Lene Kaaberbol - Invisible Murder

“We’re coming,” he shouted. “We’re going to get you out!”

I T WAS THEgirl. Once they managed to wrench the outer lid away from the opening of the oil tank and cut the padlock off the specially mounted inner lid, what peered up at him was the chilled, pale face of a teenager. Her hands were bloody and her nails broken and chipped, and her fingers were convulsively clutching the bunch of keys she had been using to bang out her faint, scarcely audible SOS. Tears were streaming down her filthy cheeks and kept flowing even after they got her out and wrapped her in silver-colored heat blankets, given her water and sugar and more water.

“They have my mom,” she said. “And Sándor. He’s OK, he isn’t one of them, please don’t hurt him. And they have that thing.”

“The cesium unit?” Søren said.

“Yes. That. They want to sell it to some crazy old guy who’s going to give them half a million kroner for it.”

“Do you know where?” Søren asked, holding his breath. “Do you know where they’re going to meet?”

The girl was still breathing in a strangely arrhythmic, jerky way. Søren was amazed she was holding it together as much as she was under the circumstances. That she could talk, think, and respond at all.

“Lundedalsvej,” she said. “I wrote it down so I would remember it.” She showed him her forearms and the big, black, smeared letters written zigzagged across her skin. “I used my mascara.”

Søren wanted to give her a hug, but she wasn’t the kind of girl who would have appreciated that. She was so clearly clinging to her self-control with an iron will that reminded him of her mother.

“Respect,” he said instead, quietly and heartfelt. And was rewarded with a crooked, wobbly teenage smile.

Jankowski looked pensive.

“Lundedalsvej.…” he said slowly. “Isn’t that where …?”

“Yes,” said Søren. “That’s where they’re building that new mosque.”

REDERIK CAME RUNNING, skipping between the puddles so as not to muddy his boat shoes. Idiot, Sándor thought to himself, he has covered his whole body in protective gear but is still walking around in unprotected shoes.

“I parked the Touareg a few blocks away,” Frederik said, winded. “So we can dump the van here. I’m assuming you stole it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommi said. “Come on. It’s almost nine-thirty. And put on your mask, otherwise the rest of the hazmat suit isn’t going to do any good.”

Frederik pulled the hood up over his head and positioned the filter mask and protective goggles over his eyes, nose, and mouth.

The door to the single-story hall in front of the domed building was locked, but that didn’t slow Tommi down.

“Take this,” he said passing Frederik the pistol. Frederik took it but held it away from his body, awkwardly, very obviously uncomfortable with the weapon. Somehow that didn’t make Sándor feel any better; he just got the sense that he could now be shot by accident as well as on purpose.

Tommi had fetched a screwdriver from the van and quickly and efficiently broke open the green double doors to the mosque.

“Wait here,” he said.

He took the gun from Frederik and disappeared into the building, but it didn’t take long before he was back in the doorway again. “All clear,” he said. “He’s not here yet.”

With the paint can balanced between them, Sándor and Nina stepped into the dark reception hall. It smelled of turpentine and new wood, and plastic sheeting rustled under their feet with every step they took. The sharp light from the spotlights outside shone in through the arched windows, but otherwise it was dark, and it was harder to hold the rake handle level when you couldn’t see it.

“Set it down,” Frederik said. “And stay where you are. Now we wait.”

He and Tommi stepped out of the light, and that made Sándor feel exposed and vulnerable standing here in the middle of the room, plainly visible as soon as anyone stepped through the door. Next to him, Nina had sat down on the floor with her head between her knees.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But what are you going to do about it?”

In the silence they heard the pling of a text message arriving. Tommi tossed the phone to Frederik. “Here,” he said. “See what he wants.”

There was a pause while Frederik fumbled around with the keys and read the message. “He wants it down in the gents’,” he said. “Over to the left.”

“Can he see us?” Tommi asked. “Where is old Moneybags?”

“Just do what he says,” Frederik said. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.” His voice was higher than usual, tense and nervous. “Yeah, but not without the money.”

Frederik crinkled his way across the plastic sheeting in his out-of-place boat shoes, and Sándor heard him open a door. Then there was a click, and the door became a shining rectangle in the darkness.

“The lights work over here,” Frederik announced unnecessarily.

“Hello,” Tommi suddenly yelled so loudly that the sound reverberated and startled them all. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! Show me the money!”

The only response was a new text message arriving with a pling . “What?” Frederik mumbled. “Why the hell should we do that?”

“What did he say?”

Frederik showed Tommi the text message. Then he waved to Sándor. “Come here. No, damn it. With the thing.”

Sándor looked at Nina. She had collapsed on the floor, with an arm and a leg flung out to the side in a sloppy way that revealed that she wasn’t just resting.

“Nina,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“I think she’s fainted,” he said.

Tommi had his own simple test for that. He sauntered over to Nina’s ragdoll body and kicked her so hard in the side that Sándor grabbed his own rib in automatic empathy. There was absolutely no response.

If he was going to carry the can alone, he would have to touch it. He couldn’t hold the rake handle in his injured hand, so he had to grab the paint can’s wire handle in his healthy one.

“At least give me a pair of gloves!” he pleaded.

Frederik hesitated. Then he removed one of his own pale-yellow work gloves and tossed it onto the floor in front of Sándor.

“Here.”

Sándor pulled it on. It was the wrong one, but it was still a whole lot better than touching the thing with his bare hand. He pulled the rake free and set it on the floor. Then he picked up the paint can. He held it as far away from his body as he could. It was heavy, and his arm quivered with the effort.

The lavatories were tiled in green and blue from floor to ceiling and had gleaming brass taps. There were no doors on the stalls yet, and down at the end, a water heater, some pipes, the main water shut-off valves, and an expansion tank were still exposed, not having been sealed away behind drywall or paneling yet.

“He wants it inside that,” Tommi said, pointing to the hot water storage tank with the gun. “Just the whatsit, not the whole can.”

That meant he was going to have to touch the actual source of the radioactivity. Sándor hesitated, on the verge of rebellion. Tommi didn’t. He moved the pistol ever so slightly, so it would just miss Sándor, and fired.

The shot rang out between the tiled walls and a shower of small, sharp tile fragments sprayed Sándor’s cheek, neck, and shoulder. And they heard a muffled scream from the ceiling over them.

Sándor and Tommi both looked up. The ceiling wasn’t totally finished. White panels were being mounted on a wood frame, and in the space above that, between bristling unconnected wires and exposed insulation, they could now both see that there was someone up there.