Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘Round here, that should narrow it down to about eighty per cent of the population. Assuming the right guy shows up, what do we do, collar him in the post office and introduce ourselves?’
‘And have him freak out, run off and never be seen again?’ Ben shook his head. ‘I think we should get him to take us back to his place. It sounds as if there’ll be plenty of privacy there.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be amenable to that.’
‘He won’t have a lot of choice,’ Ben said.
The waitress came with a steaming pot of coffee. Roberta sipped some of the thin, stewed brew and made a face. ‘Yeech. I don’t know if I can take drinking this for the next several hours.’
‘You’ll just have to man up and take what comes.’
‘Don’t tell me. You’ve staked out in much worse places.’
‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
‘You’re probably right about that.’
As they soldiered through their second pot of coffee, around eleven in the morning, they saw the postmistress exit the doorway across the street and walk briskly off into the distance carrying a shopping bag. ‘That’s good,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t come back for a while.’
‘Why’s that good?’
‘Because with her out of the way, if Daniel shows up he won’t be told anything about his dear old college friend who was looking for him. I was a little worried about that, but I’m making this up as I go.’
The coffee held out a little longer, then with midday upon them they ordered some lunch. Ben had a pot of simple broth with a kind of flatbread called Gàhkko, while Roberta finally decided on a dish of sautéed reindeer and instantly regretted her choice. ‘I’m eating Rudolf,’ she groaned, picking desultorily at the dark meat.
‘Santa will soon find another friend,’ Ben said.
‘Oh boy, you’re really all heart, aren’t you?’
But before Roberta had the chance to decide whether to finish her food, a beaten-up Land Rover long-wheelbase pickup came growling up the road outside and parked in the narrow side street a few yards from the post office entrance. Its all-terrain wheels and sides were covered in dried dirt and it had ancillary lighting and wire mesh guards over the headlamps. The windows were filmed with dust, preventing them from getting a good look at the driver.
‘You reckon it’s our guy?’ Roberta murmured. Ben was watching keenly. He said nothing.
The driver’s door opened and a man climbed down from the cab, crossed the narrow pavement to the post office and disappeared inside. He was alone, wearing boots, khaki trousers and a lightweight hunter’s jacket. Solid in build. Florid in complexion. Somewhere in his early fifties.
‘And bald like a stone,’ Roberta said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Daniel Lund remained inside the post office for just under two minutes, long enough to exchange a very brief few words with the postmaster, grab his mail and go. He emerged from the doorway. Walked straight back to the Land Rover, climbed in behind the wheel, tore another bite out of the thick half-eaten sandwich from the paper bag on the dashboard, and drove smartly off.
He headed north out of the hamlet, made a few turns on the narrow roads and soon left the metalled surfaces for dirt tracks that were only just wide enough in places for the big, boxy vehicle to go lurching through, bouncing and jolting over ruts and boulders and making his tools and metal jerrycans rattle about in the back.
He continued on like that for thirty-five minutes, cutting deeper and deeper into the thick forest and leaving all trace of civilisation behind. Out here there were just the deer and moose, the golden eagles, the wolverines and the occasional brown bear. And him, living all alone in his wooden cabin, far away from people.
The last couple of miles would have been impossible for anything but a dedicated off-road vehicle with low-ratio gears and a differential lock to reach. Through an archway in the trees, the hidden log cabin came into view. The rutted path ended at the bare-earth yard outside its front door. Daniel pulled up and turned off the Land Rover’s engine. He jumped down, slammed the door and started walking towards the cabin, clutching his bunch of mail in one hand and his half-finished sandwich in the other. He took a couple more bites out of it, then tossed it away into the dirt as he approached his front door and reached for a set of keys. He disappeared inside and the door closed behind him.
‘You okay?’ Ben whispered in the back of the Land Rover. He pushed back the tarpaulin that he’d pulled over them.
‘Fine, but I’ll have the edge of this toolbox imprinted in my flesh for life,’ Roberta muttered, rubbing her shoulder. Her hair was all tousled and in her eyes.
