The Alexandria Connection (15 page)

O’Connor signalled the lead scout to halt. The village of Bibiyal lay directly ahead, and beyond that, further down the valley, was the village of Laniyal. O’Connor indicated for two of his men to move and cover the village from higher up the ridgeline and then he focused his binoculars. The houses, constructed from rock and thick cedar beams overlooked the Korengal River below. Gnarled trees dotted the area, their growth stunted by the rocky soil, but where they could, the villagers had terraced the hillsides, planting wheat, and the foliage on the trees in the citrus orchards was thick. Smoke drifted up from the early morning fires and two of the village elders came out and sat on the roof of the nearest house.

O’Connor moved forward cautiously, using the cover of the trees until he was closer to the elders.

‘
Sahr pikheyr
,’ O’Connor greeted them in Pashto. ‘Good morning,’ he repeated, showing himself, his M14 rifle pointed toward the ground. The safety catch was off, ready for instant use. Afghanistan had two official languages that were widely used: Pashto and Dari. O’Connor was fluent in both, but in the Korengal Valley, the six major tribes were surrounded by the Safi Pashtun tribes, and Pashto was the lingua franca.

‘Cover me,’ O’Connor ordered, and he moved toward the elders. The rest of the patrol held the village in their sights, the machine gunner on the ridge easing the safety catch on his MK48.

‘The Taliban have been here?’ O’Connor asked in Pashto, once the formal greetings had been exchanged and CPO Kennedy had joined him.

The village elders eyed O’Connor sullenly. Dressed in traditional baggy trousers, three-quarter tunics and turbans, their faces were lined by the harshness of their existence, their beards flecked with grey, their dark eyes full of suspicion.

‘We can do this the easy way or the hard —’ O’Connor stopped mid-sentence. A young man had burst from a house further down the side of the mountain and was running down the stony track that led to Laniyal.

‘Fuck it,’ Kennedy swore, taking a bead on the fleeing fugitive but knowing he couldn’t shoot. O’Connor and Kennedy knew there was every chance he was Taliban, but the rules of engagement were very strict, even on a mission like this: if an Afghan was unarmed, the coalition forces couldn’t fire.

‘Keep two sentries on . . . the rest of us will have to search this place house by fucking house,’ said O’Connor.

Two hours later, the search of the village had revealed nothing, and had only added to the resentment the fiercely independent Korengal Valley villagers already felt toward intruders in general, and the United States in particular.

‘Stay off the track,’ O’Connor ordered, as they prepared to move out toward Laniyal. ‘The Taliban will be watching, so we’ll stick to the high ground.’ O’Connor shouldered his pack. His team had dispensed with heavy body armour, but with five days’ rations, water and light sleeping gear, let alone the rest of their equipment and ammunition, the packs weighed in at a hefty 30 kilograms. It would be hard going up the ridge, so steep that at times, the patrol would be reduced to clawing their way over the broken rocks.

In the village of Laniyal, Jamal listened as his young Taliban warrior, breathless from his run, blurted out a warning. ‘They are in Bibiyal, so they will be here soon!’

Jamal smiled, a slow, humourless smile. ‘We are ready, my friend. The Infidel is going to regret he ever came back here.’

R
achel Bannister parked her hire car on Malmskillnadsgatan, not far from the Höterget metro station, in what had once been Stockholm’s red light district. She checked the address Area 15 had provided, took the stairs to the third floor of a dilapidated building and knocked on the entrance to apartment nine.

The door was opened by a tall, well-endowed blonde woman, whom Rachel judged to be in her mid-thirties, but she looked much older. Beneath the make-up there was a hardness. ‘Ingrid Andersson?’

‘
Ja. Vad kan jag göra för dig
? Yes . . . what can I do for you?’

‘In your professional world, you’re known as Frida.’

Andersson suddenly looked anxious.

‘You have an appointment this evening at nine-thirty. Your client has booked you in the name of Geoff. An in-call for two hours, including anal, 4000 krona.’

‘Who are you?’ Andersson asked nervously.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not from the police.’

‘If you’re his wife, I don’t want any trouble . . .’

Rachel shook her head.

‘Then who are you?’ Andersson asked, more assertive now.

Rachel delved into her shoulder bag, and extracted a brown envelope bulging with green hundred-krona notes. ‘Let’s just say I have an interest in your client . . . and I need to record this evening’s activities.’

Andersson glanced at the money, but shook her head.

‘There’s 30 000 krona in this envelope,’ said Rachel, looking past the prostitute. The apartment was tidy enough, but the furniture was old and worn. Rachel thought the equivalent of nearly US $5000 would probably clinch the deal. She was wrong.

