Page 37 of Spymaster

The Chief Inspector knew a thing or two about American law enforcement. Judging by the look of his passenger, he asked, “U.S. Marshals?”

“Secret Service,” Harvath replied. “Like I said, my superior will be happy just to know I took a look.”

“So this is a request,cop-to-cop, as you Americans say?”

Harvath nodded. “A professional courtesy. Cop-to-cop.”

Up ahead was a sign for the Visby Hospital. Nyström applied his turn signal and turned down a narrow residential street. Beyond, Harvath could already see the lights of the parking lot.

When they pulled in, the Chief Inspector found a space near the emergency room entrance and parked.

The hospital was much bigger than Harvath had expected. It was a sprawling three-story complex, built of orange brick, overlooking the ocean. The pale green of its multiple rooftops was echoed in the pale green of the window mullions. Harvath noticed a windsock, which told him there was a helipad nearby as well.

Entering the ER, they approached an intake desk, staffed by a pretty young nurse with spiky red hair who knew Nyström on sight. After a friendly back-and-forth, she laughed and waved the police officer and his guest past.

“Friend of yours?” Harvath asked as they walked down the hall.

“We’re in a local trail-running club together on Facebook,” the Swede replied. “She was teasing me about my recent time. She says that if they released criminals on the trails, maybe I would run faster.”

“And what did you say back that made her laugh?”

“I told her that I would definitely run faster if they releasedredheads.”

Harvath grinned. “Good line.” He had been right about the Chief Inspector being a runner.

Approaching a bank of elevators, Nyström reached out and pressed the down button. When an elevator arrived, they stepped inside and rode it to the basement.

As soon as the doors opened, Harvath got a blast of one of his least favorite smells. Morgues had a very distinct odor. No matter how far the actual room was from the elevators or a stairwell, the minute he arrived on the same floor, he knew it. There was no disguising the scent.

“I assume you are familiar with the identification process?” the Chief Inspector asked.

Harvath nodded. He’d been through the process before.

Walking into the morgue, Nyström paused briefly to chat with one of the technicians. Once the discussion was complete, he led them to an autopsy table at the end of the tiled room. Atop it was a black body bag.

The Chief Inspector looked at him. “Ready?”

Harvath nodded again.

Reaching out, the morgue technician zipped open the bag enough to reveal Lund’s head and upper torso.

The trauma was horrific and the corpse was in bad shape. But the disfigurement wasn’t so extensive as to render it unrecognizable.

“Is this Lars Lund?” Nyström asked?

“That’s him,” said Harvath.

The Chief Inspector nodded at the technician, who then zipped up the body bag.

“What kind of personal effects was he carrying with him?” Harvath continued.

Nyström nodded once more and the technician stepped away to a cabinet. When he returned, he was carrying a police evidence bag. Setting it on an adjacent counter, he unpacked the contents.

Harvath examined the items—wallet, watch, keys, reading glasses, money clip, and a small tin of mints. “That’s all?”

The technician nodded.

Harvath looked at Nyström. “Where’s his cell phone?”

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