart’s worn out, it’s as simple as that. My guess is we’re talking days, perhaps even hours now. You’re quite sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

He shrugged. “What good would it do?” he said. “No, I think I prefer to be alone with her to the end. But thanks, all the same.”

When he’d gone and they were alone together he lay down on the bed beside her and reached for her hand. This little hand that had caressed his cheek so many times. This dear little hand.

He looked out across the balcony at the dawn and wished for a moment that he believed in a god. He would say a quiet prayer for his beloved in her final hours. Three days earlier he had felt prepared for this inevitable development, ready to live on in its aftermath. Now everything had changed.

He glanced at the bottle of sleeping pills. Potent and easy to swallow. It would take twenty seconds at most. He smiled to himself. And a minute to fetch a glass of water, of course.

“Do you think it would be best for me to take them now, my love?” he whispered, and gave her hand a squeeze. If only she had been able to answer him. He felt so alone.

He stroked her thin hair gently. How often he had admired her hair when she sat brushing it in front of the mirror, the light giving it a sheen. So quickly life had passed.

“Oh, Beate. I loved you with all my heart. You were the light of my life. If I could live it over again with you, I would. Every second. If only you could wake up for just a moment so that I might tell you, my dearest.”

Then he turned toward her and snuggled up to the faintly breathing, irrevocably expiring, and most delightful body he had ever known.

 • • • 

It was almost twelve when he woke up to the ringing of a phone that suddenly stopped.

He lifted his head slightly and saw without relief that Beate was still breathing. Couldn’t she just die without him having to watch?

He shook his head at the thought.

“Pull yourself together, Curt,” he told himself. Beate wasn’t going to die alone, no matter what. He refused to let it happen.

He looked through the French window that led out onto the balcony. The sky was November gray and the wind whistled in the bare branches of the cherry plum trees.

Not a good day, he thought, reaching for both his mobile phones.

There were no new messages on either, but then he pressed the display of the landline and saw a number he didn’t recognize.

He activated the call-back function, only to sense immediately that he shouldn’t have.

“Søren Brandt,” said a voice he had no wish to hear.

“We two have nothing to discuss,” Wad said brusquely.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. Can I ask if you’ve read my blog about Hans Christian Dyrmand’s suicide.”

The man at the other end waited a moment to see if any answer would be forthcoming. It wasn’t.

Bloody swine. Bloody Internet.

“I’ve spoken to Dyrmand’s widow,” the bastard of a journalist went on. “She’s most perplexed by what happened. Would you have any comment on that?”

“None whatsoever. I hardly knew the man. And you listen to me now. I’m in grief at the moment. My wife is on her deathbed. So if you’d be decent enough to leave me in peace, we can speak another day.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. I was going to tell you that information has come my way about you being in the police spotlight in connection with a missing persons case. But I have a feeling you’re not going to comment, is that right?”

“What missing persons case?” He had absolutely no idea what it was about, and this was the second time it had been brought to his attention.

“That’d be a matter between you and the police, wouldn’t it? But as far as I understand it, they’re rather eager to exchange information with me about The Cause and its obviously criminal activities. So my last question for now is whether you and Wilfrid Lønberg intend to make similar activities, such as forced abortions, part of the Purity Party’s official platform?”

“Enough slander! I’ll sort the matter out with the police, make no mistake. And if you publish so much as a word without documentation, I promise you I shall make sure you end up paying dearly.”

“OK. Documentation’s not a problem, actually, but thanks for your comments. It’s always nice to have a couple of quotes.”

And then he hung up.
He
hung up. Curt Wad was fuming.

What kind of documentation was he referring to? Had knowledge of Nørvig’s archives really reached that far already? This was going to be Brandt’s downfall. Bloody lowlife.

He picked up the secure mobile and dialed Caspersen’s number.

“What’s the status on our foray into Police HQ, Caspersen?”

“Not good, I’m afraid. Our man got in, no problem, but as soon as he went down to the basement he ran into Hafez el-Assad. It seems he sleeps down there.”

“Damn it! He’s guarding Nørvig’s archive, is that it?”

“It looks like it, yes.”

“Why didn’t you call and inform me?”

“I did, Curt. I called you several times this morning. Not this number, the other one.”

“I’m not using my iPhone at the moment. For security reasons.”

“But I called your landline, too.”

Curt reached out and pressed the display. He was right. There were several unanswered calls before Søren Brandt’s. Caspersen had been calling every twenty minutes since eight o’clock.

Had he really slept so soundly next to Beate? Would it be the last time in their lives together?

He hung up and looked at Beate as he thought about what to do.

All three had to be eliminated, there was no other way. The Arab, Mørck, and Brandt. He would decide about Nete Hermansen later. She wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the others.

He dialed Mikael’s number on the secure mobile.

“Can we trace Søren Brandt?”

“I should think so. He’s staying at a weekend cabin in Høve at the moment.”

“How do we know?”

“Because we’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since he kicked up a fuss at the national congress.”

Curt smiled. It was the first time that day.

“All right, Mikael, well done. What about this Carl Mørck? Do we know what he’s up to?”

“We do, yeah. Right now he’s on his way across the parking lot where he lives. Our man’s on his tail. If anyone knows what he’s doing, he does. Former Police Intelligence guy. We still don’t know where the Arab is, though.”

“In that case I can enlighten you. He’s in the basement of Police Headquarters. You can put a man outside the mail terminal over the road so we know when he leaves. And Mikael?”

“Yeah?”

“When everyone’s asleep at Carl Mørck’s place tonight, an accident will happen. Are you with me?”

“A fire?”

“Yes. Starting in the kitchen. Make it explosive. A blaze with lots of smoke. Tell our people to make sure they get out of there without being seen.”

“That’ll be me, I reckon.”

“Good. Cover your back and get out quickly.”

“Will do. What about Søren Brandt?”

“Put your dogs on him, and do it now.”

33

November 2010

Carl was woken by
someone shaking him hard.

He opened his eyes and hazily registered a figure bent over him. He tried to get up, only to feel dizzy and suddenly and inexplicably find himself on the floor by the side of his bed. Something was wrong, drastically wrong.