Firewall (40 page)

"What sort of button?" Höglund said.

"That's what we were trying to work out."

They kept talking. At 4.30 a.m. Hansson called again. Wallander made some notes. From time to time he asked a short question. The conversation lasted 15 minutes.

"Hansson has managed to dig up a friend of Elvira Lindfeldt," Wallander said. "She had some interesting information for us. Apparently Lindfeldt worked in Pakistan for a couple of years during the seventies."

"I thought we were still focused on Angola," Martinsson said.

"The important thing is, what was she doing in Pakistan?" Wallander said, and looked closer at the back of the envelope on which he had made his notes. "According to this friend she was working for the World Bank. That gives us a connection. But there's more. The friend also said she expressed strange opinions from time to time. She was convinced that the whole financial order had to be restructured and that this could only be accomplished if the existing scheme of things was essentially torn down first."

"There must be a number of people involved in this," Martinsson said. "Even if we still don't know where or who they are."

"So we're looking for a button." Nyberg said. "Is that it? Or a lever? Or a light switch? But one that could be anywhere."

"Correct."

"So, in other words, we know nothing."

The room was tense. Wallander looked at his colleagues with something that was nearing desperation. We're not going to make it, he thought. We're not going to find Modin in time.

The phone rang again. Wallander had lost count of the times Hansson had called them.

"Lindfeldt's car," he said. "We should have thought of it earlier."

"Yes," Wallander said, "you're right."

"It was normally parked on the street outside her house, but it's gone now. We've alerted the district. It's a dark blue VW Golf with the registration FHC 803."

All the cars in this case seem to be dark blue, Wallander thought.

It was 4.50 a.m. The feeling in the room was tired and heavy. Wallander thought they all looked defeated. No-one seemed to know what to do.

Martinsson got up. "I have to have something to eat," he said. "I'm going down to the burger bar on Österleden. Does anyone want anything?"

Wallander shook his head. Martinsson made a note of what the others wanted, then he left. A few seconds later he was back.

"I don't have any money," he said. "Can anyone lend me some?"

Wallander had 20 kronor. Strangely enough, no-one else had any cash.

"I'll go by the cashpoint," Martinsson said and was gone again.

Wallander stared blankly at the wall. His head was starting to hurt.

But somewhere behind the growing headache an idea formed. He didn't know where it had come from, but suddenly he jumped up. The others stared at him.

"What did Martinsson say?"

"He was going to get some food."

"Not that. Afterwards."

"He said he had to stop at a cashpoint."

"How about that?" Wallander asked. "Something right in front of our eyes. Is it our coffee machine?"

"I don't think I follow," Höglund said.

"It's something we do without thinking twice."

"Buying some food?"

"Sticking a card into a cash machine. Getting cash and a printed receipt."

Wallander turned to Alfredsson. "Was there anything in Modin's notes about a cash machine?"

Alfredsson bit his lip. He looked up at Wallander. "You know, I actually think there was."

"What was it?"

"I can't remember exactly. It didn't strike either me or Martinsson as important."

Wallander slammed his fist into the table. "Where are his notes?"

"Martinsson took them."

Wallander was already on his feet and on his way out of the door. Alfredsson followed him to Martinsson's office. Modin's crumpled notes lay on the desk beside Martinsson's phone. Alfredsson started leafing through them while Wallander waited impatiently.

"Here it is," Alfredsson said and handed him a piece of paper.

Wallander put on his glasses and looked it over. The paper was covered with drawings of hens and cats. At the bottom, among some complicated and, to him, indecipherable calculations, there was a sentence that Modin had underlined so many times that he had torn the paper. Workable trigger. Could it be a cash machine?

"Is that the kind of thing you were looking for?" Alfredsson asked.

But he didn't get an answer. Wallander was already on his way back to the conference room. He was convinced. What better place? People were using cash dispensers every day, at all times of the day. Somewhere, at some point in time, on the given day, someone would make a transaction and thereby trigger an event that Wallander did not yet understand but had come to fear. He had no way of knowing that this hadn't in fact already taken place.

"How many cashpoints are there in Ystad?" he asked the others after explaining his new idea. No-one knew.

"We can find out from the phone book," Höglund said.

"If not, you'll have to dig out someone senior from a bank and find out."

Nyberg raised his hand. "How can we be so sure that you are right?"

"You can't," Wallander said. "But it beats sitting here twiddling our thumbs."

"What can we do about it anyway?"

"Even supposing I'm right," Wallander said, "we don't know which cash machine is the trigger. There may be more than one involved. We don't know when or how something is going to happen. But what we can make sure of is that nothing happens."

"You're thinking of having all cashpoint transactions suspended?"

"For now, yes."

"Do you realise what that means?"

"That people will have even more reason to dislike the police. That we'll get abused for a long time. Yes, of course I do."

"You can't do this without the prosecutor's blessing. And after consultation with the bank directors."

Wallander got up and sat in the chair across from Nyberg. "Right now I don't give a shit about any of that. Not even if it becomes the last thing I do as a police officer in Ystad. Or as a police officer, full stop."

Höglund had been going through the phone book. "There are four cash machines in Ystad," she said. "Three in the town centre and one in the shopping precinct. Where we found Falk."

Wallander thought about it.

