Borg had passed the lie-detector test because of his conviction. He believed that his actions were justified, and this made it impossible for the key questions to yield any abnormal results. His comrades had trained him well and had reinforced an already implacable fanaticism.
Ove Jernberg had managed to pass because his knowledge of what Martin was involved in was limited, despite the truth serum question giving an abnormal result on his polygraph test. It was, however, not sufficient for Jernberg to fail the test.
Martin sensed that Thomas Kokk was suspicious. Something in his voice and his eyes had changed after Jernberg’s death in Gnesta.
Chapter 2
Mjasník marvelled over
the openness of Swedish society. Using only the internet and Directory Enquiries, it was possible to find out almost anything about a citizen. Annual income, residential address, personal identity number, the type of car they owned, and so on. In Russia, this kind of public monitoring of citizens would be unthinkable. After three weeks of searching, however, he had not managed to locate the fifth, and penultimate, name on his list. Mjasník had been forced to contact his Moscow go-between for more information. He needed something that could point him in the right direction. But the go-between had no more information from the client. It was as if the target had disappeared from the face of the planet.
The bank funds released on completion of the contract would make Mjasník financially independent and enhance his reputation back home in Moscow. He had never failed on a mission and this was not going to be the first time. Mjasník exhaled the last of the smoke and flicked the cigarette butt in a wide arc. A seagull dived quickly down into the dark water and checked out the remains of the cigarette.
The youth-hostel room in the old sailboat was a good choice of accommodation. Anonymous and out of the way, yet still central. For twenty days, he had lived there and slowly familiarized himself with the city. It was beautiful here, not unlike Saint Petersburg. Stockholm was built on a number of small islands interconnected by bridges. The water surrounding the city came from the Baltic Sea and a vast, freshwater lake that extended a long distance inland. Numerous floodgates now partitioned these two water sources from each other. In the early 1980s, Spetsnaz (special forces) units from the Soviet Marines had visited most of the jetties in Stockholm. While the Swedish navy hunted seals with anti-submarine bombs in the ocean depths, the special forces’ mini-subs penetrated the Stockholm estuary. It soon became a popular pastime to trick the Swedes, and the commanders tried to surpass each other in audacity.
Such thoughts reminded him of another time. A time when his country was a superpower and still played a crucial role in international politics.
Nowadays, his decadent motherland was ruled by wealthy oligarchs and power-hungry politicians, whose only goal was to protect their power and wealth.
Only two years after he had completed his training in the Spetsnaz GRU, the elite special forces unit of the Russian Main Intelligence Directorate, he had applied for a posting in Chechnya. He had asked for a location where only the strongest survived. He had always been a hunter. When he was eleven, he had shot small game in the forests outside Sotji. A few years later, he had preferred to track bears and shoot them at close range. He had learned this from the best hunter he knew, his father. His best memory was of when he had successfully tracked a mother bear with cubs. The aggression displayed by the huge beast when it attacked had exhilarated him, with an adrenaline rush that made his body shake. He had waited until the charging predator was just a few metres away from him before he shot. His rifle was loaded with only a single round.
He had sat for hours and studied the dead animal, contemplating its strength and how it even so could be killed by a lead bullet the size of a fingernail. Man was indeed the ultimate predator.
As part of a so-called clean-up unit, known as the GSO, he had dressed as a Chechen guerilla, on a mission to discredit the enemy.
They had pretended to recruit men to the guerillas, but instead killed them. He and his comrades in the platoon had murdered and spread terror like common criminals. At first, he had felt a great deal of confusion about their methods. Wiping out unarmed men with their high-tech, automatic rifles, the latest AN-94 models, was overkill. Eventually, he had adapted to the killing and it became second nature.
He had convinced himself that it was like shooting bears. Soon, he had switched to the commando knife. Shooting a defenceless Chechen had lost its thrill. The knife which on one day sliced his
Moskovskaya
salami cut Chechen throats the next. His first nickname had been “the Vampire”, because of the blood thirst he displayed. As the killings continued, his nickname had become Mjasník, or “the Butcher”.
