She was not at liberty to ask him why he could not fetch the package himself. With clients, discretion was a requirement and, at her firm, it was a matter of honour. Even so, she had decided she would ask the question when they met.
She reclined her seat and closed her eyes. One hour’s sleep would be very welcome. After all, she had been woken very early. According to the captain, the plane had reached its cruising altitude and she would be in Stockholm in a little less than two hours. It was a city she had never set foot in.
For the first
time since his capture, Leo Brageler felt that there was a point to his situation. Events and people were slowly beginning to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. He would follow the plan he had devised and redeem his previous bad deeds. His sense of purpose gave him the strength that he so sorely needed.
He must have slept for a long time, because the light through the door crack was bright. He assumed that it was midday. He had seen nothing but damp stone walls for several months. Life on the outside felt distant, but he wanted to be part of it again. His vengeance and hatred towards those he considered guilty no longer fuelled the burning fire that gave his life meaning. Instead, his memories of the happy times meant the most to him. They gave him the will to endure. They could never take them from him. Everything he did now was for their sakes. And for all of those whom he had sent to an early death.
Perhaps Cecilia would then speak to him again. With her soft voice, full of forgiveness.
He stood up cautiously. It hurt less, although the morphine was no longer having any effect. He carefully took a few steps to the sink and drank a little of the foul-tasting water. He splashed water on his face, wiping his hand from his eyes down to his tangled beard. On the floor by his mattress, there was a tray with something resembling porridge in a bowl. He sat down and cautiously tasted it. It was rice pudding and was sweet. He rested for a few moments and then ate a few mouthfuls. He continued with this procedure until the bowl was empty. It had taken him perhaps an hour. Time was an abstract concept in this place. Even so, he wished he had a clock or something to keep himself synchronized beyond night and day. He lay down on the damp mattress and closed his eyes.
The food had made him weary. Time was running out and they would soon be back. With the documents and the CD. He might be able to delay matters for a few days, but no longer. He had to regain his strength if he was to escape his captors. He was determined to succeed.
Walter looked at
the red cabin from a distance of about three hundred metres. The blinds were drawn and there was a police car parked outside, doors open and windscreen full of holes.
Walter knew then that he had made a mistake when he had ordered the dogs to be let loose. Perhaps they could have avoided this if they had followed Hedman from a distance. He blamed Rolf Meiton for the most part. If he had just listened to Walter and positioned the dog patrols on the outside of the perimeter fence, Hedman would now be in custody. Instead, they had a hostage situation on their hands.
“Who lives in the house?” Walter asked over the radio.
“Einar and Ingegärd Mattson,” the communications officer reported. “They’re both seventy-eight years old.”
“No others?”
“No, just these two are registered as living at this address.”
“Any children?”
“Yes, one daughter.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Yes, she has confirmed that her parents live alone.”
“Firearms licence?”
“Yes, for one shotgun, a Husqvarna 310,” the communications officer said.
“A Husqvarna 310?” repeated Walter. “That’s an old beast.”
“Most likely the weapon that Hedman used to shoot the patrol car,” the communications officer remarked.
“Yes, it seems so.”
Walter walked over to Jonna, who was talking to the woman doctor.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, gently taking the young woman by the arm. “Now that you’ve been informed of the risks, you are free to make that decision.”
“I haven’t changed my mind,” she said, and grasped both her medical bags.
Walter looked into her eyes and was met by determination.
“I’ve served in Afghanistan and I’m used to the sound of gunfire,” she said.
“I know,” Walter said. “That’s why you were the first name on our list.”
“If I survived a year over there without a scratch, then I should be able to manage thirty minutes in there.” She nodded towards the house.
Walter tapped her bulletproof vest. “Just do as we told you and everything will be fine. Hostages seldom get hurt in situations like this.”
She smiled through her gritted teeth and started to walk towards the cabin. Walter contemplated the woman as she approached the house. Heroes still existed. People who put the safety of others before their own. Unfortunately, they were in short supply.
