Project Nirvana (18 page)

Jonna looked at Walter, dumbfounded. “How could you know that?”

“It’s obvious. He wasn’t worried about being shot by Hedman.”

“Bravado, perhaps?”

“Not likely.”

“Then I don’t understand,” said Jonna, confused.

“Neither did I, at first,” Walter said. “But after a while things started to add up.”

“What things?” she asked impatiently.

Was she now getting another lesson in Walter’s “deep thinking?” She hated it when he talked in riddles and would never give a straight answer.

“Jörgen Blad claimed that he had been interrogated by a police officer in the woods outside Ekerö,” he began.

“Yes, I remember. So what?”

“The description of the villain who shot Omar and Martin Borg’s partner in Gnesta is the complete opposite of Tor Hedman. Yet we know that Hedman and Salminen were virtually joined at the hip. Isn’t that a bit odd?”

“Well, yes. And if the size-48 footprints match Hedman’s, then we know for sure that he was at Ekerö too,” Jonna filled in the blanks.

“Exactly. There are too many clues pointing in one and the same direction to ignore them.”

“You’re saying that SÄPO are trying to cover up something? That SÄPO kidnapped Blad with the help of Hedman?” Jonna could hear her voice tense with excitement.

Walter shook his head, unconvinced. “It’s not the first time the Security Service decided to sweep a mess under the carpet and then pretended to be the injured party. Although, in this particular case, I don’t think that’s what SÄPO is up to. They’ve been involved in lots of shady affairs over the years. But that kidnapping does not sound like them. Who would risk sanctioning that operation?”

“So you think that Borg was involved in the kidnapping and is working with Hedman?”

Walter was silent.

“Why would he do that?” Jonna didn’t understand.

“Something must have happened in Gnesta.”

“What could that be?”

“No idea,” Walter concluded.

Jonna looked at Walter, shocked. She didn’t know what to believe. Certainly, she disliked Borg, but that he would be working with known felons didn’t sound very plausible. The Security Service had strict procedures for their agents, with regular polygraphs and psychological evaluations. Jonna herself had been subjected to them at RSU and it was not possible to cheat.

The police radio crackled into life. Walter turned up the volume.

“70 to all units. 1099 has contact with the target. Shots fired. No injuries. The target is inside a cabin and has taken hostages.”

Suddenly, the police radio went crazy. Different units all called in simultaneously, while Jonna eagerly noted the co-ordinates for the cabin and punched them into the sat-nav. After a few seconds, the little computer had calculated the quickest route. “There!” she cried, pointing. “Swing onto that gravel road.”

Walter braked hard and swung the car off Route 263. Gravel spattered around the wheels as he pushed the Volvo’s accelerator pedal to the floor.

They drove up a steep incline and were dazzled by the brightening daylight at the crest of the hill. According to the sat-nav, they were only three hundred metres from their destination.

Chapter 11

Tor finished a
brief conversation on his mobile phone. The situation was no longer hopeless.

“Hello,” he then answered the old couple’s land line.

“My name is Rolf Meiton from the Stockholm police and I’m the officer in charge. I want you to lay down your weapon and to come outside.”

Tor laughed. He obviously had a comedian on the other end of the line. “I want free passage in return for sparing the lives of the old guy and his wife,” he said. “You can shove any other suggestions up your arse.”

“I can’t authorize . . .”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Tor shouted. “Do as I say and they get to live. I’ve absolutely nothing to lose. No matter what happens here, I’m still facing a life sentence. Do you understand me?”

Tor threw down the handset and then remembered something. “Shit,” he swore aloud. He had forgotten to remind the cop about the doctor. Despite his improved sugar level, the feeling in his hand had still not returned.

The man studied Tor while he sawed. Each stroke made him weaker. He took a short break and wiped his forehead. “What’s your name?” he asked, sitting down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.

Tor threw the man a fleeting, vacant glance. “Tor,” he answered apathetically.

“What have you done?”

“Lots of fucking shit,” Tor said.

“I can see that,” said the man, looking down at the floor. “Did you kill someone?”

“Just get those barrels sawn off.”