The ambush had happened early one September morning, when they were cut off from their own forces. They had requested air support, but had been abandoned by their military commander. Thirteen comrades died in the ensuing battle. For each fallen comrade, they had taken at least three of the enemy with them. But they had been outnumbered and surrounded by Chechens. The Chechen warrior code and willingness to die was just as deadly as the full-metal-jacket bullets the Russians fired at them. After two days, they had been forced to concede defeat. They were out of ammunition. There were only five rounds left. One for each of the survivors. Surrender was not an option. They would be strung up like calves for slaughter, first mutilated, and then skinned alive.
They had proceeded to shoot themselves. All except Mjasník. The powder in the bullet was damp. The weapon clicked as he pulled the trigger and he was taken alive. He faced a terrifying realization. He was not going to die a quick and painless death, like the bears he had used to hunt back home in the forests. His death was going to be drawn out and tortured. The Chechens were more skilled in this cruel art than even the GSO.
Miraculously, he had been saved. One of his captors had been careless with a grenade and suddenly he found himself free again. Bodies lay all around and there was total chaos in the camp. The earth cellar that had been his prison saved his life. He had escaped, naked, and ran as fast as he was able into the thick forest that then swallowed him up. He had kept running until his legs could no longer carry him . . . .
Mjasník was breathing heavily and he realized that the palm of his hand was bleeding. He had squeezed the sharp blade, cutting across two lifelines on his palm. He rinsed off the blood in the sink and wrapped a towel around his hand. In ten minutes, the blood would coagulate. Unlike the wounds in his soul, which would never heal. He switched off the light in his small cabin. Then his mobile phone rang.
“Mjasník?” a monotonous voice asked.
“
Da
,” he responded, just as emotionlessly.
“The person you seek is wanted by Interpol,” the voice said.
Mjasník said nothing. He didn’t need to. He recognized the voice. His go-between had dug deep. The Federal Security Service, or FSB, in Russia had contacts everywhere and was now apparently willing to share this information. He did not know why, nor was he interested. His time with the GRU had taught him one important lesson: do not ask questions. He took care of his business and did not concern himself with anyone, except those that he was instructed to assassinate.
“Our counterpart in Sweden is leading the hunt for him,” the voice continued.
He was listening.
Then he spoke two names, which Mjasník memorized.
Detectives Cederberg
and Jonsson of Stockholm County CID inspected Jonna as she came into County CID’s smallest conference room at ten o’clock sharp. She had a notepad and a ballpoint pen embellished with the letters “RSU”.
“Good morning,” she greeted them and sat down at the table.
Both detectives responded, somewhat surprised. Jonsson was just about to say something when Walter entered and slammed the door behind him loudly.
“Everyone is on time,” he began, satisfied. He sat on the opposite side of the meeting table. “So what’s new? Other than Miss de Brugge joining us for the next year.”
“The usual,” Cederberg began, looking at Jonna for confirmation that Walter’s last statement was not just another of his bad jokes.
Jonna showed no reaction; instead, she flipped to the first page of her notepad and prepared to take notes.
Walter was the only one who was not taking notes. Instead, he folded his hands over his stomach and rocked gently on his chair. “We do actually have a bit of news,” Walter said, and leaned over the table. “The National Bureau of Investigation has received a request from our German colleagues at the BKA in Wiesbaden concerning Leo Brageler.”
Everyone looked puzzled.
“It seems that four scientists at Dysencomp AG in Frankfurt have been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Jonna said, surprised. “The company that Leo Brageler worked for was a Dysencomp subcontractor.”
“Correct.” Walter said. “The Germans want to know how our investigation is progressing. They believe there is a connection to the murders because Brageler is still at large and wanted by Interpol.”
“They think Brageler is the murderer?” Jonsson queried.
“He’s a potential suspect,” Walter said, not sounding overly impressed by the powers of deduction of the Germans.
“What is the motive behind their case?” Jonna pondered.
“That’s what they think we can help establish,” Walter said and popped a cough drop into his mouth.
“What does SÄPO say?” Jonsson asked.
