Found Wanting (28 page)

‘Fuck the King and Queen. You’re serious about this?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And you can get a set of Anna Anderson’s prints to match with these?’

‘Yes.’

‘How soon?’

‘Regina will already have them. She’s in Germany. It’s just a question of—’

‘Phone her.’ Brad tossed Eusden his mobile. ‘Phone her now and get her to come here.’

‘What about Mjollnir?’ asked Vladimir.

‘We agreed terms with them for the letters. This is something else. This, boys, is what’s known as a bonus. And, hell, haven’t we earned one? Make the call, sport.’

‘OK. I’ll try.’

‘Do more than try.’

‘The number’s in my wallet.’

‘Get it out.’

Eusden took his wallet from his jacket and found the piece of paper with Regina’s number written on it. It was unfair to involve her, of course, but he had no choice. This was his only chance of survival. He placed the call. And started praying she would answer.

She did. ‘Hello?’

‘Regina, this is Richard Eusden.’

‘Richard. Hi. I didn’t recognize the number. I tried to call you earlier.’

‘Sorry. Stupidly, I’ve mislaid my phone. I’ve had to borrow one. Where are you?’ There was a blur of sound in the background. He caught the ding-dong of a PA system.

‘Hanover airport. They should be calling my flight to Copenhagen any minute.’

‘You’ve got the 1938 fingerprint record?’

‘You bet. Any news for me your end?’

‘Yes. I have the matching record from 1909, Regina. I have it in front of me.’

‘You’re joshing me.’

‘No. It’s right here.’

‘But . . .how did you get it?’

‘I’ll explain when we meet. It’s . . . complicated.’

‘OK. Well, I should be able to make it to your hotel by around three thirty.’

‘Three thirty? That’s only . . .’ Belatedly, Eusden remembered that Finland was an hour ahead of Germany and Denmark. ‘Actually, Regina, I’m no longer in Copenhagen. I’m in Helsinki.’

‘
Helsinki?
’

‘Like I said, it’s complicated. Can you join me here?’

‘I . . . guess I could try to book a connecting flight before I leave.’

‘Meeting here’s much the safer bet. Werner’s sure to come looking for us in Copenhagen sooner or later.’

‘OK. Point taken. I’ll do it.’

‘Call me on this number when you know what time you’ll be arriving. I’ll meet you at the airport.’

‘Will do. Hey, Richard, have you been holding out on me? This has all happened very suddenly.’

‘I’ll tell you the whole story when you get here. See you soon. ’Bye.’

‘Nicely played, sport,’ said Brad as he retrieved his phone. ‘I guess you’ve negotiated yourself a stay of execution.’

‘We should kill him here,’ said Vladimir.

Brad sighed heavily. ‘We don’t know what the Virginian genealogist looks like, Vlad. And she’s expecting Eusden here to meet her. So, we’ll keep him on ice. Time?’

‘Less than an hour till we meet Mjollnir.’

‘OK. One more call, then we head out.’ Brad punched a number into his phone. While he waited for an answer, Eusden wondered queasily what ‘on ice’ actually meant. Then: ‘Bruno? Brad . . . Yuh . . . I have something for you. How are you with fingerprints? . . . Excellento. Haven’t I always said Orson Welles was way out of line with that crack about cuckoo clocks? . . .Talking of clocks, there’s one ticking on this job. We need you tonight . . . Helsinki . . .Yuh. Slip into your thermals before you leave. It’s the Ice Age here . . . Got you. ETA to follow. Understood . . . Of course, Bruno, of course. Standard fee. Standard percentage. When have I ever let you down? . . . OK.
Ciao
, good buddy.’ He ended the call and shot Eusden a smile. ‘Bruno will give us an authoritative yes or no on whether the prints match. If they do, we’re in business. If not . . .’ Brad’s smile remained in place just a little too long. Eusden knew they would keep him alive only as long as he was useful to them. And his usefulness was likely to expire once Regina had arrived with the other fingerprint sample. But airports were crowded, public places. There had to be a good chance he could escape once they were there, taking Regina with him. If all else failed, he could probably get himself arrested; Regina too. Until then, there was nothing for it but to do Brad’s bidding in every particular.

