Project Nirvana (20 page)

“Martin Borg?”

“Yes.”

“The Security Service never use their real names. Not even between colleagues,” Jonna said. “But you know that too.” She looked at Walter suspiciously.

“Only the Agency Director and a few others know any agent’s real identity,” Walter said.

Jonna wondered why he kept asking her questions to which he already knew the answers. “Why do you need Borg’s home address?”

“I want to know if he lives close to the Armed Forces HQ opposite the Stadium,” said Walter. “It seems that Hedman received a call from that area thirty minutes before the raid.”

“So Hedman was warned?”

“Most likely.”

“By whom? Martin Borg?”

“Also very likely.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. We need to put a tail on him,” Walter said. “We have to find out where he lives, and if he was working at the time the call was made, or if he was off duty. My money is on the latter.”

“How could he know when we were going to start the raid?”

“I informed SÄPO of our plans. In hindsight, that wasn’t such a good idea, considering the circus that Hedman brought to town. But I needed evidence for my theory about Borg. Perhaps the price was a little high.”

“So, now we follow Borg?”

“Yes, sooner or later he has to go home. Hopefully, he lives near the Stadium.”

Jonna looked at Walter worriedly. She had promised herself not to engage in any activity which could expose her to the risk of an Internal Affairs investigation again. The one on the Leo Brageler case had been quite enough for her. Spying on Security Service agents was definitely an activity that belonged in that category. Walter could ask anyone he wanted to do it, but this time it would not be Jonna who volunteered.

“Besides,” she said, “who else was the mobile phone used to call? Was it just Hedman?”

Walter looked at her. Then he called Dennis Carlinder again. “I forgot to ask you something. Was the pre-paid SIM card that was used to call Hedman used for any other calls?”

“Just a minute,” Carlinder replied.

Walter impatiently drummed his fingers on his iPhone as the seconds ticked by. He needed coffee. Litres of it.

“Let’s see,” said Carlinder. “Two calls. One to a phone close to the Högdalen shopping centre and the second call went to a phone near the Stadium again.”

“Hell,” Walter said, after hanging up. “That means it wasn’t Borg who warned Hedman. He would hardly have called himself at home in Östermalm.”

“Ask the mobile-phone companies to find out which shops sold the pre-paid SIM cards,” Jonna said eagerly. “They can trace how the pre-paid cards were shipped. If we’re lucky, they were purchased with a credit card. If not, then the shop might still have a CCTV video.”

Walter decided to do as his trainee detective requested, even if he thought it sounded like a long shot. Credit-card purchases and getting caught on CCTV were mistakes that only amateurs made. These people were professionals.

Mjasník parked the
car a short distance from the police cordon. Getting to the area was easy using the car’s sat-nav. He synchronized his wristwatch down to the second with his laptop’s clock. He started the scanner program and pushed the computer under the seat so that it could not be seen. Then he took a notepad and walked up to the cordon. He had to squeeze into a huddle of journalists and curious bystanders. Everyone was speaking Swedish. A tall woman with a camera on her belly asked him something, so he nodded and mumbled incomprehensibly. She seemed satisfied with his response and smiled back.

Less than one hundred metres away, the police had formed a command centre. Several police buses were parked and Mjasník spotted the individuals he was looking for. The detective inspector was standing next to one of the cars and talking to a woman, who was not Jonna de Brugge. The woman carried two medical bags and had blonde hair.

The detective inspector seemed to be giving the woman instructions. Behind another van, he saw Jonna de Brugge. He took out some small binoculars. He watched patiently as they conversed. After a while, Mjasník saw what he’d been hoping for. The detective inspector took out his mobile phone and made a call. Mjasník noted down the time the call was made. The woman police officer took out her mobile phone shortly afterwards. He noted the time and then hurried back to the car. It had taken less time than he had hoped. The advanced scanner program had scanned the entire GSM frequency bandwidth and registered 283 mobile phones within a radius of three kilometres. He scrolled down the list until he found the time he had written in his notepad. Within two seconds of the time, he found a match. Walter Gröhn’s mobile number was no longer secret and he could see who he had called. Mjasník repeated the procedure for Jonna de Brugge and was just about to close his laptop when there was a tap on the car window.

