The Purity of Vengeance (53 page)

“Mørck, wasn’t that it?” He shook his head, apparently unsure, but the answer was sufficient.

Curt had already heard enough. This wasn’t good.

“You’ve been lucky, sir, I can tell you,” the second fireman continued. “A few more minutes and the outbuilding would have been gone and most likely that thatched place on the other side of Tværgaden, too. There was a badly injured person inside, I’m afraid. Looked like a gypsy. Maybe some derelict who’d found himself a place to kip down. We reckon he’s probably the cause of the blaze, though we don’t know for sure yet. He burned some paper in there, probably to keep warm I shouldn’t wonder, but it’s still only guesswork at the moment. I suggest you keep in touch with the police.”

Curt didn’t respond. Nothing could be further from his intentions.

He shone his flashlight into the outbuilding and saw that the sliding door of the strong room was open, the floor beyond a slush of ash. It was a sight that shocked him.

He waited until the firemen had gone, then waded through the sopping wreckage into the archive only to realize that nothing, absolutely nothing was left.

What there was, however, was writing on the walls.

ASSAD WAS HERE!

He almost collapsed.

 • • • 

“It’s all gone,” he said to Lønberg on the secure line. “Everything. Files, cuttings, documents of constitution, membership lists, patient records. The blaze took it all!”

“I hope you’re right,” said Lønberg. “It’s dreadful, of course, but we must hope everything was indeed lost. You say this Hafez el-Assad was still alive when you left him, but do we know how the police found him? Did his mobile phone lead them perhaps?”

“No, we took that and switched it off. Mikael and the others are going through its memory to see if it might give us something to go on. But the phone itself has been turned off since it’s been in our possession. So no, I’ve absolutely no idea how Mørck could have found him.”

“All right, give me ten minutes to check with the hospitals. I’ll call you back.”

Curt trembled with anger and grief. If only he’d put off going to see the undertaker until tomorrow, if only he hadn’t known the man from his sterling work in the party, none of this would have happened.

He shook his head in frustration. Why did they have to have that second cup of coffee? And why had the undertaker’s wife spent so much time offering her condolences? But what the hell use were all these questions now? What good was “if only”? It had happened, and that was it.

What they had to do now was follow the plan. It was simple enough. Once they had eliminated the Arab they would go straight for his colleague. And when he was out of the way, which could be as early as the following day, they could send their man from Station City into the basement of Police HQ to remove Nørvig’s files.

As such, the most immediate threat to the party would soon be averted. This was their primary task.

The fact remained, however, that there was a female assistant in the department, too. She wasn’t that bright, their informant had told them, so that hurdle would be easily surmounted. And if their man was wrong, they’d soon find a way to compromise her and have her out of the system in no time. That much he could promise.

Søren Brandt was no longer a problem either, as far as Curt was informed. And Mikael would soon be dispatched to Madagascar to take care of Mie Nørvig and Herbert Sønderskov.

After that, only one potential threat would remain. Nete Hermansen.

It was imperative her death appear natural. A death certificate and a quick funeral, and that would be the end of it.

Forever, he hoped.

Now Curt’s archive had succumbed to fire, just as his comrades in The Cause had destroyed their own records, and with Carl Mørck and Hafez el-Assad’s imminent demise the police investigation would most likely cease to be a threat if, as Curt had been told, Department Q preferred to keep their investigations to themselves. The party would soon be left in peace to establish itself, and his life’s work would thus bear fruit.

Curt nodded to himself. Now he’d thought things through, he felt certain no damage had been done. On the contrary.

All he had to do was wait for Lønberg’s report from the hospital where the Arab had been admitted.

He went upstairs and lay down for a while beside his beloved. Her skin looked like snow and felt colder already.

“Let me warm you, dearest Beate,” he said, drawing her body toward him. It was no longer yielding. Rigor mortis had set in while he had been having coffee with people who meant nothing to him. What had he been thinking?

His mobile rang.

“Yes, Lønberg. Have you found him?”

“He’s been taken to Hvidovre, condition critical. He’s not doing well at all, apparently.”

Curt heaved a sigh of relief.

