worry.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not going back there. You need someone. You need someone like me, someone with my experience. Someone with my background. Someone anonymous – that’s what you said.”
“You are not anonymous any longer.”
“I’m with you now, Marko. I’m involved. You can’t get rid of me.”
“But your job—”
“ Drit i det . Fuck that. I’m not going back to that hellhole. I’ve decided that for sure.”
Marin looked up at him, and within his haggard face his eyes were bright. “I will not deceive you, Torgrim. Some part of me wished you would stay with us. But I did not have a very big hope.”
“I’m yours for as long as you need me. Let’s get this job done.”
Over breakfast, Marin told Rygg and Lena what they had discovered during the night.
“Before you left, I told you that the Alpensturm had reappeared in the Dover straits.”
“I remember that,” Rygg said.
“It reappeared for a few hours, long enough to give a signal, and then disappeared again.”
“So how does that help us?”
“Well, it informs us that the ship is heading south, as I told you, and probably into the Mediterranean. But what we have been working at for the last five days is trying to establish the identity of the spotter.”
“Spotter?” Rygg asked. “Like the guy who assigns targets for the sniper?”
Marin had dismantled a piece of bread, pulling off the crusts. He shook his head without looking up. He dabbed his hand along the edge of the bread. “Along the English coast, a leftover from World War II, there are several watching stations. They look out to sea and check the identity of the passing ships. Each is staffed by spotters, who work in shifts. At any time, one spotter is on duty. They have a nice life, I think – like the life of a lighthouse keeper. Maybe a bit lonely. They read their books, they drink their tea, they look out at the waves, and when a ship passes they record the number.”
“Can you get for me this work?” Lena asked.
Marin looked at her and put a hand tenderly over hers. “Lena is a bit stressed up.”
“Stressed out.”
“Stressed out , yes. She thinks I should take a break. A holiday. But there is no time. No time.” He said something to her in Russian and she looked down at her cup, then out the window.
Marin went on. “Now, we found the station which received the signal from the Alpensturm . Okay. And we have been trying to discover who the person on duty that evening was. Finally yesterday we found out that it was a woman named Ann Devonshire. She is forty-one, she has worked at this job for five years. She lives in Dover town, she has two Labradors that she walks along the cliffs and she likes to play Scrabble with her friend. Quite a normal person. And, like many quiet English ladies, she takes her holidays in England. She goes to Lake Windermere for a week, or to Cornwall. Once, for an adventure, she went on a holiday to Paris. For one weekend, only. This occurred three years ago, but she mentions it in many of her emails even now.”
“Did you talk to her?” Rygg asked.
Marin shook his head. “She disappeared.”
“What!” Rygg exclaimed.
Lena looked sharply over at Marin. “They kill her?” she asked.
“This is what we thought, me and Sasha,” he said. “We thought she had been murdered. So we were searching, searching, for any mention of a body, of people missing her. Then finally Sasha thought to check flight records. Listen. This is what we discovered: on the morning of the 26th, two days after she spotted the Alpensturm , Ann Devonshire took an airplane flight to Athens. She spent one night in Athens. The next morning, she got on a ferry bound for Paros.”
“Paros? Next to Crete, right?”
“It’s about midways between the mainland and Crete.”
“So she needed a vacation.”
“Well. Perhaps. But there are two interesting factors. Besides that she had only once previously visited outside her
“You don’t understand. I’m not going back there. You need someone. You need someone like me, someone with my experience. Someone with my background. Someone anonymous – that’s what you said.”
“You are not anonymous any longer.”
“I’m with you now, Marko. I’m involved. You can’t get rid of me.”
“But your job—”
“ Drit i det . Fuck that. I’m not going back to that hellhole. I’ve decided that for sure.”
Marin looked up at him, and within his haggard face his eyes were bright. “I will not deceive you, Torgrim. Some part of me wished you would stay with us. But I did not have a very big hope.”
“I’m yours for as long as you need me. Let’s get this job done.”
Over breakfast, Marin told Rygg and Lena what they had discovered during the night.
“Before you left, I told you that the Alpensturm had reappeared in the Dover straits.”
“I remember that,” Rygg said.
“It reappeared for a few hours, long enough to give a signal, and then disappeared again.”
“So how does that help us?”
“Well, it informs us that the ship is heading south, as I told you, and probably into the Mediterranean. But what we have been working at for the last five days is trying to establish the identity of the spotter.”
“Spotter?” Rygg asked. “Like the guy who assigns targets for the sniper?”
Marin had dismantled a piece of bread, pulling off the crusts. He shook his head without looking up. He dabbed his hand along the edge of the bread. “Along the English coast, a leftover from World War II, there are several watching stations. They look out to sea and check the identity of the passing ships. Each is staffed by spotters, who work in shifts. At any time, one spotter is on duty. They have a nice life, I think – like the life of a lighthouse keeper. Maybe a bit lonely. They read their books, they drink their tea, they look out at the waves, and when a ship passes they record the number.”
“Can you get for me this work?” Lena asked.
Marin looked at her and put a hand tenderly over hers. “Lena is a bit stressed up.”
“Stressed out.”
“Stressed out , yes. She thinks I should take a break. A holiday. But there is no time. No time.” He said something to her in Russian and she looked down at her cup, then out the window.
Marin went on. “Now, we found the station which received the signal from the Alpensturm . Okay. And we have been trying to discover who the person on duty that evening was. Finally yesterday we found out that it was a woman named Ann Devonshire. She is forty-one, she has worked at this job for five years. She lives in Dover town, she has two Labradors that she walks along the cliffs and she likes to play Scrabble with her friend. Quite a normal person. And, like many quiet English ladies, she takes her holidays in England. She goes to Lake Windermere for a week, or to Cornwall. Once, for an adventure, she went on a holiday to Paris. For one weekend, only. This occurred three years ago, but she mentions it in many of her emails even now.”
“Did you talk to her?” Rygg asked.
Marin shook his head. “She disappeared.”
“What!” Rygg exclaimed.
Lena looked sharply over at Marin. “They kill her?” she asked.
“This is what we thought, me and Sasha,” he said. “We thought she had been murdered. So we were searching, searching, for any mention of a body, of people missing her. Then finally Sasha thought to check flight records. Listen. This is what we discovered: on the morning of the 26th, two days after she spotted the Alpensturm , Ann Devonshire took an airplane flight to Athens. She spent one night in Athens. The next morning, she got on a ferry bound for Paros.”
“Paros? Next to Crete, right?”
“It’s about midways between the mainland and Crete.”
“So she needed a vacation.”
“Well. Perhaps. But there are two interesting factors. Besides that she had only once previously visited outside her
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