“Obviously, you would.”
“There must have been individuals at both the Fortifications Authority and the National Properties Board who knew about this,” added Tina.
“Why go to such lengths to disguise the real owner of the building?”
“To keep it a secret?”
“Exactly,” agreed Jörgen. “Either the police or the military want to keep the property a secret.”
“When are you going to let me in on the story? Who is this Palmryd?”
“As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know,” Jörgen said.
“Why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me everything?” she grumbled, putting something in her mouth.
If only she knew, Jörgen thought, turning off the motorway.
“Will you be coming to the newsroom? I’m working late.”
“Yes, but not straightaway,” Jörgen said. “I have a date with Sebastian this evening – if we can find a restaurant that’s still open.”
“Don’t you want me to tag along and keep you company?”
“Sounds tempting but . . .”
“Only teasing,” Tina joked. “Besides, you two only go to stuck-up, fancy restaurants.”
“You’re right,” Jörgen said. “They all have a dress code.”
“Are you saying my Bohemian indie style won’t get me in?”
“Possibly to a Pakistani takeaway in Bandhagen.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
Jörgen knew exactly what had to be done. First, he needed to convince the duty news-desk reporter and editor, both of whom were Jörgen’s enemies. Despite his exclusive last year, his success had been quickly forgotten. Around-the-clock news broadcasts made each story’s shelf life shorter. The general public was more interested in celebrity gossip than in stories that had social impact. There was much more public interest in discussing why the Minister for Education had a girlfriend twenty-five years younger than himself than in debating how to improve substandard school lunches. Stories had to be sensational to cut through the white noise of the media. Jörgen was determined to plough a deep furrow through the topsoil of bland news coverage.
“We’re going to publish some dramatic photographs of a police raid, on a house that’s owned either by themselves or the military, and expose Palmryd as a suspected spy,” he replied. “Either for a foreign power or some other Swedish agency.”
“The police raiding a top-secret facility should be on the front page,” said Tina, swallowing whatever was in her mouth in her excitement.
“I think so,” Jörgen said, also excited.
“I’ll ask for a comment from the Fortifications Authority tomorrow,” she said. “There is something fishy about Palmryd and the whole scam. I have a feeling this will turn into a really big story.”
Jörgen ended the conversation, satisfied with Tina’s contribution. She would also get a bit of the credit, just like Miguel. But just a bit.
Jonna turned on
her TV just as the late news was starting. For once, she departed from her usual custom and put a sugar lump in her tea as she watched the flat screen. Air traffic out of Sweden was severely disrupted, because of freak blizzards over Germany and the Baltic. She was restless and turned off the TV. Instead, her eyes wandered to the world outside the window. It was the first time since leaving Alexander’s flat that she had thought of him. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have anything else to do. It would get worse. The first thing on her agenda tomorrow was to write up a report of her performance at Sigtuna and Märsta. Then there was a meeting with Internal Affairs.
Surely, he could have called her back? Even if she couldn’t answer, just to know that he was interested was important. If he didn’t call, that was fine too. Had she really misinterpreted his signals? He had told her that he had feelings for her and she had been quite certain that . . .
Jonna picked up the phone and dialled the number to Arlanda airport again. Busy.
She was probably not the only person wondering if the planes had taken off. She scrolled to Alexander’s mobile number and stared at the number. One pressed button to find out if he was still on the ground. She stroked her thumb over the green button a few times. Finally, she threw the mobile phone on the sofa and turned on her laptop, prodding the power button angrily. She browsed aimlessly for a while through the online newspaper editions and then logged into her email. Her inbox was full of advertising and other spam. Sandra had sent two emails with the subject “Any news?” Jonna guessed what she wanted to know, but didn’t have the energy to open the emails. Thirty minutes later, she turned off her bedside light.
Just as she was closing her eyes, a signal beeped from the sofa. She jumped out of bed. Five people were linked to that text-message signal. Alexander was one of them. She retrieved the phone from the sofa and looked at the display. It showed an alert about a missed call.
