The Nightmare

  “Good,” she says. “We’ll be right in. You go get Svanehjälm. Make sure he prepares a statement for Europol.”

  108

  loyalty

  Raphael Guidi is walking through the dining room carrying a black leather folder, which he sets down on the table and pushes toward Axel Riessen.

  “Pontus Salman’s nightmare, as you perhaps already understand, was to be forced to harm his wife or his sister,” Guidi explains. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt the need to be so explicit before, but … how can I put this? Lately there have been people who thought they could escape their nightmares through suicide. Please don’t misunderstand me. Usually our plans go very well. We can all be civilized. I can be an extremely generous man to those who are loyal to me.”

  “You’re threatening to hurt Beverly.”

  “You can always choose someone else … perhaps choose between her and your younger brother, if you’d rather?” Raphael says nonchalantly as he sips his vitamin drink. He wipes his mouth and then turns to Peter and asks him to fetch his violin.

  “Have I told you that I acquire only instruments played by Paganini?” he asks. “They are the only ones I care about. People say that Paganini hated the appearance of his face … I personally believe he sold his soul to the Devil so that others would worship him. He called himself an ape, but when he played, the women came crawling to him. It was worth the price. He would play and play so unbelievably that people said they could smell hellfire around him.”

  Axel looks out the wide windows at water that now seems to barely move. He knows that if he turned and looked toward the foredeck he would see the helicopter that had brought him here. Axel’s thoughts avoid the appalling film he’s just seen and instead search for a way out of all of this.

  He feels drained. He sits still and listens to Raphael, who goes on and on about violins, Stradivarius’s fixation on the clearest sound, the hardness of the wood, the slowly growing maple and spruce trees he chooses for his workshop.

  Raphael stops and smiles his lifeless smile while he says, “As long as you are loyal to me, you will enjoy everything possible on one side of the scale. You will receive a healthy organ and you’ll sleep better than you ever have before. In return, I demand that you will never betray the contract we are about to sign.”

  “And you just want the export form signed.”

  “I shall have that no matter what. I don’t want to use force, or even kill you. That would be such a waste.” Guidi waves that away. “What I demand is—”

  “My loyalty,” Axel states.

  “Is that too much to ask?” Raphael asks. “Think it over for just a minute. Count all the people that you can rely on absolutely. The ones who you know would be entirely loyal to you.”

  A long pause comes between them. Axel stares straight ahead.

  With a sorrowful look, Raphael says, “Exactly.”

  109

  the contract

  Axel opens the leather folder on the table. All the export documents are there. All the paperwork necessary to clear M/S Icelus from Gothenburg Harbor with its huge cargo of ammunition.

  All that is missing is his signature.

  Raphael Guidi’s son comes back into the room. His face is pale and withdrawn. He’s carrying a beautiful violin: a reddish brown instrument with a gently curved body. Axel recognizes an Amati immediately, and one in superb shape after so many years.

  “I have already told you I demand certain music to accompany the deal we are about to make,” Raphael says softly. “This violin belonged to the boy’s mother … and much earlier, Niccolò Paganini played it.”

  “It was fashioned in 1657,” Peter says. Absentmindedly he empties his pockets of his keys and cell phone as if to prepare for a great event. He discards them on the table before he puts the instrument to his shoulder.

  The boy lays the bow gently on the strings, and soon he begins to play as if he is falling into a dream. Axel immediately recognizes the introduction to Paganini’s most famous piece: Caprice no. 24. It is considered the most difficult violin piece ever written. The boy plays like he’s swimming underwater; it moves much too slowly.

  “Our contract would be very advantageous,” Raphael says.

  It’s still light outside. The wide windows allow great light into the salon.

  Axel thinks about Beverly and how she came to him and crept into his bed when he was in the psychiatric ward. She’d whispered, I saw there was light in this room. You’re giving off light.

  “Are you finished thinking it over?” Raphael demands.

