The Boy in the Suitcase

THROUGH THE YELLOWED blinds, there was a view of the road, the parking lot, and the grimy concrete walls of some industrial warehouse or other. Every twenty minutes, a bus went past. Jan knew this because he had been sitting there staring out the window for nearly four hours now.

He hadn’t considered that boredom would be a factor. But this was like sitting an exam at which one had offered what little one had to say on the subject inside the first ten minutes, and now had to repeat oneself ad infinitum. Even though the context was hideous, and he really shouldn’t be able to be bored when talking about the brutal murder of someone who had been close to him, this was what had begun to happen. It felt as if his lips were growing thicker with each repetition, his mouth drier. The words wore thin. Concentration faltered. All pretense at naturalness had long since vanished.

“I met Karin Kongsted two and a half years ago, in Bern; she was employed by the clinic that performed my renal surgery. We probably grew more familiar than might otherwise have been the case, due to the fact that we were both Danes on foreign soil; it often works that way. After the operation, I needed fairly frequent check-ups and medical attention, but it was crucial that I didn’t neglect my business any more than I had to. Karin agreed to return to Denmark and work for me in a private capacity, and this proved an excellent solution.”

At the moment he was telling his story to an older detective, a calm, almost flegmatic man whose Jutland roots could still be heard in his intonation. His name was Anders Kvistgård, and he was more rigidly polite than the others, punctiliously addressing Jan as “Mr. Marquart.” In his white shirt, black tie and slightly threadbare navy blue pullover, he looked like a railroad clerk, thought Jan.

Mr. Kvistgård was the third detective to interview him. First there had been a younger man who had approached Jan with an air of comradery, as if they both played for the same soccer team. Then a woman, who to Jan seemed far too young and feminine for her job. Each time it had been back to square one, excuse-me-but-would-you-mind-repeating, how-exactly-was-it, could-you-please-tell-us, how-would-you-describe… .

“A private nurse. Isn’t that a little … extravagant?”

“My time is the most precious commodity I possess. I simply can’t be stuck in a waiting room for hours every time I need to have a blood sample taken. Believe me, Karin’s paycheck has been a worthwhile investment.”

“I see. And apart from this, how was your relationship with Ms. Kongsted?”

“Excellent. She was a very warm and friendly person.”

“How warm?”

Jan was jerked from his near-somnolent repetition. This question was new.

“What do you mean?”

“Were the two of you having it on? Playing doctor when the missus wasn’t around? I understand you lived under the same roof?”

Jan could feel his jaw drop. He stared at this sixty-year-old Danish Rails ticket puncher lookalike with a feeling of complete unreality. This was bizarre. The man’s expression of benign interest hadn’t shifted a millimeter.

“I … no. Bloody hell. I’m married!”

“Quite a few people are. This doesn’t stop around seventy percent of them from having a bit on the side. But not you and Ms. Kongsted, then?”

“No, I tell you!”

“Are you quite certain of that?”

Jan felt fresh sweat break out on his palms and forehead. Did they know anything? Would it be better to come clean and be casual about it, rather than be caught in a lie? Did they know, or were they just bluffing?

He realized that his hesitation had already given him away.

“It was very brief,” he said. “I think I was taken by surprise at… . Oh, I don’t know. Have you ever been through a serious operation?”

“No,” said the railway clerk.

“The relief at still being alive can cause a certain … exuberance.”

“And in this rush of exuberance you began a relationship with Karin Kongsted?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it that. Not a relationship. I think we both realized that it was a mistake. And neither of us wanted to hurt Anne.”

“So your wife was ignorant of the affair?”

“Stop it. It wasn’t an affair. At the most, it was … oh, it sounds so sordid to call it a one-night stand, and it wasn’t, but I think you know what I mean.”

“Do I, Mr. Marquart? I’m not so sure. What are we talking about? One night? A week? A couple of months? How long did it take you to realize that it was a mistake? And are you certain that Ms. Kongsted understood that just because she was having sex with you, she had better not think this constituted an affair?”

