“We should bring him in,” Jonna suggested. “He may have seen something else of significance.”
“Such as?”
“Well, we won’t know that until we interview him,” Jonna answered.
Walter looked at Jonna for a moment and tried to figure out in which direction her mental cogs were spinning on this issue. A few moments ago, she had already shown proof of her solid aptitude for deduction. He could not see any reason for this request. But even a diamond can have flaws, even if they are uncommon. “OK, Jonsson can take that job if it’s necessary,” he finally said, “but no more than one hour’s questioning and the bloke will have to come here.”
“I can take care of it,” Jonna quickly suggested. “I’m sure Jonsson is busy with lots of other things.”
“As you will be, soon,” Walter informed her and left the room.
Jonna did not know how to interpret Walter’s answer. She decided to make an appointment with Alexander Westfeldt anyway. Jonsson would definitely not have any objections to missing a witness interview.
Chapter 3
A heavy, throbbing
pain pulsed through his body. He probably had internal bleeding. Yet, it was nothing compared to the wounds inflicted on Anna and Cecilia. The pain merged with his anger over the meaningless waste. How many times had he prayed for a reason without getting an answer? The grief had torn him up inside and it hurt him more than the physical wounds on his body. He wished he could die and leave the agony behind him.
He cursed his mistake in returning to Lantz. They had seen him. Despite his precautions, they had followed him to the flat which he had rented under an assumed name. He did not know who they were, or what they wanted. He had closed his mind to these monsters, turned his consciousness in upon himself and his memories of Anna and Cecilia. Perhaps he should look for an answer here instead? Not that it would change anything, but he wanted to understand. How had they managed to find him when the police had failed? The more he dwelt on these thoughts, the stronger grew his need to get answers.
Leo sat up carefully and leaned against the stone wall. Suddenly, a thin ray of light cut through the gap in the door and he heard footsteps on the stairs. They were here again.
Ricki paid the
fare and got out of the taxi. Tor had cost her yet another 260 crowns, including the tip. But the idea that she very soon would have thirty grand in her hand made that cost negligible. Tor’s idea to run from the taxi was not possible with her high heels. Besides, she wanted to do right by the taxi driver. Like herself, he provided a personal service with shitty working hours and bitching customers all day long. Doing the dirty to a co-worker in a similar business was just not the right thing to do. Tor was already on his way towards the small, discreet pawn shop and Ricki had to run to catch up.
The modest premises could be accessed only by using a narrow lane that led between two houses at the top of Gjutargatan. In the basement was an entrance and a door, over which the sign “Valuables bought/sold” hung. The business was owned by Pekka “the Hut” Hyttinen, a jewellery fence notorious in Stockholm. Ricki caught up on tip-toe and arrived at the basement shop at the same time as Tor.
“Headcase,” the Hut greeted him with a broad smile, squeezing through the gap in the shop counter.
Tor nodded in response to his welcome. “What will you give me for this?” he asked, snapping his fingers at Ricki to show the ring.
Ricki took out the signet ring and handed it over to the Hut, whose fat fingers quickly grasped the object. He studied the ring for a short while and then looked at Ricki.
“Is this yours?”
Ricki shook her head. “No, but I want cash for it,” she answered, and glared sternly at Tor.
The Hut turned towards Tor. “Where did you get this?”
“Why are you asking?” Tor looked suspiciously at the Hut. He never asked where stolen goods came from, and the Hut had hardly turned honest overnight.
“It’s a very unusual piece,” the Hut answered and looked at the doorway as if he was expecting someone to walk through it.
“How much do I get for it?” Tor asked. “Jerry said that it was worth at least eighty grand.”
“Eighty grand! Are you stoned?”
Tor was anything but stoned. He just needed cash. Quickly.
“Even if this piece is tasty, it’s not possible to sell the ring as it is,” the Hut explained. “I’ll have to melt down the gold and sell the stone separately.”
“How much?” Tor was getting impatient and couldn’t give a damn if the Hut needed to melt down the ring. It was not Tor’s problem; he wanted eighty grand, there and then.
Hyttinen put on a metal headband with a jeweller’s loupe attached and held the ring in front of his eye. His pupil appeared at least five times its normal size behind the eyepiece. His gigantic eye flicked from side to side. After a while, he shook his huge head.