  Axel can’t bear to look at him. He looks down instead and picks up the pen from the table in front of him. He listens to his heart race. He tries to disguise his quickened breathing.

  This time he can’t draw a cartoon figure saying “Hi!” He will be forced to sign his name and then pray to God that Raphael Guidi will be content and let him return to Sweden.

  Axel feels the pen shake. He steadies one hand with the other, takes a deep breath, and puts the tip of the pen to the empty line on the contract.

  “Wait one moment,” Raphael Guidi says abruptly. “Before you sign, I need to know that I own you … that I own your loyalty.”

  Axel looks into Guidi’s eyes.

  “If you are truly prepared to possibly reap your nightmare if our contract is broken, you must show your faith. You must demonstrate it by kissing my hand.”

  “What?”

  “We enter into a contract, do we not?”

  “We do,” Axel replies.

  “Then it will be sealed by a kiss on my hand,” Raphael says in a voice so twisted he could be the idiot in an ancient play.

  Raphael’s son plays more and more slowly as he tries to force his fingers to obey. He awkwardly shifts position but stumbles during the rapid runs. He mangles the passage again and then he gives up.

  “Continue,” Raphael demands without a glance his way.

  “It’s too difficult. It doesn’t sound good.”

  “Peter, it’s wrong to give up before you’ve really tried—”

  “Then play it yourself,” his son says with a pout.

  Raphael’s face stiffens so that his features are as hard as a rock formation.

  “Do as I say,” he says with chilling calm.

  The boy doesn’t move, just looks at the ground. Raphael’s right hand goes toward the chain on his gym shorts.

  “Peter, I thought it sounded fine enough to continue,” Raphael says menacingly.

  “The bridge is crooked,” Axel breaks in with a voice barely above a whisper.

  Peter looks at the violin and blushes.

  “Can you adjust it?” he asks.

  “Of course. It’s easy enough, and I can do it for you if you want me to,” Axel says.

  “Will it take a long time?” asks Raphael.

  “No,” Axel says.

  Axel puts down the pen and takes the violin from the boy. He turns it over and feels how light it is. He’s never held an Amati before, let alone one the master Paganini had played.

  Raphael’s phone rings. He looks at it and then stands straight up while he listens.

  “That can’t be true!” he’s exclaiming with a savage expression.

  A twisted smile plays across his lips. He barks something to his bodyguards, and together they turn to head up the stairs.

  Peter watches Axel loosen the strings. The violin creaks. The dry sound of Axel’s fingers brushing against the instrument vibrates through the sensitive sound box. Axel carefully adjusts the bridge a fraction and then tightens the strings again.

  “Did that work?” asks Peter.

  “Of course,” Axel says as he tunes the strings. “Try it now and see.”

  “Thanks,” Peter says.

  Axel is sharply aware of Peter’s cell phone on the table behind him as he says, “Start again. You’ve just finished the first run, and next comes the pizzicato movement.”

  “I feel embarrassed,” Peter says, an
d turns away.

  Axel leans back on the table, reaching behind him, finding the phone and trying to pick it up. It slides around a little on the smooth surface.

  Peter has his back to Axel. He’s lifting the violin to his shoulder and setting the bow to the strings.

  Axel manages to get the phone in his fingers and keeps it hidden in his hand as he moves slightly to one side.

  Peter draws the bow in only one note. Then he stops. He turns around and looks past Axel.

  “Hey, wasn’t my phone there?”

  Axel lets the phone slide out of his hand before he turns and picks it up.

  “Do I have any messages?” Peter asks.

  Axel glances at the telephone. There is full coverage, even though they’re out at sea. He realizes that the ship must have satellite transmission.

  “No messages,” he says, and puts the phone back down.

  “Thanks.”

  Axel remains next to the table as Peter begins again to play Caprice no. 24. It’s much too slow, and more and more out of rhythm.

