Martin tossed a bag with two hamburgers and a soft drink to the floor beside Leo Brageler. He was Martin’s project and he was in charge of the interrogation. As for the Mentor, this was his first meeting with Brageler. Martin suspected that the old man would take charge as soon as they got to the prisoner's cell, and his fears were realized immediately.
“Leo Brageler,” the old man greeted him, and sat himself down on a wooden stool.
Eng switched on a powerful builder’s spotlight and directed it at Leo. The Mentor observed his face in the glow of the lamp. It was swollen and purplish from all the blows and kicks.
“I can see that you do not fear death,” the old man began, folding his hands.
Leo squinted in the direction of the brittle voice.
“Don’t you want to know who we are and what we want?” The old man took out a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket and lit one with trembling hands.
Leo had asked himself the same question. The man behind the voice, a voice he had not heard before, seemed to be a mind-reader. Could he be the leader of these lunatics? “Enlighten me,” Leo croaked, barely audibly. Each breath cut him like a knife.
Martin was startled by Leo’s words. Since he had been thrown into the cell, he had not uttered a syllable.
The old man blew out smoke, which mixed with the condensation in the cold room. “Three of us in this room have a vision,” he said and looked thoughtfully at the floor. “The West has fought against Nazis and communists ever since the thirties. Two totalitarian ideologies that wiped out millions of human beings. When the wall against Eastern Europe fell, many believed that the world was heading for a more peaceful age. What they did not know was that communism would be replaced with something far worse. Religious fanaticism.”
Leo was listening.
The old man stretched out his crooked spine. “Islam,” he said in a voice oozing with hatred, “is the Free World’s new enemy. The enemy is in our midst and is growing stronger every day. Islamic organizations and nations around the world are spending billions to populate Europe with Muslims. Our children and grandchildren will grow up in a society where Islam is a dominant force. Christians and non-believers are doomed to extinction. Naive politicians are allowing this to continue and are more interested in outdoing each other in tolerance. Soon, it will be too late.”
The old man inhaled smoke deep into his throat. The bluish smoke shrouded his wrinkled face and his gaze became vacant.
A brief silence settled on the room.
“There is hope,” the man continued. “Switzerland has voted to ban the new mosques. The Swiss people have awakened and it will happen in more countries. Our friends in Switzerland have done good work and we are learning from them.”
Leo had been right. It really was a group of lunatics that was holding him captive.
“Now you know what drives us,” the man said. “And now, of course, you are wondering who we are.”
The old man was reading Leo’s thoughts again. The pain in his head forced him to lay down on the damp mattress. Several of his ribs were broken, so he had to move gingerly.
Martin could not help but be impressed by the Mentor. His voice might be weak, but the logic of his message was razor-sharp. It was he who had persuaded Martin to join them. Martin had understood almost immediately that the organization was where he belonged and that he was destined for this war. He felt honoured to be a part of this glorious struggle. The most important and bloody battle lay ahead and Martin had a vital mission. To obtain the rage drug that Leo Brageler had created.
“Most of our members are ordinary people,” the old man said, and let his tired eyes wander along the damp stone walls. “Some are in the police, some military, others are people with positions in industry and the government. Conscientious individuals who love freedom and democracy. We are a cross-section of the population and we work with comrades in similar organizations all over the world. In countries that have, like us, realized the threat that we are facing.”
“So, no Islamic members then?” Leo commented between two coughs. Pain shot like a knife through his body.
The old man laughed. “Despite your ordeal, you still allow yourself the luxury of irony. For that, you have my respect.”
He let his cigarette fall to the floor, stamping out the butt with his heel. “Tell me,” he continued, “how does someone with your intelligence turn into a common murderer?”
Leo felt his indifference weaken. “Justice,” he said, forcing the word out.
“Justice?” the man retorted as if he had misheard. “What justice is there in killing a fifteen-year-old girl?” The old man’s voice hardened.
