Into a Raging Blaze (13 page)

11

Stockholm, Tuesday, September 27

The peace and quiet of the Secretariat for Intelligence Coordination was always a pleasant surprise to Bente. An unexpected calm ruled here, as if the rest of the world was far away. A wine-red carpet muffled all footsteps. Broad fields of sharp, white daylight spilled through the windows.

A woman appeared, noiselessly, nodded at them, and disappeared through a door. The Secretariat was different from all the other parts of the Government Offices. Here there were no stressed civil servants, no one stood in a doorway talking to a colleague, and it was silent. No telephones ringing, no rumbling photocopiers. A row of closed doors lined the corridor.

An intelligence officer waited politely while Bente and Kempell took apart their cells. It was routine security; modern cells were easy to infiltrate. As long as there was electricity in a cell, the enemy could, with the right technology, transform the telephone into a bugging device.

The Secretariat for Intelligence Coordination, otherwise known as SUND, was the government's very own spy center. It was through the SUND offices, on the top floor of the Ministry of Defense, that all intelligence for the various ministries flowed. It was here that discreet contact with the security services of other nations of significance to the government took place; this was where all intelligence from the Western embassies reached the Government Offices; this was where the focus of Swedish intelligence work was determined; this was the command center. It was also here that it was decided
who in other ministries would have access to the highest-classified materials—materials to which Dymek and a group of trusted individuals had access—information vital to the security of the nation.

Along the corridor hung paintings of different warships. At the end of the corridor, two crossed sabers were mounted on the wall above a Swedish flag. The military was a different species. Bente couldn't help but wonder about their rituals, their orders and ceremonies. But they were easy to work with.

At the end of the corridor was the Green Room, one of the few government conference rooms that was completely secured against all forms of surveillance and bugging. Behind the green door there were three men, sitting and waiting.

The trio stood up when Bente and Kempell entered the room. The Head of the Security Policy Department, Nils Bergh, was opposite them, straight backed, fingering some papers and noticeably worried. There were dark circles around his eyes; his gaze wandered now and then across the empty table. Next to him was Carl Mellqvist, the Head of SUND, and a little to the side was the administrative director of the MFA.

It was amazing how easy it was for everything to go to hell. One miss and decades of earnest work was overshadowed by a single incident. For, without a doubt, that was how it was: the thin, austere man who headed the Security Police Department would have to shoulder the blame. The Foreign Service had never had a leak like this, and sooner or later someone would demand a head on a silver platter.

Bente nodded at them and made an effort to smile. It worked, people relaxed. She usually thought of it as her professional smile: we're working together; we're in the same family.

There was silence. Mellqvist entered the airspace with a low voice that was accustomed to being heard and obeyed. He welcomed them.

“So . . . Perhaps we should start with a situation report?”

Everyone around the table looked at her expectantly. These men didn't know her and wondered who she was—she could see it in their faces. Of the three of them, it was probably only Mellqvist who
knew that she was from the Section rather than Counterespionage. None of them wanted to hear what she had to say because whatever she said would be a problem. Their dark suits made them look like glum funeral directors.

“We can say that Dymek came across a document on the 22nd of September and that she then passed it on. It concerns, as you all know, an unofficial document from the EU Commission. What we are now looking at is how the document fell into her hands and what Dymek's motives are. And, naturally, how we can limit the damage, as far as possible.” She turned to the Head of the Security Policy Department. “Has she been suspended from her duties?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The administrative director leaned forward. “So what do we do now?”

“We need to get a clearer picture of what happened—circle in on Dymek. There are basically three plausible scenarios at present. The first is that she came across the information on someone else's behalf, someone close to her, someone putting her under pressure, or someone she wants to help. The second scenario is that she is acting by herself. The third is that some sort of mixup has taken place. The last of those is, as you may understand, less likely.”

She paused and let this sink in.

“We still don't know how Carina Dymek acquired the material,” she continued. “We are now profiling her contacts—anyone who has been in touch with her. First we need to understand how the document has been spread. I dare say there is a good chance of dealing with this incident quickly.” She looked at them for a moment. “However, we still don't know whether there is anyone behind Dymek.” She quietly noted the tense expressions on their faces. “If that is the case, and we can't rule it out, we have a far more serious situation on our hands. Depending on who is behind her, and their motive, the situation may change quickly.”

