The Einstein Pursuit

23

During his time with Interpol, Dial had slept in more hotels than he cared to remember. It was a necessary part of the job. Over the years he had developed an immunity to uncomfortable beds, scratchy pillows, noisy air conditioners, and all the other obstacles that kept the typical traveler from enjoying a good night’s rest. But the one thing he could never ignore was his cell phone.

Even while dreaming, Dial could distinguish his cell phone’s ring from other ambient sounds. In many ways he was like Pavlov’s dogs, but instead of salivating in anticipation of food whenever their master rang a bell, Dial would force open his eyes whenever he heard his phone, locate his bifocals, and then grab the pen and paper that were always at his bedside.

It had become a reflex.

The expectation of food excited the dogs, regardless of the hour.

But Dial was rarely happy to take the call.

‘Dial,’ he announced without bothering to look at the caller ID.

‘Nick, it’s Henri. How are you?’

‘How am I?’ Dial snapped. He checked the clock. ‘It’s four in the fucking morning. How do you think I am? I’m tired.’

‘Then you should get some sleep,’ Toulon teased.

Dial growled into the phone. Literally growled. ‘Henri, there’s a popular expression in America that applies to this situation: don’t poke the bear. Do you know what that means?’

A hundred different responses flashed through Toulon’s head, each more obnoxious than the last, but he knew a warning when he heard it.

‘Oui. It means I should get to the point.’

‘Either that, or start updating your résumé.’

Toulon nodded in understanding. ‘Did the Swedish police ever identify the property owner?’

Dial flipped through his notes. ‘Not to my knowledge. Why?’

‘Well, I think I did.’

‘Really? How’d you manage that?’

‘They were looking at tax records and deeds. I took another approach. I looked into insurance records.’

‘And?’ Dial asked.

‘I found an old policy from the previous landholder of that address. The policy was terminated in 1990 because of the sale of the land, and someone noted that they should approach the new owner to offer continued coverage. The new owner is listed as Asgard Rhymä.’

Dial shook his head and grinned. Sometimes cases were broken through sheer luck. This time it was the note of an insurance salesman hoping for new business. ‘Asgard Rhymä. Is that Swedish?’

‘It’s Finnish. It translates to “the Asgard Group” in English.’

Dial scribbled the name in his pad. ‘Should that mean anything to me?’

‘I’m not sure. Asgard was the home of the Norse gods of Æsir. It was one of the nine worlds of their mythology, ruled by the god Odin and the goddess Frig. It was the location of Valhalla, a beautiful palace that served as the reward for Norse warriors who died valiantly in battle.’

‘In other words, it means nothing to me.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Who owns the Asgard Group?’

‘A shell company. Actually, it’s a shell company owned by a shell company owned by a shell company, but if you look deep enough, you eventually find a real person. The land and the building are owned by Dr Tomas Berglund.’

‘And he is?’

‘A scientist,’ Toulon replied. ‘And a brilliant one at that. Since you’ve been in Sweden, has anyone mentioned the Karolinska Institute?’

‘I was there last night. My liaison has a connection there.’

‘Great. Ask him if he’s ever heard of Berglund — I bet he has. Apparently he was a wunderkind at the institute. Graduated at eighteen with highest honors. Then he bounced around for a couple of decades, jumping from field to field and mastering them all. The guy has more than fifty published articles to his name, on subjects ranging from ethics to endocrinology.’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘Nobody knows. Two months ago he just disappeared. No papers, no speaking engagements, no anything. The only indication that he’s still alive is his tax returns. Apart from that, it’s like he dropped off the face of the earth.’

‘How’d you get his returns so quickly?’

‘Scandinavian tax returns are public records. Sweden, Finland and Norway actually publish every citizen’s return online. It’s just a click away. Berglund filed a recent return with a very modest salary, listing his current residence as the address of his childhood home. It’s a small community outside of Turku, Finland.’

‘He’s probably just using his parents’ house as cover,’ Dial said.

‘That’s what I figured, too.’

‘Either way, send me the address. In fact, send me everything you have on the guy. I’ll mention his name around here and see if anyone has anything to add to his file. In the meantime, notify the Finns. Ask them to send someone to Berglund’s address. If they happen to find him there — which I doubt — tell them to make him comfortable, but give him as few details as possible. Finland is only an hour by air. If he’s there, I’ll fly over for the interrogation myself.’