Jan tried to remain calm, but the man was subjecting him to verbal acupuncture, sticking in his needles with impeccable precision, and observing him blandly all the while.

“You’re twisting everything,” he said. “Karin is … like I said, Karin was a very warm person, very … womanly. But I am perfectly sure she understood how much my marriage means to me.”

“How fortunate. Is your wife equally certain?”

“Of course! Or … no, I didn’t tell Anne about the … episode with Karin. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t either. Anne is easily hurt.”

“We will just have to hope it doesn’t become necessary, then. Can you tell me why Karin Kongsted left the house so suddenly yesterday?”

“No. I … I wasn’t there myself. But seeing that she went to the summer cottage, she must have decided to take a few days off.”

“Am I to believe you haven’t seen this?” Kvistgård fished out a vinyl sleeve and placed it on the table in front of Jan. Inside was Karin’s note, with the brief, bald phrase clearly visible through the plastic: I QUIT.

“I didn’t take it seriously. I think it was meant as a joke. She had been complaining that it was too hot to work … like I said, I think she was simply taking a few days off and had a slightly … untraditional way of announcing it.”

“According to your wife, Karin Kongsted appeared upset and off balance when she drove off.”

“Did she? Well, I can’t really say. I told you, I wasn’t there.”

“No. But you did make a call to SecuriTrack in order to locate the car she was driving. Why did you do that, Mr. Marquart?”

There was a high-pitched whine of pressure in his ears. He was aware that he was still sitting there with a stiff smile glued to his face, but he also knew that any illusion of casual innocence had long since evaporated. There was no way he could make light of this, no way he could pretend it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a routine precaution when a company car went missing. He couldn’t do it. That bloody railway clerk had unbalanced him completely and nailed him in free fall, with no life lines left to clutch.

“I can see this needs a bit of mature consideration,” said Anders Kvistgård. “Perhaps you wish to call an attorney? I’m afraid that I have to caution you that charges may be brought against you.”





THE MILE-LONG, SURPRISINGLY natural-looking beach of the Amager Strandpark was only sparsely populated by bathers, despite the dragging heat. Weeks of drought and sunshine had apparently satisfied the city’s hunger for beach life and firstdegree burns, thought Nina. For most people, the holidays were over. In the spot Nina had chosen for them, they were alone except for a couple of students lying on too-small bath towels with open textbooks in front of them, and their only other human encounter had been with a sweat-soaked young man on rollerblades who had narrowly missed ploughing into the boy on the cement path.

Now here they were, sitting side by side on their brand-new soft towels, staring out across the mirror-smooth sea. Not a breath of wind rippled the surface, and the waves merely lapped the sand in soft, flat, nearly soundless surges. The silence among the three of them was equally noticeable, thought Nina. The boy sat still, with his head lowered, only moving his hand now and then to let the dry sand sift through his fingers in a steady stream. Marija reclined on her towel with half-closed eyes behind new shades bought at a local convenience store. She had taken off her tight jeans, revealing a pair of long, pale legs, as slender as the rest of her T-shirt-clad body. She hadn’t said much in the car. A trip to the seaside would be okay, she agreed, as long as towels, sunscreen, sunglasses and a new bikini were part of the deal. Nina had had a brief flashback to negotiations with her own sulky teenage daughter, and had in the end secured a compromise that left out the bikini. For the boy, she had found a small dusty set of bucket, sieve, rake, and spade in red and yellow, languishing on a rack at the back of the store. Later, she had also bought them all ice cream from the kiosk. Marija had taken the boy by the hand and pointed to the faded pictures of cones and popsicles, and to Nina’s relief the boy had answered her, opting for the biggest of the lot. After that encouraging breakthrough, silence had unfortunately descended, even though Marija had tried to encourage the child with soft, careful questions. Demonstratively, the boy sat with his back to them, working his fingers through the hot, white sand.

