“You could call one of the pediatricians at Rigshospitalet,” he said. “They have details of all the agencies you’ll need. They are the ones who pick up the pieces when little kids get beaten by mom and dad. They know what they’re doing.”
Nina sighed. Damnit, this wasn’t the same thing at all. Magnus was quiet on the other end of the line.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Nina had no idea how he did it, but Magnus had something like a sixth sense when it came to illness. As if he could hear it, even over the phone, even when the call was routed via satellites.
“I’m not one hundred percent,” she admitted, sitting down on the edge of the sofa.
Someone said something to Magnus in the background. The medical transport team must have finally arrived, and Nina waited, supporting herself with her hand on the coffee table, while Magnus directed them down the hallway. Then he was back on the line.
“Right,” Magnus said. “Here’s what we’ll do. You come out here now. Take a taxi. We’ve got to have a look at you, too.”
Nina smiled weakly at the phone.
“I’ve got to get the boy to a hospital first.”
Magnus snorted. “Now you listen to me. I’ll take care of the Valby kids, but only if you come out here. Now. Besides …” Magnus exhaled heavily into the phone, and Nina guessed he was on his way over to the clinic. “… the faster we run some tests on you, the faster we’ll figure out what’s going on with those children. It can be difficult to get the social welfare authorities off their backsides, so it could easily take a few hours before anything happens in that department. You’re sick. Let’s start with you. I’m sure you’re suffering from the same thing.”
“You’re just saying that to get me to do what you want,” she said. “So I’ll quit being a nuisance.”
His warm, rural Swedish laugh resonated into her telephone ear.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
SHE DIDN’T TAKE a cab. She wasn’t completely helpless, even though it was surprisingly hard to turn the key in the ignition.
Her fingers trembled, and to her intense irritation after two fruitless attempts she was forced to rest her hands on her thighs, take a deep breath, and try again. This time the motor started. Fucking hell. Nina swore softly in a mix of relief and frustration. She sat still for a moment, trying to get control of her body before she put the car in gear and backed out onto the road. So far, so good. She cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror just before she turned onto Jagtvej and caught a glimpse of a lanky, girlish figure on a clunky old lady’s bicycle. Then the cyclist disappeared from view. Ida? Nina tried to turn her head and catch sight of the cyclist again, but the movement made her head pound, so she gave up. No, of course it wasn’t. Ida was at Anna’s.
Nina suddenly felt miserably alone. Her thoughts drifted off into the darkness around her. She pictured all of them, Anton, Ida, Morten, and herself, as small, illuminated fireflies surrounded by black nothing, each heading off in its own direction.
“Frederik,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Sándor Horváth.”
“So you’re Tamás’s brother?”
Sándor nodded. The driver hadn’t greeted him. He was a skinny, not particularly tall man whose face was partly hidden in the shadow of a cowboy hat that would have made John Wayne jealous. So far he had completely ignored Sándor.
“We’re glad you came,” Frederik said. “Has Tamás filled you in on the situation?”
“Not really,” Sándor replied evasively. “He just said he was feeling terrible and needed help.”
“Yeah, unfortunately that’s true. Don’t really know what he’s got. It would probably be best to get him a doctor.”
Sándor thought about what Tamás had written: I can’t stand. Having trouble seeing.
“Shouldn’t he go to the hospital?”
The man turned around so far that Sándor could see his whole calm, neatly shaven face.
“Let’s just cut the crap,” he said. “Your brother can’t go to a normal hospital. But we know a doctor who’d be happy to treat him, discreetly, you understand.”
“Well, do that then.”
“That’s what we want to do, but it’s not cheap. And his sponsor has put his wallet back in his pocket.”
Sponsor? What did they mean by that?
“Bolgár? Do you mean Bolgár?”
The man in the Ralph Lauren sweater smiled guardedly.
“We don’t need to mention too many names now, do we? But yes. He paid for your brother’s trip and room and board, but he drew the line at the expense of a private clinic. That kind of thing is expensive.”
“How much?” Sándor asked, feeling the rage smoldering just below the surface. His brother was sick, very sick, and now this man was sitting here saying, sure they wanted to help him—just as long as they were paid for it. Money Sándor didn’t have.
“A considerable sum. Several thousand Euros.”
Sándor’s heart sank.
“I don’t have that much.”
“No, we realize that. But luckily your brother has a valuable item that he can sell. As you well know.”
Sándor didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to say yes, but it also didn’t make much sense to deny it.
“So sell it,” he said hoarsely. Preferably without involving me.…
“What we’re missing,” Frederik said, “is the contact information for the buyer. Your brother entrusted you with that particular key, he said. So we thought that if we helped your brother get some medical attention now, then one favor could repay the other, if you catch my drift. It’s a very nice place, private clinic and all that, better than a big public hospital.”
“I would really like to talk to my brother first,” Sándor said insistently.
There was a little pause. The streetlights alternated in a Morse-like rhythm as the car slid through traffic, light-dark, light-dark, light-light-dark. Sándor cautiously leaned his head back against the cream-colored headrest and was suddenly dead tired of sitting in big German cars and being blackmailed.
The driver pulled something out of the chest pocket of his fringed cowboy leather jacket and handed it to Frederik. A mobile phone, it looked like. One of those ones that was practically a small computer, with a flip out keypad and double-sized screen.
“I have a video I think you should see,” Frederik said. He held the phone’s screen up so Sándor could look at it.
It was Tamás, of course. A close-up of his face, grainy and overexposed, but still frighteningly clear. His eyes were closed; no, more than closed, glued shut by some kind of goopy, yellow infection that stuck to his eyelashes in clumps. A tear track that was reddish from blood and pus ran down along the side of his nose. Little reddish-brown splotches covered the skin around his eyes like freckles, and he could hear a wheezing, gurgling sound that must be Tamás’s breathing. His lips were cracked and bloody, and it didn’t seem like he was aware of what was going on around him.
It was at that instant that Sándor remembered what mamioro meant: a spirit who brings deadly disease.