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‘What did you do with them?’ Paulina asked.

‘Who?’

‘The Kloss children.’

Aron closed his eyes and lay back. ‘I took them across the island and locked them in a boathouse.’

Paulina nodded. ‘We’ll phone someone in the morning and let them know,’ she said, then added, ‘My friend made it, too.’

‘What friend?’

‘Her name is Lisa.’

Silence fell once more; the forest was peaceful. After a few minutes, Aron could hear his daughter’s calm, even breathing, but he couldn’t get to sleep himself; his body was still throbbing and aching.

He must have dropped off eventually, because the sun was in his face when he opened his eyes, its rays shining between the tree trunks. Another glorious summer’s day. Paulina shifted slightly beside him, but she was still asleep.

Aron blinked in the bright light, surprised that he had woken up. Slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt.

Before long, his daughter woke behind the wheel. They exchanged a few quiet words, then she started the car and they continued their journey north across the island.

In Byxelkrok, they saw the sea again, and stopped at the harbour hotel for a cup of coffee. The waitress barely glanced at them.

The police might well be looking for them in the south; there might be patrol cars all over Borgholm; they might even have closed the bridge — but here in the north, no one was interested in them.

There was a telephone kiosk down by the harbour in Byxelkrok; Paulina drove up to it and looked at her father. ‘Are you going to call her now, Papa, and tell her where the children are?’

Aron nodded and got out of the car. He ambled over to the kiosk, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, but he didn’t make the call.

Instead, he turned his back on Paulina and opened his jacket with his free hand. There was a small tear in the fabric, stained dark red, but the wound was no longer bleeding. Not much, anyway.

It had taken several hours after the explosion for him to realize what had happened, but when he woke at dawn Aron had known that the throbbing in his belly wasn’t normal. Silently, in order to avoid waking his daughter, he had unbuttoned his shirt and discovered a small, narrow wound in his right side.

Kent Kloss hadn’t missed with his first shot after all.

He had a first-aid box in the car, and had dressed the wound with adhesive tape and a clean bandage to stop the bleeding, but his guts were hurting, and when he pressed with his fingers he could feel a piece of lead inside him.

Aron had been shot, for the first time in his life. It was almost funny, but he had to keep it to himself.

Paulina mustn’t find out.

He put down the phone and slowly made his way back to the car. ‘All done,’ he said.

Paulina started the car and they continued northwards, heading for the last outpost: the harbour in Nabbelund and the ferry to Gotland.

‘What did you do with the guns?’ she asked.

Aron jerked his head towards a bag on the back seat. It had been filled with sticks of dynamite earlier on, but now it was almost empty.

‘They’re in there,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop them over the side once we’re far enough out.’

The Grankulla Bay inlet was surrounded by spits of land and low islets covered in dense forest, almost like a lagoon. Laange Erik, the tall white lighthouse, warned ships of shallow waters off the northern tip of the island.

Fortunately, the ferry to Gotland had made its way safely to the quayside and was ready for departure. Aron and Paulina left the old Ford in the car park and walked along the jetty. Aron felt the wind coming off the Baltic on his face. They went aboard; Paulina had booked their tickets all the way home. The ferry would take them to Visby; from there, it was a short flight to Stockholm, then on to Moscow.

Going home.

But of course this wasn’t how Aron had expected it to end; he had intended to die on Öland, in the croft by the shore.

There was a cafeteria on the ferry, a small shop and a passenger lounge equipped with tables and chairs. They chose seats over in a corner, where no one could hear them.

Aron sat down carefully; his stomach was hurting. He looked out of the window to the south, as if he could see Stenvik and all the damage he had caused there.

Then he sighed and said to his daughter, ‘I am a cleanser.’

Paulina was silent for a moment, then she said, quietly but firmly, ‘Not any more. You’ve finished with all that, Papa.’

Aron looked at his hands. ‘Cleansing and purging, that’s all I was good at. It was the only thing I was praised for when I was young, so that’s what I’ve done all my life. Apart from meeting your mother and taking care of you.’

‘That was enough, Papa.’ Paulina reached across and stroked his cheek. ‘We’re going home now; we can rest and eat good food. We’re done with this country.’

She was efficient, as usual, focused, just as she had been when she had applied for the post with Kent Kloss — but Aron sensed a calmness in her after a stressful summer, and a kind of forgiveness, too.

He tried to relax. The quayside was empty now; everyone had either boarded the ferry or gone home. The Ford stood there abandoned; he had left it unlocked, with the keys in the ignition, so that anyone could take it if they felt like it.

Slowly, he got to his feet.

‘I’m hungry,’ he lied. ‘Can I get you something?’

Paulina shook her head. He patted her cheek, allowing his hand to linger a fraction longer. Then he walked out of the lounge.

One minute to departure.

It was time to decide; Aron made up his mind. He went over to the locker and took out his bag, then made a beeline for the gangplank. He jumped ashore only seconds before it was removed.

A young sailor was standing on the quay, holding the last hawser. He looked at Aron in surprise.

‘Changed your mind?’

Aron nodded. His stomach wasn’t hurting quite so much now that he no longer needed to hide the pain. The sun was beginning to warm the air, and he was hardly shivering at all.

The sailor threw the rope on board, and the ferry began to pull away. The stretch of open water between the ship and the quayside quickly grew; soon it was too late to jump on to the deck, even if Aron had been young and fit.

He caught a last glimpse of Paulina’s dark hair through the window. Her head was bowed, and she didn’t see him.

The pain he was feeling now was the pain at the thought of never seeing his daughter again. But in her bag was the money Aron had taken from the safe on the Ophelia — over half a million kronor. She would have a good life without him.

Cumulus clouds were beginning to gather above the horizon in the west, grey and hammer-shaped, a forewarning of the bad weather to come in the autumn. A storm was on its way.

He turned his back on the water. There was plenty of time now. His daughter would be stuck on the ferry from Öland to Gotland for several hours.

Taking short steps, he made his way back to the car; he got in and let out a long breath. He threw his bag on the back seat and heard the guns inside clink together. As he thought about them he saw Veronica’s face before him, with that cool expression. He saw her walking around the sunlit lawns at the Ölandic Resort, just as composed and triumphant as Lenin’s widow.

Aron was dying. He didn’t know how many hours he had left — but Veronica Kloss was going to live on.

Was she?

No, Vlad said inside his head. No, she wasn’t.