The doctor entered
the hallway cautiously. She made no sudden moves and walked across the floor as if it were made of ice. She didn’t look like a cop, but beneath the disguise could be all sorts of nasty surprises. She was wearing a bulletproof vest and one of the SWAT team’s helmets, which was too big for her.
Tor pointed his sawn-off shotgun at her. “Are you a cop?”
“No,” the woman answered nervously, looking at the gun that Tor was holding.
“Are you the doctor?”
“Yes,” she said.
“If you try any tricks, you’ll end up face down in a pool of blood. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Fix my hand first, then check my leg. After that you can play doctor with the old bag. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at the old woman.
“Open up your bags,” Tor ordered, motioning towards the doctor’s bags with his gun.
The doctor opened her bags and Tor rummaged among the bandages and surgical instruments with the sawn-off barrels.
“Take off your bulletproof vest,” he said, aiming his gun at her chest.
“Why?” she asked anxiously.
“Just do as I say.”
The woman took off her vest.
“Your helmet too,” said Tor.
The woman pulled off her helmet and put it down next to her vest on the floor.
Tor had a problem. With only one hand, which he needed to hold his gun, it would be impossible to frisk the woman for hidden weapons. She could have hidden a small revolver somewhere on her person. Tor waved to the old man. “See if she’s hiding a shooter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do a body search,” Tor yelled at him. “Check for hidden weapons.”
“But I can’t . . .”
Tor put the gun barrels against the old man’s head. “Do you want me to pull the trigger?”
He shook his head.
“Then get moving.”
The man started frisking the woman’s body with trembling hands. He went through her pockets and patted under her arms. His hands moved over the outsides of her jeans, down to her shoes, and up her back to her neck. He had performed body searches on a daily basis in the Congo. He had never imagined that he would be doing it again fifty years later in his own kitchen.
“Check between her legs,” said Tor.
The old man stared at Tor.
“Push your hand up her crotch,” Tor repeated. “She could’ve stashed something in her knickers.”
The old man looked apologetically at the woman, who nodded at him. Einar touched the woman’s private parts with his trembling hand.
“Breasts too,” Tor ordered. “Check whether she has something between her tits.”
Einar touched her cleavage. He shook his head.
“Nothing there either,” he said.
Perhaps she was a doctor after all, Tor decided, and sat down. “Can you fix this?” Tor held out his right hand. His gun was aimed at the doctor.
Lina Vennerberg examined the man’s hand. She had been a doctor for seven years and was a surgeon, but she had never seen anything like this before. Of course, she had operated on a large number of war injuries during her tour of duty with the Swedish field hospital in Afghanistan, but this was unique. A titanium plate was protruding through the skin and the hand was bleeding from several, open wounds. A large part of the tissue was infected and the smell of the pus hit her like a slap in the face. The nerves were partially destroyed and had made the hand contract, making it look like a spaghetti ladle. It surprised her that the man didn’t feel more pain. She would need an operating theatre to save his hand.
“Don’t you feel any pain?” she asked.
“A bit. I have diabetes.”
“I see. How’s your sugar level?”
“OK, I guess,” answered Tor quickly, studying the woman. She looked quite decent. If the entire Stockholm police force weren’t camped outside, he would’ve done her there and then.
“I can remove the titanium plate that is sticking out and bandage the wound to stop the bleeding,” she said, with concern. “But you need several operations to save the hand and they have to be done at hospital. The nerves are starting to die.”
Tor glared suspiciously at the doctor. She couldn’t be more than forty. How much knowledge of nerves could she possibly have? Was it just a trick to get Tor to hospital? He had to choose between losing a hand or at least twenty years in the nick. But if he escaped, then the psycho cop had promised to help him out of the country and to a hospital abroad.
Tor watched the doctor while she was treating his hand. Until now, he had not thought about his own value. What was Tor Hedman actually worth to the psycho cop? Was he afraid that Tor would grass on him in return for what had happened in Gnesta?