Irritatedly, she opened the missed-call listing, which probably contained Jörgen Blad’s phone number. But she saw Alexander’s number. She noted the time stamp, which said eleven minutes past twelve noon. At that time, she had been in the police garage, which did not have any reception. That had to be some sort of record for a delayed message alert, she thought, and swore silently to herself.
After three rings, she heard Alexander’s voice.
“I’m still on the ground,” he said dejectedly. “My flight was cancelled this morning because of the blizzards.”
“I just got my missed-call alert,” Jonna said, her mouth dry. “Are you still at Arlanda?”
“Not any more. I’ve booked a replacement flight in three days’ time.”
“How sad,” Jonna said, smiling to herself.
“Well, it was a lot of unnecessary hassle.”
“Why didn’t you wake me before you left?” It was just as well to get straight to the point.
“You looked awfully tired. In fact, you were totally unconscious on the sofa. I thought it best to let you sleep. I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.”
The wrong way? Jonna thought. “I think that’s my line,” she answered.
Alexander laughed. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
Jonna thought for a second. She had a gym session booked in the evening. And she was picking up her car from the garage directly after work. Then she had planned to clean her flat. The vacuuming was at the top of her “to-do” list.
“Nothing at all,” she answered.
“Great. Perhaps I can make dinner for you at my place?”
“No,” Jonna said straightaway. “You may not. If we’re going to eat dinner at home, then we’ll do it at my place.”
“Fine with me.”
She was just about to suggest a menu when her phone beeped. On the display, she saw Walter’s phone number. Jonna apologized, putting Alexander on hold.
“Yes?” she responded.
“You’re going to like this.”
A little later, Jonna was on her way out of the main entrance.
The van stopped
again. Leo heard the sliding door open. There were the same voices as earlier. In another moment, some new voices. Speaking in English. Then it was quiet. Leo had not heard the old man’s voice since they had left the building. He wondered if they had arrived at their destination and expected the lid of the packing crate, which increasingly seemed like a coffin, to open. But the van began to move again. This time, someone else was driving. It was a bumpy ride and the vehicle rocked from side to side as if the driver was not used to driving vans.
Leo’s stomach was on fire. The pain spread up his lower back to the rest of his body. He coughed and felt beads of sweat forming on his brow. In each new attack, pain shot through his body. He had to find the strength to follow his plan to completion. If his resolve failed him now, he would never escape. With long, deep breaths, he tried to block out the pain. He closed his eyes and thought of Cecilia. Allowed himself to be comforted by the memory of her small, soft hands and her ever-so-curious eyes. With the same hunger for knowledge and absolute determination that he had once possessed. He had finally forgiven Anna. His recriminations were spent and her loss was greater than his physical pain. He was doing this for them. They would give him the strength he now so badly needed.
He gritted his teeth and felt adrenaline slowly dampening the worst of his pain. Finally, the van slowed down. He heard muted voices in agitated discussion. Something had happened, something his kidnappers had not planned for. A beautiful sound penetrated the packing crate’s walls and Leo felt hope once again.
Viktor Spjuth and
Johan Ärenmark, both with barely a year on the force, were sitting in their unmarked police car, watching the motorway traffic on the E18 at Jakobsberg. They had no idea that they would be receiving a citation from the Minister for Justice in two months’ time.
The APB for the van was broadcast only to the team that the Security Service and Stockholm County CID had somewhat ironically codenamed “the A-Team”. It was a temporary unit consisting exclusively of novice police officers.
Unmarked cars had been posted on all the major entrance and exit roads to Stockholm city with orders to be on the lookout for the van. They had no other clues.
It was five past eleven in the evening when Spjuth suddenly saw something that made his pulse race. “Holy shit,” he swore. “It’s the wanted van!”
Ärenmark quickly sat up in his car seat, which he had set to recline. “Are you certain?”
“One hundred per cent.”
“I’ll call the Command Centre,” Ärenmark said, reaching for his mobile phone.
Viktor Spjuth started the car and drove onto the E18. He accelerated the BMW until he regained visual contact with the van. He drove behind it at a safe distance and let a few cars get between him and the van.
