The Bucket List Page 7

  “I understand that and I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “You’re willing to take the risk—sure. But that doesn’t matter if the Bureau isn’t.”

  Brodwick’s lopsided smile returned to his face, seeking to smooth over the show of power he had just made.

  “It’s for your own sake,” he continued. “Come on—we both want the same thing here: to give you a good, safe life.”

  John shook his head.

  “We don’t want the same thing. I want a Swedish identity and you’re saying no.”

  Brodwick folded his arms. The smile was gone.

  “The Bureau has its rules. Witness protection isn’t granted for environments where the person under protection has connections to their past life. No ifs, no buts.”

  John paused for a moment. He had known the conversation would end up here and he knew what the next move had to be. Yet, he still hesitated. It was a betrayal of his employer and might ruin his relationship with the Bureau forever. He forced himself to think about the first lines in the letter from his mother again—about the bigger picture. About the sort of man he wanted to be.

  John!

  This time you have to come home. “A Swedish ID is my condition for testifying in the trial.”

  There. Now he had said it. Crossed the Rubicon. Rolled the dice.

  The reaction was immediate.

  “What kind of fucking drugs are they giving you in here? Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Brodwick stood up, his face completely red. His pulse was throbbing so hard in the knotted artery at his throat that for a moment John thought the man leaning over him was going to have a stroke.

  “Think damned hard. When you make an ultimatum like that you declare war on your own. On the FBI. You must realize you can never win?”

  John fought to remain calm. The morphine coursing through his blood helped.

  “I don’t want to start a war with anyone. I want to testify against Ganiru and make sure he goes down for life. All I ask—after risking my life every day for almost a year—is the option to choose where I start over.”

  “And you can—so long as you follow the Bureau’s rules for witness protection. I don’t understand why you’re so determined to end your days being tortured to death. Because that’s what’ll happen if you go to Sweden. Sooner or later, they’ll find you there.”

  “It’s my life and I make my own decisions.”

  John waited for yet another outburst of rage, but Brodwick decided to change tactics. He reined in his anger and switched to negotiation instead.

  “We’re very grateful for your contribution and I’m certain we can bend the rules a bit when it comes to your monthly allowance. You should be comfortable, John—you’ve earned it. Pick a country with a nice climate, white beaches, and low expenses. Then you can live like a king without having to think about anything except which drink to order and which girl you’re going to go out with.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but it’s not what I want.”

  Brodwick sat down again. Apparently he had the weight of the Bureau’s collective troubles on his shoulders, given the protests from the chair.

  “Because you want to go to Sweden,” he sighed. “A country full of polar bears, socialists, and Nigerian hitmen. And where you’re putting not only yourself in danger, but your family too.”

  “Like I said, I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “And if I don’t agree—what then?”

  “You already know that.”

  “Yes, but I want to hear you say it one more time, since you can’t really be so dumb that you actually mean it.”

  “I won’t testify.”

  Brodwick leaned forward in the chair and put his hands on his neatly pressed suit trousers.

  “We’ve already got your intelligence reports and the recorded witness statement you just provided. Together with Trevor’s testimony, that’s enough to get Ganiru and the other bastards put away.”

  “Maybe. But don’t you think the jury will wonder why I’m not there during the trial? The lawyers will cross-examine and my absence will be a good place to start if they want to poke holes in the credibility of the witness statements.”

  Brodwick got up and adjusted his trousers so that the fabric once again reached down to his patent leather shoes. He put on his jacket, put the phone and microphone in the inside pocket, and headed for the door.

  “And what now?” John said from the bed. “What happens now?”

  The boss turned around and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Nothing. There’s no point discussing witness protection for someone who doesn’t intend to testify, is there?”

  He gave his lopsided smile again, but this time his eyes were ice-cold.

  “You’re on your own now, John.”

  10

  KARLSTAD, 2009

  Heimer realized that whoever was pushing the buzzer down by the gate wasn’t going to stop any time soon. Sissela was already at the bedroom window, wrapped in her dressing gown and peering between the curtains at the road below. In one hand she had her mug of morning coffee and in the other a vibrating phone.

  “It’s a reporter from Aftonbladet,” she said. “He must know Emelie has gone missing.”

  “Is he calling or buzzing the intercom?”

  “Both, presumably,” she said, rejecting the call.

  Unlike Heimer, Sissela didn’t seem particularly bothered by being disturbed at home like this. Years spent in the limelight had made her immune to the pushiness of journalists. When Heimer complained about the constant press coverage of AckWe, she generally defended the reporters. “We’re a public company and they’re just doing their jobs,” she usually said.

  The scribblers on the finance desks were rarely much trouble. They had some grasp of the fact that even a CEO had a personal life and wasn’t always available for comment. But the man standing at the gate was another beast altogether. When a reporter from one of the evening tabloids caught the scent of a story, he didn’t let go.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Sissela said, going into the bathroom. He saw the contours of her body through the frosted glass that separated it from the bedroom. He knew the ritual by heart. First, turn on the water, then hang the dressing gown on the hook by the mirror, and then step under the warm, soft jets.