“Who’s with him?”

“Carl Mørck.”

“I see. Do you know if he retrieved anything from the strong room?”

“I doubt it. Can’t be much, if he did, anyway. Our contact at the hospital is sitting in the waiting room opposite Mørck as we speak. I’ll ask her on the other phone if she knows anything. Just a sec.”

He heard Lønberg’s voice in the background, and then the rustle in his ear as he returned.

“It seems it’s hard to tell. She can’t get that close to see. Mørck’s got something that looks like a list, but it might be just the hospital’s information sheet for patients’ friends and next of kin.”

“A list, you say?”

“Yes, but take it easy, Curt, it’s probably nothing. The worst is over, my friend. From the historical perspective it’s a shame, obviously, that we’ve lost all our documentation regarding the founding of The Cause and the Purity Party. But just as we consigned our patient records to the bonfires, it could well turn out for the best that your archives have gone up in smoke, too. How are you anyway, Curt? Bearing up all right?”

“No.” He took a deep breath. “Beate’s dead.”

A long silence ensued. Curt knew how Lønberg and a number of the older members of the organization felt about Beate. Not only as an excellent organizer, a person who made them gel, but also as a woman. Beate had been quite unique.

“May God bless her,” was all Lønberg could say.

 • • • 

The agreement with the undertaker was that he and his assistant were to come and collect Beate’s body at ten o’clock the next morning. The procedure should not be postponed further, they informed him. The timing was unfortunate, to say the least.

Curt gazed with sadness upon her. He had decided he would follow her that night. When the undertakers arrived, they would discover they would have to make two trips.

But events had now dictated otherwise.

First he needed to know for certain that Carl Mørck and Hafez el-Assad were out of the way, and that the list the investigator at this moment sat reading in the antiseptic waiting room was not what Curt feared it to be.

He dialed Mikael’s number.

“Unfortunately, Hafez el-Assad survived the blow to his head and managed to set fire to the archive,” Wad reported. “But it seems likely he won’t survive the effects of his injuries. We’re trying to keep abreast of the situation with the assistance of a good and loyal contact at the hospital. A nurse who has come to our aid several times in the past and who will not hesitate to help us again. All in all, I don’t think we need to worry too much about the Arab. Our problem is Carl Mørck.”

“OK,” came the reply at the other end.

“This time you’re not to let him out of your sight for a second, Mikael. You’ll find him at Hvidovre Hospital. I want him closely monitored wherever he goes, do you understand? I want him eliminated at the first available opportunity. Run him over, whatever you need to do. But do it, and do it without delay.”

42

November 2010

The way Rose stood
staring at Assad’s deathly pale face, her nerves all on edge as they took him out of the ambulance in front of the emergency entrance, Carl reckoned a long night’s waiting around for bulletins on Assad’s condition would be too much for her.

“You all right to drive home on your own?” he asked her, in the reflection of flashing blue lights. He handed her the car key, only to remember what a truly awful driver she was, but by then it was too late.

“Thanks,” she said, hugging him for a brief, transcendent moment before sending a pitiful little wave in the direction of Assad’s stretcher and wandering off back to the Ka.

At least there’s not much traffic on the roads at this time, Carl thought to himself. If anything should happen to Rose as well, he’d be packing in his job first thing.

Maybe he would, anyway.

 • • • 

They toiled with Assad in surgery until finally a doleful-looking doctor appeared before Carl in the waiting room and informed him that his assistant’s lungs thankfully seemed to be all right, but the fracture he’d sustained to his skull and the subsequent accumulations of blood were such that they couldn’t promise anything. In fact, Assad’s condition was so serious, they would be transferring him to the Rigshospital, where the trauma center was already preparing for his arrival. He would be given a thorough examination and most likely sent into surgery again before being admitted to intensive care.

Carl nodded, anger and grief tussling inside him. He wouldn’t be passing this on to Rose just yet, he sensed.

He clutched one of the sheets of paper that Assad had hidden under his shirt to his chest. Curt Wad was going to pay for this. And if they couldn’t nail him lawfully, there were other ways of going about it. He didn’t give a shit now.

