Sólja

Contents Sólja Introduction Sólja, Part I Svanafjøður 1 2 Copenhagen 3 4 Riga 5 Sólgóður 6 Svanafjøður 7 Copenhagen 8 9 Svanafjøður 10 Copenhagen 11 12 13 Sólja, Part II Ljósrípa 14 Copenhagen 15 16 17 Ljósrípa 18 Riga 19 Ljósrípa 20 Copenhagen 21 22 If you enjoyed this book Get more Scandinavian Crime stories About the Author Copyright Information Sólja by Christoffer Petersen Introduction Well, this was fun. Of course, that’s easy for me to say as I know the story, but if you’re reading this for the first time, it will hopefully keep you thinking all the way to the end. And therein lies the classic author warning that this is kinda twisty, a little dark, sometimes sexy, and wholly out of proportion with what might happen in the real world. At least, I hope so. I hope you have fun with this fictional what if? written with a heavy dose of dramatic license, including many place names devised to obscure real life locations. While the events in this story are tied off, I do think there might be a sequel! Chris June 2023 Denmark Sólja Part I Svanafjøður North of Gásadalur, Faroe Islands, March 15, 2005 1 It was the perfect night for a rendezvous. The ribs of the surrounding mountains climbed into the black sky, green grass on top, hidden in the Atlantic night, with the soft crash of foam at their feet. The woman watched from the pebbly shore, listening to the surge and splash of the sea against the rocks, and for other signs that might indicate she was not alone. The slap of the sole of a boot on the beach, or the crunch of a bow from a small tender would compensate for the lack of shadows as the moon hid behind thick grey clouds that threatened snow and the stars, in unison, looked the other way. The woman listened a moment more, and then turned her attention to the bay and the ripple of water she could hear, not see, and the tang of oil in the air revealing the presence of a vessel lurking out there, somewhere, waiting for a sign. The woman rubbed her belly, shushed the gentle kick of the baby she carried and then reached into her pocket for a small penlight. She hid the bulb in her fist, clicked the light on, and then opened her palm once, briefly, closing it again before repeating the same signal while counting down from sixty in her head. The woman counted down as a habit, and then, when she realised how it irritated her boyfriend so, always, and as often as possible. “But never up?” he had said, shortly before she left for the beach. “Up is hard work. Down,” she had said, reaching for his hand, pressing it to her belly as the baby kicked. “It’s downhill,” she said. “Easier. Gentler.” “There’s nothing gentle about you, Rebekka Utkin.” The man brushed a tangled stand of thick brown hair from her brow. “Nothing at all.” Rebekka might have said the same about Mikhail ‘Misha’ Sokolov, but it wasn’t true. He could be gentle – always with her – turning it on and off as the situation required. But on that night, on the pebble beach looking out from the shores of Svanafjøður, on the island of Vágar in the Faroe Islands, Rebekka had made sure Misha stayed at home. “I’ll be safe enough,” she had said. “The Danes will be just around the corner.” “I don’t like them,” Misha had said. “It’s their operation.” Rebekka had shrugged, reached for a thick wool sweater and the long, waxed jacket she preferred. She fought her way into the sweater, tugged it over her belly, and then shrugged the jacket onto her shoulders. She bounced her hair out of the collar and let the curls fall on her shoulders. The jacket hung a little lower on the right side, and Rebekka checked the pocket, removing the small NP-96 semi-automatic pistol and turning it in the light of the kitchen. “You shouldn’t go,” Misha said. “You’re pregnant.” “You noticed,” Rebekka said, raising her eyebrows as she flashed Misha a smile. “I should go instead of you.” “They’re expecting me.” “Yes, but…” “Misha,” Rebekka said, stuffing the pistol back into her pocket with a sigh. “We’ve been over this a hundred times.” “And I have disagreed…” “One hundred times.” Rebekka padded across the stone floor in thick woollen socks; the cuffs of her jeans bunched above them. “I will do this thing, and I will come straight back. You,” she said, pressing a slim finger upon Misha’s broad nose, “will wait here. You’ll have cocoa ready for when I return. And then…” She shrugged. “Maybe we can fool around?” “You’re pregnant,” Misha whispered, hands slipping around Rebekka’s waist as she bent forward to kiss him. “Yes. Still,” Rebekka said. “It’s true.” She pulled away as Misha took a deep breath and then padded to the door. “Don’t forget to check on the sheep,” she said, one hand on the wall as she stuffed her right foot into a knee-high rubber boot. “And close the gate this time,” she added, as she struggled with the left. “Rebekka…” She held up her finger, stalling Misha’s words on his tongue with that a touch of imaginary magic that defied both of them, and then opened the kitchen door. Rebekka gave Misha one last look and slipped out into the night. The path that wound down from the small stone croft to the shore was a narrow one, with stubborn rocks and football-sized boulders searching for her toes. But Rebekka, despite the baby she carried, was light on her feet, and the boots were thick, almost impenetrable. She navigated the path in much the same way the sheep climbed the mountains, with little more than a clack of a loose stone tumbling ahead of her when she dislodged it with her feet. She kept her gaze fixed straight