One week later, a slightly flushed Hildebrandt had summoned Jonna to his office. He had not looked amused, but he had still signed the paperwork, on which David Lilja’s signature was also written in red ink. As Jonna was clearing her personal effects from her desk, Hildebrandt approached her and wished her well with a warm handshake. So her escape to County CID had not caused him too much inconvenience. And unless she was planning to stay at County CID indefinitely, he had plans for her when she returned. What they were, he did not go into any further, but if he judged her character correctly – which he assumed he did – she would find his ideas most rewarding.
With Hildebrandt’s words stored in the back of her mind, Jonna left the RSU. Finally, she would spend her time looking for the person who had become an obsession to her. Leo Brageler had been the reason for her headlong jump into an unofficial investigation with Walter that had almost cost her a career and nearly sent her to jail. By cutting procedural corners, Jonna and Walter had managed both to avoid prosecution and, most importantly, to discover the name of the criminal mastermind behind the drug that had spread so much destruction. Also, by enlisting the help of an unscrupulous journalist.
She also had a legitimate reason to get in touch with the cute security guard who had helped her with some rather too “refreshed” cruise-ferry passengers. The thought gave her a tingling feeling in her stomach.
Ever since the
incident in Gnesta, the world around Tor “Headcase” Hedman had crumbled like a sandcastle. His brother-in-arms of the past eight years, Jerry Salminen, had literally gone up in smoke during a disastrous visit to their golden goose, Omar Khayyam, in Gnesta. The two-timing Omar and his client had sold out Tor and Jerry to the Albanians and had also put a price on their heads. During their visit to straighten out the affair, Tor had been too quick on the trigger as they pressured the ex-Syrian intelligence officer to divulge information. Shortly afterwards, they had been caught unawares by two police agents, who had also seemed to have dealings with Omar. When the gun battle was over, there were two more dead bodies, one of which was a cop. To dodge being arrested as a cop killer, Tor had cut a deal with the surviving dirty cop. Tor had realized the potential disaster of this decision, but he had no option while a gun was being pointed at his head.
Almost five months later, he was still living at Ricki’s – his favourite slut. He did not dare return to his cabin because of the outstanding arrest warrant. One consolation of this miserable situation was that he was getting laid on a regular basis. Ricki had agreed to a few tricks every week, and on credit too, because Tor was short of cash. She had also kindly bought him some new sets of clothes so that he could change daily. As collateral for her help, Tor gave her Omar’s ring, because he could not expect to fuck her and sleep on her sofa free of charge. Tor had not revisited the hospital after the operation on his hand and it was getting worse. He had difficulty moving his fingers and the area around the titanium plate was painful. He had not left Ricki’s flat in Hallonbergen since the taxi ride from Ekerö island and, as long as he did not have a weapon, he could not be outside among people. Without cash, he could not buy a gun. He was stuck in a downwards spiral.
“I need some cash now!” Ricki said, glaring sourly at Tor. She had been more than fair with Tor, but there were limits even to her goodwill. Months with nothing to show for it except the ring was no longer enough. She needed money just like everyone else. Her customers were becoming increasingly infrequent and the older she got, the more often they would argue about the price. Despite the boob job and face-lift, it was impossible to conceal the effects of nineteen hard years of dealing with all sorts of punters. In her glory days, she had pulled in twenty thousand crowns a week and could always take Sundays off. Nowadays, she was lucky if she could scrape together five thousand, and that included the weekly blow job for that handicapped guy in Sundbyberg.
Tor had promised her at least thirty thousand as soon as he sold the ring. He had already screwed her for most of that money and she could not live on fresh air, even if Tor’s money would be a welcome addition to her regular income.
“Next week,” Tor said nonchalantly, changing the TV channel. He needed more time to think. Besides, it was really nice to be served with food and the occasional fuck between the TV soap operas. It was nearly time for lunch.
“No fucking way,” Ricki snarled. “I’m tired of your ‘next week’ bullshit. You haven’t even tried to fence the ring like you said you would. If you won’t pay a visit to the Hut, I’ll do it.”
Tor threw down the TV remote.
