Project Nirvana (31 page)

A moment later, Walter was sound asleep.

Alexander Westfeldt was
fascinated by Jonna’s attempt to catch a piece of cucumber that took a head-long dive into her lap.

“Oops, that was a tricky bit,” he said, with a gentle smile.

“I’m having a slight dexterity problem,” she said, putting her sandwich on her napkin.

“You look . . . a little exhausted.”

“I had a late night. In fact, I had no sleep at all.”

“No sleep?”

“Unfortunately,” said Jonna, trying to stifle a yawn.

“May I ask why?”

“Work. We went on a raid that took longer than planned.”

“Overtime?”

“Yes,” Jonna said, struggling to smile.

“Does this have anything to do with the maniac who took the hostage?”

“Yes,” said Jonna, immediately regretting it. Was she trying to impress him? She didn’t recognize herself.

“You can’t say anything.” Alexander took the words out of her mouth.

“Correct,” Jonna answered, yawning yet again.

She apologized and swore to herself over the bad timing. Of all the days and nights, Hedman had chosen to start his escapades last night.

Alexander nodded sympathetically and took a sip of his coffee. “You know what I think?” he said, picking up his jacket.

Jonna perked up. “No?”

“I think you need some sleep. I also have to make preparations for tomorrow.”

Jonna watched him take out his wallet and was about to do the same. She searched her pockets, but discovered that she had left her purse in her other jacket. She searched again to be sure, but her pockets were just as empty as her head. Brilliant, she thought. “I seem to have left my purse at home,” she said, feeling embarrassment oozing from every pore in her body.

“Cool, so I get to buy you coffee after all,” laughed Alexander.

“Yes, I guess you do,” Jonna smiled back sheepishly. She would never again go on a date without at least twelve hours’ sleep. Alexander paid with his credit card, while Jonna checked her missed calls and text messages from the last hour. Sandra had sent seven messages. In the last one, she had terminated their friendship due to the missing status reports. Jonna chuckled to herself about her volatile friend who, as suddenly as she broke up with Jonna, would call back to make peace again. Tomorrow, she would be back to normal.

Alexander politely held open the door. Jonna was briefly energized by the cold air. She pulled her jacket zip as high as she could and buried her hands in her pockets. Alexander stuffed the receipt in his wallet and Jonna noticed how meticulous he was. Perhaps something he had learned as an archaeologist. Excavating remains that were hundreds of years old required a certain degree of precision. She liked his confident, natural moves. How he spoke. His well-chosen words, which made boring subjects sound interesting. She had heard no swearing or slang, but he did like to make fun of himself.

His weaknesses? Some small thing that annoyed her. A sound or something about the way he looked. No one is perfect; that’s a fact. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t think of any failing. At least, not now. If something is too good to be true, then it usually is. Something her father was quick to remind her of, the few times she hadn’t kept her feet on the ground. Jonna looked at the ground and her brown leather boots. Nowadays, they were always anchored to the ground.

“Thank you for the good company,” said Alexander neutrally and put his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Likewise,” said Jonna, shaking from the cold.

“I’m going in that direction,” he said, pointing towards Kungsgatan.

“Me too,” Jonna lied.

“Where do you live?”

“In the other direction, but I usually take a walk in the evening and then I take that route.”

He nodded. “Do you always walk the same way?”

“Mostly. I sometimes vary it and take a walk around Djurgården instead.”

“I see.”

They started to walk along Birger Jarlsgatan and Jonna tried to keep warm by thinking of something hot. What could be better than a cosy blanket and hot chocolate topped with whipped cream? Preferably in the company of someone else, in front of a crackling fire in a timber cabin with snow up to the window-ledges, completely isolated from the world. It had been years since she had been to Dalarna province and the remote, timber lodge that her parents had built when she was a small child. She had done some cross-country skiing. She had made food and gossiped, while drinking copious amounts of wine. Made calls amounting to almost one thousand crowns on her mobile phone until she finally came down with a dose of cabin fever. Jonna suddenly felt silly.

What was she doing? He must think she was desperate . . .

“I live here,” said Alexander, stopping by a dark oak door. Jonna read the street sign.