Andersson shook her head again. ‘What’s to stop you handing over the recording to the police?’

It was time to get heavy. ‘You’ll just have to take our word on that. Your client is very well known internationally, and is already in a lot of trouble.’

‘Then I’ll just cancel.’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’ Rachel extracted copies of the booking emails from her bag and handed them to Andersson. ‘If we’d wanted to go to the police, we could have set you up to be raided. The police would have caught you and your client red-handed.’ In 1999, the Swedish government had introduced a law that criminalised men who paid for sex. ‘And we could still pass this information to them, so I suggest you cooperate, and everyone will be happy. The recording won’t see the light of day.’

Andersson hesitated. ‘He’s into kinky sex,’ she said. ‘He likes me to dress up as an older schoolgirl, and spank him for misbehaving.’

‘Does he now.’ Rachel resisted rolling her eyes. ‘His fetishes are not our concern, and provided you cooperate, neither are you.’

Andersson put her hand out for the envelope.

Professor Marcus Ahlstrom brought his Nobel lecture to a close. Ever since 1901, when the first Nobel Prize for Physics had been awarded to the German physicist Wilhelm Röntgen for his discovery of X-rays, the Nobel Foundation had required recipients to give a public lecture on their field of study, and Ahlstrom was revelling in the occasion. Marie Curie had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics in 1903 for her research into radiation, and in 1911 she’d again been awarded a Nobel Prize for Chemistry for her discovery of the element radium; one of only four scientists to be awarded a Nobel twice. Einstein had won it in 1921, not for his work on relativity, but for a paper on the photoelectric effect in which he showed electrons were ejected from gases, liquids and solids when they absorbed energy from light; a discovery that had led to the fiendishly difficult field of quantum physics.

‘I am grateful that my work on thermal energy particles has been recognised here tonight, but much more needs to be done. The possibility of the combination of both nuclear fusion and nuclear fission to produce clean energy is an exciting prospect, and the solution to this most vexing of problems in nuclear physics is especially important at a time when climate change is undoubtedly being influenced by human activity,’ Ahlstrom concluded.

We’re going to have to school you in a new script, Rachel mused, as she observed her target from three rows back in Stockholm’s prestigious Karolinska Institutet. His most striking features were his curly white hair and a large roman nose.

‘As I’ve demonstrated here tonight, if governments fund the research, we can make progress toward a fossil fuel–free future.’

Rachel felt compelled to rise with the audience as Ahlstrom received a standing ovation.

‘Who’s been a naughty little boy then?’ ‘Frida’ was dressed as a schoolgirl. She wore a tartan skirt, so short that it only just covered the tops of her long legs. The first three buttons on her white blouse were undone, and her large firm breasts threatened to burst the remaining fasteners. Ahlstrom had dressed in short pants and a white shirt, and he was wearing an Eton schoolboy cap.

‘Answer me now . . . who’s been a naughty little boy!’

‘Me, Miss, so you’ll have to pull my trousers down and spank me!’ Ahlstrom whispered breathlessly.

Frida slowly unzipped his fly and undid the buttons on Ahlstrom’s shorts, letting them fall to the floor. She pulled down his underpants and leaned over his shoulder, pushing her cleavage into Ahlstrom’s face as she spanked his saggy butt cheeks with her whip. With her other hand, she fondled his erection.

‘There’s more punishment. You’re going to have to be my slave now, aren’t you! I’m going to tie you up to the bedhead and ride you!’ Ahlstrom nodded, pouting with his bottom lip, and Frida led him over to an old four-poster bed. She bound his wrists and ankles and secured them to the posts.

‘Whip me,’ Ahlstrom croaked, ‘whip me!’

Frida sat astride him, straddling his small erection. ‘You – mustn’t – be – a – naughty – boy – again,’ she whispered, moving up and down on his shaft and whipping Alhstrom’s calves behind her in time to her admonishments.

Rachel watched Ahlstrom emerge from the same dingy building on Malmskillnadsgatan she had visited earlier. He hailed one of Stockholm’s ubiquitous black taxis and Rachel waited until the taxi was out of sight before making her way up to apartment nine.

‘I will need to check the recording,’ Rachel said, after Andersson had let her in.

‘It’s on the table.’

Rachel pressed the play button and watched until she was satisfied they had captured Ahlstrom’s fetishes. ‘We won’t trouble you again, and neither will your client,’ she added.

