“enclosure.”
He raised his head and looked at a close-up photo of Merete Lynggaard that hung above the stack of papers. Once more the words “pressure chamber” thundered through his mind.
The thought sent shivers down his back. Could it really be true? It was a gruesome, horrifying thought. Horrifying enough to get the sweat trickling.
“What is wrong, Carl?” asked Assad.
“Go outside and keep watch on the place. Do it
His partner was about to repeat his question when Carl turned to look at the last pile of papers. “Go now, Assad. And be careful. Take this with you.” He handed Assad the iron bar that they’d used to prize open the lock.
He paged quickly through the papers. There were lots of mathematical calculations, mostly written by Henrik Jensen, and also by others. But he found nothing related to what he was looking for.
Again he studied the knife-sharp photo of Merete Lynggaard. It had presumably been taken at close range, but she probably hadn’t noticed, since her attention was directed slightly to the side. There was a particular look in her eyes. Something vital and alert that couldn’t help affecting the viewer. But Carl was certain that wasn’t why Lasse Jensen had hung up this photo in particular. On the contrary. There were lots of holes around its edges. Presumably it had been taken down and put up again, time after time.
One by one Carl pulled out the four pins that held the picture. Then he lifted it off and turned it over. What was written on the back was the work of a madman. He read it several times.
These disgusting eyes will pop out of your head. Your ridiculous smile will be drowned in blood. Your hair will shrivel up, and your thoughts will be pulverized. Your teeth will rot. Nobody will remember you for anything other than what you are: a whore, a bitch, a devil, a fucking murderer. Die like that, Merete Lynggaard.
And underneath had been added in block letters:
July 6, 2002: 2 Atmospheres
July 6, 2003: 3 Atmospheres
July 6, 2004: 4 Atmospheres
July 6, 2005: 5 Atmospheres
July 6, 2006: 6 Atmospheres
May 15, 2007: 1 Atmosphere
Carl glanced over his shoulder. It felt as if the walls were closing in around him. He put his hand to his forehead and stood there, thinking hard. They had her here, he was sure of it. She was somewhere close by. It said here they were going to kill her in five weeks, on May 15, but it was likely they’d already done so. He had a feeling that he and Assad might have provoked the deed, and it had definitely happened somewhere nearby.
What do I do? Who would know something? Carl wondered, as he dug through his memory.
He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number of Kurt Hansen, his former colleague who’d ended up as an MP of the Conservative Party.
He paced the room as he listened to the phone ring. Father Time was out there somewhere, laughing at all of them, he could feel it so clearly now.
A second before he was going to put the phone down, he heard Kurt Hansen’s distinctive throat-clearing, then his voice.
Carl told him not to speak, just listen and think fast. No questions, just answers.
“You want to know what would happen to a person who was subjected to up to six atmospheres of pressure over a period of five years and then the pressure was released all at once?” Kurt repeated. “That’s a strange question. This is a hypothetical situation, right?”
“Just answer me, Kurt. You’re the only one I can think of who knows about these things. I don’t know anybody else who has a professional diving certificate, so tell me what would happen.”
“Well, the person would die, of course.”
“Yes, but how fast?”
“I have no idea, but it would be a horrible affair.”
“In what way?”
“Everything would explode from the inside. The alveoli would burst the lungs. The nitrogen in the bones would shred the tissue. The organs, and everything in the body would expand because there’s oxygen everywhere. Blood clots, cerebral hemorrhages, massive bleeding, even-”
Carl stopped him. “Who could help somebody in this situation?”
Kurt Hansen again cleared his throat. Maybe he didn’t know the answer. “Is this an actual situation, Carl?” he asked.
“I’m seriously afraid that it is, yes.”
“Then you need to call the naval station at Holmen. They have a mobile decompression chamber. A Duocom from Drager.” He gave Carl the number. Carl thanked him and ended the call.
It took only a moment to explain the situation to the naval officer on duty.
“You’ve got to hurry. This is incredibly urgent,” said Carl. “Bring people with pneumatic drills and other equipment, because I don’t know what kind of obstacles you’re going to encounter. And notify police headquarters. I need reinforcements.”
“I think I understand the situation,” said the voice on the phone.
39
The same day
They approached the last of the buildings with the greatest of caution. They studied the ground carefully to see if any digging had been done recently. They stared at the slippery plastic drums lined up along the wall, as if they might contain a bomb.
This door also had a padlock that Assad broke open with the iron bar-a skill that would soon have to be added to his job description.
They noticed a sweet smell in the hall’s entrance. Like a mixture of the cologne from Lasse Jensen’s bedroom and the smell of meat that had been left out too long. Or maybe more like the scent of the animal cages at the zoo on a warm, blossoming spring day.
Lying on the floor were scores of receptacles made from in shiny stainless steel in different lengths. Most of them did not yet have gauges affixed to them, but a few of them did. Endless shelves along one wall indicated that production had been planned on a large scale. But that had never happened.
Carl gestured for Assad to follow him over to the next door, holding his index finger to his lips. Assad nodded and gripped the iron bar so hard that his knuckles turned white. He crouched down a bit, as if to make himself a smaller target. He seemed to do so reflexively.
Carl opened the next door.
There was light in the room. Lamps in reinforced glass fixtures lit up a hallway. On one side, doors opened on to a series of windowless offices; on the other side a door led to yet another corridor. Carl gestured for Assad to search the offices while he started down the long, narrow hallway.
It was unspeakably filthy, as if over time shit or some kind of muck had been smeared on the walls and floor. Very unlike the spirit in which the factory’s founder, Henrik Jensen, had wanted to create these surroundings. Carl had a very hard time picturing white-clad engineers in this setting.
At the end of the corridor was a door, which Carl cautiously opened as he clutched the switchblade in his jacket pocket.
He turned on the light and saw what had to be a storage room containing a couple of carts and stacks of plasterboard as well as numerous cylinders of hydrogen and oxygen. He instinctively sniffed at the air. It smelled of cordite. As if a gun had been fired in the room quite recently.