“Rimbogatan?” she said. “Not bad.”

“Yes, we sublet a three-room flat,” Alexander explained.

“We?”

Jonna regretted the question straightaway. Whom he lived with was none of her business.

“I share a flat with Samuel, who in turn rents it from a relative who has moved abroad. For tax reasons, I believe.”

Jonna nodded without saying a word. Somewhere deep down, she felt a sense of relief.

“The more money, the bigger the trouble,” he continued, grinning.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Jonna said, thinking of her own family. In the next few moments, it would go one way or another. Jonna shook from the cold and her fatigue smothered her ability to think straight. She wasn’t thinking clearly, but the entrance looked enticingly warm.

“I, eh, don’t want to seem . . . pushy,” began Alexander, “but you’re welcome to come up for some hot tea, if you like.” He looked at the building’s façade.

Jonna’s raised her eyebrows, feigning confusion.

“Look, I’m not trying to . . .”

She looked at him, inquisitively.

“Let me call you a taxi,” he started again. The cool self-confidence that had enveloped him earlier had now vanished. At least, he was paying attention to her body language.

“I’m not sure,” Jonna hesitated, gazing towards Engelbrektsgatan as if she were planning her walk home.

Alexander took out his mobile phone. “I’ll get a taxi for you,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay the fare since you don’t have any money.” He pressed the number for a taxi.

Jonna was surprised by his hasty retreat. Wasn’t he prepared to put up a better fight for her? Didn’t he understand the game?

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll walk,” she blurted out.

Alexander cancelled the call.

Jonna was totally confused. Although her body was screaming for her to go up and get some tea, here she was babbling about walking home.

“I see,” Alexander said. “Perhaps we can call each other when I get back?”

“Perhaps,” said Jonna, not knowing who was in charge of her tongue. It felt as if it was someone else saying the words.

After saying goodbye to Alexander, Jonna walked along Engelbrektsgatan. A formal handshake, as if they had closed a business deal, and she was once again alone. Lethargy mixed with irritation and apathy washed over her. She was socially dysfunctional. Even Walter could have done better. Wonder what was the next failure? Dismissal from the force or a nervous breakdown? Neither of these options seemed so far-fetched now.

She walked as far as Birger Jarlsgatan before trying to find a taxi, although she had no money. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to fetch her purse from her flat. Even the crankiest taxi driver shouldn’t have a problem with the wait.

Taxi after taxi passed by with its “for hire” light turned off. She started to walk towards Stureplan square. The cold drilled down to her bones and she soon felt like a frozen fish finger.

After a while, an unlicensed cab stopped and asked if she needed a taxi. Jonna waved the man away and he spun his wheels and drove off. A few moments later, she saw a taxi with its light on. She waved vigorously and felt her hopes rise as the yellow Toyota made a beeline for her. At the corner of her eye, she saw someone fast approaching from behind. Probably someone trying to get the same taxi. She began to jog towards the cab. This taxi was not going to be taken from her. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Thomas Kokk left
his meeting with Johan Hildebrandt in the certain knowledge that Martin Borg’s days at SÄPO were numbered. His suspicions over the Gnesta event had been confirmed by Hildebrandt’s source and all that was missing was the firm evidence to start an internal investigation into his own team leader.

What concerned Kokk the most was that Borg did not seem to be working alone. It was unclear if they were people inside or outside SÄPO. Equally unclear were their goals and how long they had been active. It was not unusual for secret groups to form in the shadows of the intelligence world. Small alliances which took in members who were dissatisfied with the way things worked. Many were disgruntled over the methods used for hunting terrorists, or the lack of potential informers after the collapse of the Eastern Block. It could be a dislike for certain politicians or just the state of the world in general. These small groups did not normally present a threat, as long as they remained private debating societies. But Borg, and those supporting him, were more than a secret club for voicing dissent.

Ove Jernberg’s use of the American truth serum Diaxtropyl-3S and the Gnesta incident had to be part of something big. Kokk did not know what it was, but it was now a priority to find the answer.