The old man got up and sawed a few strokes with the hacksaw. “I’ve killed too.”

Tor did not hear. He was deep in thought.

“Did you hear what I said, Tor?”

“No,” said Tor.

“I said that I had also killed.”

Tor glared at the hunchbacked old man. “Killed?”

The man nodded.

“What – a rabbit or something?” Fuck, now there was a comedian in the building as well.

“A human being,” the man answered. “So I can tell if a person is a killer.”

“How the fuck can you tell that?”

“When you take a life, a part of your soul disappears and it shows in your eyes. They become dead too. Look at mine.”

Tor looked at the man’s eyes. All he saw was a tangled web of bloodshot veins behind a misty membrane.

“I can tell that you have killed,” the man went on. “But I can still see some good left in you. Not every killer has that.”

“Have you done time?” Tor asked.

“No, I killed someone and was given a medal for it.”

“How did you get that?”

“I was a UN soldier in the Congo during the sixties. I was young and we were fighting for peace. Now I am almost eighty years’ old and instead spend my days fighting off the pains of age.”

“Well, I’m fighting for a way out from here,” Tor said. “You and the old woman are my ammo.” Tor thought it was a witty metaphor.

“My name is Einar,” the old man said, extending his hand. “My wife is Ingegärd.”

Tor stared suspiciously at his outstretched claw. It was sinewy and was trembling. “I know your game,” Tor said. “You’re trying to make friends with me. Like that fucking Stockholm syndrome, only the other way round.”

“Think twice, son. It’s not too late.”

“I’m not your fucking son and it’s way too late for me,” said Tor. “I have just this one chance and I intend to take it. Do you hear me?”

The man looked at Tor sadly. “It’s never too late.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tor yelled. “Keep sawing.”

The old man went back to the shotgun. His eyes turned to his wife on the floor. Her eyes were clouded and she uttered low moans. He tried to establish eye contact with her.

The telephone on the wall rang. Tor jumped at the sudden sound. “Yes?” he growled.

“We have a doctor,” the policeman’s voice said. “Shall we send her in?”

Tor glanced at the shotgun. The old man had barely sawn halfway through the barrels.

“Send her over in ten minutes,” Tor said and hung up.

He went over to one of the windows and opened the blinds slightly. Police were positioned all around the house. Perhaps they were preparing for a surprise attack. Perhaps not. After all, Tor had both the old guy and his wife. The police would never risk storming the building. The old folks’ tickers would stop after the first stun grenade; the fuzz would know that. So Tor had to keep them both alive and kicking. He looked at the kitchen clock. Five minutes had gone by already. Suddenly, he heard a thud on the floor. Tor turned around and saw both barrels lying on the kitchen floor.

“Do you have a wood saw?” he asked the man.

The old man was out of breath and pale from his exertions. He nodded.

“Go and get it and then shorten the stock,” Tor ordered him. “You have four minutes.”

The man staggered down into the cellar and came back up shortly afterwards with a wood saw in his hand. The teeth on the saw were large.

“Here,” Tor pointed. “Saw off the stock here.”

The man’s arm was shaking with exhaustion. He jammed the saw several times and had to pull the saw blade free and start again.

“Two minutes left,” Tor said, standing by the window. He saw someone who looked like a doctor getting ready. She had two big bags.

The telephone rang.

“The doctor is on her way now,” the voice said.

“No fucking tricks, or I’ll shoot,” said Tor, throwing down the telephone. The old guy had only made it halfway through the stock and the doctor was on her way. Tor grabbed the gun by the barrels. He slammed the stock against the table as hard as he could. A big piece of the wood flew off. Tor now had something resembling a double-barrelled handgun.

There was a knock on the door.

Tor quickly loaded two cartridges and cocked the gun.

“Come on in. The door’s open,” he yelled, and hid himself behind a corner. He had a clear view of the front door, but was still protected by the wall. He first heard a knock on the door, then heard it open. A blonde woman walked through the door.

Mjasník had returned
to the youth hostel. He could not understand how he had managed to miss the woman. She must have gone to work very early. Yet another day gone to waste. Time was now against him.