“What’s it worth?” Ricki asked, impatiently.
“Not interested,” he said, curtly.
Tor shuffled his feet. “What the fuck are you saying?”
“It’s too big a risk. Where did you get hold of it?”
“None of your fucking business,” Tor snarled and shifted his feet.
The Hut put his loupe back in its box and pushed the ring back across the counter. “This signet ring belonged to a Muslim,” he said. “There are Arabic letters on the inside.”
“So?” Tor said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s going to be melted down. You said so yourself.”
The Hut turned away and took out some polishing rags. “I heard that Jerry kicked the bucket,” he said.
Tor did not understand. The Hut was not his usual self; he seemed nervous and jittery. He would have to come up with a story quickly to get the Finn to buy the ring. “Yes, he went on a solo gig and got clobbered,” Tor blurted out.
“It seems that he copped a bullet at Omar’s in Gnesta,” the Hut continued, as he brushed metal filings from his workbench.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Tor replied, irritated by the Hut’s questions.
“Omar also cashed in his chips,” the Hut said and turned around. He stared at the ring.
Ricki could no longer keep quiet. “Look, are you buying it, or not?” she snapped and picked the ring up from the counter. “You can have it for thirty grand. That’s what this fucking loser owes me.”
“Forget that!” Tor yelled. The bitch was not going to drop the price like it was fucking fool’s gold.
“What’s your final offer?” Ricki held the ring in front of the Hut’s large face.
Hyttinen’s small, peppercorn eyes narrowed. “I think that is Omar’s ring.”
“I don’t give a fuck whose ring it is,” Ricki said, in a hard voice. “Am I getting thirty grand, or not?”
The Hut shook his head. “Get rid of it before something happens to you,” he said, and walked to the door. “That ring is nothing but trouble.”
“Get rid of the ring?” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in disgust. “What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do here?”
“Get out now!” The Hut waved at Tor and Ricki to leave.
Tor stood like a statue. He had been counting on eighty thousand, give or take ten grand. Now the Hut didn’t even want to buy the ring for thirty. Instead, he was blabbering about Omar’s death. Tor would be leaving the Hut’s fucking basement without a penny.
Ricki told the Hut and Tor to go to hell and then walked out onto Gjutargatan and headed towards the underground station.
Tor quickly caught up with her.
“How the fuck was I supposed to know he was going to say that?” he defended himself.
“Get lost,” Ricki snapped.
“Get lost where?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Give me the ring,” Tor said, and stretched out his hand.
“Forget that,” Ricki laughed, scornfully. “And you can also forget about crashing at my place any longer.”
“Give me the ring!” Tor roared.
Ricki said nothing and increased her pace instead.
It was too much for Tor. He grabbed the collar of Ricki’s fur coat so that she lost her balance and fell.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Give me the ring!”
Ricki got to her feet. “Are you stupid? I’m gonna . . .”
Without thinking, Tor slugged her on the jaw with his left fist. Ricki fell to the ground. He got quickly on top of her and searched her pockets for the ring. He also found nine hundred crowns in notes. This was money he needed, now that he had blown it with Ricki. Tor looked up and saw some people on the other side of the street looking at them. One of the men yelled and started running towards Tor.
Tor turned and ran back the same way that he and Ricki had come. The man who had shouted stopped by the lifeless Ricki. Tor ran to the right at Igeldammsgatan and down to Kungsholms Strand, where he waved down a taxi. He threw himself into the rear seat, gasping for breath.
“How much to take me to Dalarö?” he gasped.
The taxi driver looked at Tor in the rearview mirror. “Whatever the taxi meter says,” he replied, dryly.
“Fixed price, five hundred, no receipt,” Tor suggested and started to finger the notes he had taken from Ricki.
“No,” the driver said, firmly. “I don’t drive illegally.”
Tor swore silently to himself. The fuzz were surely on their way and he had to get away from Kungsholmen. He looked back, checking that no one had followed him. Sometimes, a wannabe fucking superhero might try to prove that they had chest hair.
“Take me to T-Centralen,” Tor ordered. He would try to find a more co-operative taxi driver there.
