Project Nirvana (8 page)

“We have to find out if it’s a trap,” Martin said. “Perhaps Thomas Kokk is pulling the strings after all.”

The old man shook his head in disagreement. “No,” he said. “I find that most improbable. Even in the unlikely event that Hedman has been able to give our colleagues any useful information, the leaders of the investigation won’t use it without corroborating evidence. If they get it wrong and allow themselves to be conned by a known criminal trying to save his own neck, then heads will roll. Trust me, no one is going to take that risk. Not even Thomas Kokk.”

“Kokk doesn’t trust me any more,” Martin argued.

“He has some suspicions about you after the Gnesta incident, but I don’t think that he is using Hedman to set a trap for you. You’ve been cleared of any charges, which in itself is a miracle. To try to pin that on you again with nothing more than the word of a talkative villain would be professional suicide.

“It’s good that you are so paranoid, Martin,” the old man continued, “but right now, I don’t think we need to worry ourselves. But it would be best if Hedman is deprived of the ability to spill the beans in the future.”

Despite the clear logic in the Mentor’s reasoning, Martin’s doubts were not completely banished. He had to find out what Hedman really was up to. The best solution was to get rid of him once and for all. In fact, Hedman had suddenly become his most urgent problem. Leo Brageler and the Diaxtropyl-3S would just have to wait.

“We must set up a meeting with Hedman,” Martin said. “We now have a chance to take him out permanently. Before Gröhn and Stockholm County CID arrest him.”

The old man stood up from his stool. “Fight fire with fire,” he suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“I seem to remember you telling me that an Albanian was after Hedman.”

“Haxhi Osmanaj,” said Martin.

“That’s the name,” the old man smiled. “Lead that Osmanaj fellow to him and let him finish the job for us.”

Martin thought it over for a short while. The Mentor’s suggestion was not such a bad idea. That method was used often by the South African police to reduce the rising number of street gangs. They let the gang members decimate each other. Furthermore, they arranged for the gang killings to take place in isolated locations away from the civilian population. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said.

“As for Leo Brageler: well, he has two days to start talking,” the Mentor continued. “After that, he has to disappear. We are exposing ourselves too much, considering all that is happening to you.”

“That’s too soon,” Martin protested. “We need more time with him.” Getting rid of Brageler now was like giving up just before the finishing line.

“Each day that we have Brageler increases the risk. We should have broken him in a week. Instead, it has been almost four months without a breakthrough. Except for today’s conversation.

“Omar’s death has proved to be a significant set-back for the organization and it will take time to build up an equivalent network of contacts. His absence will hamper us for some time to come.”

“Two days, or even two weeks, won’t make it worse,” Martin protested.

The old man’s eyes hardened. “Even if I don’t think that Kokk or anyone else is after you, I want to cover any tracks that might lead to us. As soon as possible.”

Martin still did not agree with the Mentor. He needed more time to procure the Diaxtropyl-3S. He had to go through the phone list on the hard drive to get his hands on more of the truth serum. Even then, there was no guarantee that he would be successful.

Using a voice changer and a pay-as-you-go phone, Eng was going to call Hedman and set up a meeting. Martin was to stay at home and avoid attracting attention, just in case he was being bugged. As soon as the meeting was set up, Osmanaj would receive a tip on Hedman’s whereabouts. If the Albanian was still after Hedman – as Martin was convinced he was – then that problem solved itself. If the meeting was a trap set by Kokk or County CID, then Osmanaj would take the fall, not Martin. The plan was straightforward and without any risk.

The Mentor turned towards Brageler. “We will resume his interrogation tomorrow. I will arrange for someone with medical skills to examine him later tonight. He will hopefully be in better shape tomorrow.”

Leo Brageler heard
the echo of distant voices. For a brief moment, he did not know if he still lived or if he had finally passed over to the other side. But then he detected the sharp scent of smelling salts and immediately understood. They were never going to stop. The voices became fainter and soon completely disappeared. He opened his eyes and found himself once again in darkness.

Walter’s phone rang
just as Jonna was driving onto the E4 motorway. After a short conversation, he asked Jonna to drive towards Dalarö.

“What are we going to do in Dalarö?” she wondered.

“Tor Hedman is now wanted for assault and robbery,” Walter said, taking a cough drop from his jacket pocket. The landlady of the Dalarö tourist lodge is in the A&E with serious head injuries.”

“How do we know that it’s Tor?”

“There’s CCTV at the reception desk and a witness saw the same person drive off in the tourist lodge’s van.”

“What’s he doing at Dalarö? Stealing from the tourist lodge?”

“Hardly,” said Walter. “They don’t handle much cash.”

“Maybe he was staying there?”

“Nothing suggests that either. But it could mean something.”

“Such as?” Jonna asked, increasing speed. She turned on the blue lights, but left the siren turned off.

“That he’s looking for a weapon or has just acquired one.”

“A weapon? Why do you suspect that?”

“Hugo Stridh,” replied Walter, sucking loudly on his cough drop.

“Who is that?” asked Jonna, becoming increasingly irritated at having constantly to tease information out of Walter.

“An old military veteran,” said Walter. “He’s been under investigation by County CID on many occasions, but we’ve never been able to make anything stick. He’s an arms dealer and supplies Stockholm’s thugs with all sorts of goodies. He always uses a go-between and no one knows how he smuggles the weapons into the country. Some rumours suggest that he has contacts within the military, but there’s nothing we can prove. A few years ago, we had him under surveillance around the clock. We monitored everything he did for over a year. Even so, the bastard managed to do business as usual and we couldn’t charge him with anything, except that he had tampered with his electricity meter.”