“You can’t see him unless I am with you,” he growled determinedly.
“I don’t give a fuck what you want!” Ricki yelled from the hall. Her green eyes had become as black as the mascara that encircled them. She was not a bloody bank that he could borrow money from indefinitely. Although it was extra cash, she was tired of Tor lying on her sofa watching daytime TV.
Tor heard the front door opening and then slamming shut. He immediately jumped out of the sofa and ran into the bedroom where Ricki kept the ring. The pathetic toy safe under the bed gaped at him, empty.
“Silly cow,” he swore loudly.
Thinking quickly, he grabbed his jacket and set off down the stairs. Out of breath, he arrived at the ground floor just as Ricki got out of the lift. She glared at him suspiciously.
“So now you have balls?” she said, sarcastically.
“Let’s take a taxi,” Tor said and opened the entrance door. His eyes scanned around nervously as he went through the door. Leaving the flat made him feel naked. But it was just as well to get this done. The Hut would surely give him a decent price for the ring. Maybe eighty thousand crowns with a little luck. If that was the case, then he would have fifty grand after paying off Ricki. Fifteen would go on a new weapon and the rest for a new hide-out. What would happen after that, he did not know. In the worst-case scenario, he could start breaking into houses again. Maybe he should just bugger off with Ricki’s share. If he had to leave her flat, he might just as well blow her off. He needed cash for other stuff.
“Sure,” Ricki said, pulling the belt of her fake-fur coat tight, “if you pay the fare.”
“We could just leg it from the taxi?”
“You idiot,” Ricki snapped.
Five minutes later, they were sitting in a taxi on the way to the fence.
The clock showed
ten past seven in the morning as Martin Borg, team leader at the Security Service’s Counter-Terrorism Unit, called it a night and sat in his private Volvo V50. He punched the steering wheel with his hands in an outburst of frustration. He looked at his clenched fists in front of him. Normally, his self control was as absolute as a mathematical constant. He never lost his temper or his self control because his personal mantra was that there were no impossible situations, only degrees of difficulty to be overcome. But the latest round of setbacks had broken the constant into several fractions. And the whole equation was dependent upon the silence of a single individual.
Getting the mastermind behind Drug-X to talk had proved more difficult than he had imagined. Despite morphine, electric shocks, kicks and punches, Leo Brageler had said nothing. It was as if he was waiting to die. And die he would, just as soon as they had got the answers they wanted.
They had taken Brageler away and started the process to force the eccentric researcher to reveal the secret behind Drug-X, but he had clammed shut. In some strange way, he seemed to have disconnected himself from the outside world. Wave after wave of pain had hit him, yet not so much as a whisper was uttered through his mangled face. As time went by, the wounds had become deeper and the blows more brutal, but Brageler had still remained silent. Martin knew the solution to the problem. He needed Diaxtropyl-3S. But Omar was dead and without him it would be difficult to get hold of the illicit truth drug. From Omar’s hard drive, Martin needed to retrieve the identity of the CIA contact who shipped the serum. The names on the hard drive were completely unknown to Martin and could very well be code names. If it had not been for the two stooges, Tor Hedman and Jerry Salminen, Omar would still be alive and Martin would have the priceless syringes. The door to Drug-X would then be unlocked.
The power Brageler had created would be of great help to Martin and the others. They would use it to reveal the true face of Islam by injecting the rage-inducing drug into a number of its followers. A sufficient number of crazed Muslims would shake awake the sleeping people of Europe and make them understand the dangers they were facing. Europeans would then turn against these animals. But time was running out. Right now, Martin and his fellow believers were up a creek without paddles while hordes of Muslims poured in through the wide-open gates of Europe. These animals would soon have established a bridgehead as impregnable as their twisted religion. Then it would be too late.
He leaned backwards in the driving seat and waited for reason to overcome his anger. He needed to think clearly and arrive at logical conclusions. He must get his hands on some Diaxtropyl-3S. All else was subordinate at this time.
