the police in France, Italy, and Monaco.”
“But I’ve talked to Anja.” Joona smiles smugly.
“You talked to Anja?”
Carlos falls silent before the entry of Anja Larsson, who closes the door behind her.
Without any introduction she begins. “During the past decade, Raphael Guidi’s name has come up six times. He was rumored to be involved in illegal arms deals, illegal money deals, and unexplained deaths.”
“Only preliminary investigations,” Carlos objects. “That doesn’t mean-”
“Should I go on or not?” Anja says.
“Please, go ahead.”
“All suspicions about Raphael Guidi were squashed at an early stage in almost every case and so he was never really investigated.”
“So you have nothing,” Carlos says.
“His business earned 123 million dollars on Operation Desert Storm by providing Nighthawk jets with AGM-65 Maverick missiles,” Anja continues. She glances at her notes to check her accuracy. “But one of his auxiliary corporations provided Serbian forces with artillery rockets capable of bringing down these same planes during the Kosovo war.”
Anja shows them a photograph of Raphael in sienna-tinted sunglasses. He’s in sharply pressed blue pants, with a more comfortable-looking blue shirt hanging out. He smiles broadly. He’s between two bodyguards, posing in front of a smoke-colored Lamborghini Diablo.
“Raphael’s wife was the well-known violinist Fiorenza Colini,” Anja tells them. “One year after their son, Peter, was born, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She underwent all kinds of treatments, but died when their son was seven.”
She shows them a newspaper clipping from the Italian newspaper La Repubblica. Fiorenza Colini has a beautiful red violin at her shoulder with the entire orchestra of La Scala behind her. The conductor, Riccardo Muti, is poised beside her. His wavy hair shines in the spotlight. Fiorenza Colini’s slim body is a shimmering column in a gown of platinum trimmed with silver brocade and an edging of sparkling crystal. Her eyes smile beneath thick lashes. Her right elbow is lifted as if her bow is traveling down and her slender fingers are placed high on the fingerboard, searching for a difficult note.
Anja shows them another clipping, this one from Newsweek, in which Raphael Guidi, his newborn son in his arms, stands improbably and proudly next to the American rock star Alice Cooper. The headline reads BILLION DOLLAR BABY. And in yet another, Guidi, dressed in a soft, light-colored suit, chats with Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi while three blond women in micro bikinis lounge beside a rose-marble pool shaped like a heart.
“Raphael Guidi supposedly lives in Monaco, but if you want him, you have to go to sea, as far as I can determine,” Anja says. “He spends almost all of his time these days on his mega yacht, Theresa. It’s easy to understand why. Lurssen built it in Bremen fifteen years ago with every luxury that could be devised.”
A shot of the yacht, white and arrow-shaped, accompanies a feature on Guidi in French Vogue. In the photo the ship looks like a porcelain spear, and the article, entitled “Lion en Cannes,” breathlessly details a lavish film- festival bash thrown on board: “A la ville comme a la mer: Raphael Guidi et sa femme, Fiorenza, prennent le temps de faire les presentations. Kevin Costner et Salma Hayek saluent Victoria Silvstedt, l’icone Playboy suedoise.”
The men wear tuxedos, the women wear little, and the ever-present bodyguards planted behind Guidi wear their habitual stolid expressions. The article takes special pains to describe the dining hall, which features toucans in birdcages hanging from the ceiling, and a male lion, pacing back and forth in a cage of his own.
They hand the clippings back to Anja.
“Let’s listen now,” Anja says. “Belgian Intelligence has recorded a telephone conversation between an Italian prosecutor and Salvatore Garibaldi, who was a brigade general in the Esercito Italiano, the Italian army.”
She passes out copies of a hastily made translation, puts a USB flash drive into Carlos’s computer, leans over, and hits Play. The recording opens immediately with an official voice giving the circumstances, place, date, and time in French. Then a small metal click can be heard and a distant connecting tone. There’s a crackle, then a firm voice speaks.
“I’m listening and I’m ready to begin the preliminary investigation,” the prosecutor says.
“I can never testify against Raphael Guidi, not even under torture, not even…”
Salvatore Garibaldi’s voice disappears in a spurt of static. Then it appears again more weakly as if through a closed door.
“… med recoil brakes or completely recoilless rocket systems… and a hell of a lot of mines, antipersonnel mines, antivehicle mines, antitank mines… Raphael would never… like in Rwanda, he didn’t care. They used sticks and machetes-nothing with real money. But when the fight spilled over into the Congo, he wanted part of the action. He thought it would be a gold mine. First he armed the Rwanda Patriotic Front to be able to attack Mobutu forcefully. Then he turned around to pump heavy weaponry to the Hutus so that they could retaliate against the RPF.”
A strange peeping sound rises through the static. It hiccups and then his voice is clear again.
“The whole deal with the nightmare, I couldn’t really believe it. I was forced… forced to hold his sweaty hand… while I watched. My daughter, she was fourteen. She was so pretty, so beautiful… Raphael… he did it himself. He used the knife himself… he screamed at me that I was reaping my nightmare. He owned it… he owned my nightmare. I still… don’t ask me to think about it again… I can’t…”
There are strange sounds. Someone shouts in the background. Breaking glass can be heard. The sound recording sputters.
Salvatore Garibaldi is weeping. “How could anyone do anything like that… he took a fillet knife from his bodyguard… my daughter’s face… her beautiful, beautiful…” He continues to sob and then he screams that now he wants nothing more than to die. He wants to die.
More crackling and the recording ends. No one in Carlos Eliasson’s office says a word. Through the small windows facing Kronoberg Park’s green slope, a playful light falls into the office.
“This recording”-Carlos clears his throat-“proves nothing. Right from the start he said he would not testify, he was not going to be a witness. I imagine that made the case evaporate and made the prosecutor end the investigation.”
“Three weeks later, Salvatore Garibaldi’s head was found by a man walking his dog,” Anja says. “It was in a ditch by the Via Goethe, behind a racetrack in Rome.”
“What happened to his daughter?” Joona asks quietly. “Does anyone know?”
“Fourteen-year-old Maria Garibaldi is still missing,” Anja says shortly.
Carlos sighs and mutters to himself. He walks to his aquarium and contemplates his paradise fish for a long while before he turns back.
“What do you want me to do? You cannot prove that the ammunition is being diverted to Sudan. If Axel Riessen has disappeared, you cannot link it to Raphael Guidi. Give me the tiniest shred of proof,” he pleads, “and I will go to the prosecutor. But I need something concrete, not just-”
“I know it’s him,” Joona says.
“And I need more than Joona declaring that he knows,” Carlos responds.
“We need the authorities behind us to arrest Raphael Guidi for crimes against Swedish and international law,” Joona continues stubbornly.
“Not without proof,” Carlos says.
“We’ll find proof,” Joona says.
“You need to convince Pontus Salmon to testify.”
“We’ve already picked him up, but getting him to testify will be very tough. He’s already so frightened he was about to commit suicide,” Joona says.
“If we arrest Raphael, maybe he’ll feel free enough to talk. That is, if things ever calm down,” Saga says.
“We still can’t arrest someone as important as Guidi without any proof,” Carlos reiterates firmly.
“So what the hell can we do?” demands Saga.
“Lean on Pontus Salman-”
“We’ve got to hurry. I believe that Axel Riessen is in danger,” Joona says.