Leo had asked himself that question many times. His grief after Cecilia had overshadowed any doubts about the righteousness of his actions. Every human, however, has an alter ego. A side of their personality that is the antithesis of the person they really want to be. Perhaps this alter ego had manifested itself in the deeds of which he was now suffering the consequences.
“Can you answer the question, Leo?” the man repeated. “I am dying of curiosity.”
Leo could not satisfy the man’s request. He did not have the energy. His eyelids became increasingly heavy and he was slowly losing consciousness.
“Don’t sleep just yet, Leo,” the old man said. “You have not answered my question.”
One name that
Mjasník had been given during his telephone conversation was that of a journalist called Jörgen Blad. He had worked with the police as an embedded journalist when they were hunting Leo Brageler. Brageler was the penultimate target on Mjasník’s list. The Swedish journalist had written a number of articles on the events involving Brageler and was therefore an excellent source of information, Mjasník thought. The crimes Brageler had committed were, conversely, of no interest to him whatsoever.
“So, what can I do for you?” Jörgen Blad greeted him, shaking his Russian colleague’s hand. Jörgen felt flattered that a freelance journalist from Moscow wanted to interview him about his undercover role in the Leo Brageler manhunt. The story had apparently attracted media interest in Russia. Also, the man on the other side of the table was very attractive. His facial features were ultra-masculine and his voice was so deep that it almost made ripples in Jörgen’s glass of water.
“Tell me everything from the very beginning,” the man smiled, taking out his notepad.
You betcha, Jörgen thought to himself. He was going to be quoted in the Russian media and now was not the time to play the modest Swede. Jörgen Blad as the Swedish version of the famous Robert Fisk? The notion made him slightly dizzy.
The man frantically took notes. Names and events flowed from Jörgen’s lips and he was having a hard time keeping in his seat.
Jörgen recounted how he had practically saved the life of a woman lay juror. Or at least, a person close to her. How he had himself been kidnapped and had experienced a close encounter with death after being tied to a tree in a deserted forest outside Stockholm. He was regrettably forced to omit some details because he had been sworn to secrecy by the Swedish police.
The Russian journalist nodded his understanding and filled page after page in his notepad. Occasionally, he asked intelligent questions, which Jörgen answered with great confidence while he relished his colleague’s eager note-taking. Jörgen shared both his own thoughts and reflections, as well as repeating the official version. Forty-five minutes later, the journalist thanked Jörgen for giving up so much of his time and then left the
Kvällspressen
newsroom.
One hour later, Jörgen’s exuberance was replaced with a troubled frown.
Mjasník was studying
the A4 pages of typewritten notes from the FSB agent. The Swedish journalist obviously had a lot to say. Mjasník’s go-between had a real talent for improvisation. With the help of the fake journalist and Jörgen Blad, Mjasník now had three more names to work with.
The fact that all three individuals were police officers did not deter him. But what help would these police officers be if not even they had been able to find the target? Normally, he would have gone to the last target on the list and waited patiently until the Swedes finally located Brageler. But the client had emphasized the importance of terminating the last target after all the other names were liquidated. Mjasník was not allowed to improvise. He did not understand the reason, but he would stick to his instructions.
Detective Jonsson located
Marie Ankers at an address in Tyresö outside Stockholm using the Inland Revenue database. She lived in a new housing estate, together with the owner of a building company, Neopol Isaksson. Isaksson was a sixty-year-old businessman with a company of thirty employees, which had a bad reputation because of his constant disputes with the Inland Revenue. He was currently being investigated by the Prosecutor’s Office for withholding income tax. This was information that Walter could use if Marie Ankers was not eager to talk.
In accordance with his iPhone navigation instructions, Walter turned off Tyresövägen. He never ceased to be amazed at the advances in modern technology. Except for the TV sets that just seemed to get bigger and bigger. Jonna had introduced him to new concepts like Facebook and Twitter and her incessant nagging had forced him to stay up to date. Walter had read that one could exercise the brain by exposing it to new challenges. Having Jonna de Brugge as a partner was certainly a challenge. She also had a healing effect on his inner self. She had not replaced Martine in any way, but she had, without knowing it, given him a sense that life might still be worth living after all.
