“I don’t have that here. It would be in the main hangar.”
“Let’s go there, then.”
The kid picked up the phone.
The on-duty flight mechanic, Harold, was barely older than the desk clerk and even more unsettled by their appearance. Insurance investigator, missing aircraft, and maintenance records was a trio of phrases no flight mechanic wanted to hear, especially when combined with Lloyd’s of London, which had for nearly three hundred years enjoyed and wielded cachet like few other companies in the world.
Harold showed them into the maintenance office, and in short order Dominic and Brian had before them the records they’d requested and two cups of coffee. Harold loitered in the doorway until Brian gave him a you’re dismissed stare that only a Marine officer can generate.
The flight plan Hlasek Air filed listed the Falcon’s destination as Madrid, Spain, but flight plans were just that: plans. Once outside Söderhamn’s airspace, the Falcon could have gone anywhere. There were complications to this, of course, but nothing insurmountable. The maintenance records seemed similarly routine until they got past the summary and read the details. In addition to a topping off of the Falcon’s fuel tanks, the on-duty flight mechanic had performed a diagnostics scan of the aircraft’s transponder.
Dominic got up, tapped on the office’s glass window, and waved Harold over. He showed the mechanic the maintenance report. “This mechanic—Anton Rolf—we’d like to talk to him.”
“Uh, he’s not here today.”
“We assumed as much. Where can we find him?”
“I don’t know.”
Brian said, “What’s that mean?”
“Anton hasn’t been to work in a week. No one’s seen him or heard from him.”
The Söderhamn police, Harold further explained, had come to the airport the previous Wednesday, following up on a missing-person report from Rolf’s aunt, with whom Anton lived. Her nephew had failed to return home after work a week ago Friday.
Assuming the police would have already done the customary legwork, Brian and Dominic drove into Söderhamn, checked into the Hotel Linblomman, and slept until six, then found a nearby restaurant, where they ate and killed an hour before walking three blocks to a pub called Dålig Radisa—the Bad Radish—which, according to Harold, was Anton Rolf’s preferred hangout.
After doing a walk-around survey of the block, they pushed through the bar’s front door and were struck by a wave of cigarette smoke and heavy metal, and engulfed in a sea of blondhaired bodies either jostling for position at the bar or dancing wherever free space was to be found.
“At least it isn’t that techno shit,” Brian yelled over the cacophony.
Dominic grabbed a passing waitress and used his halting Swedish to order two beers. She disappeared and returned five minutes later. “You speak English?” he asked her.
“Yes, English. You are English?”
“American.”
“Hey, American, that’s great, yeah?”
“We’re looking for Anton. You seen him?”
“Which Anton? There are many that come here.”
“Rolf,” Brian replied. “Mechanic, works at the airport.”
“Yes, okay, Anton. He has not been here for a week, I think.”
“You know where we can find him?”
The waitress’s smile faded a bit. “Why are you looking for him?”
“We met him on Facebook last year. Told him next time we were over here we’d look him up.”
“Oh, hey, Facebook. That’s cool. His friends are here. They might know. Over there, in the corner.” She pointed to a table surrounded by half a dozen twentysomethings in jerseys.
“Thanks,” Brian said, and the waitress turned to go. Dominic stopped her. “Hey, just curious: Why’d you ask why we were looking for Anton?”
“There were others. Not nice like you.”
“When?”
“Last Tuesday? No, sorry, Monday.”
“The police, maybe?”
“No, not the police. I know all the police. Four men, not white but not black. From Middle East, maybe?”
Once she was gone, Dominic shouted in Brian’s ear, “Monday. Three days after Rolf’s aunt said he didn’t come home.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” Brian replied. “Shit, man, it just had to be footballers.”
“So?”
“You never watched the World Cup, bro? These guys like fighting more than they like drinking.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to get a reaction, then.”
“Dom, I ain’t talking about boxing. I’m talking about rip-your-ear-off, stomp-on-your-guts street brawling. Add that whole group together and you know what you get?”
“What?”
“A mouthful of teeth,” Brian replied with an evil grin.
Hey, guys, we’re looking for Anton,” Dominic said. “Waitress said you’re his friends.”
“Don’t speak English,” one of them said. He had a latticework of ropy scars on his forehead.
“Hey, fuck you, Frankenstein,” Brian said.
The man scooted his chair back, stood up, and squared off. The rest of them followed suit.