‘Let’s get moving.’ Brad pulled out his gun again. ‘Fetch the car, Gennady. Reverse it up to the door and pop the trunk.’ Gennady nodded and lumbered out through the wicket-door, leaving it open behind him. ‘Put the letters back in the case, Vlad.’ As Vladimir started on that, a car engine coughed into life outside. The rear of a silver Mercedes saloon eased into view. The boot sprang open. ‘You’re travelling in the trunk, sport. Can’t risk your Mjollnir buddies spotting you. Climb aboard.’

Eusden had only the briefest glimpse of the industrial wasteland Lund had dumped him in before the pressure of Vladimir’s hand on the back of his head told him to clamber into the boot of the thrumbling Mercedes.

‘Carpet and loads of leg room,’ said Brad, meeting his backward gaze with a smirk. ‘Gennady grew up in Kiev with four brothers in less comfortable and capacious surroundings.’

‘When do I get out of here?’

‘When we need you. Don’t worry. We’ll know where to find you.’ He reached up to close the boot, then stopped. His phone was ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and read out the number of the caller. ‘Means nothing to me. You, sport?’

‘Regina.’

‘You’d better take it.’ He handed Eusden the phone.

‘Regina?’

‘Hi, Richard.’ She sounded breathless. ‘I’ve got to make this quick. I’m on my way to the gate. I’m booked on a flight from Copenhagen to Helsinki that gets in at seven twenty. Finnair six six four.’

‘Six six four at seven twenty. Got it. I’ll see you then.’

‘Likewise. ’Bye.’

Eusden passed the phone meekly back to Brad. ‘Would it do any good to tell you I suffer from claustrophobia?’

‘Not a bit. But, hey, it’s not like we’re going to forget about you. We’ll be checking on you regularly.’ Brad frowned thoughtfully, as if reviewing his tactics for the pending encounter at Koskinen’s house. He drummed his fingers on the boot lid, then plucked the envelope containing the fingerprints out of his pocket and slid it inside the lapel of Eusden’s crumpled jacket. ‘Look after that for me, sport. Like your life depends on it.’ Then he slammed the lid shut. And Eusden was plunged into darkness.

THIRTY-NINE

The boot smelt nine parts of carpet fibre and one of diesel. There was no light of any kind. Eusden spent some minutes trying to find a manual switch for the internal lamp before giving up. Gennady drove like a chauffeur for a wealthy old widow: smoothly and slowly. The car accelerated and decelerated, turned and straightened. Beyond the steady hum of the engine, sound was muffled and distant: horns, air brakes, tram bells and pneumatic drills drifting in and fading away as the Mercedes threaded through the Helsinki traffic towards its destination.

Eusden could not stop himself wondering – and doubting – whether his plan to escape his captors’ clutches at the airport would work. Brad would surely anticipate such an attempt and seek to forestall it. He had to pin his hopes on Brad’s greed skewing his judgement and he did not know the man well enough to assess how likely that was.

The consoling fact remained, however, that he had talked them into sparing his life so far and stood a good chance of outwitting them if he held his nerve. He would be outwitting Mjollnir into the bargain, since Lund no doubt assumed he was already dead. What had Koskinen told Pernille? he wondered. How had they accounted for his sudden disappearance? Whatever lie they had concocted, he intended to ram it down their throats once he was free. Pernille must think he had deserted her. He would make it his business to ensure she did not go on thinking that. She would be at Koskinen’s house now, with Matalainen, waiting and worrying. There was nothing he could do to help her or to explain his absence. But he promised himself she would know the truth – and others would be held accountable for that truth – before he was finished.

He smiled at the irony that Brad had given the envelope containing the fingerprints to him for safekeeping. He tried to retreat into a fanciful recreation of events aboard the imperial yacht that August day in 1909 as a means of distracting himself from the grimness of his situation. But Clem in his Isle of Wight constable’s uniform and the Grand Duchesses in their white, lace-fringed dresses were figures from a dream. The sunshine he imagined had no warmth, the voices no strength, the smiles no permanence. He was where he was. And they were far away and long ago.

The car stopped, as it had several times. Then the engine stopped. This was different. They had arrived at Luumitie 27. The exchange was about to take place.