Ben crawled out from where he’d been lying wedged behind the spare wheel lashed to the bulkhead. It had been an uncomfortable journey on the bare metal floor. He eased open the rear hatch. A tree partially blocked the view from the cabin window and would hide them from sight as they clambered out. ‘Let’s go,’ he whispered.
Behind the cover of the tree, Ben quickly unstrapped his bag. ‘I need you to cover the front of the house for me,’ he said, pulling out the Beretta submachine gun and handing it to Roberta. ‘I’ll go round the back. My guess is he won’t be too happy he has visitors, and he’ll make a break for it.’
Roberta stared at the weapon. ‘We came all this way, now you want me to point a gun at the guy?’
‘It’s only going to kill him if you pull the trigger,’ Ben said.
‘It’s loaded?’ she asked, gingerly taking it.
‘Wouldn’t be much use if it wasn’t. But all you have to do is stop him if he tries to do a runner. Point it and look mean. I know you know how. Shoot him in the foot if you have to. Just try not to blow his head off.’
‘Gee, I’ll have to try and remember that,’ Roberta muttered.
Ben set off at a trot, moving stealthily and silently from tree to tree. He skirted around the rear of the cabin with his eyes fixed on the back windows, listening intently for the slightest sound. The one thing he most hoped he wouldn’t hear was a dog barking from inside – but there was only silence. Nothing moved. Nobody was watching his approach. At the back of the cabin was a little lean-to filled with cut firewood. A large petrol-powered log splitter sat on deflated tyres. Next to it was a tree stump serving as a chopping block, with an axe stuck in it.
The cabin was raised up on a wooden base that had a plank skirting all around its bottom. Three flimsy-looking steps led up to the back door. Ben cautiously rested his weight on the first step, then the second. The planks bore him without creaking. He tried the door. It was locked, but he’d been expecting that. With his free hand he took the wire pick from his pocket. Back in the old days, he’d been pretty proficient at letting himself into kidnap hideouts and other places he wasn’t expected.
He inserted the pick into the lock, careful not to let it rattle in the keyhole. He felt his way around inside, gave the pick a couple of twists, and felt the mechanism give. The lock opened smoothly. The door wasn’t bolted from inside.
Ben padded into the small back hallway. The cabin was pokey. The boards were bare and rough-sawn. There were shelves with tinned provisions lined up, together with a pair of battered paraffin lanterns. Some heavy outdoor clothes hung on a peg. Two spare propane gas cylinders stood by the wall. A little hatchet and a cardboard box filled with kindling sticks. All the things needed for life cut off from mains services. There were two internal doors, the one on the left slightly ajar and leading to a rudimentary kitchen with a pine table. The door in front of him was closed. Ben nudged it gently, stepped through and found himself in a narrow L-shaped passage with boarded walls that led to the main room.
The room was small, square and simple. A cast iron wood burner dominated one corner. A couple of chairs sat around a plain rug on the bare floorboards. The bald man was standing by a table, opening one of the envelopes. Ben watched him study the mail inside, mutter something under his breath, discard
it and pick up another.
‘Daniel Lund?’ Ben said from the doorway.
The man dropped the letter he was holding. He whipped round and then froze, staring, open-mouthed.
‘It’s all right. I just want to talk,’ Ben said, showing his open palms.
Lund stood there frozen for a second longer, then moved much faster than Ben had anticipated and kicked out at the door with a heavy boot. It slammed shut in Ben’s face.
Cursing, Ben raced forward. Wrenched the door open and found himself staring into the barrel of the shotgun Lund must have had propped in a corner close to hand.
Ben spun away from the doorway a millisecond before the shotgun boomed deafeningly in the small cabin and ripped a ragged hole in the opposite wall. Splinters and dust exploded.
Lund racked the pump on his shotgun, ejecting the smoking shell casing and chambering another as he backed away towards the front entrance. He burst out of the door, bounded down the front steps and started running like a wild man towards the Land Rover.
