Christmas Eve, Thursday, December 24, 2020
Gordon’s body woke bit by bit. First with a thumping pain in the back of his head, followed by the feeling that his ankles and wrists were being squeezed tightly, and that both his hands and feet were numb. Then he felt the nausea and his body almost screaming out for hydration and a less uncomfortable position.
He opened his eyes knowing full well that his situation was hopeless, but Gordon was not fearful. He was angry. Angry at his carelessness and at having been taken by surprise. He should have made a run for it straightaway when he sensed something moving behind him. He was quick on his feet and could run a hundred meters in fourteen seconds. So why had he not done it?
Now he looked up. He took in the bare walls and a table at the far end of the room next to an elevator. It was quite a wide elevator as far as he could make out. Perhaps a freight elevator. He tilted his head back and noticed the ceiling had a couple of runners stretching almost down to the far wall. It looked like a room that had had some sort of industrial function. With such a high ceiling it could well be a sort of warehouse. He could clearly picture a truck driving around among four- and five-meter-high metal shelving units, taking pallets from the shelves, and driving down to the far end to load them on the elevator.
He tried to wrestle himself free of the cable ties securing his feet to the legs of the chair and his arms to the back, but their tightness made moving painful.
Then he heard a sound from behind him like someone sighing or attempting to articulate very weak vowel sounds. He tried to turn around, but his back was as stiff as a board.
“Is there someone there?” he asked, and he heard the same sighing sound.
“Damn it!” he exclaimed when he tried to twist again. For every jolt to the right, it felt as if a knife were jabbed into his back. What had happened to him?
He moved back and forth, each time with a slightly bigger jolt to his right.
“I can hear you behind me. Is it you, Sisle Park?”
But there was no answer. He finally managed to twist himself so far to the right that he could make out a body slumped over in a chair that like his was also fastened to the floor. It looked strange, but the poor person seemed to be secured in place by a couple of chains that appeared to come out of his back and straight up to the ceiling.
“Maurits van Bierbek?” he asked tentatively. He was sure it was a man at any rate—there was no mistaking the beard growth or the urine stains on the front of the loose underwear. Nothing about this man bound in armor radiated any of the sort of prosperity or energy one might have expected from a person like Maurits van Bierbek. He looked like an emaciated prisoner, thin and helpless with pale, dry skin and greasy strands of hair flopping down over his forehead. His lips were chapped, legs and arms discolored, and his chest strangely still. The second hand on his wind-up Rolex had stopped, indicating that he must have been sitting there motionless for a very long time.
But he was alive.
Gordon wet himself a couple of hours later. He had managed to hold it for a long time—almost ready to scream in desperation, but what was the point when no one could hear him?
Since high school, he had made a big deal about being able to hold it longer than anyone else. And when he did finally give in, he impressed and entertained his friends by being able to pee for several minutes before his bladder was empty.
I must have been here for a long time, seeing as I couldn’t hold it anymore, he thought as he watched the puddle of urine on the floor slowly make its way toward the far wall.
It had been very close to the end of his watch on the night of December twenty-second when he was attacked. Under normal circumstances, he could hold it in for at least a day, so he reasoned that he must have been unconscious for over twenty-four hours and was now sitting here helpless on what was likely Christmas Eve. Unless they had injected him with something that obstructed his autonomous bodily functions. What a dreadful and miserable holiday.
He turned to Maurits van Bierbek, who had not moved in the last few hours. According to Department Q’s reckoning, he only had two days left to live. A horrible thought—but where did that leave Gordon? Was he destined to share van Bierbek’s fate?
When Gordon realized the likelihood of this, he started crying. It came suddenly and unexpectedly, and it felt embarrassing. He knew why he was crying—of course he was scared of dying, but it did not make it any better that he had experienced nothing but disappointment in love. He had never had the chance to tell a woman that he was completely hers, just as he had never received a declaration of boundless love. Two people choosing each other for life without fear of betrayal.
Gordon had been in love many times. Always from the sidelines and without acting on it. And now that he had turned thirty-two, he had outgrown the phase when it was apparently easy to find a girlfriend. He could understand why when he looked at himself in the mirror. How often had he gone to a tanning salon, only to realize that he could not tan? How often had he stood sweating in front of the same mirror with dumbbells in his hands, only to realize that he would never bulk up? Some people said that Gordon Taylor looked nice, but not nice enough apparently for someone to fall for him head over heels.
And now he might never experience that.
“Maurits?” he shouted as loudly as he could. He did not want to be alone in this forsaken place. If only Maurits would wake up.
But Maurits barely moved.
Then there was a deep humming from the elevator down by the far wall. And when he pricked his ears, he could hear the clicks from above every time a relay on a new floor was activated.
Gordon counted to five before the elevator reached their floor. Could this mean that they were five floors belowground or that someone had taken the elevator from a higher floor? Would he be able to tell when it went up again?
Then the elevator door opened.
He immediately recognized the slender woman, Sisle Park, and saw a giant of a man behind her. He was almost twenty centimeters taller than she was, and she was not exactly short. His face was contorted and his eyes were not aligned. Clearly a birth defect, thought Gordon. Was this the man who had knocked him out in the dark? The closer he came, the more convinced Gordon was. It was him.
“I see you’re awake, Gordon Taylor. What a pleasant surprise,” said Sisle Park, making sure to avoid the puddle of urine.
She walked all the way up to him and smiled gloatingly when she noted the dark stain on his trousers.
“I’m sure you’ll get used to that,” she mocked. “Have you had a chance to say hello to your friend here? Wasn’t he happy to see you? And weren’t you happy to finally discover where he was, seeing that you’ve been so desperately searching for him? We’ve bolted your chair to the floor, so you’ll have to make an effort if you want to look at him.”
Gordon scowled, considering whether to spit in her face, but he thought better of it as the giant took a few steps closer.
“Are you going to hit me again?” he asked. “You fucking don’t hit someone who is defenseless. Even you wouldn’t do that, would you, Sisle Park?”
She did not react to his sarcasm. “We’ve had time to check up on you since we brought you here yesterday morning. So you’ve been with Department Q for almost ten years, and I imagine you’ve given Carl Mørck his money’s worth, given that you’re still there. A law graduate with good grades and yet you chose to become an investigator with the police. Not the path one might have expected if you ask me, but it does tell me that you’re very dedicated to your work. I respect that. So I’ve decided to give you the opportunity to follow Maurits van Bierbek’s case to its conclusion.”
Maybe she expected a reaction from Gordon, but he was not going to let this bitch know what he thought about her or her sick ideas.
“We’ll kill him at noon the day after tomorrow. And when he’s dead, we’ll remove him from here and leave you with the hope that your colleagues from Department Q will find you. I think it’s highly unlikely, but let’s see. I’d hate to deprive you of the hope.”
She nodded to the large man, who fetched a drip stand from over by the far wall and attached a drip bag to it.
“Just give him as much as he can take, Adam,” she said coldly. So, the giant was called Adam. Probably the same man who had helped her drown Pia Laugesen. There was no doubt Assad had come to the right conclusion, because this man would easily have been able to hold the strong woman under the water in the pool for as long as it took.
Adam stuck the needle from the drip into van Bierbek’s hand and waited. After some time, he started breathing deeper, and they slapped his cheek and told him to wake up. Adam kept slapping him harder and harder until he finally came to.