A minute or so passed. Then a door slammed. And then another. Brad and Vladimir had left the car. Something whirred and clicked close to the boot. The aerial, he guessed. Gennady had switched on the radio. He wanted music while he waited, though he evidently thought he should play it low. No sound reached Eusden. The silence of the suburban residential side street was total.

More minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The preliminaries must be over by now. Matalainen would be comparing the letters with the faxed copies. Soon, he would express his satisfaction. Then the combination of the case Koskinen had delivered to Pernille would be phoned through. Brad would open it up, check the bearer bonds and express his satisfaction. And then—

The noise hit him in a shock wave of air. His dark, cramped, silent world was split open by sound and light. The car rose and crashed back down as if struck by an earthquake. Something large and heavy crunched into the lid of the boot, driving in a deep dent to within an inch of Eusden’s face. As it did so, the lid jolted open. He was dazzled and deafened simultaneously and could only cower from the violent, roaring force of an event he could not comprehend.

Then sight and hearing and understanding rushed in on him. Fragments of masonry were raining down, hitting other parked cars as they fell, bouncing from roofs, chipping windows, sinking into the snow piled in the gutters. And smoke was billowing across the street in dust-laden clouds. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to shield his nose and mouth as he scrambled out over the sill of the boot.

The house that had once stood on the other side of the street was a wreck of flame and smoke, of sundered walls and splintered glass. The roof had caved in and between the surviving gables was a chaos of rubble. Pernille’s BMW stood in the driveway piled with debris, its windows smashed, and a toppled chunk of gatepost, with the number 27 screwed to it, lay on the pavement. Smaller pieces of debris were still pattering down as Eusden stared at the scene in horror. The smoke began to clog his lungs. He retreated.

As he did so, the driver’s door of the Mercedes opened and Gennady fell out on to the snow-covered verge, blood streaming from a gash across his head. A windowful of shattered glass fell with him. He looked up at Eusden and moaned. His eyes rolled up under his lids. Then he went limp.

In the next instant one of the gables gave way and crashed down into the wreckage. Smoke and dust mushroomed into the air. Eusden was forced back still further. A middle-aged woman appeared in the front yard of a house behind him. She shouted something to him in Finnish.

‘Phone for an ambulance,’ he shouted back. ‘There are people in there.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Some kind of explosion.’

She gaped past him, her mouth slack with shock. She started to cough.

‘Phone for help.
Now
.’

‘OK. Yes.’ She ran back into the house.

Eusden stood where he was, squinting through the spreading haze of smoke. Luumitie 27 looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. And that, he knew, was precisely what had happened: a bomb. No one inside could have survived such an explosion. It had demolished the entire building, shattering walls and floors, crushing flesh and bone. Brad, Vladimir, Matalainen
and
Pernille must all be dead.

Eusden suddenly realized how badly he wanted to believe Pernille could still be alive, despite all evidence to the contrary. In simple truth, there was no hope. But he could not accept that. He
would
not accept that. He started across the street.

He was stopped in his tracks by the blare of a horn and a squeal of brakes. A pick-up truck juddered to a halt a few yards from him and two men in overalls jumped out. They shouted at him in Finnish.

‘There are people trapped in there.’ He gestured towards the wrecked house. ‘Help me check if they’re still alive.’

The two men stared at him incredulously. Then the older of the two said, ‘Too dangerous. Anyone inside’s dead for sure.’

‘We’ve got to try.’

‘Don’t do it. There could be—’

A loud bang triggered a gout of flame from somewhere in the wreckage. Fragments of rubble flew into the air. One smashed into the windscreen of the pick-up. The two men turned and fled.

‘Get back,’ the older one shouted to Eusden over his shoulder.

Then the second gable gave way. And with it went the last of Eusden’s defences against reality. He retreated, his eyes stinging, his lungs straining. Dust and smoke rose and rolled in the air. Fire crackled behind him.

He reached the Mercedes, his thoughts focusing now on a single resolve: someone must be made to suffer for this. He knelt by Gennady’s motionless body and felt inside his coat for the gun. Suddenly it was in his hand: an automatic of the kind he had seen many, many times in films but never in the world he had inhabited until a week ago. It was too large and heavy to carry in his jacket. He tugged Gennady’s woollen scarf from around his neck, wrapped the gun in it, stood up and set off along the street.