"Martinsson must have gone to one of the machines closer to Österleden. Call him. You and Alfredsson will have to guard the other two. I'm going up to the one by the department store." He turned to Nyberg. "I'm going to ask you to call Chief Holgersson. Wake her up. Tell her exactly what's going on. Then she'll have to take it from there."

Nyberg shook his head. "She'll put a stop to the whole thing."

"Call her," Wallander said. "But if you like you could wait until 6 a.m."

Nyberg looked at him and smiled.

"One more thing. We can't forget about Robert and this tall, thin suntanned man. We don't know what language he speaks. But we have to assume that he or someone else associated with him is keeping an eye on the cash machine in question. If you have the slightest suspicion about anyone who approaches one of these machines, call the others immediately."

"I have been on many stake-outs in my day," Alfredsson said. "I don't think I've ever staked out a cash machine before."

"Some time has to be the first. Do you have a gun?" Alfredsson shook his head. "Get him one," Wallander said to Höglund. "And now let's get going."

It was 5.09 a.m. when Wallander left the station. He drove up to the shopping precinct with mixed feelings. In all likelihood he was wrong about this, but they had gone as far as they could go in the conference room. Wallander parked outside the Inland Revenue building. He zipped up his jacket and looked around. There was no-one to be seen. Dawn was still some time off. Then he walked over to the cash machine. There was no reason to remain concealed. The radio he had brought with him made a noise. Höglund was broadcasting that they were all in place. Alfredsson had run into problems. Some young drunks had insisted they be allowed to make a withdrawal. He had called for a patrol car to help him out.

"Keep the car circulating between us," Wallander said. "It will only get worse in an hour or so when people get on the move."

"Martinsson withdrew some cash," she said. "And nothing happened."

"We don't know that," Wallander said. "Whatever happens, we're not going to see it."

The radio fell silent. Wallander looked at a shopping trolley knocked over in the car park. Apart from a pick-up truck the car park was empty. It was 5.27 a.m. On the main road a large truck rattled past on its way to Malmö. Wallander started thinking about Elvira, but decided that he didn't have the energy. He would have to come back to it, to puzzle out how he could have let himself be taken in like that. How he could have been such a fool. Wallander turned his back to the wind and stamped his feet. He heard a car approaching. It was a saloon painted with the sign of an Ystad electrical firm. The man who jumped out was tall and thin. Wallander flinched and took hold of his gun, but then he relaxed. He recognised the man as an electrician who had done some work for his father in Löderup. The man greeted him.

"Is it out of order?" he said.

"We're not letting anyone make withdrawals for the time being."

"I'll have to go across town then."

"Unfortunately it won't work there either."

"What's wrong?"

"It's only a temporary malfunction."

"And they called in the police for that?"

Wallander didn't answer. The man got back into his car and drove away. Wallander knew that he would not be able to keep people at bay indefinitely with the explanation of a malfunction, and he was already dreading the moment when word got out to the wider public. How had he supposed it would work? Holgersson would put a stop to it the second she found out. Their reasoning was mere speculation. He would not have a leg to stand on and Martinsson would have more grist for his mill.

Then he caught sight of a man crossing the car park. He was a young man. He had come out from behind the pick-up truck, and he came walking towards Wallander. It took him several seconds to realise who it was. Modin. Wallander was frozen to the spot. He held his breath. He did not understand. Modin stopped, turning his back to Wallander, who knew instinctively what was going to happen. He threw himself to one side and turned. The man behind him had come from the direction of the supermarket. He was tall and suntanned and he was carrying a gun. He was 10 metres away and there was nowhere for Wallander to run. Wallander closed his eyes. The feeling from the field returned. The bitter end. Here but no longer. He waited for the shot that didn't come. He opened his eyes. The man had the gun pointed at his chest, but he was looking at his watch. The time, Wallander thought. It's time. I was right. I still don't know what is going to happen, but I was right.

The man made signs to Wallander to come closer and to put his arms up. He pulled out Wallander's gun and threw it into a rubbish bin next to the cash machine. Then he held out a credit card with his left hand and recited some numbers in heavily accented Swedish: "One, five, five, one."

He dropped the card onto the pavement and pointed his gun at it. Wallander picked it up. The man took a few steps to one side and looked again at his watch. Then he pointed to the cash machine. His movements were more brittle now. For the first time the man looked nervous. Wallander walked to the machine. When he turned slightly he could see Modin still where he had stopped. Right now Wallander didn't care what would happen when he put the card in and entered the numbers. Modin was alive. That was all that was important. But how could he continue to protect him? Wallander was searching for a way out. If he tried to attack the man behind him he would be shot at once. Probably Modin would not have time to escape. Wallander fed the card into the machine, and as he did so a shot rang out. The bullet hit the ground behind him and ricocheted. The tall man turned away. Wallander saw Martinsson on the other side of the street, some 25 metres away. He flung himself at the rubbish bin and pulled out his gun. The man aimed and fired at Martinsson but missed. Wallander raised his gun, sighted and squeezed the trigger. He hit the man in the chest and he collapsed.

"What's happening?" Martinsson shouted.

"It's safe to come over," Wallander shouted back.

The man on the pavement was dead.

"What made you come here?" Wallander said.

"If your theory was correct, then it had to be here," Martinsson said. "It makes sense that Falk would have chosen the cash machine closest to his house and the one he always passed on his evening walks. I asked Nyberg to watch the cashpoint where I was."