Glancing at Marija, Nina decided to break the silence. She and the girl, at least, could have a conversation. But what did one ask someone like Marija? Her work in Helgolandsgade? Her life before Copenhagen? Her hopes and dreams, if any had survived? The fact that Nina had bought her time and her presence here lay like a vague discomfort between them—it was a little too much like the selling and buying that went on between Marija and the men that sought her out at night.

“How long have you been in Denmark?”

Nina had meant to ask how she liked it here, but caught herself in time.

Raising her head, Marija looked at Nina with a faint smile that was at the same time amiable and distant.

“Seven weeks,” she said, jerking her head at the city behind them. “It is a beautiful city.”

Nina looked at Marija’s long slender legs and feet, half buried in the sand. Two small round scars gleamed pinkly on her thigh, just above the knee. Cigarette burns, thought Nina mechanically, and the image of the small muscular man with the serpent tattoo flashed before her eyes. But it might not be him. Marija had, after all, only been here for seven weeks, and the scars had healed as much as such scars ever do.

Noticing her glance, Marija discretely slid a hand down her thigh, covering the scars. Then she suddenly leapt to her feet in a shower of loose sand.

“I go swim,” she announced, indicating the mirror sea. “Just a quick one.”

Nina smiled and nodded agreement, while Marija pulled off her T-shirt to reveal a soft, white cotton bra with wide straps. Another unwelcome image presented itself, this time of Ida and the way she had been standing in front of the mirror in her cramped little room last week.

She had bought herself a bra. One of the tight, elastic sport models that prevented abrasion and over-bouncing, which of course was quite sensible. It had to happen sometime, and Ida was way ahead of Nina in the bosom department. Nina and Morten had actually joked that Ida now, at thirteen, had bigger breasts than Nina would ever have, barring implants. Yet there was still something overwhelming about the sight of her, standing there with her narrow back turned, her shoulderblades sharply outlined under this new bra that she had to have bought with her own money and without consultation. Without asking Nina’s permission, even.

Nina shook her head quickly. And just exactly what was it that Ida was supposed to ask permission for? Growing up?

Marija ran into the water wearing bra and panties, and dived in when it was up to her thighs, her arms describing a perfect curve over her head. She surfaced several meters away and swam back and forth at a practiced crawl for a while before flipping over onto her back. She kicked up a furious cascade with her legs.

“You come too,” she called, with a grin that reached her eyes for the first time. “Ateik čia!”

The boy had left off his sand-sifting to look at her, and something was released in his expression, an eagerness, a yearning. He looked questioningly at Nina, causing a melting hot sensation somewhere behind her midriff. He was asking her for permission.

She nodded briefly and drew him close, so that she could help him out of his T-shirt and underpants. As soon as she let him go, he scurried across the firm damp part of the beach until the first ripples reached his bare feet. When a deeper surge lapped his ankles, he gave an enthusiastic shriek and continued a few steps forward, then stumbled and pitched onto his bottom, a mixture of elation and anxiety visible on his face. Marija reached him in a few long steps and helped him to his feet again, and Nina could hear them talking. Marija said something, and the boy answered her in the characteristic whine children employed when they were in need of help. Marija smiled, ruffling his short white-blond hair so that it stuck wetly in all directions. Then she said something else, taking his hands and towing him gently through the water. The boy was giggling and shrieking so that all his white milk teeth showed, and Marija was laughing too, now, a high-pitched girly laugh. She waved a hand at Nina.

“Come,” she said. “Very nice.”

Nina returned the wave but shook her head. She wanted the boy and Marija to be alone together in this. The boy had clearly missed having someone around who could understand him. The same might be true of Marija, thought Nina, watching the tall, skinny girl leaping joyfully about in the water. Hearing her own language spoken might not be an everyday occurrence, certainly not from someone as friendly and unthreatening as this. There was no reason Nina should butt in now. Marija knew what she was supposed to do—win the boy’s confidence and try to find out where he came from. Anything would be useful, thought Nina. His name, the name of a town or a city, or of a street. Anything at all, as long as it helped pull him from the void he was floating in and anchor him somewhere, with someone.