These were not reassuring words, but she hadn't come to reassure anyone. They needed to hear the truth. There was a vulnerability, a
potentially serious threat to the nation, and it was her job to deal with that threat.

She turned to the Head of the Security Policy Department. “I gather you've talked to her.”

“That's right.”

“Can you tell us what she said?”

“Yes . . .” Bergh cleared his throat. “Dymek didn't seem to understand that she had done something wrong. She claimed that all she had done was meet with a man in Brussels who had given her the document.”

“Was she any more specific about who gave her the report?”

He paused. “She claimed he was called Jean.”

“Just ‘Jean'?”

“Yes. She said she didn't know his surname.”

“But she knew he came from the EU Commission, didn't she, Nils?” Mellqvist interrupted. “So she must have known something. Probably withholding something. And the answer is probably at the EU Commission.”

Mellqvist's tone was insistent. He looked at Nils Bergh, who was fidgeting.

“Yes, absolutely.”

They had clearly talked through what they would say before the meeting. There was a script and Nils Bergh was obviously not adhering to it. Mellqvist glared irritably at Bente and Kempell. He was suspicious. He looked stiffly at the others around the table, as if to remind them of certain agreements. Naturally, they didn't want people from Counterespionage snooping around the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The Security Service always meant trouble for people like them: it was bad press and put things in flux, upsetting a carefully maintained order. These men had built their careers on avoiding things like this.

“Can you describe how she handled the report?” said Bente after a pause, pretending to ignore Mellqvist.

“She sent it to Justice.”

“Just to them?”

He smiled self-consciously. “As far as I know.”

“We are investigating in the utmost detail, of course.” Mellqvist interrupted again, worried by all the questions. “But the idea that there are others behind Dymek seems far-fetched at present.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Kempell slowly.

“Oh.” Mellqvist stopped in surprise.

Kempell turned back to the Head of the Security Policy Department again. “Do you remember anything unusual about her behavior, before her trip?” he said.

“No . . .” The department head thought about it. “No, she was doing her job. There was nothing that . . .” He then shook his head as if to underline what he had said. “Dymek went to Brussels on a regular basis. But when Justice contacted us . . . we understood that things weren't right. So we took action.” He looked at the others, worried, and cleared his throat.

Kempell let this gloomy train of thought hang in the air a moment.

“Can you describe Carina Dymek?”

“How do you mean?”

“As a person.”

“Um . . . she was good. Thorough. She did an excellent job, I would say. There were no issues with her.”

“Does she work for anyone else?” said Kempell.

At first Bergh looked at Kempell uncomprehendingly. When the implication of the question dawned on him, his face froze. His gaze wandered off. “No, it . . .” He cleared his throat and fell silent.

“Sorry?”

“I don't think so.”

His face was now formed into a tense, unhappy grimace. It was as if the words sucked the air out of him. That the Security Policy Department at the MFA had, by mistake, leaked such a sensitive report was a minor catastrophe, but to have been infiltrated would be an outright nightmare. Bente didn't envy him, but they couldn't take his wellbeing into account. They needed answers, and it was the painfully honest answers that mattered.

“Do you think she is a spy?” Bergh burst out and stared at them. “Is that it?”

He looked pale, as if awaiting a death sentence.

“No,” said Kempell. “It is one scenario. One of several potentials.”

The poor man fell back into his chair. Everyone looked uncomfortably at him and waited until he had gathered himself.

“What should we do with the Brits?” said the administrative director, who had been sitting in silence throughout.

Kempell sat quietly for a second. Bente knew what he was thinking. They couldn't say too much about the Brits, not at this stage. Contact with Green and MI6 would be dealt with through Bente's channels of communication, no one else's. Everyone waited for Kempell to say something, but he just looked placidly at the others and nodded. “The most important thing now is to stop the spread of the information. We will probably have a better picture in a few days.”

“Good,” said Mellqvist acidly. “Because we don't want the foreign minister to have to stand up in front of the media and explain this one.”

“I don't think anyone wants that,” said Kempell.