Halfway there, his heels scraped to a halt in the dirt. Roberta had stepped out from behind the tree and was pointing the Beretta at his chest with a purposeful look in her eye that said ‘don’t even think about it’.
Lund did, very briefly, but another second afterwards the muzzle of Ben’s 9mm was poking into his back.
‘We won’t be needing that any more, Mr Lund,’ Ben said, taking the pump gun out of his hands. Defeated, Lund gave it up easily. It was a standard Mossberg twelve-gauge, five round tube magazine, plain black stock, plain black sling. Still pointing the Browning at him, Ben jacked out the shotgun’s remaining shells. They were bird-shot cartridges, useful enough for a countryman taking pot-shots at crows but lacking in penetrative punch for defensive purposes on a determined human target unless you got right up close and personal. Evidently, Herr Daniel Lund was no combat expert. Ben dumped the shells into his pocket and slung the shotgun over his shoulder. Roberta slowly lowered the Beretta. Lund didn’t look so dangerous.
‘I presume you are Daniel Lund?’ Ben asked.
The Swede was breathing hard, and his mottled complexion had turned to a pasty grey. His bare scalp was beaded with sweat. ‘You’re not going to shoot me?’ he asked, speaking for the first time. His English sounded well practised, with an Americanised intonation coming through his native accent like a man who’d travelled around a lot.
‘I told you, we didn’t come here for that,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go inside, Daniel. We have a lot to talk about.’
The scent of cordite was sharp in the cabin. Lund reluctantly led the way into the main room. He seemed weak at the knees and about to collapse from shock and terror.
‘Why don’t you take a seat,’ Ben said.
Daniel collapsed into the chair Ben was pointing at. ‘Who the hell are you people, accosting me in my home like this?’ he demanded, glaring up in shaky indignation.
‘My name’s Ben. This is Roberta. We’re friends of a friend.’
‘Claudine Pommier,’ Roberta said.
Daniel’s eyes opened wide at the name. ‘Claudine? I … I don’t understand. What’s this about?’
‘The letter she wrote us,’ Roberta said. ‘You and I each received copies of the same one from her, just days ago.’
Daniel stared at her. ‘There must be some mistake. I received no …’
‘Check your mail,’ Ben told him. If Daniel only visited the post office once weekly, the letter from Paris could have been sitting there waiting for him all this time.
Daniel nodded uncertainly. He stood up and went over to where the mail was lying, hovered over the table for a few moments as he sifted through the envelopes and shook his head. Then, spotting the unopened envelope he’d dropped on the floor as Ben had surprised him before, he stooped to pick it up. ‘It’s her writing,’ he said, gripped by a sudden anxiety that contorted his face.
‘Open it,’ Roberta said.
With shaky hands Daniel ripped open the envelope, took out the paper inside and began to read urgently. Roberta stepped closer to peer at the letter in his hands. One glance was all she needed. ‘It’s the same as the one she sent me.’
‘This is what I warned her about,’ Daniel said breathlessly. The paper fluttered in his hands. He looked up. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Why are you here and not her? Something happened. Tell me.’
‘You’d better sit down again,’ Ben said. ‘We haven’t brought good news.’
Daniel settled in the chair, tightly gripping the crumpled letter.
‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll say it straight,’ Roberta told him grimly. ‘Writing to us was just about the last thing Claudine did before she was murdered. It happened in Paris, at her flat, a few days ago.’
Daniel’s mouth fell open. As the news sank in, he screwed his eyes tightly shut and slumped forward in his chair with his head in his hands. ‘No. No. Oh, my god. Oh, sweet Jesus. It can’t be true.’ He went on muttering incoherently for a while; then, suddenly: ‘I’m going to be sick.’
He staggered up to his feet and lurched out of the room. A door banged, followed by the sound of violent retching. After a few moments’ silence, a toilet flushed. Soon afterwards, Daniel returned, looking ashen and weak. He slumped back in the chair.
Roberta touched his shoulder. ‘You were close, weren’t you? I’m so sorry. She was my friend, too.’
‘Yes, we were close.’ Daniel shook his head. ‘I told her to be careful,’ he gasped. ‘I told her it was too dangerous to go on.’