Marija hadn’t asked why, and Nina guessed that not asking questions had become a survival mechanism. That she had agreed to help, despite the man with the serpent tattoo, was little short of a miracle.

And another small miracle was taking place before her very eyes.

Marija said something to the boy, and he struggled free of her embrace with a scream of laughter. He splashed her with water, and then replied to her question, feet firmly planted in the wet sand. Instinctively, Nina understood what it was, even before the boy repeated his answer in a louder voice.

“Mikas!”

It was his name.

MARIJA AND THE boy whose name was Mikas stayed in the water until Mikas’s lips were blue from cold and his teeth chattering like little castanets. Marija’s long, dark hair hugged her shoulders wetly, and there was still laughter in her eyes as she let herself drop down onto the towel next to Nina, stretching so that she caught as much as possible of the hot afternoon sun.

Nina wrapped Mikas in the other towel, rubbing dry the narrow white shoulders, his chest and back, his legs. Then she helped him put on the T-shirt and the pants and liberated the spade-andbucket set from their net bag for him. At once, he ran the few feet to the wet part of the beach and set to with an eager enthusiasm that made Marija and Nina smile at each other tolerantly, as if they were a married couple sharing a moment of pride in their offspring. Then Marija crouched forward, looking at Nina with a small sharp worry-wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“I know his name now,” she said, in her heavy English. “He is Mikas, and his mother’s last name is Ramoškienė. He remembered that when I asked him what the daycare staff calls his mama.”

“Preschool?” said Nina, taken aback by the apparent normality of it. She knew precious little about Lithuania, she realized, and her ideas had run along the lines of Soviet concrete ghettos, TB-infected prisons, and a callous mafia. Somehow, preschools had not been part of the picture. “Anything else?”

Marija asked Mikas another question. He answered readily, without pausing or looking up from his work with the spade and bucket even for a second.

“He is from Vilnius. I am sure,” said Marija. “I asked him if he liked riding on the trolley buses, and he does. But not in the winter when the floor is all slushy.”

Marija smiled in triumph at her own invention.

“He said he is sometimes allowed to press the STOP button. But he has to wait until the driver says, ‘Žemynos gatvė.’”

Nina rummaged in her bag and came up with a ballpoint and a scruffy-looking notepad from some company of medical supplies.

“Will you write it out for me?”

Marija willingly took the pen and paper and wrote down both the name of Mikas’s mother and that of the street near which she must live. Nina took it with a feeling of having brought home the gold. Then she realized that knowing his name and roughly where he came from was not actually enough. There was something else she desperately needed to know.

“Ask about his mother,” she said. “Does he live with her? And why isn’t he there now? What happened—does he know?”

Marija frowned, and Nina guessed that she was searching for the right words, comforting and unthreatening enough that she wouldn’t upset the boy too much. A stab of outrage at Marija’s own capsized life went straight through Nina’s chest. She felt such rage at the thought of the Danish, Dutch, and German men who felt it was their perfect right to serially screw a young girl month after month until not the least remnant of the girly sweetness and the coltish awkwardness would remain. What do such men tell each other? That it is quite okay because it is her own choice? That they are offering her a way to make a little money and start a new life? How very grand of them.

With so many men, and such fine generosity, a national collection aimed at young Eastern European and African girls ought to raise millions. Why didn’t Marija’s customers keep their flies zipped and organize a fundraiser instead?

Marija had moved closer to the boy and was helping him turn the sand-filled bucket upside down. She ran her finger round the edge of the resulting cupcake shape, saying something with a reassuring smile.

Mikas was obviously uncomfortable with the question. He twisted, and began to fill the bucket with fresh sand, but the purposefulness had gone out of him, and after a few spadefuls, he dropped the little red spade and looked around, as if searching for something to hide behind. Then he looked directly at Marija, and answered her with a few soft words.