Kempell needed to smoke after the meeting. Bente walked with him down to Strömmen. Hadn't he quit? she asked. He looked at her in surprise, as if wondering silently which of his other habits she was familiar with. No, no, it was just that the Service had become smoke free, not that he had.

Her cell rang. It was Mikael, in Brussels.

“Green has been in touch,” he said. “They're sending people to Stockholm.”

“Wilson?”

“Probably.”

Green had promised to get back to her. Presumably the Brits would be flying their people in within a day. He didn't know more. He hung up.

“They're sending Wilson.”

She noticed how Kempell stiffened; he didn't like surprises. No one had expected the Brits to react so quickly and send people to Stockholm at this early stage, not even Kempell.

They looked across the flowing water rushing between them and the parliament building. Roger Wilson. That meant that London was taking the incident seriously. With a little luck it also meant more help from the British apparatus.

Bente had met Wilson on two occasions: once at the base in Bagram, five years ago, and once in London, shortly after the notorious operation in Hamburg, carried out by his team. She was familiar with his methods.

“This is going to get messy,” said Kempell.

“But it's good that we have London on our side.”

“I'll never trust them. You know that.” He blew smoke. “MI6 does what it likes, and to hell with us.” He smiled. Kempell's skepticism of all foreign security services was so firmly rooted that it had become part of his personality. “And I'd take care around that Wilson. You remember what happened in Hamburg,” said Kempell.

Yes, she remembered. Marienstrasse. It had taken the Germans six months to clear up after that infamous insertion. Those who knew Roger Wilson at all, which was a very narrow circle of people, respected him but knew that it was wise to keep a certain healthy distance. He worked with his own team. He moved through gray areas.

12

Stockholm, Thursday, September 29

Carina leaned forward toward the screen and zoomed in. The resolution was poor, the picture was grainy. She wasn't sure. Was it really him? Jean?

He was standing in the background, a few meters behind the Director General, and to the left of the picture. He was dressed in a suit, like everyone else, and standing with his hands in his pockets, talking to a woman who was turned away from the camera. He didn't seem aware that he was in the photo; it was the Director General and his smiling colleagues in the foreground who were being photographed, but the focus had also fallen further back so that Jean's face stood out in the background. She brightened the picture slightly and examined his face, then zoomed in on that part of the photo until a strange, grainy picture of a ghost filled half the screen.

Yes, it was him. Jean.

Greger had suggested they should meet at a bar in Kornhamnstorg in the Old Town. Late in the afternoon on a weekday like this, the place was half empty. Here they could talk in peace.

Her head still felt heavy. After finding the picture, she had fallen asleep, exhausted, and had slept like the dead for fifteen hours. She had been so light-headed when she woke up that, for a second, she'd thought she had dreamed the picture and was forced to check it was still there, that she hadn't been mistaken, after all. But there he was—Jean.

Jamal had called her several times from Vienna without her noticing. She was almost angry with him for not coming straight home to Stockholm, despite the fact that she had personally persuaded him to stay. She knew it was childish. When she'd called back, his cell had been switched off. She'd left a message. Then she had texted Greger a link to the picture of Jean.
I've found him
.

Greger turned up just as she was buying a latte. He embraced her and they sat down at one of the tables by the window.

“I didn't think you would be in touch so soon,” he said. Greger was noticeably happy. He hurried to the bar and ordered an espresso before returning, knocking back his coffee, and then saying, “So you've found him.”

“Yes. I think so.”

She brought up the picture on her cell and zoomed in.

“And you're sure it's him?”

“As sure as I can be.”

Greger leaned forward and studied the picture. He noted the web address of the link, typing it into his own phone, then looked at her, impressed. “Good work.” He examined the picture again. “Okay. But you don't know what he's called.”

“Like I said, he said he was called Jean. And that he worked for the EU Commission. That's all I know. I'm guessing he works for the Directorate General that looks after interior security and police matters in the EU.”

Greger looked at her uncomprehendingly.

“GD Home,” she said.

“Okay?”

“That's what it's called. Here . . .” She handed over a list of names and EU abbreviations—words she guessed were useful when looking for a civil servant at GD Home. “That's the reference number for the report he gave me.”

