‘Does it? First, she took her mother’s maiden name and changed her first name, then she made up a new last name. People do it every day.’
Silence.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘The free-port murders,’ Annika said. ‘Are you any closer to solving them?’
A deep sigh came over the wire.
‘The answer is no,’ Q said. ‘We’re not sure. Apparently the Yugoslav Mafia and the hijacked shipment of cigarettes are involved in some way, but we’re not sure how. It goes beyond the regular smuggling business – there’s something else going on that we can’t quite figure out.’
Annika inhaled sharply.
‘Does it have anything to do with Aida Begovic?’
Q was silent.
‘Probably,’ he replied curtly.
‘Is Rebecka Björkstig involved?’
‘We’re checking into that.’
‘She told me that she had been threatened by the Yugoslav Mafia. Could there be any truth to that?’
The policeman sighed.
‘This is the way it is,’ he said. ‘The Yugo Mafia is up to all kinds of mischief that no one knows about, but they also get the blame for a bunch of stuff they haven’t done. Björkstig ran that threat past us, too: it seems that one of her creditors, a guy named Andersson, threatened to set his Mafia contacts on her.’
‘So there doesn’t seem to be a connection between Rebecka and the Serbs?’
‘Nyet.’
Annika closed her eyes, pausing for a moment.
‘What about Ratko?’ she said. ‘The leader of the cigarette ring – do you know where he is right now?’
‘Serbia, most probably; it’s the only country in Europe where he’s safe at all. There’s no way he would be able to move freely anywhere else.’
‘Could he be in Sweden?’
‘It would have to be one hell of a short and sweet visit, in that case. Why do you ask?’
Annika swallowed hard and the taste of metal came back to her.
‘By the way,’ she said. ‘What does
porutsch . . . porutschnick michich
mean?’
‘What?’ the detective said.
‘
Porutschnick michich –
it’s Serbo-Croat, I think.’
‘Hang on,’ Q said, ‘I’m not fluent in every stray tongue spoken on the face of the Earth.’
‘It’s important,’ Annika said. ‘Do you know anybody who speaks the language?’
He groaned.
‘We do have a staff of interpreters on hand,’ he said. ‘How important is it?’
‘Mucho.’
There was a thud as the phone landed on the detective’s desk. She heard him leave the room and then a voice in the distance called out ‘Nikola’, followed by ‘What the hell does
porutschnick michich
mean?’
The footsteps returned.
‘It’s a rank and a name,’ Q said. ‘
Porucnik
means colonel and Misic is a fairly common surname.’
‘Oh shit!’ Annika said.
‘What? You’re arousing my curiosity.’
‘A man came to Aida’s funeral yesterday: his uniform was plastered with medals and insignia.’
‘I see,’ the policeman said. ‘So he was a relative of hers, what of it?’
‘He arrived in an official embassy vehicle, with an escorting fleet of cars. Isn’t that peculiar?’
‘I guess he’s in the country to check out the JAS fighter planes, along with all the other shady customers. Describe his insignia.’
Annika thought hard.
‘Leaves,’ she said.
‘Leaves?’
‘Right, leaves, and gobs of medals.’
‘Did you see what was on them?’
She closed her eyes and sighed.
‘One of them said Santa something, I think.’
Q whistled.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course not, do you think I’m a fucking computer or something?’
‘He could be from the KOS,’ Q said. ‘But they’re practically wiped out.’
Annika stretched out on the couch and looked up at the ceiling.
‘What’s the KOS? What are you talking about?’
‘I bet it made you think of the Greek island, didn’t it? The KOS is the counter-espionage division of the Yugoslav army. Milosevic has practically dismantled the entire organization. Over the past fifteen years there’s been one hell of a power struggle going on between the KOS and the RDB, one that the KOS has lost. This has caused a lot of bitterness among the old guard.’
Confused, Annika exclaimed: ‘The RDB?’
‘Slobodan’s boys, the secret police, the elite of the elite. They control crime
and
the police in Serbia – they’re real tough customers.’
Annika digested this information for a few seconds.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but where the hell did you work before you ended up as a detective?’