“It’s not on their agenda yet,” Walter said. “It may never get that far. But they will eventually get wind of this. Not from me, of course. The NBI is handling the communications with the Germans, so there is a risk that they will want to take over the investigation. For the time being, they haven’t yet planted a flag.”
“It’s a bloody mess,” Cederberg groaned.
“Yes, but let’s forget about SÄPO and our German colleagues for a while,” Walter said, standing up. He rubbed his lower back. “I want to focus entirely on Tor Hedman instead.”
“Headcase?” Cederberg asked sceptically, putting down his pen. “But isn’t Brageler . . .”
Walter raised his hand, anticipating the question. “I want Headcase,” he said. “Partly because he was Jerry Salminen’s right hand, and partly because he’s a suspect for the assault and kidnapping of Jörgen Blad. He’s also implicated in that shoot-out on Odengatan. Last but not least, he seems to be working with someone within the police force, if one is to believe Blad’s observations from when he was abducted.”
“Yes, we know that as well,” Cederberg interrupted, “but what does that have to do with Leo Brageler?”
Jonsson and Cederberg looked at each other.
“According to SÄPO, it was a short guy of non-European nationality that escaped from Gnesta, not Headcase,” Jonsson pointed out.
“A midget jungle bunny,” Cederberg clarified with a grin.
“Why would Hedman suddenly disappear?” Walter asked. “He has nothing to be afraid of. There are no witnesses to back up Jörgen Blad’s statement that it was Hedman and Salminen who were responsible for his beating. Nothing that would stand up in court, anyway. Although we found DNA from Tor Hedman and Jerry Salminen in Jörgen’s flat, the prosecutor can’t tie them to the specific incident with that evidence alone. Hedman has no worries on that score, which he probably knows. We can forget about the footprint he left in the mud out at Ekerö island. He’s probably not aware of it since we almost missed it ourselves.”
“A footprint?” Jonna asked.
“Yes, a size-48 footprint was found in the mud where the so-called policeman had left Jörgen to die,” Walter answered. “Headcase has a shoe size 47 to 48, which is not very common, and bearing in mind his eagerness to get hold of Jörgen Blad, we have good grounds to assume that he was also present at the Ekerö island incident. In other words, there will be conclusive physical evidence that can tie Hedman to an attempted murder charge if he is wearing those Bigfoot shoes when we catch him.”
“This is old news for us,” Jonsson remarked.
“For you, yes. But not for her,” Walter said, looking at Jonna.
Cederberg was beginning to get impatient. “What’s the Hedman–Brageler connection then?” he asked, looking at Walter.
Jonna raised her eyes and pointedly stroked her hair back behind an ear. “The most logical connection is that Omar had information concerning Drug-X, if one is to believe the SÄPO explanation for their involvement at Gnesta. Since Hedman’s partner was found dead on the same premises as Omar, Tor Hedman is probably the missing person we are looking for. Does that make sense?”
Walter chuckled to himself. It was going to be an interesting year with Jonna stalking the corridors.
“It’s a bit of a long shot,” Jonsson said, thinking out loud.
“Not at all,” Walter replied. “Jonna is right.”
“How are we going to get hold of Hedman?” Cederberg queried, sceptically. “He’s gone with the wind.”
“There is actually one person we have not talked to yet,” Walter said. “The thought struck me last night when I remembered the dead prostitute case from last year.”
“What was her name?” Jonsson asked.
“Wasn’t Hedman hanging around a tart a few years back?” Walter said, trying to remember her name. “He was her regular punter as well, for a while.”
“It was that Marie Ankers,” Cederberg said.
“Exactly, that was the name.”
“Not the smartest blonde we’ve interviewed,” Cederberg laughed.
“True, but it may still be worth making a house call,” Walter said. “Search the surveillance and criminal records databases for her last known address.”
Cederberg and Jonsson stood up and left the room.
“There was one more thing,” Jonna said.
“Really, what could that be?” Walter turned in the doorway. She hesitated.
“Do you remember the security guard on the cruise ferry
Cinderella
?” she asked, twisting her pen. “The one who saw Leo Brageler?”
“No, I don’t recall him. What about him?”