It was almost seven-thirty when they reached the sentry box outside of LinkCoop’s warehouses. It was pitch black, the heavens were wide open, and they had no umbrellas. They had at least thirty-four doors to test. They didn’t hesitate.
Tonight it wasn’t Benny Lundberg sitting in the sentry box but another of the guards. Nyberg went over and waved his police ID in the air.
“We need to take a look at the premises in connection with the break-in,” he said to the cracked window hatch. “Isn’t Benny working?”
“He’s on vacation,” said the guard.
“How long has he been gone?”
“A few days. Since the break-in.”
“Strange time for a vacation.” Nyberg felt a twinge of suspicion.
“I know,” said the guard. He could have been mistaken for Benny Lundberg. The stench of steroids trumped the perpetual ozone scent of the storm. “He took a vacation in August, so it is a little odd. He traveled somewhere. Out of the country, I think. Was it the Canary Islands?”
Nyberg nodded.
Norlander came jogging up after having parked the car around the corner. They entered the grounds and walked to the door where the break-in had taken place. Thick planks were nailed up across the door as a temporary repair job. Nyberg heaved himself up onto the loading dock and inserted the key. It went in. But it didn’t turn in the lock.
“Right kind, anyway,” he said. “I guess we should start from the left.”
They followed the loading dock past the series of doors up to the far end of the large warehouse. There were about as many doors to the left of the entrance as there were to the right. There ought to be more on the back of the building as well. Mayer, the chief of security, had talked about thirty-four units; after testing ten doors it felt like considerably more. They were soaking wet. The torrents of rain were splendidly combined with loathsome gusts of wind. Two cases of pneumonia sailed through the air, searching for their rightful owners.
The key fit in all the locks but was never the right one. They reached the entry and began to work their way through the other half. It felt more and more hopeless. A fool’s errand. And a voluntary one, at that. They were doing overtime that they didn’t know if they dared to put in for. Couldn’t they have waited until tomorrow?
They approached the end of the row. By the time they came to the last door, they were resigned.
“What do you think?” Nyberg held the key a few inches from the lock.
“Aren’t there any doors on the other side?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Nyberg, who inserted the key. He turned it. It was the right one. “Haha.” Laughing, he pulled the door open a few inches.
Then he got it in the face. It was violently kicked open, straight into his nose. He tumbled over. A black-clad figure in a balaclava jumped over him and raced along the dock in the pouring rain. Norlander drew his pistol and set off after him. Nyberg got up, his hand to his face. He roared. He felt the blood welling between his fingers. He was about to throw himself after them when he turned to the storage unit.
Looking down a set of stairs, he saw Benny Lundberg, the guard. He was naked and tied to a chair. Blood was streaming from his shredded fingertips. A needle was threaded through his genitals. And out of his neck stuck two gently quivering syringes.
Gunnar Nyberg stiffened. His own pain vanished immediately. He took his hand from his face and let the blood flow out of his nose. He went down the stairs. He was trembling. A small, bare lightbulb radiated a ghastly glow over the macabre scene.
Benny Lundberg was alive. His eyes had rolled back; only the whites were visible. Spasmodic jerks passed through his face. Convulsions were ripping through the pumped-up body. White foam bubbled out of his mouth. No hint of sound.
Gunnar Nyberg was looking at pain beyond words.
His large body shook. What could he do? He didn’t dare touch the horrible pincers in Lundberg’s neck. Any movement could have disastrous consequences. He didn’t even dare to unfasten the leather straps around his arms and legs. What would happen if Lundberg convulsed and fell to the floor? The only thing he could do in the way of a small attempt at care was to pull the long needle out of his male organ. He did so.
Then he got his cell phone out of his inside pocket, and, with concentration, managed to dial the number. He didn’t recognize his own voice as it asked for an ambulance. “A doctor has to come too,” it said. “A neck specialist.”
Then he bent toward Lundberg. He placed his hand on the shaking cheek. He tried to speak comfortingly to him. He embraced him. He tried to be as brotherly as he could.
“There, there, Benny, take it easy. Help is on the way. You can do it. Hang in there, Benny. There. Everything is okay. Nice and easy.”
The spasms and twitches began to subside. Benny Lundberg grew calmer-or was he about to die in his arms?
Gunnar Nyberg realized he was crying.
Norlander ran after the man in black. He was in good shape these days, and he was gradually gaining on the man. But the man was quick and lithe. He threw himself down from the loading dock and kept running, past the sentry box. Just as Norlander ran by, the guard peered out. “Call the police!” he bellowed as he ran.
The man in black dashed onto a cross street and vanished from sight for an instant. Norlander approached the spot. He saw the man disappear behind a building about ten yards away. Without thinking, he ran that way. His weapon was dangling from his hand. The man in the balaclava peeked out and shot at him.
Norlander threw himself forward into the mud. He checked himself out for a second, then was up again. His pistol was muddy. He tried to wipe it off as he ran. He raced up to the corner and carefully peered around it. It was empty back there, an alley. Crouching, he ran to the next corner and peered around it. Empty again. Up to the next corner. Peer around it carefully.
One step was all he heard behind him, a faint splash. Then an incredible pain on the back of his neck. He fell into the mud like a pig. He was nearly unconscious. He looked up into the rain clouds. Everything was dancing. The man in black was staring down at him through his balaclava. He couldn’t make out his eyes. The only thing he could see was the silencer on the barrel of the pistol that was pointed at his face.
“Get out of here,” the man hissed. “Beat it.”
Then he was gone. Norlander heard a motor start up. He stood and peered around the corner of the building. He was dazed. The world was spinning. Very, very vaguely he could see the contours of a car in the middle of the centrifuge. Maybe brown, maybe a jeep.
Then he fell down into the sludge.
26
The sun in New York had become as insane as the rain was in Stockholm. Time was out of joint. All that was missing was for horses with two heads and jackdaws with beaks sticking out of their asses to be born.
It was excessively hot. Not even the FBI’s hypermodern air conditioning could combat it. Hjelm could have testified that Eenie meenie miney moe didn’t work either. He was bored; he felt as if he had been stopped midstep.
They waited. Waiting never promotes tolerance for irritation. Everyone was irritating everyone else. Even Jerry Schonbauer had a fit and tore off his soaking wet shirt, causing his buttons to fly off. When one of the buttons knocked the contact lens out of Holm’s left eye, he resumed his timid self and begged for forgiveness.
“I didn’t know you wore lenses,” Hjelm said after a while.
“ ‘Wore’ is right.” She examined the two pieces of the contact, which were stuck to her thumb and index finger respectively. “Now you’ll get to see me in glasses.”
She took out her right contact and threw it away. Then she dug out a pair of classic round glasses and secured them on her exquisite nose. To avoid bursting into confidence-shattering peals of laughter, he concentrated on being irritated with the heat.