He laid down on his bed and turned on the TV in an attempt to kill a few hours. He zapped aimlessly between the Swedish channels, although he didn’t understand a word. One of the channels seemed to be the morning news.

Pictures of the American president were being shown and Mjasník realized that it was a story about the USA. Shortly afterwards, he watched a reporter, who was surrounded by woods and policemen. He seemed to be reporting live. Perhaps it was a traffic accident. Suddenly, he saw a face he recognized. The old detective inspector. Mjasník sat up and turned up the volume just as the man disappeared from the screen.

The detective inspector who was leading the hunt for Leo Brageler was being interviewed in a live report. The camera swept over the scene. Helicopters hovered over the area and dogs were barking. Mjasník flew off his bed and went down to the reception desk. He pointed at the TV in the foyer and asked the receptionist to translate what was being said. The young woman raised a startled eyebrow, but turned up the volume. She explained that the police had cordoned off a house where a wanted criminal had taken hostages. Mjasník asked the name of the criminal. The woman listened and gave Mjasník a name he had never heard before. He asked her to show him the location of the unfolding drama on a map. Five minutes later, he was in his hire car.

The Mentor had
contacted Tor Hedman and given him new instructions. Martin was also informed of his plan and was, as usual, impressed by the old man’s creativity and decisiveness. Statistically speaking, Hedman’s odds were practically zero. Few managed to make good an escape in a similar situation.

The hostages he had taken were not usually an advantage, because free passage was seldom given to dangerous criminals. Except when there was a helping hand from the other side. The plan was simple and the only possible one.

One or two of the hostages would leave together with the kidnapper under a blanket, with holes cut out to make it possible to get to the getaway vehicle. The police would not be able to identify the individuals under the blanket. The kidnapper would have a gun pointed at the hostage’s head.

There were however a few critical seconds: the transition into the vehicle. The police knew that and would be waiting to make their move then. It would be best if Hedman was killed on the spot by a head shot. The backwards explosion from the sniper’s dumdum bullet would have Forensics wiping up the remains of Hedman’s brain with a dishcloth.

Hedman still had some misgivings about obeying his new master. Martin felt a mounting sense of frustration. Instead of looking for the supplier of the truth serum on Omar’s hard drive, in order to get Leo Brageler to talk, he was forced to take care of the Hedman problem. It was diverting time and resources from more important issues. Martin had made some mistakes lately, but had always managed to sort them out.

Yet a feeling returned to haunt him – that he was living on borrowed time. The war against Islam must go on and he was impatient to start the final battle. Or to do something that would start to turn the tide. The Mentor continued to urge caution and to wait for the right moment. To never take risks and to work in the background. The rewards so far had been insignificant and Martin was becoming more impatient. Brageler and the compound that he had developed could provide the turning point they so badly needed. It would soon be time to take action himself.

Alice McDaniel boarded
the London flight to Stockholm. Despite the fact that the airport was enveloped in a light fog, the departure screens showed few delays. She had a seat in Business Class and there was no passenger sitting next to her. She still felt cramped. In her handbag, she had the padded envelope that her client had asked her to deliver personally to the Grand Hotel.

The envelope was sealed securely and had an unusual, plastic seal that made it impossible to open without detection. By squeezing the envelope, she had already guessed that it contained a CD, together with a number of papers. She had often wondered about the things clients asked her firm to keep for them. Secret bank account numbers or compromising information on other people, perhaps? Perhaps the drawings for an atomic bomb.

Mostly, they were perfectly innocent documents, such as wills and testaments, and it was not her job to be judgmental. As long as she didn’t know what was being stored, her firm was not committing any crime, regardless of whether it was stolen money or plans for a terrorist cell. But this was the first time that she had received such an unusual request.

There were two things that made her feel ill at ease. The first was the disclosure of her ex-directory telephone number. A number that no one, except a few family members, knew. The other was the determination and resolve, even desperation, that her client had displayed when he asked her to come. Certainly, this client was never the chatty type, but his voice had seemed both cowed and commanding at the same time.