Fool Me Twice (Riley Wolfe 2)

“Well, and good night, then,” Per said. “Perhaps the rest of us can leave the fishing to you and make our money taking selfies with tourists by the statue.”

“Ya, the tourists,” another man with a large red beard chimed in. “Both of them.”

This did not get the laugh it might have before the current slump. The men just watched the

door close behind the three-pint man.

“Huh,” Per said sourly. “Well, so, one of us at least has managed to stay off the point of Njord’s spear.”

“More fish for us,” the bearded man said.

“Feh,” Per said. “And where are these fish of yours? I can’t find them—but if you know where the fish have gone, you may buy me another pint.”

Outside the pub, a cold and wet wind blew in from the sea, the kind of wind that feels much colder than the thermometer says it is. But three pints of good Swedish beer make a fine insulation, and the lucky fisherman was still cheerful as he walked home through the square. And why not? Life was good, and if the other fishermen were not able to adapt as well as he did, that was their lookout. He even whistled a little once he was out of hearing of the men in the pub. Like most men who make their living on the sea, he lived inland, away from the water, and his little cottage stood at the edge of town, slightly isolated from the other homes of the village.

He was still whistling when he opened the door of the cottage. He stopped abruptly after one step inside.

The house was a wreck.

He was not an unusually neat man, but this—someone had been here. Someone had come in while he was at the pub and taken the place apart. Someone who was looking for something.

They hadn’t found it; of course not. Although almost everything in the house had been dumped in the center of the floor, there didn’t appear to be anything missing. There was nothing here worth taking, nothing at all beyond some pots and pans, a few books, some old knickknacks.

He went quickly into the other two rooms, the kitchen and the bedroom. It was the same there—everything tossed into the center of the room, kicked to splinters, sifted through for something that they would never find, whoever had done this, because it wasn’t here. He would never keep anything valuable here, in the battered old cottage. Anything really important, he kept in a very safe place, well hidden on—

On his boat.

For a moment he stopped breathing.

And then, as if he had been jolted into action by an electric shock, he lurched into the bedroom. The mattress had been pulled off the springs, but it was intact. He hurriedly flipped it over. There was a seam hidden on the top edge. He had made it himself and closed it with Velcro so it was nearly invisible but within easy reach when he lay in his bed. He opened it now and thrust a trembling hand inside, coming out a moment later with his pistol, a 9mm Husqvarna M40 that had been his father’s. He had kept it handy for years. He sometimes dealt with very questionable people, and although there had never been any need of the pistol, he kept it on the theory that it was better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

And now, quite clearly, he needed it. He tucked it into the waist of his trousers, pulled his sweater down to hide it, and hurried from his house.

His boat was in a slip at the municipal docks, down at the end of a row of similar fishing boats and near the jetty. He kept it there, somewhat isolated, except from the statue of Njord, which loomed over it only seven or eight meters away. There were times when a small bit of privacy was called for—those times when he went out for things that were not, strictly speaking, fish.

Nearly running, he went down the dock to his boat. It seemed undisturbed, still buttoned up just as he had left it. But of course, looks are often deceptive. Moving cautiously now, he took his pistol from the waist of his trousers and stepped on board his trawler. In spite of his care, the boat rocked under his weight, just a little. The locks were all in place, undisturbed. He saw no sign that anything had been touched.

Even so—he paused on the deck, holding his breath, waiting for some sign that someone was there.

Nothing.

He took a breath. His palms were sweating, and he wiped them against his trouser legs. With a firm and much drier grip on his pistol, he unlocked the door into the main cabin and slid it open.

He paused again, listening for any sound. He heard only the slow creak of the mooring lines and a gentle gurgle of water against the hull. Slowly, silently, he moved inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. As quiet as a cat, he went down the short stairway to the interior of the boat. Still no sign that anything had been touched. But with so much at stake—he had to be sure.

He crept along a short corridor and down into the hold. It was dark, and the smell of old fish was overpowering. He barely noticed. Pressing himself against the last bulkhead before the bow, he flipped the switch that turned on the dim light in the bow area. Again—empty. No sign that any intruder had been here.

He moved quickly forward to the bow. Below the waterline, just where the boat’s prow came to a point, he had installed a hidden compartment. It had been useful many times in the past. His special, non-fishing clients usually had something they wished to hide. He never showed any of them where this compartment was. No one else knew of its location—not even of its existence. It was masterfully disguised at the bottom of a locker that held old anchor line, smelly and crusted with growth. Now it held something even more important than anything he had put into it before. Now it held his future. His safe, comfortable future in a warm place, away from ice and snow and the stink of fish.

Hardly daring to breathe, he looked into the locker.

The old anchor line was undisturbed. Of course it was; it could not be otherwise. No one knew about this compartment, and no one could ever find it. Even when he had been boarded by police, no one had ever found the compartment. Still, just to be sure, he moved the old anchor line aside and opened the compartment.

It was still there. Breathing a sigh of relief, he reached in and brought it out into the light. He didn’t know a lot about Fabergé and had no idea why the man had made eggs. And this one—a big pink egg with a clock. Why? It made no sense to him. But that didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that it was worth millions—thirty-five or forty million, perhaps. He didn’t care. Twenty million was fine; it would make for a quick sale, and just as soon as the heat died down a bit he would find a buyer, some quiet collector, willing to pay him a bargain price for this rare treasure.

And it was very pretty, he had to admit. He turned it slowly, admiring the little chicken on top, covered with gems, and how they took the pink color of the egg itself. It really was quite—

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”