  Part of him wanted to get out of bed, wrench open the door, and push her against the glass wall. He wondered what would happen if he actually did it. Would she be indifferent and ask him to stop? Get angry and ask how he could think about sex when their daughter was missing? Or be turned on and ask him to continue?

  She was lathering her stomach right now and her hand slid over her breasts. Heimer felt himself growing hard under the duvet and he put his hand down to push back the beginnings of his erection. There had been something there last night when she had comforted him. A closeness from another time that he missed. He had almost forgotten that they had once been in love and had barely been able to keep their hands off each other.

  He had been her Counter-Strike, her revolt against her parents and the predetermined path laid down for her. Sissela’s father had made it known that he considered Heimer to be a phase his daughter had to get through before she found a candidate with a more suitable last name for the role of husband in the AckWe family. But then she had gotten pregnant and Heimer said jokingly that they should head to Vegas to get married. They were in their early twenties and he never thought she would say yes. But she had taken him at his word and booked two tickets.

  He would never forget the first dinner after the trip, when they told her parents about the baby and the wedding. Sissela had held his hand under the table and the angrier her father had become, the harder she had squeezed. Heimer was still convinced that she had kept Emelie more to annoy her father than because she had wanted to become a mother at such a young age.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  The voice from downstairs made him jump. The tim
ing was almost uncanny. Allan Bjurwall never used the intercom or the doorbell. He behaved as if the house were his own and in a way it was—even if Heimer didn’t like to admit it.

  The old man must have taken the first flight from Marseille after speaking to Sissela last night. He lived in a large stone-built house outside Aix-en-Provence for part of the year and he didn’t usually like to leave it. But a missing grandchild was a matter of sufficient gravity to merit a trip home.

  Heimer met him halfway up the stairs from the foyer. His father-in-law spoke the way he looked. His voice growled, as if it belonged to a bear. He probably weighed one hundred and thirty kilos without being especially tall. His provençal diet had made his waist expand, but despite that his face had kept its shape. His silver hair and neat beard were reminiscent of Kenny Rogers in his later years.

  Heimer tried to avoid the mandatory handshake by shoving both hands in his trouser pockets and nodding by way of greeting. But Allan followed etiquette and when he proffered one of his giant paws there was nothing to do but reach out and hope the bones inside his hand weren’t crushed.

  Heimer explained that Sissela was in the shower and offered Allan coffee. He didn’t want any. He had already had two cups to keep himself awake during the drive from Arlanda airport and his stomach couldn’t take anymore.

  “I hope you haven’t spoken to that man outside.” Allan said, nodding toward the road.

  “No, of course not.”

  “He’ll write something anyway, which will bring more reporters round, so better be prepared.”

  Allan sat down at the kitchen island and asked whether they had heard anything more from the police. Heimer explained that the head of the investigation had contacted Sissela earlier that morning. He had said that the search would be focused on a small area at the tip of the Tynäs promontory. According to the cell phone company, that was where Emelie’s phone had been when it lost contact with the network.

  “Do you think she’s tried to harm herself again?” said Allan.

  Heimer didn’t know how to answer, and in the silence that followed the question, conversation died out—as it had on so many other occasions. Each of them had grown tired of trying to like the other and had instead adopted the strategy of having as little to do with the other as possible.

  When Sissela finally arrived in the kitchen she hugged her father and thanked him for coming. Heimer thought Allan looked awkward—unaccustomed to that kind of show of emotion from his daughter. When she had freed herself from his embrace, Heimer noticed Sissela was wearing the closest thing to normal clothes that her designer-stuffed wardrobe permitted: a pair of dark jeans and a ribbed blue cardigan over a white tank top.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Heimer asked.

  “I’m going to help in the search for Emelie.”

  Allan cleared his throat and appeared to look for the right words to change her mind.

  “Let the police handle it. There’ll be photographers and reporters there and you’re not ready for that. Anyway, we have other matters to discuss.”

  “What could be more important than finding Emelie?”

  There was an edge to Sissela’s voice that seemed to disturb even her authoritarian father.

  “There’s nothing more important than that,” he said. “But it’s the police’s job and the best thing we can do is leave them to work in peace. And as I said, we’ve got a few practical issues to deal with—whether you like it or not.”

  Allan presented his plan for managing the company in the short-term. If necessary, he would temporarily return to the post of CEO while Sissela went on leave until Emelie returned. All statements to the press would go through him, and neither she nor Heimer would need to be involved. Allan would be the family’s voice to the outside world and give them the space to look after each other and Emelie when she was back home.

  “She hasn’t even been gone two days, Dad.”

  “I know, and hopefully she’ll be back this afternoon. But it’s just as well we plan for the possibility that it might take a little longer. It never hurts to be prepared.”

  Sissela thought for a while and then finally nodded in consent. Then she got up and began to go down the stairs and toward the front door. Allan ran after her.

  “But I thought we agreed that …”

  She interrupted him.

  “We’re in agreement that you’ll handle the press. But I’m still going to look for my daughter.”