Mjasník looked up quickly. It was a police officer, who had come from a blind spot behind the car. He quickly closed his laptop and lowered the window. “Yes?” he said.

The police officer studied Mjasník. “You cannot be parking here,” he said in poor Swenglish.

“OK,” replied Mjasník and started his car.

“Are you reporter?” the policeman continued, signalling to Mjasník to turn off the engine.

What was a police officer doing this far from the cordon? Mjasník had to think quickly. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m a journalist.”

“Your identity documents, please,” the officer asked.

Mjasník rummaged in his inside pocket for his passport. Meanwhile, the officer walked around the car and made a note of the registration number. Just as Mjasník was about to give him the passport, the police officer’s face froze. He stood still and listened to his police radio. A moment later, he walked away from Mjasník.

“Bloody hell!” Tor
yelled and threw up his gun. By the smallest of margins, he managed to avoid being struck on the head with a steel thermos flask. The gun went off during the sudden movement and his face changed to that of a predator. The smell of gunpowder stung his nostrils and his ears were ringing after the discharge. The doctor lay face down on the floor. Tor aimed the gun at the old man, whose eyes were now black as coal.

“Bloody bastard,” the man shouted, with the thermos flask still in his raised hand. “Leave the girl alone.”

Tor lost his temper. He rushed forwards and kicked the man to the floor. The geezer was off his fucking rocker. He must have a death wish.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he yelled, putting his foot on the man’s head. He started to lean on it and then stopped himself.

Think first, Jerry used to say. If he bumped off the old geezer, there’d be nobody to deal with the tape. Tor lifted his foot, despite the fact that he was shaking with rage. Under different circumstances, he would have stomped on the old man’s skull until it caved in.

The telephone on the wall rang and Tor grabbed the handset.

“Yes?” he snarled.

“What happened?” a voice asked. “We heard something that sounded like gunfire.”

“It was nothing. Just a warning shot. Stay away or I’ll kill all three of them.”

“Is anyone injured?”

“I’m sending out the bloke and his old bag. The doctor stays with me. No fucking tricks or she’s a goner.”

“This is Detective Inspector Walter Gröhn,” the voice said. “Give it up, Tor. You gain nothing by continuing with this.”

Tor knew very well who Walter Gröhn was. He had arrested Tor a few times, mostly for minor offences. Except for one occasion when he had almost sent Tor down for a fatal shooting during a burglary. Fortunately, there had been no evidence and Tor had been able to walk out of the Kronoberg detention centre a free man a few weeks later.

“I want some rolls of duct tape,” Tor said.

“Duct tape?”

“Just get me some.”

Tor was losing his patience.

“I’ll bring the tape myself,” Walter answered. “I’m unarmed. You have my word.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your word. Just get the tape,” Tor said and slammed down the phone.

Walter waved over
Rolf Meiton. “Don’t start anything,” he said.

Rolf Meiton looked doubtful.

“He wants duct tape and I’m going in with it. Unarmed.”

Meiton eyes narrowed, but he could see that Walter was determined and realized it was pointless to argue. Walter was given two rolls of duct tape. He then walked towards the house. He kept his hands visible the whole time. He banged on the door and was answered by a loud voice inside the house. It was Hedman.

“I’m opening the door,” shouted Walter. “I’m coming inside!”

“No tricks,” Tor called from the kitchen.

Walter walked cautiously through the hallway. He moved with slow, deliberate movements. Towards the back of the kitchen, he saw the doctor standing with a sawn-off shotgun held against her head. She was scared, but still looked resolute. Tor was hiding behind the corner.

A sour stench of vomit met Walter’s nose as he entered the kitchen. On the floor next to the kitchen table, he saw the old couple lying on the floor. The man was breathing heavily and he held his chest. He signalled that he and his wife were all right. Walter nodded back. “I have the tape,” said Walter, carefully putting the rolls on the kitchen table.

“You can get lost now,” Tor said.

“What are you going to do with Lina?”

“None of your fucking business,” Tor growled. “Take the other two and get out.”