Greger noted it on his cell.

“Aren't you going to show it to your bosses?” he said.

Show them the picture? Oddly enough, the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. Yes, perhaps. Then she felt the doubt forcing its
way through. No, not just a picture—that wouldn't be enough. They wouldn't believe her. Look, here's the man who contacted me in Brussels. So what? She needed more facts.

“I have to find him first. Do you think that it's possible?”

“Shouldn't be a problem.”

Greger sounded so sure that, at once, she felt worried. It occurred to her that she hadn't asked him the obvious question about what he intended to do. “I don't want to do anything illegal, Greger.”

He laughed and made a dismissive gesture. “Don't worry. I'm just going to talk to some people I know. They're cool.”

Johan Eriksson leaned forward over her cell and looked at the photograph. He had called her and asked how she was, whether she wanted to meet. He was the only person at the department who had been in touch.

“Yes, that's the Head of GD Home,” he said and pointed at Manservisi. “And she's his adviser; she's worked on police coordination a lot. I met her in Brussels once, at a conference,” he said and smiled so broadly that Carina refrained from asking more.

“And him?”

She enlarged the picture so that Jean's face filled the small screen of the cell. He creased his forehead. Carina didn't know anyone with as many contacts and acquaintances in the business as Johan Eriksson. Regardless of whether they were in Brussels or Stockholm, people would approach him to say hello all the time, people she knew nothing about. For a few seconds Johan seemed to be turning through a huge, internal Rolodex. No, he said finally. Not someone he knew.

“Are you sure?”

He looked at the picture again, and shook his head. “Why do you want to know?”

“He was the one who contacted me in Brussels.”

Johan Eriksson examined the picture again. No, he didn't recognize him.

“Quite sure?”

He shook his head once again. “Sorry.”

She put away her cell and looked across Gärdet. An Irish setter was running around on the wide expanse of grass and sniffing at things. It was Johan's dog, sorrowfully looking for a tennis ball that he had thrown. Carina struggled to rein in her disappointment. Deep down, she had hoped Johan Eriksson would exclaim, “Oh, him!” Like he normally did.

“So it's him who has caused all this trouble for you?”

She nodded.

There was a cold wind. After a while, the dog rushed back with the ball in his mouth. Johan threw it again. What was she going to do, then? he wondered. Was she going to contact him?

“I have to get hold of him,” she said.

“And then what will you do?”

“We'll see.”

“People are talking about you,” he said, after a while.

“What are they saying?”

Johan Eriksson sighed. “You know. Bullshit. Like, that you were working on behalf of someone else.”

“What? For who?”

“A foreign power.” He laughed uncomfortably.

“Who thinks that?”

“The management.”

They looked at the dog in silence, a distant dot on the grass.

“It's not true. You know that, don't you?”

“I know,” he said slowly. “You don't make mistakes like that.”

Johan was probably her last friend at the department. Most people would eventually see her as guilty. But Johan Eriksson knew her too well; they'd worked together closely. He would never distrust her.

“You might not know this,” he said after a pause, “but I almost got sacked four years ago.”

He had been in Kosovo with a Swedish delegation. They'd had meetings with KFOR, with the EU, and with the new government. The entire delegation was staying at the old Grand Hotel in Pristina and the hotel was ice cold. Every day they'd spend half the night in
the bar, because it was the only place in the whole hotel that was heated, possibly the only place in all of Pristina. One evening, a guy showed up there and had a few beers with them. He was an American—aid worker; nice guy; talkative—had been in Kosovo for three years. Before he left, he gave them a report.

“It was a CIA product. It showed that several ministries in Kosovo were involved in drug smuggling and that people at the EU office were acting as middlemen.”

“What did you do?”

“I showed the report to the management back at home. They told me to forget about it and threatened me with suspension. Do you understand what I'm saying?” He looked at her seriously. “Bad timing. The EU had taken over after the UN's failure in Kosovo. Everything was a fucking mess and it was crucial for the EU to show it was possible to change the country. A disclosure like that would have destroyed all confidence in the EU. It would have been a catastrophe.”

“They probably deserved it.”

“Of course.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But who cares about justice? That's never been a priority.”