Since the day Jonna stood outside his door on the previous Christmas Eve, it was as if he had filled his tank with joie de vivre from her inexhaustible life force. His emotional decline after Martine’s death had stopped and he was slowly able to discern a new beginning.
Life went on, and the life he was living was here and now. Not in the future and not in the past. Here and now, with the living and not the dead.
“You have your service weapon, don’t you?” Walter asked as they turned onto a smaller road that led up to the terraced houses.
He knew of course that she had her weapon, but still asked. Just to check that she had not forgotten it in her locker. He realized that he sounded like a suspicious parent, but the question just slipped out.
Jonna nodded, surprised. “Of course. My P229 is in my holster,” she said. “Are you expecting trouble?” Her eyes were tense.
“Not really,” Walter answered. “Not yet, at any rate. But if Hedman is there, that’s a different story.”
“I see,” Jonna said and felt the weight of the gun in her shoulder holster.
Being on active duty meant carrying a firearm, in accordance with regulations. In actual fact, she disliked guns. A mechanical object that could end a life with a simple touch of a finger. Yet, she was a decent marksman. Her two hobbies, riding and the martial art of
Wushu
, had given her enough strength to empty a full Sig-Sauer magazine with just one hand. Many of her male colleagues had difficulty with the one-handed grip, especially the older generation that had stopped working out at the gym.
By contrast, she seemed to lack the nerve to lift the phone off the hook and call Alexander Westfeldt. Until yesterday. Using the excuse that she needed help with her investigation, she had called him in for a witness interview.
The archaeology student had been surprised at the policewoman’s interest in his insignificant contact with Leo Brageler, but had agreed a time with Jonna. Tomorrow, at four thirty.
Walter pressed the
doorbell of the red, terraced house and a chime sounded somewhere inside. After a short wait, the door was opened by a woman in her fifties, with a nervous gaze and jangling silver bracelets on her wrists.
“Long time, no see,” Walter greeted her.
The woman glared at Walter and then at Jonna. “What do you want?” she asked in a hostile voice.
“We need to have a chat.”
“I’ve stopped walking the streets.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Walter said, “and the drugs?”
“That too, if you must know,” the woman snapped. She looked anxiously over her shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to ask us in?”
“No,” she said and closed the door to a narrow gap.
Walter grabbed the door handle and shoved. The door flew open.
“It’s not negotiable,” he said and pushed his way into the hallway. Jonna knew that they had just broken the law by forcing an entry without a search warrant.
“You can’t come in!” the woman shouted.
“How is Neopol coping with his tax evasion problems?” Walter asked, and walked into the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table.
“Do we have visitors?” a hoarse voice asked from upstairs.
“Yes, you do,” Walter shouted, gesturing to Marie Ankers to sit at the table. She reluctantly sat down facing Walter.
Heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs.
“Fuck you!” Marie hissed at Walter.
A stocky, elderly man in a white dressing gown and slippers came down the stairs. His face showed no hint of welcome. “Who the hell are you?” he bellowed, his face changing from ash-grey to red.
Walter held up his ID and offered the man a seat at his own kitchen table.
“If you don’t have a search warrant, you have no business here,” he yelled and pointed to the front door, where Jonna was standing.
“Sit down or we’ll have to go through the shoeboxes with undeclared receipts that you have hidden under your bed,” Walter said, calmly. “We’re only here to ask your girlfriend some questions.”
Neopol Isaksson glared at his partner and then at Walter. “What do you want to know?”
“I was just getting to that,” Walter said and popped in a cough drop. He gazed at the former prostitute.
“Well then?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders to indicate her desire to get it over and done with. “Ask away.”
“Tor Hedman,” Walter said, “or perhaps Headcase to you. Where can we find him?”
Marie shook her head. “How the fuck should I know where he is?”
“But you two were an item.”