‘We saw the emails,’ Ben said. ‘We know that you warned her. And we know you know what this is all about.’
Daniel struggled for breath and was unable to speak for a few moments. ‘I’m in shock,’ he wheezed at last, looking imploringly at them. ‘I need a drink. Please – there’s some vodka in the kitchen. Would you get me some?’
‘I think we could all use a little something,’ Roberta said.
Ben stepped over the mess of splinters in the passage and went through to the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with the bottle of vodka and three mismatched glasses. Setting them on the table, he poured all three and handed the biggest to Daniel.
Vodka wasn’t the only thing he’d found in the kitchen. He opened the matchbox that had been sitting by the stove, struck a match and lit up a Gauloise. It was the first one he’d had since leaving the safehouse in Paris, and it tasted good. He slipped the matchbox into his pocket.
Hunched on his chair, Daniel swallowed his vodka down like water. ‘How did she … how did it …?’ he asked bleakly.
‘It’s probably better that you don’t know the details,’ Roberta told him. ‘The police think it’s the work of a serial killer. We happen to disagree.’
Daniel took several deep breaths. The empty glass was shaking in his hands. ‘No, of course it wasn’t a serial killer,’ he said with a sudden flare of rage. ‘Those fucking animals. This is what they do. Lies. All lies. Oh God. My poor Claudine.’ He closed his eyes.
‘I’m sorry we had to break it to you this way,’ Ben said. ‘And I apologise for breaking into your home and frightening you. I didn’t think you’d speak to us otherwise.’
‘I thought you were them, come to kill me.’
‘Hence the shotgun,’ Ben said.
Daniel gave a weary, desolate shrug. ‘It was just in case. I don’t really know how to use it, never fired it until today. I just wanted to make myself safe out here. I always thought one day they might track me down.’
‘It’s not out of the question,’ Ben said. ‘You’re not that hard to find.’
‘Who were you expecting to come for you, Daniel?’ Roberta asked in a soft voice. ‘You know who these people are, don’t you?’
Daniel sighed and didn’t say anything. Sweat ran down his brow.
‘I know how upset you’re feeling,’ Roberta said. ‘But we really need you to talk to us. It’s the only way we’re going to make this right. They’re a
fter us, too. Please help us understand. Who are they?’
Daniel fidgeted nervously in his chair, then heaved a reluctant sigh. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘We came a long way to hear it,’ Ben said.
‘Then sit down and I’ll tell you everything,’ Daniel said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘First, what do you know about Claudine’s work?’ Daniel asked, shooting a nervy glance at the door as if someone might be eavesdropping on them out here in the wilderness of Lapland.
‘The number codes in her letter led us to where she’d hidden her research material,’ Roberta said. As she spoke, Ben was unstrapping his bag and taking out the notebook computer along with the remote hard drive they’d retrieved from Germain De Bourg’s tomb. He laid it on the table, connected the drive and powered up the machine. Daniel stood, grabbed a pair of glasses from his desk and approached the computer as Roberta went on.
‘Until we found this,’ she said, ‘I’d expected to find her research on Tesla, nothing more. But there was all this other stuff in there, too. Seismology reports, images of disaster zones. I know it makes sense, somehow. I just can’t put it together in my mind. What was she doing, Daniel?’
Daniel’s grief-stricken face hardened as he accessed the files, clicking from one to the next in rapid succession. ‘Claudine showed how all this was connected,’ he said. ‘The unexplained phenomenon discovered in Mongolia in March is just one example. This is another.’ Opening up the image file that showed the devastated city, he pointed at the screen. ‘You know where this is?’
‘None of the image files are labelled,’ Roberta said. ‘We thought it looked like Latin America.’
Daniel nodded. ‘Taráca, a tiny republic between Bolivia and Paraguay. This image is of San Vicente, its capital city, after the earthquake that devastated the country eighteen months ago.’
‘I heard about it at the time,’ Roberta said, remembering now where she’d come across the name San Vicente before. ‘But I don’t …’