Probably. That was why he was so willing to help Tor. But he probably also saw Tor as a liability, because of what he knew. A ticking timebomb that could go off at any time. Tor actually had a lot of dirt on the cop. Tor would have to outsmart that psychopath if he didn’t want to end up as fish food.
Tor gazed aimlessly around the kitchen. The doctor was busy with his hand and Tor could feel his nerves coming to life. A working right hand was definitely worth having. He decided he wanted both freedom and medical attention.
“There you are.” said the doctor, after working on Tor’s hand for a long time. “I can’t do any more now. The local anaesthetic will wear off after an hour and then you’ll start to feel some pain.”
The bandaging around his hand looked good. He had a similar one around his leg. His fingertips tingled. An indication that his sense of touch was returning.
Tor watched the doctor attending the silver-haired old woman. She cleaned her wound and then bandaged the old woman’s head. The smell from the old woman’s vomit forced Tor to open a window. The old couple were becoming more of a burden than a benefit. It would be enough to keep the doctor as leverage. Actually, it would make life easier.
“You two can go,” he said, motioning at the old couple, “and you’re staying with me.” He pointed at the doctor. She was unfazed.
“No!” the old man exclaimed. “Keep me, but let the women go.”
Tor raised his gun towards the old man. “Shut your mouth!”
“At least, let the girl go,” the old man pleaded.
“If you don’t shut it, she’ll be the only one still breathing,” Tor snarled.
“Put your gun down,” said the doctor, in a steady voice, and stood in front of Tor. “Let them go. I’ll stay.”
Tor smiled. Miss Smarty Pants stood with straight shoulders and a cold stare. He was amused that she thought she could threaten him. Other than spitting in his face, what could she do?
“You and I will have a good time by ourselves,” Tor said and touched her blonde hair.
She pulled her head away.
Tor had forgotten for a moment that he and the doctor were not alone. At the corner of his eye, he saw something flying towards his head.
Chapter 12
“It’s been almost
two hours now,” Walter said impatiently. Jonna watched Walter pacing incessantly.
It was the first time she had seen him being nervous. He had finished off a whole box of cough drops and had asked the other police officers for some.
Walter’s phone rang.
“Yes?”
“We have the lists from the mobile-phone operators that you asked for,” Dennis Carlinder from Surveillance said.
Walter took his eyes off the house. “And?”
“We’re pretty sure which number is Tor Hedman’s because his movements in Dalarö and south Stockholm match up. As you may know, the triangulation data gives an accuracy of ten metres, using bearings from three base stations.”
“Go on,” urged Walter. He hated long, technical explanations that he still didn’t understand.
“On one of the calls, there was data only from two base stations, so that leaves a radius of more than a hundred metres for the phone’s position.”
“I understand, but who has he been talking to?”
“Not many calls this week. But virtually all the numbers that have been connected to his mobile are on brand-new, pre-paid SIM cards. So we can’t find any data, except the location where the call started. There’s no historical data to retrieve. One of these SIM cards logged into a base station which covers the area that you are currently searching. The owner has made a few calls to some numbers that are also on new SIM cards and then logged off the base station, which means that the phone has been switched off.”
Walter remained silent.
“Hedman’s mobile received a call less than thirty minutes before the raid. Given the time of the call, one might assume he was tipped off.”
“Where did the call originate from?”
“Somewhere near the Olympic Stadium in Östermalm.”
Walter thought for a moment. “The Armed Forces HQ?” he thought out loud.
“Could be. But we’re not . . .”
“Thanks for your help,” said Walter, ending the call.
“How much time does it take to get from the Olympic Stadium to Sigtuna?” he asked, turning to Jonna.
“You already know the answer,” she said, “but about thirty minutes depending on traffic.” Jonna looked at her boss, confused. She wasn’t the only one suffering from fatigue.
“How can we find out Martin Borg’s home address?” Walter asked.