“I’ve only just heard,” a familiar voice said from the corridor, and Marcus Jacobsen bounded toward him.

So fucking sad and touching all at once that Carl had to dry his eyes.

 • • • 

“We might as well get back to HQ, Marcus,” said Carl. “I can’t face going home, and there’s a lot needs getting on with first.”

Marcus Jacobsen looked up into the rearview mirror and adjusted it slightly.

“Funny, how long that car’s been on our tail,” he said, then looked at Carl. “Yeah, I understand. But you’ll be no good to anyone without sleep and sustenance.”

“OK, you can start by pouring me a Gammel Dansk as soon as we get back. The sleep bit can wait.”

He briefed Marcus on what had happened during the day. He didn’t see how he could get out of it.

“I ordered the two of you to stay well away from Curt Wad, Carl. You disobeyed me, and now look where it’s got us.”

Carl nodded. Fair enough. It had to come.

“That said, it’s a good thing you persisted,” he added.

Carl turned his head to look at him. “Thanks, Marcus.”

His boss hesitated for a moment before dropping his bombshell. “There are people I need to consult before I can let you go on with all this, Carl.”

“I’m sure. But the way things are, I can’t wait for that.”

“In which case I’ll have no option but to suspend you.”

“If you do, these bastards are going to get away with it.”

“Get away with what, Carl? Attempting to burn your house down? Assaulting Assad? Or with all their crimes of old and what they’ve built that party into?”

“The lot!”

“Let me tell you something, Carl. If you don’t lay off until this has been upstairs, Curt Wad and his people are going to end up getting away with murder. There’s no sense in letting that happen. So let’s just agree that for the time being you’re staying put until I say the word, OK?”

Carl gave a shrug, deciding it was better to be noncommittal.

They left the car in the parking lot, then stood for a moment outside the grim concrete structure, staring across at Police HQ, mulling over the events of the day.

“You wouldn’t have a ciggie, would you, Carl?” Marcus asked all of a sudden.

Carl smiled at his chief’s wavering willpower. “I would, as a matter of fact. Just haven’t got a light, that’s all.”

“Wait a minute,” Marcus replied. “I’ve got a lighter in the glove compartment.”

He turned and had taken only a few steps when a dark-colored car that had been waiting with its lights off outside HQ on the opposite side of the road suddenly accelerated toward them.

It flew into the air at an angle as it hit the curb, and the piercing sound of scraping metal tore in Carl’s ears as he threw himself aside and rolled away on the pavement. The car screeched to a halt, the driver flung it into reverse, gearbox grinding, and the pungent smell of burning rubber filled the air as the tires spun to get a grip.

They heard the shot but had no idea where it came from. The only thing they registered in the milliseconds that followed was the altered path of the vehicle that was now clearly out of control, hurtling over the road and smashing into a parked police car.

Only then did they see the motorcycle officer come running from HQ with his pistol raised, and only then did Carl become aware of how much invective his chief was able to spew out in one breath.

 • • • 

While Marcus Jacobsen and the press officer kept the reporters and TV crews occupied, Carl checked their assailant’s data. To be sure, the guy didn’t exactly have ID on him, but all it took was a quick round of his HQ colleagues before a photo of the dead man, slumped in the car with a hole in his throat, gave a result. The guys of Criminal Investigation’s Department C were no slouches, he’d give them that.

“That’s Ole Christian Schmidt,” one of them said without hesitation. It was all Carl needed to know. Formerly a highly vociferous right-wing activist who’d recently been released after a two-and-a-half-year sentence for grievous bodily harm against a female executive committee member from the Socialist Party and a young immigrant lad who just happened to be walking along the street, minding his own business. Not much of a record, perhaps, but certainly enough to cause concern as to the man’s future career opportunities.

Carl glanced up at TV2’s news channel, which had been droning away on the flatscreen since he’d sat down.

The briefing on the shooting incident appeared to have gone well. Not a word about an ongoing investigation, not a hint as to the motive. All they got was that the incident was considered a one-off, the work of a disturbed individual, and that providence and a keen-eyed motorcycle officer were to be thanked for having saved the lives of two investigators.