He took out his mobile phone and connected his encryption device, then he pressed the number for the Agency Director, Anders Holmberg. After a quick update, Kokk was greeted by silence.

“Put Borg under surveillance,” said Holmberg finally.

“If he’s working with people within our own organization, we’ll show our hand and alert them that we are on to them,” Kokk protested.

“Surveillance has a high turnover of staff,” Holmberg said. “Let’s assume that his accomplices within our organization are colleagues with long service. I think it’s unlikely that you will find any among the new recruits at Surveillance.”

For once, Kokk agreed with Holmberg. “Let me send a proposal to Gullviksson and the others in the executive,” Kokk said. “The Constitution Protection Division can then inform the Government.”

“I’m not sure that the latter is necessary,” Holmberg muttered. “My task is to convince Rehn at the Constitution Protection Division that any involvement of politicians will only make it more difficult to act. This is an extreme situation that demands extreme measures from all of us.”

Kokk knew that he had to obey his order, even if it meant going outside his jurisdiction and SÄPO’s constitutional mandate by not informing the Government of the situation. The Head of the Constitution Protection Division, Lars Rehn, would also be forced to commit some serious transgressions.

Kokk understood why Holmberg was so reluctant to inform the Government. Holmberg was appointed by the Government and, as Agency Director, he could not absorb any further set-backs without risking his job. The previous year’s upheavals had used up all his brownie points. So now he was forced to undertake a cover-up. The top priority was to remove Martin Borg and any elements supporting him. The bad apples had be thrown away before the rot spread to the rest of the barrel.

Kokk concluded his conversation with Holmberg. It was nearly midnight and the streets were almost deserted.

He took a paper tissue from his jacket pocket and blew his nose before sitting in the back seat of a taxi. One could criticize Anders Holmberg for many things, but not for making the job at SÄPO boring.

The news struck
Martin Borg like a bullet. For a brief moment, he was oblivious to his surroundings. Tor Hedman was in the custody of County CID. Despite his instructions, the fool had decided not to come to the meeting place. Instead, he had acted on his own impulses. Something that was doomed to fail.

Everything now depended on getting Hedman quickly transferred to SÄPO. The danger that he would talk sooner or later was considerable and therefore the transfer was a priority.

The only person that could take the decision to transfer him to SÄPO was Chief Prosecutor Julén and Borg needed help to get the stubborn prosecutor to make that decision. Kokk would be equally, or even more, eager to get his hands on Hedman. The previous year’s disastrous operation would tempt the otherwise excessively cautious Kokk to seize an opportunity to redeem himself. Kokk was much more ambitious than he liked to admit, and Martin had started to see through his façade. Once pushed out into the cold, it was impossible to get back in. It also applied to Thomas Kokk.

The Mentor’s assistance, together with the fake accomplice, should be enough to get Martin off the hook.

Another factor making waves was the British solicitor who had suddenly walked into County CID. Although she was not a direct threat to Leo Brageler, it would encourage the detectives there to work overtime, which sometimes was all it took. More resources would be allocated to the Brageler manhunt, which hardly helped Martin and his organization.

Chapter 18

Vecdi Gönül, aged
thirty-six, turned out the lights and locked the door to his pizzeria in Malmö. He started to walk down Lugna Gatan, the fresh evening air filling his lungs. It was a liberating feeling to leave the smell of the Italian kitchen and its spices after fifteen hours.

He was from Turkey, but the menu was only Italian food, something he was not especially fond of. But the paying customers wanted only Italian food, so he had to give them what they wanted.

The flat on Kärleksgatan that he sublet was four hundred metres from the pizzeria. Every night of the five years that he had owned the pizzeria, he had walked the same way home. Even on Christmas Eve. His life was beginning to improve and, in a few years, he would have paid off all his debts. He made most money during lunch time and on the weekends, when most of the takings were beer money.

The protection money he had to pay every month to keep his insignificant restaurant intact was a necessary evil. He was also forced to buy meat from them. Bad quality and overpriced. He had no other choice. The insurance liability for one smashed window was as much as he made from fifty lunches. So he paid up, but felt mounting outrage about handing over the fruits of his hard work, week after week, to the parasites who were destroying this society.