  She slid her feet into a pair of red Wellingtons, opened the front door, and went out onto the drive. Just a few seconds later she returned.

  “What is it?” Heimer asked.

  Sissela took a deep breath, composing herself.

  “There are people all over the road. Reporters and TV cameras. I think they just filmed me through the gate.”

  Heimer realized what had happened. Aftonbladet’s reporter must have published an article, which meant every other news outlet in the country had been alerted. The heiress being reported missing was a good story and it wasn’t that far from Karlstad to Stockholm.

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  “What I’ve said all along. Look for Emelie.”

  It was impossible to stop Sissela—Heimer realized that much. Even her father knew that a campaign of persuasion wouldn’t work and merely shook his head.

  “Wait, I’ll call the detective sergeant,” said Heimer, when his wife made a move to open the door again. “He can pick us up.”

  A little while later, Bernt Primer was standing in the foyer. He looked concerned after having driven through the swarm of reporters at the gate, all wanting to know whether Emelie had turned up.

  “They’re out of their damn minds,” he muttered.

  Primer explained that he would take them to the tip of the Tynäs promontory, where the search had just begun. The weather forecast said it was going to start raining soon, so there was no time to lose.

  Heimer helped Sissela into her raincoat and reached for two umbrellas from the hat stand. He put on the waterproof windbreaker he usually wore on wet-weather runs and a pair of large Wellingtons.

  “Ready?” said Primer.

  Sissela nodded and then the detective opened the door. The cameras clicked on the other side of the fence as they walked toward the car. When they slowly passed through the gate, they could hear the reporters’ questions for Sissela through the window as they sat in the back seat.

  “Have you heard from Emelie?”

  “Any comment on reports that she’s been kidnapped?”

  “How concerned are you?”

  When she wouldn’t answer, they tried Heimer instead. A lumbering young man from one of the TV channels pushed forward to his side of the car and shouted as loudly as he could:

  “How is your wife?”

  Heimer had to marshal all his willpower not to wind down the window and put his fist in the man’s chubby face. The question was ridiculous and insulting at the same time. Partly because it was obvious to anyone who could see Sissela’s tense face that she was not at all well. And partly because he was Emelie’s father and the question should have been about how he felt. He was his own person with his own feelings—not just a dad doll propped up next to his wife.

  Primer kept his hand on the horn and finally managed to get through the cluster of media people. He accelerated away and drove the short distance to the cordon, where a policeman raised the blue-and-white tape so they could park on the other side.

  “Follow me,” said Primer, leading the way. The rain hadn’t yet started falling, but judging by the dark clouds it wouldn’t be long before the umbrellas were needed. They walked between sparse pine trees, heading toward the water. The detective stopped level with the foundation of the old jetty where the boat to Karlstad used to stop.

  They were at the spot where the popular Tynäs Restaurant had once stood. The archipelago eatery had burnt down at the end of the seventies and all that was left were parts of the foundation. Around t
hem, Heimer saw uniformed police officers searching the stony ground for traces of Emelie.

  Right away, he felt it becoming difficult to draw enough air into his lungs. He had to try to pull himself together. If he let thoughts of his daughter overwhelm him, it would end with him breaking down in front of Sissela and the police.

  Primer exchanged a few words with one of the uniformed officers, who said they had still found nothing of interest. Then the three of them continued farther along the promontory. The terrain became barer, mostly naked rock. Several ledges ran down to the water, as if someone had terraced the rocks to create the ideal sunbeds for visitors.

  Heimer spotted a policeman on a flat rock ahead of them, waving his nearest colleagues toward him. They gathered around him, seeming very interested by something he was pointing at on the ground.

  Primer saw that something had happened and hurried over to the spot. Heimer and Sissela followed him and got there just as one of the men peeled off from the group to approach the detective sergeant.

  His face was red with exertion.

  “We’ve found something, and we need to get Forensics here as soon as possible, before it starts raining.”

  11

  BALTIMORE, 2019

  John tried to gather his thoughts after the conversation with Brodwick. It had gone just as badly as he thought it would. He hadn’t predicted that the boss would give in during their first meeting; he had expected some back-and-forth. John reckoned coolly that time was on his side. Whether he was right remained to be seen. The Bureau’s decision-making was characterized as much by politics and big egos as it was by reason and a desire for a good outcome.

  He hoped that Trevor’s meeting with Brodwick had been less complicated. Trevor had been in an excellent mood when he had been allowed to meet his wife a few minutes ago. The nurse had washed his face and shaved off his stubble before rolling him to the private visitors’ room.

  A sketch pad and a selection of pencils in different thicknesses and hardnesses were lying on John’s bedside table. He had ordered them via the hospital’s patient services and was surprised at how quickly they came. Trevor had been curious about the contents of the package and John had told him about his passion for drawing. His mom had taught him how to draw. On good days, she’d had the patience to sit with him in front of the easel. The key thing was to keep an eye on the light—how it fell and how it cast shadows. Together, they created still lifes of footballs, hot dogs, and various other things that captivated small boys.