‘That’s classified,’ Q said and she could actually hear him grinning.
‘Where would a colonel of the KOS stay in Stockholm if he was here to see the JAS fighters?’
‘If he gets along with the RDB boys at the embassy, he’d stay there. If not, he’d check into one of the major hotels in Stockholm.’
‘Such as . . .?’
‘I’d try the Royal Viking first.’
‘I love you for ever,’ Annika said.
‘Spare me,’ Q said and hung up.
Colonel Misic was staying at the Sergel Plaza Hotel. Annika stood in front of his door for several minutes with her hand poised to knock, the blood surging through her veins at a gallop, before she could bring herself to apply her knuckles to the wooden surface. She heard a questioning ‘
Da
?’ and knocked again.
The door opened a crack.
‘
Da
?’
Annika caught sight of an unshaven face, a hairy shoulder, an undershirt.
‘Colonel Misic? My name is Annika Bengtzon. I would like to have a word with you.’
The smile that she tried to flash him was a bit uncertain.
The man peered at her, his face in the shadows. She couldn’t make out the expression on his face.
‘Why?’ he asked in a throaty voice.
‘I knew Aida,’ she replied, her voice too high-pitched and nervous.
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t close the door either.
‘I saw you at the funeral,’ Annika said. ‘I spoke to you.’
The man hesitated.
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk, that’s all,’ she said quickly. ‘I want to talk about Aida, talk to someone who knew her in the old days.’
The elderly colonel stepped back and opened the door wide. He was barefoot and he’d pulled on a pair of trousers, the braces were hanging down to his knees.
‘Come in and have a seat,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and put on a shirt.’
Annika entered a small double room with two narrow beds, a TV set, a mini-bar, a desk and a chair with chrome legs. The door closed behind her and she heard herself swallow. The man disappeared into the bathroom and for a moment she panicked.
What if he came out armed with a sub-machine gun?
Or a knife?
He
might have murdered Aida!
Her pulse rate leapt into overdrive. She was just about to make a run for it when the man came out of the bathroom wearing an unbuttoned white shirt and holding a pair of socks in his hand.
‘How well did you know Aida?’ he asked in broken English.
Annika gazed at the floor.
‘Not very well,’ she admitted, looking up into the elderly man’s cloudy eyes. ‘I wish I had been given the opportunity to know her better.’
‘You’re wearing her necklace,’ the man said. ‘The Bosnian lily and the heart to signify love. I bought it for Aida. She took off the charm with the Serbian eagles.’
Annika’s hand flew to finger the necklace and she felt herself blush.
The elderly man sat down on one of the beds, crossed his legs, rested one foot on his lap and pulled on a sock.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Weak at the knees, she sank down on the bed facing the officer and dropped her bag on the floor by the bed.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.
Annika looked at the elderly man: the salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheeks, the sagging shoulders, the heavyset body, the roomy shirt that would accommodate his stomach, the thinning hair.
Grief had left him a broken man, she realized. The kind of grief that made you ill.
Would anyone ever mourn her passing like that?
Suddenly the tears spilled from her eyes. She hid her face in her hands.
The man remained where he was, not uttering a word, not moving.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered after a while, dashing away the tears with the backs of her hands. ‘You see, my grandmother died recently and I haven’t been myself lately.’
The officer got up, went to the bathroom, and returned with a roll of toilet paper.
‘Thank you,’ Annika said, accepting the roll and blowing her nose.
The man studied her carefully, but not in an unfriendly way.
‘Why are you wearing Aida’s necklace?’
Annika blotted the area under her eyes with some paper.
‘I met her a few days before she died,’ Annika said. ‘She was ill and very frightened. I’m a journalist – Aida called the paper I work for and asked for help. I tried to help her . . .’
‘How?’
Annika took a deep breath and released it soundlessly.
‘She was so alone in the world. There wasn’t anyone to help her. She feared for her life – this man was stalking her. I agreed to meet her because she had information about a couple of murders that were committed here in Stockholm. But I couldn’t leave her the way she was, she was ill, so I gave her the number of an organization named Paradise . . . where I thought they could help her.’