Rachel drove the short distance to Ahlstrom’s hotel, the Grand Hôtel in Södra Blasieholmshamnen, and she parked on the waterfront across from the hotel entrance.

Armed with Area 15’s information on Ahlstrom’s room number, there was no need to bribe the concierge. She made her way up to Ahlstrom’s executive suite and knocked lightly on the door.

‘What is it?’

Rachel detected a note of irritation in Ahlstrom’s voice. ‘I have an urgent message from the Nobel Laureate Committee, Professor Ahlstrom.’

‘It’s after midnight,’ Ahlstrom complained, opening the door. ‘What’s the message?’

‘My apologies, Professor Ahlstrom, but this is somewhat sensitive. Do you mind if I come in?’

‘If you must,’ he said, his voice softening a little as he eyed Rachel’s cleavage.

‘We have a proposal for you,’ Rachel said, placing the video camera on the coffee table. ‘But first, we’d like you to have a look at this.’ She pressed the play button and watched Ahlstrom’s countenance turn rapidly from intrigue to anger.

‘Who the fuck are you!’ he demanded.

‘Let’s just say we are a multinational, and we’re about to make you an offer.’

‘Well, you can go fuck yourselves, and you’re not as clever as you think you are,’ Ahlstrom stormed, ‘because I now have your evidence,’ he said, reaching for the video camera.

‘We’re not that stupid, Professor. That cassette’s a copy. And we know more about you than you think,’ Rachel replied icily. ‘Two months ago, your wife Vivienne filed for divorce. We’ve spoken with her, and she’s willing to settle for the house, plus half your earnings from the Nobel, which this year is set at eight million krona, which would put her share at about US $650 000.’

‘So you’re working for her. Well, you can tell her this from me . . . if she thinks she’s getting her hands on any of this prize, she can go fuck herself!’

‘I assure you, Professor Ahlstrom, the courts will take a very different view, and in any case, we’re not working for your wife. But if your activities in Stockholm become public, the Nobel committee may well review their decision.’

‘For spending time with a call girl? You’re kidding yourselves. What did you say your name was?’

‘My name doesn’t matter, although you will get to meet me formally in due course. And in the case of the call girl, you may be right, although the committee would undoubtedly be displeased with the publicity, particularly on the eve of the presentation by the King . . . but I’m not talking about your sexual activities, Professor.’ Rachel withdrew a copy of Ahlstrom’s communications with one of Stockholm’s drug dealers. ‘Cocaine is quite another matter. The authorities take a very dim view of that here.’

‘You bastards . . . Where did you get this?’

‘That doesn’t matter either. You’re in a very precarious position, Professor,’ Rachel said, pushing another document across the coffee table. ‘That’s a legal opinion on your divorce case, and your chances of keeping all of the Nobel Prize winnings. In two words, “very slim.” ’

‘What do want from me?’ Ahlstrom asked. Some of his anger had given way to resignation.

‘It’s very simple, Professor. I represent the wealthiest industrialist in the world, and he’s making you a very generous offer. An appointment as a research consultant at one of our nuclear laboratories. We have two complexes, one in California, and a much smaller but highly classified complex in Idaho, which are the equal of any in the world. You will be assigned to our gated community in California, where fifty per cent of your time will be allocated to your own research, in fields of your choosing. Publication of results will be at our discretion. The rest of your time will be spent delivering lectures debunking climate change.’

‘The hell I will . . . I’ve spent the last decade promoting clean energy,’ Ahlstrom protested, suddenly re-energised.

‘You wouldn’t be the first scientist to change course on this issue, Professor, and in your case, you don’t have any choice. Here’s a list of your gambling and drug debts, including a list of the threats you’ve received.’ Rachel watched the colour drain from Ahlstrom’s face. ‘Even if you managed to keep the entire Nobel, you still wouldn’t be in the clear, and once your wife takes you to the cleaners, you won’t have a house either.’

Ahlstrom slumped back into the lounge, his face pale, any fight extinguished.

‘There are three copies of the agreement for signature . . . two for us and one for you. You are to resign your position at MIT, with effect immediately, and move to our nuclear complex outside of San Francisco in California, where you will be provided with an office and access to our laboratories. In return, we will organise the settlement of your divorce, and cover your drug and gambling debts. The divorce settlement terms will include the deeds of your house being signed over to your wife, along with half the proceeds of your Nobel Prize. Your share will be used as down payment on a two million dollar house on the laboratory estate. Provided you meet your part of the bargain, the debt will eventually be waived. The position attracts a salary of US $300 000 a year. Travel, accommodation and administrative expenses will be met by us.’