Martin turned the ignition key and the engine started to warm up the car’s interior. It was freezing and the cold permeated every nook and cranny. His thoughts turned to Tor’s sudden disappearance. He had tried to call him, but had got only his voicemail. Martin suspected, with good reason, that he had reneged on their agreement. The dimwitted ex-con could become a problem. A big problem, actually.
He looked at the old stone building. It stood next to a waterfall and was perfect for its purpose. An abandoned safe house from the Cold War. Isolated and accessible only from a barely driveable gravel road. The last part of the track was almost invisible from the road. The noise from the waterfall drowned any sounds that might come from the building. As Brageler was in a windowless cell, this was somewhat superfluous to requirements.
Many of his brothers-in-arms could not attend the interrogation. Although they had agile minds, their aging bodies could not sustain them. The organization’s rejuvenation strategy had failed and only a few youngsters had been recruited in the past few years. Recruiting was difficult and involved a great deal of risk. A problem that they increasingly had to battle against was the naivety of the younger generations and their misguided belief that Islam was like any other religion. Someday, they would be forced to see the truth.
As soon as the Diaxtropyl-3S was procured, he would get to grips with the Tor Hedman problem. First, he needed to prepare himself for today’s debriefing with Thomas Kokk.
The head of
the Counter-Terrorism Unit, Thomas Kokk, carefully scrutinized Martin Borg across his desk. However much he wanted to, he could no longer trust the team leader. After the fatal shootout in Gnesta and the incident with the Islamic terrorist suspect who had died in custody, everything indicated that Ove Jernberg had not been solely responsible.
The polygraph tests, after the death in custody of the Muslim suspect, had not shown any discrepancies. It was possible to improve the odds by focusing one’s thoughts on something else or by secretly pinching oneself hard. The questions that the polygraph operator asked demanded a great deal of concentration. Also, the subject was constantly observed during the interview to deter attempts at self-inflicted pain. Strangely enough, both Borg and Jernberg had passed the tests.
There was no doubt in Kokk’s mind that they had both been guilty. They had drugged the detainee with an illegal truth drug that had later been discovered during the autopsy. Borg had claimed that the escaped killer in Gnesta was short and of foreign appearance. The prime suspect was tall and had a Scandinavian appearance. In other words, Tor Hedman, the hand-picked partner of Jerry Salminen. What Kokk did not understand was why Ove Jernberg would have had a confidential informant called Omar Khayyam. Jernberg had not even been authorized to handle confidential informants.
During the minor confusion that reigned after the Gnesta incident, Internal Affairs had suddenly lost interest in Borg. This had come as a complete surprise, even for the Security Service Agency Director, Anders Holmberg, who had already marked Borg and Jernberg as the scapegoats for the failure of the SÄPO operation. After Kokk had been given a direct order by Holmberg to not lift any more stones, Kokk had made a decision.
After long and painful consideration, he had contacted the Deputy Agency Director, Chief Inspector Sten Gullviksson, as well as the head of the Constitution Protection Division of SÄPO. He had described to them the orders given to him by Anders Holmberg but, much to his surprise, they had both concurred with Holmberg’s request to not stir up a scandal for the sake of national security. The Security Service had suffered enough controversy and enough bad blood had been shed this time.
Thomas Kokk had stared at his colleagues in silence, as his belief in the system he was charged with protecting evaporated with every breath he took.
Months later, here he was, still sitting in his post as head of the Counter-Terrorism Unit, and utterly disillusioned. He was trapped in a world where the truth was a liability, instead of being empowering. He ironically recalled the inscription in the entrance of the CIA’s Langley headquarters: “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”
“Still nothing on Brageler, Hedman, or the accomplices who created Drug-X?” Thomas Kokk began.
The weekly meetings with Martin Borg were becoming a tedious formality. Always the same answer.
“No, no progress,” Borg replied, shaking his head dourly.
Kokk wondered – yet again – how much truth there was in that answer. What did Borg really know? Kokk had no proof on which to base his suspicions. Despite the fact that he had known Borg for many years and was personally responsible for making Borg a team leader, Kokk now felt only contempt for him. Deep down he hoped he was wrong. But when he listened to his intuition, he knew he was right.