“What’s your plan?” Walter asked in a milder voice. “You do have a plan to get out of this mess, right?

“You’ll find that out soon enough,” Tor smiled.

Walter anxiously looked over at the woman doctor. “Take me instead,” he said. “A cop is worth more than a civilian.”

Walter’s words gave Tor some food for thought. He shifted his position and started to think the situation through. Having a cop at the end of a dead man’s switch was better than a doctor. Cops don’t shoot cops.

Civilians might easily be considered collateral damage by the trigger-happy boys in blue. Doctors included. But there were risks too. Walter was after all a cop. Although he was not very big nor very intimidating.

“You can relax,” continued Walter, noticing Tor’s apprehension. “I have a slipped disk and do not intend to go twelve rounds with you. All I want is that we are all still breathing when this is over. Even you, Tor.”

Tor glared at Walter, not knowing what to believe. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Jerry would’ve liked the plan.

Walter could see the cogs revolving at top speed in Tor’s head and hoped he would come to the right conclusion.

“You’re going to tape a dead man’s switch against the cop’s head,” Tor said abruptly, pushing the doctor towards Walter. “But first, you have to search him for weapons.”

Relieved, Walter held up his arms and nodded to the woman to start the search. “I would like to keep my house keys in my pocket,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m clean.”

The doctor searched Walter. At the corner of her eye, she saw the maniac shifting his feet, with his gun permanently trained on her. She was scared but, at the same time, angry. If she had a weapon at hand, she would hit him with everything she had. It was people like him who destroyed the lives of others, who made it necessary to lock her doors and windows and to look over her shoulder every time she went out at night.

A slight sensation of nausea hit Walter as Tor put the gun against his neck and instructed the doctor on how to apply the duct tape. First, she wrapped the tape around Tor’s hand and the gun so that it became an extension of his arm. Then she continued it around Walter’s neck, under his chin and finally around his head. When it was done, Walter looked as if he was wearing a silver beret with a chin strap. Tor and Walter were attached to each other, to the death.

The doctor looked at her work with horror. Walter gave her a weak smile and asked her, through gritted teeth, to help the old couple from the house.

Walter couldn’t understand how Tor had thought up the dead man’s switch. Someone must have told him how to do it.

“Tell the cops out there to ring me,” Tor yelled just as the doctor was shutting the front door behind them. “They’ll get their instructions now!”

Tor was now absolutely certain that he would succeed with his escape. If they blew him away, they would have to blow the cop away too. Tor’s death throes would make his finger contract and blow the head off the cop. There was no better life insurance.

It was quiet in the house. Tor stood in the middle of the kitchen floor with Walter in front of him. One hand was bandaged. The other was taped to Walter’s neck. It was a strange sensation to have the life of another person hanging on his left hand. A loaded gun pointed at another person gave a special feeling of power. Tor stroked the trigger cautiously. If he accidentally shot him now, he might just as well blow his own head off. The storm troopers outside would turn him into a Swiss cheese. His gaze fell on the bulletproof vest and helmet on the floor and he swore silently to himself. The cop could help him put on the helmet; his hands were still free. But he would have to leave the vest. The dead man’s switch would have to do. Only two things were missing now. A blanket and some darkness.

The car that
Martin Borg was driving belonged to the Security Service Surveillance Unit. It was registered to one of many private companies that the National Police Board had created to protect the identity of its undercover agents. Jonna had received strict instructions to follow Borg when he left Sigtuna. She had reluctantly agreed to be Borg’s shadow this time. In future, Walter would have either to use a private investigator or to get authorization for the surveillance of a Security Service agent.

With a bit of luck, Borg would go straight home. If not, she would wait for him outside the police headquarters, on the street. How and what time he left work for home was critical. It might be from the main entrance to the police garage or from one of the other exits. Walter suggested that she stake out the police garage.

Borg might take the underground, which would be logical if he lived in the city. In that case, the east entrance was the best bet. If Borg was under a lot of pressure, as Walter thought he was, he would need to have a private car close by. It would be difficult to spot him behind the driving wheel of a moving car; there were hundreds of cars driving in and out of the police garage every day.