  Peter has some talent and it’s easy to tell he’s practiced a great deal, but this piece is beyond him. Still, the sound of the Amati is so wonderful that Axel would have enjoyed listening even if a small child plucked the strings.

  Peter plows through the music but he’s finally so lost he stops. He tries again. Axel decides he will try for the phone again and saunters to one side. He doesn’t have enough time as Peter hits a false note, stops playing, and turns back to Axel.

  “This is very hard,” he exclaims. But he’s ready to try again.

  He starts, but it’s still all wrong.

  “It’s not working,” he says as he lowers the violin.

  “Keep your third finger on the A string. It’s easier to reach—”

  “Can’t you just show me?”

  Axel looks at the phone on the table. A reflection from the sun sparkles outside and Axel turns toward the panoramic window. The sea has become remarkably calm and smooth. He can hear thudding sounds from the engine room, a constant noise he’s surprised to notice now.

  Peter hands Axel the violin. Axel puts it to his shoulder, tightens the bow slightly, and then starts the piece from the very beginning. Its flowing, sorrowful introduction pours at high speed into the room. The Amati’s voice is not strong, but it is wonderfully soft and clear. Paganini’s music sings out, circling in higher and higher reaches as one melody chases another.

  “Oh my God,” Peter whispers.

  The voice changes to sound in a hissing prestissimo. It’s playfully beautiful and at the same time filled with difficult fingerings and quick jumps between octaves.

  The music already lives in Axel’s mind. All he has to do is let it out. Not every note is perfect, but his fingers instinctively know the way and dance quickly over the fingerboard and the strings.

  Vaguely he hears Raphael yelling something from the captain’s bridge and there’s a thud overhead that shakes the crystal chandelier. Axel continues to play—the quivering notes are like sparks of sunlight over the sea.

  Steps come thudding down the staircase. When Axel sees Raphael with sweat pouring down his face and a bloody military knife in his hand, he stops playing abruptly. The gray-haired bodyguard runs behind Raphael with his rifle up and ready. It’s a Belgian Fabrique Nationale SCAR.

  110

  on board

  Joona Linna is next to Pasi Rannikko and peering through a pair of binoculars. The first mate stands beside them. They all watch the enormous luxury yacht now dead in the water before them. It rocks slightly although the wind has died down. The flag of Italy droops. There’s no movement on the ship, as if all aboard are suspended in Sleeping Beauty’s hundred-year sleep. Whitecaps have disappeared from the surface of the Baltic Sea, and it is so calm the smooth water mirrors the light blue sky.

  The cell phone rings in Joona’s pocket. He hands the binoculars to Niko and answers.

  “We have a witness!” Saga is screaming on the other end. “The girl saw everything! Axel Riessen has definitely been kidnapped. The prosecutor has already issued a warrant—you can go on board and search for him!”

  “Good work!” Joona says.

  Pasi Rannikko looks at Joona expectantly as he puts his phone away.

  “We have the authority to arrest Raphael Guidi,” Joona says. “He’s accused of kidnapping.”

  “I’ll radio FNS Hanko,” Pasi Rannikko says, and rushes up to the communication radio on the bridge.

  “They’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Niko says excitedly.

  “Request for backup,” Pasi Rannikko says into the microphone. “We have an arrest warrant to board Raphael Guidi’s boat and take him in … Roger, that’s correct … Yes, but hurry! Top speed!”

  Joona has the binoculars again and sweeps his gaze along the white stairs from their platform on the deck, past belowdecks, and then back up to the afterdeck with its closed umbrellas. He tries to get a glimpse through a set of overwide windows but they are too black. He follows the railing and then back up the next set of stairs onto the large terrace.

  Shimmering hot air filters through vents on the roof of the captain’s bridge. Joona swings his binoculars back to the black windows and stops. He thought he saw movement behind the glass. Something white is hurrying along behind the panes. For a second it looks like a huge wing, bent feathers pressed against the glass.