After three failed attempts at T-Centralen station, he got lucky. The taxi driver was a Latino, which was just what he wanted. The Latinos were easy to make deals with, although their cakeholes chattered non-stop like machine guns.
“Where in Dalarö?” the driver asked. His name was Julio, according to the ID on the dashboard. He had a thick Spanish accent and straight, coal-black hair.
“I’ll give you directions,” Tor tersely replied.
The plan he devised was simple and it was a plan that Jerry would have liked. He would get himself a shooter using the ring. He would sell Omar’s signet ring to the weekend warrior in exchange for some Colt Combat Commanders, or at the very least a bunch of Beretta Px4s. He could sell some of the guns. If the bloke gave him a hard time like the Hut, Tor would lean on him a little.
His scheming was interrupted by the pain in his hand as it made itself known again. The stitches had fallen out after a few weeks and the skin did not look too bad. But he knew that sooner or later he would have to go back to the hospital for another operation. The doctor had explained that much when Tor discharged himself from the hospital. Now that he was on the wanted list, he would be arrested if he went back.
The man in
the front seat was called the Mentor and was responsible for the organization’s international operations. Although Martin had known him for many years, he did not know his real name. He had carried out some unsuccessful investigations into the Mentor, but they led to a dead end every time. Martin was convinced that the Mentor, despite being retired, still had contacts within the Security Service – that he belonged to the organization’s innermost circle. Their driver was much younger and used the name Benny Eng. He also used cheap aftershave and was the strong, silent type. Martin had managed to find out that Benny worked with SÄPO’s Dignitary Protection Unit, but he did not know his real name. Security Service agents always used cover names.
“Kokk and the truth serum are the top priorities,” Martin said, “and then, Tor Hedman.”
“The risks are starting to get too great,” the old man answered. His voice was feeble.
“What do you mean?” Martin asked.
Stiffly, the old man turned towards Martin. “Leo Brageler refuses to talk to us. We cannot get through to him and we will never break him in his current state of mind. Not everyone responds to torture. There is only one way out and that is to get rid of him. Circumstances are beginning to get beyond our control.”
“I don’t understand,” Martin said.
“As you yourself said, Thomas Kokk is becoming a problem,” the man explained. “He’s asking questions about you, which means that he suspects something. We don’t know what it is, but he’s interested in the Stockholm County CID arrest warrant for Tor Hedman. One might draw the conclusion that he doesn’t believe your version of the events in Gnesta, nor your description of the perpetrator – despite your exoneration by the internal investigation.”
“All we need is the truth serum,” Martin protested. “Afterwards, no one will have time to worry about me or Tor Hedman. They will have their hands full with enraged Muslims on a killing spree.”
“Omar is gone,” the man said, abruptly. “We have no other way to get hold of the Diaxtropyl-3S. Tor Hedman must be terminated and you must transfer to a new position far away from Kokk. If there is a crack in a façade, it must be repaired immediately. Otherwise, there is a risk that decay will set in.”
The old man’s voice had hardened.
Martin had not told the Mentor nor anyone else in the organization about Omar’s hard drive. He had intended to show them, but had changed his mind at the last minute. It was better to keep the information to himself, as a type of insurance against unforeseen events. When the chips were down, a man was by nature his own best ally.
Most of the names Martin had found on the hard drive were unknown to him. Secret information on individuals – whether friend or foe – was extremely valuable. Martin would get the Diaxtropyl-3S without sharing the hard drive. But he had to act quickly before they decided to dispose of Leo Brageler.
The car stopped at the end of the gravel road that led to the safe house. Eng quickly got out and took three torches from the boot of the Volvo. The Mentor went first. It took almost ten minutes to walk the hundred metres to the house and Martin became impatient over the old man’s slow progress. The silhouette of the stone building gradually appeared in the darkness as a gap in the cloudbank let through starlight to bathe the building in a cold, bluish shimmer. The house reminded Martin of a place fit for the Devil himself. Few would approach the old stone building willingly, much less try to enter it. Even so, there was an alarm system in the building, as well as motion detectors in the grounds surrounding the house. It was a miniature Fort Knox in the middle of nowhere.