“We’re to follow them until back-up arrives,” Ärenmark said excitedly. “If we blow this, we can start reading the jobs ads tomorrow.”
“Did they say that?”
“No, but it goes without saying.”
“I guess so.”
This was Ärenmark’s first real call-out where it might be necessary to use his firearm. Until today, he had only arrested very drunk yobbos and restrained the occasional crackhead who hadn’t had the sense to obey orders. This was a totally different ball game.
From patrol cop to plain-clothes detective and an unmarked car. He heard his heart thumping under his bulletproof vest.
At the Rinkeby intersection, the van stopped at a red light. An articulated lorry drove onto the intersection and its engine suddenly died. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust of the foreign-registered truck as the driver attempted to restart the engine. The long trailer blocked both lanes of the intersection and traffic started to build up behind it.
The van was now completely boxed in by cars. Ärenmark saw his chance.
“Let’s take them,” he said to Spjuth, opening his car door.
Viktor Spjuth threw a quick look at his colleague, who had already drawn his service revolver. It took him a split second to come to the same decision. They jumped out of their car with guns at the ready.
There were four cars between them and the van. The driver of the lorry was frantically trying to start his engine, which was stalling and spewing out thick diesel smoke. They could hear the sound of sirens approaching. On the other side of the road, Ärenmark saw the blue light of an ambulance that was trying to squeeze past the trailer. The driver of the van could not see the ambulance – only hear the sound, which he might mistake for a police siren.
“Quickly!” Ärenmark shouted to Spjuth, running as fast as he could to the van.
At the same time as the lorry driver’s engine roared back to life, Ärenmark tore open the passenger door of the van. He yelled so hard that his voice broke as he aimed his Sig Sauer into the cabin. One second later, he saw Spjuth open the driver’s door. His face was grim and his gun was pointing, dangerously, at Ärenmark. Both men in the van threw their hands in the air, terrified.
Chapter 23
Jörgen Blad was
tired and bloated after his dinner with Sebastian. He had eaten a fourteen-ounce entrecôte steak, accompanied by a root-vegetable gratin, which had had enough cholesterol to induce a heart attack. His eyelids drooped half shut as soon as he sat down in the meeting room. As usual, the air was stuffy and it was too warm. Even after a double expresso, he had difficulty staying alert. The clock on the wall said it was past midnight and the newspaper editor, Palle Öhlin, was on the speakerphone. Opposite Jörgen was the duty news editor who, fortunately for Jörgen, was not his future father-in-law, Sven-Erik. Lars Strand was much more accommodating and respected Jörgen’s special talents.
“Can Tina confirm all of this?” Palle inquired, in a sleepy voice.
“Yes,” Lars replied. “I spoke to her before she left.”
“The photos certainly look damned good. What’s your headline, Lars?”
Lars thought for a few seconds. “SWAT team raids police premises,” he suggested, “or ‘War on police corruption’.”
“That last one works really well with the images,” Palle said, “but it’s also high-risk. If we’re going to run with that headline, I’ll have to talk to the proprietors.”
Jörgen knew that he was close to a breakthrough. It was just a question of how big the story would be. “Tomorrow we’ll know more about Palmryd,” he said elatedly. “I will . . .”
“We will put the entire research staff on the story,” Palle interrupted. “They’ll drop what they’re doing. This is too big a story to be handled by just you and Tina.”
“But . . .”
“Tomorrow, Bosse G will take over the story,” Palle stopped him again. “You’ll get your share of the credit, I promise.”
Bosse G? Jörgen was furious. A share of the credit? He was the one who had dug up the story. Bosse G was a stuffed shirt who, on one occasion of beer-induced inebriation, had admitted his dislike of homosexuals, describing them as upper-class elitists. He had suggested that Jörgen practised the type of undercover reportage made famous by Günter Wallraff on his own acquaintances. He was convinced that there were some juicy scandals to be found among promiscuous celebrities.
“Not Bosse G,” protested Jörgen. “If he’s involved, there will be no story.”
Lars raised an eyebrow. “No story?” he queried.