  The next moment, it appears to be cloth or white plastic.

  Joona blinks to clear his vision and looks again to find himself staring into a face lifting its own binoculars.

  The steel door to the captain’s bridge slams open, and a blond man runs out and jumps down the stairs to race across the foredeck.

  These are the first people Joona has seen on the yacht.

  The second man is dressed in black. He hurries to the helicopter pad and unfastens the lines around the helicopter’s base. He opens the door to the cockpit.

  “They’ve listened in on our radio,” Joona says.

  “We’ll change channels,” Pasi Rannikko calls back.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Joona says. “They’re not going to stay. They’re going to try to get away on the helicopter.”

  He hands the binoculars to Niko.

  “Fifteen minutes to backup,” Pasi Rannikko says tensely.

  “Too late,” Joona states swiftly.

  “Someone’s already in the helicopter,” Niko calls out.

  “Raphael knows we have his arrest warrant and can come aboard,” Joona says.

  “So do we board the ship right away?” asks Niko.

  “That’s what we’ll have to do,” Joona says, giving him a quick glance.

  Niko snaps a magazine into an automatic rifle that is as black as dirty oil. It’s a short-barreled Heckler & Koch 416.

  Pasi Rannikko takes his own gun from his holster and hands it to Joona.

  “Thanks,” Joona says as he quickly checks the ammunition and looks the gun over. It’s an M9A1 semiautomatic. He recognizes it as similar to the M9 used in the Gulf War, but the magazine is slightly different and there’s a fastener for a lamp and a laser scope.

  Without speaking again, Pasi Rannikko aims his ship toward the aft bridge of the yacht, which is just above the waterline. As they near it, the yacht seems to rise higher and higher, almost like an apartment building. Pasi puts his engine into reverse to slow, whipping up the wake, and Niko throws fenders over the side. The hulls bang against each other and sparks fly.

  Joona climbs aboard even as the boats veer away from each other. Water churns up between them. Niko jumps and Joona catches his hand; his automatic rifle bangs against the railing. They run together toward the stairs, force their way past the debris of scattered wicker chairs and old wine boxes, and race up.

  Niko turns for a second to wave at Pasi Rannikko, who is roaring away from the yacht.

  111

  traitors

  Raphael Guidi is on the bridge with his bodyguard
, the one with gray hair and glasses. The navigator looks at them both with such fright as he nervously rubs his hand across his stomach over and over.

  “What’s going on?” demands Raphael.

  “I ordered the helicopter to get ready,” the navigator quavers. “I thought—”

  “Where’s that damned police boat?”

  “There,” he says pointing aft.

  Close under the yacht’s afterdeck, beyond the swimming pool and the winches for the lifeboats, the gray naval boat is bumping close and churning up a wake as it reverses its engines. “The radio call … what did they say exactly?” Raphael demands.

  “They said they didn’t have much time. They called for backup. They said they had an arrest warrant.”

  “How can they!” Raphael howls and looks around.

  Down on the helicopter pad they can see the pitot already in the cockpit. The rotors have just begun to move. And they can hear Paganini’s Caprice no. 24 being played in the dining room beneath them.

  “Their backup is coming,” the navigator says, and points to a spot on the radar.

  “I see. How much time do we have?” Raphael asks.

  “They’re moving at about thirty-three knots, so … ten minutes?”

  “No danger,” says the bodyguard, glancing at the helicopter. “We can get you and Peter out of here. Only three minutes until—”

  The blond bodyguard runs onto the bridge. He’s shouting, and his face is white.

  “Someone’s on board! Someone’s on the ship!” he yells.

  “How many?” The gray-haired man is now totally alert.

  “I only saw one. He has an automatic rifle. No special equipment.”

  “Go stop him.”

  “Give me a knife!” demands Raphael.

  The guard pulls out a knife with a channeled gray blade. Raphael takes it and whirls on the navigator. His eyes tighten.