The incident at the laboratory was front-page news.
He gasped when he saw the headline.
According to the article, a devastating fire had swept through a warehouse, destroying a lab and killing everyone inside. Strangely, no one was sure why the staff had been working so late or what type of lab it was. The article explained that it had no apparent affiliation with any pharmaceutical company or biological research facility in the country, but they hoped the ongoing investigation would eventually make a connection. Police were unwilling to release an official body count, but they confirmed that more than twenty victims had been found so far.
Sahlberg was saddened by the news.
Even though he did not know the purpose of this particular lab, the death of any scientist in Stockholm was sure to affect him personally. Sahlberg had never married, but a tragedy at a facility in his hometown was nearly certain to involve someone from his other family — his scientific family. He was sure he would soon learn that someone in the fire had either worked for him or with him, or was associated with someone who would fit into one of those categories. The research community was surprisingly close-knit, despite its worldwide distribution.
He immediately checked his email. He was searching for any first-hand information from his colleagues back home. All he saw were standard messages from the various mailing lists he subscribed to. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief. Unfortunately, the feeling was short-lived. He knew it was far too early to assume that no news was good news, so he went back to his browser and searched for more details.
Stockholm’s other major newspaper, Svenska Dagbladet, echoed the details from the other report, with one notable addition: an unnamed source in the fire department said that the scene had the look and feel of a controlled burn, intentionally contained to this specific building.
Sahlberg’s mind raced with questions.
The scientists were murdered? By whom?
For what possible reason?
No longer in the mood to eat, he decided to walk off the growing tension in his shoulders with a quick lap around his neighborhood. He figured the exercise in the warm summer air would do him some good.
Despite his advanced age, Sahlberg didn’t need any assistance to get around. He still walked with the brisk stride of a man in his early thirties. Maybe even his twenties. Whatever the case, he was far more nimble than anyone his age had a right to be. When people asked him for his secret, he always smiled and answered truthfully: genetics.
As an expert in that field, he knew it to be true.
Strolling past the rows of homes that dotted his street, he thought back to the first few years after his arrival. Back then, the community was mostly Germanic. He couldn’t walk more than a few feet from his house before being overcome with the smell of curing sausages or fresh-baked streusel. God, he loved that smell. At least on the days when the air wasn’t heavy with the soot from the area’s mills.
Today the air was clean, but the only smell he could detect was the faint waft of garbage that had cooked too long inside the neighborhood’s waste cans. It was trash day, and he could hear the hum and whirl of the garbage truck from two streets away. Sahlberg smiled, knowing that the odor would be gone by the time he returned.
He walked away from the river, where the houses gave way to apartments and condominium complexes. He stopped briefly at one of the neighborhood’s small parks. It wasn’t that he needed the rest — even in the heat he had yet to break a sweat. Instead, it was the class of preschoolers who had invaded the playground that had caught his eye. He watched for a while as they played. They chased each other everywhere, an endless cycle of constant motion as they climbed up the jungle gym and slid down the slide. Up the stairs and down the slide. Over and over again. Kid after kid after kid. As they did, they laughed and giggled without a care in the world.
How refreshing, Sahlberg thought.
Nothing worries them at all.
They have no fear of the future.
Suddenly he was struck by the dichotomy of the last hour: the joy of these children and the lives they had in front of them versus the horror of the lab fire and the lives of his peers cut needlessly short. His physical tension was gone, but his anger and curiosity remained. So much so that he decided to head back home to search for answers.
As he rounded the street corner nearest his house, he noticed something peculiar. A delivery truck was parked at his curb, and two men in jumpsuit uniforms were walking toward his front porch. The first man approached empty-handed, followed by a man carrying a large package. But when they arrived at the door, they didn’t knock or ring the bell. Instead, they peered through the slit windows on either side of the door as if they were casing the joint.
Sahlberg slowed to a halt. The sight of two strangers on his front porch — either of whom could have delivered a package on his own — tripped an alarm in his mind. Something about this didn’t seem right. With his heart pounding in his chest, he ducked behind a row of hedges to see what they did next.
The first man picked the lock on the front door while the second man concealed the crime with the large box in his hands. As soon as the door was open, he placed the package on the porch and pulled a pistol from his jumpsuit. He waited for his partner to draw his own weapon before the two of them slipped inside the house.
Sahlberg gasped at the sight.
Who were these men? What did they want with him?
Less than a minute later, they reappeared in the doorway. The first man shook his head toward the delivery truck and pointed left. Then he pointed to himself and motioned right. As they hustled from Sahlberg’s house, two more men stepped from the truck. They were dressed in suits and had shoulder holsters.
Until that moment, Sahlberg hadn’t even known they were there.
Now he knew they were after him.
Sahlberg had to act fast. He cut through his neighbor’s yard and retreated to the relative safety of a nearby market. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but at least he wasn’t by himself.
‘Mr Matty, how are you!’ shouted the twenty-something behind the counter. Sahlberg had known the young man since he was a child, back when Mattias had been too difficult for the boy to pronounce. He had been Mr Matty ever since.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Except I seem to have left my cell phone at home. Would you mind terribly if I made a call? Local, of course.’
‘No problem at all,’ the young man said as he handed Sahlberg a cordless phone. ‘Help yourself.’
Sahlberg grabbed the phone and stepped away from the counter so he would not be overheard. Then he dialed a number from memory. At a time like this, there was only one person he thought he could trust. He only hoped the stranger would listen.
The call was connected on the second ring.
‘Please don’t hang up,’ Sahlberg pleaded. ‘Someone is trying to kill me.’
7
During his highly decorated military career, Jonathon Payne had survived gunfire, terrorists, and several forms of torture, but none of that compared to the nails-on-a-chalkboard agony he suffered whenever his board of directors gathered for their quarterly meetings.
For a man of action, it was cruel and unusual punishment.
Borderline inhumane.
If given the choice, Payne would rather rappel down the side of the building in a blizzard while completely naked than listen to a bunch of geezers in custom-tailored suits drone on and on about his company’s debt-to-equity ratio, its market capitalization, or whatever the hell they were talking about, because the truth was he had stopped listening an hour ago. If not for the love and respect he felt for his grandfather — a self-made millionaire who had risen from steelworker to mill owner before willing the company to his grandson — Payne never would have left the military to take over as CEO of Payne Industries.