She glanced at the man. He was listening intently, but he didn’t react when she mentioned the name of the foundation.
‘The woman in charge of Paradise turned out to be a fraud,’ Annika continued. ‘I feel so guilty for sending Aida to a place like that.’
She bowed her head, felt the tears well up again and waited for the colonel’s wrath.
There was none.
‘It is good,’ he said, ‘to help a friend. Aida must have appreciated what you did since she gave you her necklace.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Annika whispered.
The elderly officer got up, went over to the window and looked out over Sergelstorg.
‘This is where she died,’ he murmured. ‘This is where Aida died.’
The silence grew oppressive; Annika felt the man’s despair, saw his shoulders shake. She remained seated on the bed, feeling uncertain, her hands cold and clumsy. Finally, she tore off a piece of paper, got up and approached the old officer cautiously. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, stopped in their course by the stubble on his face. He made no effort to take the paper.
‘Forgive me,’ Annika said in a low voice. ‘I thought I was helping her.’
The man shot a glance her way, then went back to staring at the plaza.
‘Why do you feel guilty?’ he asked.
‘The woman in charge of Paradise, I’m afraid she was . . .’
All of a sudden, the colonel turned around, went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of slivovitz and poured some into a glass.
‘Aida chose to die,’ he said, offering Annika a drink. She shook her head. He put the cap back on the bottle and placed it back in the refrigerator. He waddled back to the bed and sank down on it heavily, causing the mattress to creak.
‘Who was Aida?’ Annika asked. ‘How did you come to know her?’
‘I was born in Bijelina,’ the elderly man said, ‘just like Aida.’
Annika sat down on the opposite bed.
‘Are you familiar with Bijelina?’
She attempted a smile.
‘No, but I have seen photos from Bosnia. It’s very beautiful, what with the mountains and the palm trees—’
‘That’s not what Bijelina is like,’ the officer said. ‘It’s located on the plains, slightly to the north-east of Tuzla. The winters are harsh and spring is one long rainstorm.’
His gaze locked on to a spot somewhere above her head.
‘Not even the river is very pretty.’
He sighed and looked at Annika.
‘You’ve probably seen pictures of the river, the Drina, that follows the Serbian border, but the most famous pictures were taken outside Gorazde.’
She shook her head.
‘Piles of dead bodies,’ he said. ‘Corpses that were tossed into the Drina and that piled up near Gorazde. A Danish photographer crossed over our lines and photographed them – the pictures were published all over the world.’
Annika swallowed, yes, she remembered the pictures, she had read a book about the incident and
Kvällspressen
had bought the Swedish rights to the pictures.
Colonel Misic grew silent, once again focusing on things outside the room. Annika waited.
‘So, are you a Serb?’
The elderly officer gave her a weary look.
‘In those days you grew up without thinking about your background,’ he said. ‘I was an only child, and my closest childhood friend was like a brother to me. He was Aida’s father. Jovan was a highly intelligent man, but since he was a Muslim there were no routes into public life open to him. He became a baker, and a very good one at that.’
The man stopped talking and passed his hand over his eyes, a hairy hand with hairy fingers.
‘But you didn’t become a baker,’ Annika said in a low voice.
‘I had a military career,’ the old colonel said, ‘just like my father and my grandfather before me. I never married, while Jovan had a wonderful family; a beautiful wife and three talented children. I visited them every year, in the summer and at Christmas. His daughter was my favourite: Aida. She was as lovely as an angel, her singing voice as clear as a silvery bell . . .’
The old man knocked back his liquor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Why do you care about Aida?’ he asked.
‘I’m a journalist,’ she said, ‘I write about things that are important and true, like describing the conditions—’
‘Ha!’ the man exclaimed. ‘Journalists are flunkies, just like soldiers. You fight with lies instead of weapons.’
Unprepared for his outburst, Annika blinked.
‘That’s not true,’ she said softly. ‘My only duty is to the truth.’
The officer looked down into his empty glass.
‘Oh, really? So you’re one of the good guys. You aren’t paid for your work?’
She flung out her hands.
‘Of course I get paid, but I work for an uncensored paper, with no restrictions . . .’