‘Sebastian is going to love that,’ Toulon said sarcastically.

‘While you’re at it, see if the Finns can secure a warrant to examine Berglund’s bank records. He wouldn’t be the first person to lie on a tax return, and I highly doubt that a genius who has multiple shell companies to protect his identity only earns a modest salary.’

‘On it.’

‘Good. Call me back if you get anywhere.’

‘Of course,’ Toulon replied.

‘And Henri …’

‘Oui?’

‘Good work.’

Dial wanted to go back to bed after his call with Toulon, but he knew it would be pointless. His mind was too busy mulling over the details of the case. As it was, it had taken him most of the night to get any sleep at all.

With nothing better to do, he showered, got dressed, and headed to the lobby. He had a rough idea of where he was in the city, which was to say that he knew he needed to go north to reach Eklund’s office at the police station. Normally he would have simply hailed a cab and given the driver the address. But knowing that he had a few hours to burn before his morning meeting with Eklund, he decided against the cab.

Today, he would walk.

Familiarizing himself with a place was part of Dial’s normal routine. He preferred to understand the geography and demographics before drawing any conclusions about the situation that had drawn him there. But on this trip he hadn’t yet had much of an opportunity to look around. Although he had visited Stockholm once before, that tour had introduced him to little more than the airport, the hangar at the airport that had become a crime scene, and his hotel near the airport. He had never truly seen the city.

The Swedish capital was comprised of fourteen islands situated in Riddarfjärden Bay, where the water of Lake Mälaren met the Baltic Sea. When the first of these islands was settled more than nine hundred years ago, the only way to visit the central city was by boat. Today, the sprawling metropolis was connected by a vast network of ferries, subways, buses and commuter rails that were the envy of most other European cities.

Despite these modern advancements, Stockholm remained one of the cleanest cities in the world. For nearly two centuries, the governing factions of the city had sought to keep the air and water as pristine as possible. The ecological impact of every construction project was considered before any permits were granted, and factories — especially those that burned fossil fuels — were strongly discouraged. Instead of manufacturing, Stockholm was focused on the service industries. It was the financial capital of Sweden, and most, if not all, of the country’s major banks were headquartered there, as well as many of the nation’s biggest insurance companies and its busiest stock exchange.

To alleviate the urban feel, nearly a third of the city’s land had been reserved for parks, recreational areas and nature reserves. The city’s government had certified more than a thousand of these ‘green spaces’, which had resulted in minimal pollution and a well-earned reputation as Europe’s first ‘green capital’.

Dial checked his map and walked east, toward the oldest part of the city. A few minutes later he turned north and crossed the main bridge in Skeppsbron into the neighborhood of Gamla stan, which was strangely spelled with a capital ‘G’ and a lowercase ‘s’.

Here he could see the roots of the city.

Cobbled streets and narrow alleyways crisscrossed the small island of Stadsholmen. They led Dial past Stockholm Cathedral — the city’s oldest church — and the royal palace. Though the king and queen did not call the palace home, it remained the Swedish monarch’s official residence and housed the offices of the royal family.

Dial noticed the prominent gothic brick styling of north German architecture at nearly every turn, a carryover from the fledgling days of the town. In the middle of the community he found a large square known as the Stortorget. In the early morning light the scene was calm and serene, with no trace of the massacre that had taken place on that very spot centuries ago, when Danish invaders executed nearly a hundred clergymen in the streets. The site of the Stockholm Bloodbath, as it came to be known, was now a tourist attraction surrounded by shops.

Dial meandered through these streets for more than an hour before continuing on his path toward the police headquarters. As he walked, he marveled at the clear blue waterways and the pleasant demeanor of those enjoying their daily commute. Everything here felt welcoming and secure. He couldn’t think of anywhere he had ever been that projected the same vibe.

It made his investigation that much more troubling.

As if the sanctity of the city was now his to defend.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he practically jogged the last few blocks to Eklund’s office. He didn’t need the map to identify his destination. He remembered the recessed entrance and glass-enclosed lobby from the day before. The facade was almost warm and inviting, very different from the majority of police buildings he had visited.

He arrived a full hour before his eight o’clock meeting, hoping to get a snack before the others arrived. He flashed his ID at the door and was shown to Eklund’s office.

He expected to find an empty room.

Instead, Eklund was already hard at work.