She nodded and put her hand against his cheek to keep his attention a little while longer. But at her next question, he struggled as if overwhelmed by a cold wave. His face closed, and with a thin frightened exclamation, barely audible, he tore himself free of her gentle grasp and ran towards the water.

Marija shot an accusing glance at Nina, blaming her, or, at least, her questions.

Nina got up quickly and caught up with Mikas in a few long strides. She swung him onto her hip and held him as gently as she could. At first he fought her, kicking against her shins and thighs with bare feet. Then he curled limply against her shoulder, not in trust but in resignation. Marija had risen too, and was pulling on her clothes with angry jerks.

“His mother?”

The question hung in the air between them while Marija buttoned her jeans, not looking up.

“Marija.”

Nina put her free hand on Marija’s arm, and finally the girl gave up her button battle and met Nina’s eyes.

“Sorry.” Marija took a deep breath. “It is just that he was so upset. I do not like it.”

Nina shook her head slightly, but she had to know.

“What did he say about his mother?”

“I don’t understand all. Children say what they like, no more,” said Marija apologetically. “But he said he lives with his mama, she is nice, but he couldn’t wake her.”

Nina frowned. Couldn’t wake her? She looked at Marija doubtfully.

Had Mikas’s mama been ill? Or unconscious? And did it have anything at all to do with his involuntary trip to Denmark? As Nina recalled it, a three-year-old’s grasp of the concept of time left something to be desired. She cursed her own linguistic inadequacies.

She needed to know if his own mother had sold him. Such things did happen. She knew that very well.

“What happened to take him away from his mother? Did he say?”

Marija raised her carefully plucked and penciled eyebrows.

“He said the chocolate lady took him. I do not know what that means.”

“Does he miss his mother? Does he want to go back to her?”

Marija froze, and the look she gave Nina was completely naked.

“Of course he misses his mama. He is just a baby!”





S UNNY BEACH SOLARIUM AND WELLNESS, said the glass door leading down to the basement floor, with the added legend New lamps! Inside was a reception area with a dark-haired woman behind a desk. She was talking to someone on the phone, and Jučas could not make out which language she was speaking. Not Lithuanian, at any rate, but then that was hardly surprising. She was dressed in a white uniform as though she were a nurse or some kind of clinic assistant, and in Jučas’s estimation, she was too old to be a whore. Perhaps it was actually possible to acquire a tan in this place.

The woman lowered the receiver for a moment and asked him something he didn’t understand.

“Bukovski,” he said, and then continued in English. “I have to see Bukovski.”

“Wait,” she said. “Name?”

He just gave her a look. Suddenly her gestures took on a nervous quickness that had not been there before. She rose and disappeared into the regions behind the reception, to emerge a few minutes later with the expected permission.

“You go in,” she said.

It was surprisingly spacious, thought Jučas. There weren’t any windows, but heavy-duty ventilation ensured that the air was cool and almost fresh. There were a couple of exercise bikes and two treadmills, but for the most part, the floor space was given over to numerous well-worn TechnoGym machines and a large freeweight area. This was no pastel-colored wellness center for fatfearing forty-year-old women or middle-aged men with aspirations to a “healthier lifestyle.” This was a T-zone. The worn gray carpeting was practically impregnated with testosterone and sweat, and Jučas felt at home immediately.

Dimitri Bukovski approached him with open arms.

“My friend,” he said. “Long time no see.”

They embraced in the masculine back-patting way, and Jučas endured the two smacking kisses Dimitri planted, Russian style, one on each cheek. Dimitri was an Eastern European melting pot product, a little Polish, a little Russian, a little German and a touch of Lithuanian. He must be over fifty by now, and balding, but he looked as if bench-pressing two hundred kilos was still no great challenge. Pecs and biceps bulked under his black T-shirt. Years ago, in a similar basement in Vilnius, it had been Dimitri who taught Jučas about serious training. Now Dimitri lived here in Copenhagen, and out of three possible Danish contacts, he was the only one who would not go squealing to Klimka the minute Jučas left.

“Nice place,” said Jučas.

“Not bad,” allowed Dimitri. “We’re running it as a club, so we have some say in who gets admitted. Some people here do serious work. You want a workout?”

“God, yes. But I don’t have the time,” said Jučas with genuine regret.

“No,” said Dimitri, “I understand this isn’t just a courtesy call. Still working for Klimka?”

“Yes and no,” said Jučas vaguely.

“Oh? Well, it’s none of my business. Step into the office, then.”

Dimitri’s office was little more than a cubbyhole. A desk and two brown leather armchairs were squeezed into the narrow space, and the walls were covered with photographs, many of which were of Dimitri standing next to some celebrity or other, mostly singers or actors, but also a few politicians. Pride of place had gone to a picture of Dimitri, grinning from ear to ear, shaking hands with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Home Sweet Home,” said Dimitri, with a vague gesture at his mementos.

Jučas merely nodded. “Did you find me anything?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Dimitri opened a small safe bolted to the wall beneath the Schwarzenegger photo. “You can have your pick of a Glock and a Desert Eagle.” He put the two weapons on the desk in front of Jučas.

Both were used, but in good condition. The Glock was a 9mm, the classic black Glock 17. The Desert Eagle was a .44, bright silver and monstrously heavy, and appeared to be somewhat newer than the Glock. Jučas picked them up one by one. Ejected the clip, checked that the chamber was empty. Worked the safety. Aimed at one of the pictures on the wall, and dry-fired. The pull on the .44 was somewhat stiffer than the Glock.

“How much?” he asked. “And are they clean?” He had no wish to acquire a weapon that could be traced to someone else’s crimes.

“My friend. What do you take me for? Would I sell you a dirty gun? Two thousand for the Glock, three for the Eagle. Dollars, that is. For an added five hundred, I throw in extra ammo.”

“Which one would you choose?”

Dimitri shrugged his massive shoulders.

“Depends. A Desert Eagle is kind of hard to ignore. Very effective as a frightener. But if you actually want to shoot someone, I’d go for the Glock.”

HE BOUGHT THE Glock. It was cheaper, too.





NINA DROPPED MARIJA off in Vesterbrogade at 4:47.

She noted the time specifically because the time on her own watch didn’t match that of the clock on the arch by Axeltorv. Hers was two minutes ahead, and she couldn’t help trying to calculate which of the two was correct.

The girl stood by the curb, hunched and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure where to go. There was sand in her damp hair, Nina noticed, but apart from that, not much was left of the girl from the beach. She was no longer smiling.

Nina watched her in the rearview mirror until the girl turned to walk in the direction of Stenogade, narrow shoulders tensed and raised as though she were cold. An acidic, heavy puff of exhaust and hot pavement reached Nina through the open car window, and for a moment she had to struggle with a burning compulsion to turn around and drag the girl back into the car. But Marija hadn’t asked for her help, and Nina hadn’t offered. Nina had written her name and phone number on a piece of paper, and afterwards got the money to pay Marija from an ATM in Amagerbrogade. That was all she could do at the moment.

She thought it was probable the police were monitoring her accounts and would make a note of the withdrawal, but she told herself it didn’t matter. Not now.

She had sensed it at the moment she had heard the boy call for his mama at the summer cottage. Now she knew for certain. Mikas did not come from some orphanage in Ukraine or Moscow. He was not an orphan, he was not alone in the world. He had a mother, and from what little information Marija had gained from him, it seemed most likely that he had been abducted. Not sold, borrowed, or given away, but taken. And somehow he had ended up in the clutches of the man who had killed Karin. How and why, the gods only knew, but this was not Nina’s concern.

If the boy’s mother was still alive, she would probably have reported him missing to the Lithuanian police, and it should be a small matter to have the boy returned to Mama Ramoškienė, the daycare, and the trolleybusses of Vilnius. Even the Danish police ought to be able to handle that, she thought. They were usually surprisingly effective at getting people out of the country. They might even make an effort to investigate who was behind the abduction. If for no other reason, then because of Karin’s death. No one could murder proper Danish citizens with impunity.

So. It really was that simple.

A smooth, warm feeling of serenity flowed from her diaphragm into the rest of her body.

She could take Mikas home to Fejøgade, and call the police from there. She might be allowed to remain with him while the police checked up on the information Marija had garnered from him. Nina knew that her perseverance could be quite convincing, and no one could claim it was better for Mikas to be in the care of some burned-out social worker he didn’t know. She wanted to stay with him so that he wouldn’t be left in the hands of strangers, until his mother could be flown in from Vilnius and he would finally be in her arms again.

Nina imagined how the boy’s mother would arrive in a storm of smiles and tears, how she would take Nina’s hands in wordless gratitude. Suddenly, Nina felt tears well up in some soft, dark place inside her. She didn’t cry often, and certainly not in moments of success. Tears of joy were for old women.

But you don’t see all that many happy endings, do you? a small cynical voice commented inside her. Nothing ever really comes out the way you want it to.

“This time, it will,” muttered Nina stubbornly.





LARGE HOUSES MADE Sigita uncomfortable. Somehow, she felt that the people living in them had the authority and the power to decide, to denigrate, and to condemn. No matter how many times she told herself that she was just as good as they were, there was always some little part of her that didn’t listen.

The house in front of her now was huge. So enormous that one couldn’t take it all in at once. It was completly isolated, perched at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea, and buttressed by white walls on all sides. Sigita thought it looked like a fortress, and she was surprised to find the gate open, so that anyone could just walk in. What was the point, then, of building a fortress?

The taxi left. She was still shocked by the cost of it. How could she have imagined that the hundred kilometer ride would be more expensive than the flight from Lithuania to Demark? Now there was almost nothing left of the money she had taken from Jolita. I should have taken all of it, she thought. But taking only some had felt a bit less like stealing. And in the end, Jolita had, after all, consented.

Now she was here. She had no idea what she would do afterwards, and she wasn’t even sure this was the end of her journey. The name on the brass plaque fixed to the white wall was the right one: MARQUART. This was where he lived, the man who collected her children. But she didn’t know if this was where Mikas was.

Trying to make a stealthy approach was pointless—discrete surveillance cameras had already noted her arrival. She began to walk up the drive to the white fortress.

When she pushed the doorbell, a ripple of cheerful notes sounded on the other side of the door, a cocky little tune somehow out of sync with the tall white walls, the endless lawns, the heavy teak door. She heard footsteps inside, and the door opened.

A boy stood in the doorway. She knew at once who he must be, because of his likeness to Mikas.

“Hi,” he said, and added something, of which she didn’t understand a single word.

She couldn’t answer. Just stood there looking at him. He was dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt, with a pair of shiny racing red Ferrari shoes on his feet, and a matching red Ferrari cap on his head, back to front, of course. He was slender and small for his age; no, more than slender, he was bonily thin. In spite of that, his face looked oddly bloated, and his tan couldn’t conceal a deeper pallor, particularly around his eyes. One arm sported a gauze bandage under which she detected the contours of an IV needle that had been taped to his skin. He was ill, she thought. My son is very, very ill. What has happened to him in this alien country?

Again, he spoke, and from his intonation she thought it might be a question.

“Is your mother or father home?” she asked in Lithuanian, unable to absorb the sudden knowledge that of course he wouldn’t be able to understand. He looked so much like Mikas, and she could see a lot of Darius, too, in eyes and in his smile. It seemed absurd that she wasn’t able to talk to him.

“Is your father at home? Or your mother?” she tried again, this time in English, though she thought he would be too young to understand any foreign language. But he actually nodded.

“Mother,” he said. “Wait.”

And then he disappeared back into the house.

He returned a little later with a delicately built woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. Sigita looked at the person who had become her son’s mother. A pale pink shirt and white jeans underlined her pastel delicacy, and there was something tentative in her manner, as if she were uncertain of her bearings, even here in her own house. Like the boy, she was fair-haired and quite tanned; the superficial likeness was such that no one would ever question their relationship.

“Anne Marquart,” she said, offering her hand. “How may I help you?”

But the moment she saw Sigita’s face properly, she froze. There was clearly the same jolt of recognition Sigita had felt on seeing the boy. The genetic clues could not be erased. This woman saw her son’s traits in Sigita’s face, and was terrified.

“No,” she said. “Go away!” And she began to close the door

Sigita advanced a step. “Please,” she said. “I just want to talk. Please… .”

“Talk … ?” said the woman. And then she reluctantly opened the door. “Yes, perhaps we’d better.”

THE WINDOW STRETCHED for the whole length of the living room, from floor to ceiling. The sea and the sky flooded into the room. Too much, thought Sigita, especially now that the wind was stronger, and the waves showed teeth. Had they never heard of curtains, here? Houses, after all, had been invented to keep nature out.

The space was huge and cavernous. At one end was an open fireplace, with a fire that Anne Marquart turned on with a remote control, like a television. The floor was some kind of blue-gray stone unfamiliar to Sigita. In the middle of the room, with several meters of empty space on all sides of it, was a horseshoe shaped sofa upholstered in scarlet leather. Sigita knew that this was the kind of interior that magazines begged to photograph, but it surfeited even her need for order and clean lines, and she felt ill at ease, sitting here in the middle of this stone and glass cathedral.

“His name is Aleksander,” said Anne Marquart, in her neat British accent that sounded so much more correct than Sigita’s. “And he is a wonderful boy—loving and smart and brave. I love him to pieces.”

Something uncoiled itself inside Sigita. Ancient knots of guilt and grief came undone, and an instinctive prayer sprang to her lips. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Thank you for this moment. Whatever else happened now, at least she knew this much: that her firstborn child was not drifting in the dark, alone and bereft, like the naked fetus-child of her nightmare. His name was Aleksander. He had a mother, who loved him.

Aleksander himself had disappeared again, she knew not where to. Anne Marquart had said something to him in Danish; his face had lit up in a pleased grin, and an enthusiastic “Yesssss!” had hopped out of his mouth. Sigita had the feeling he was being allowed something that was otherwise strictly regulated. Video games? Computer? It was obvious that they were wealthy enough to provide him with anything he wished for. Sigita felt a peculiar pain. If Mikas ever found out what kind of life his brother was living, would he be envious?

The thought brought back all her fear for him.

“I am not here because of Aleksander,” she said. “But because of Mikas. My own little boy. Is he here? Have you seen him?”

Anne Marquart seemed taken aback.

“A little boy? No. I… . You have another child, then?”

“Yes. Mikas. He is three, now.”

Something was going on inside Anne Marquart. She was staring into her teacup, as if any moment now a profound and essential truth would be revealed there. Then she suddenly raised her head.

“Same father?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Sigita, not understanding the intensity with which Anne Marquart endowed the question.

“Oh God,” said Anne Marquart softly. “But he is only three… .”

Amazed, Sigita saw silent tears on Mrs. Marquart’s face.

“It’s not fair,” whispered Aleksander’s mother. “How are we expected to bear this?”

“I don’t understand,” said Sigita hesitantly.

“You have seen that he is ill?”

“Yes.” One could hardly avoid it.

“He suffers from something called nephrotic syndrome. He has hardly any kidney function left now. He needs dialysis twice a week. We have a small clinic in the basement so that he doesn’t have to travel all the way to Copenhagen for treatment, but still … he hardly ever complains, but it’s tough on him. And … and eventually, it will stop working.”

“Can’t he get a transplant?” asked Sigita.

“We tried. My husband gave him a kidney, but … but we are not … biologically related, of course. And Aleksander rejected it, despite all the medication, and now he is worse than before… .”

At that moment, Sigita finally realized why Jan Marquart had come looking for her. And why her son had disappeared.