“So Hugo Stridh lives in Dalarö?”

“A few kilometres from the tourist lodge. We’re going to pay him a visit. It’s unlikely that Tor would be in this area and not visit Stridh.”

Thirty minutes later, they parked the car outside a red farmhouse with white woodwork. Two tethered dogs barked angrily as Walter and Jonna got out of the car. Before they got to the steps leading up to the front door, it opened.

“Cops,” Stridh greeted them impassively.

“What was Tor Hedman doing here?” Walter asked, pushing past Stridh in the doorway. Jonna followed him, despite the fact that she was once again breaking the law.

“Tor . . . who?”

“Don’t act more stupid than you already are,” Walter said in a harsh voice. “The landlady of the tourist lodge is in intensive care with serious head injuries after being mugged. Guess who the mugger was?”

Walter sat at the kitchen table. Stridh’s gaze moved suspiciously between Walter and Jonna. “How am I supposed to know who did it?”

“If I tell you what time it happened, then you might find it easier to remember which one of your clients was visiting.”

“Nobody’s been here,” the old man insisted. He stuck a pipe in the corner of his mouth and sat down on a kitchen stool.

“Not even Hedman?” asked Walter.

“No.”

“Did he try to sell you a ring?” asked Jonna.

“A ring?”

“Yes” said Jonna and could see the old man’s pupils dilating. Now she was sure he was lying.

“Let me tell you something,” Walter said and moved closer to Stridh. “I don’t believe you are telling me the truth. And do you know what else I believe?

The old man shook his head indifferently.

“I think that Hedman tried to sell you a ring that had once belonged to the late Omar. You know, the Gnesta fixer.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Oh, I think you do,” said Walter. “We just want to know if you sold Hedman any weapons and where we can find him. I don’t give a rat’s arse about anything else that happened here.”

The old man gazed silently at Walter for a while. Then he lit his pipe and moved to a rocking chair. He spat out a piece of tobacco and gently rocked the chair.

Walter was getting impatient. “Well?”

“There was no deal,” Stridh finally spoke up. “He did offer me an ugly signet ring, but I turned him down.”

“Do you know where he was heading?” Jonna asked.

“It was of no interest to me,” Stridh said and took a deep puff of his pipe. Jonna had to take a few steps backwards to avoid being enveloped in the smoke.

“Was he alone?” asked Walter.

“Yes, as far as I could tell. He arrived in a taxi. How is Hélène?”

“She’ll survive,” said Walter. “She’ll be in hospital for a while though. Hedman gave her a nasty concussion.”

“Damned fool,” muttered Stridh. “The likes of him shouldn’t be walking around free.”

“You’re right. What a fucked-up world it is,” Walter agreed. “If only people would abide by the law.”

Jonna turned over
and looked at the alarm clock for the tenth time. Now, it was twenty past eleven. Her first sleep cycle had been spent wide awake and now she could only wait until the next one came.

The day ahead was already busy. The first meeting was with the National Bureau of Investigation, as the National Crime Squad was now called, and some German colleagues from the BKA, or Federal Office of Criminal Investigation. After that, Lilja had arranged a meeting with Martin Borg at SÄPO, and finally there was the interview with Alexander Westfeldt.

The last meeting was the reason she was tossing and turning in her bed. She didn’t know what to expect from this pointless interview. After all, it was just a simple interview with a witness, nothing more.

Two hours passed before she succeeded in falling asleep.

Tor Hedman sat
in the all-night Café Mammaia on the corner of Götgatan and Åsögatan, with a large cup of coffee in front of him on the table. He had called the psycho cop but, much to his surprise, he had hung up after saying that he didn’t know anyone called Tor. A few hours later, the cop had regained his memory and called Tor back. This time his voice reminded Tor of a hungover drunk. The voice explained that he was using a voice changer for security reasons.

At first Tor hesitated, but after being recounted details of their previous encounters, he decided that he was talking to the right cop. During a brief conversation, they agreed to meet the next evening at a winter storage facility for caravans outside Sigtuna Stadium. It was a suitably isolated place where they could meet without being disturbed, and it also gave Tor a place to spend the night. Breaking into one of the hundreds of caravans parked there would be easy. Some caravan owners even had heaters, which would make it possible to stay for a few nights even without a blanket.

“Refill?” asked a weary waitress, holding a coffee pot. She had dark purple bags under her eyes and looked as if she wanted to quit her job.

Tor was jerked back to reality. “Fill it up to the top,” he said, holding up his mug. The woman topped up the mug and then disappeared behind the counter.

Tor had one problem left to solve; he had to get to Sigtuna. He had barely three hundred crowns left from Ricki’s money, which would not be enough for a taxi. Using public transport was out of the question.

He looked over at the clock over the cash register and realized that it was a new day. He would have given anything for a little undisturbed sleep. All he needed was one mattress and two hours’ shuteye.

He turned and noticed that he was now alone. The security guard from Securitas sitting behind him had left the café without Tor noticing. Even the waitress was gone. Probably in the room behind the curtain. His eyes wandered over to the snacks in the chiller display and he wondered if he should buy a sandwich.

Then his eyes wandered from the sandwiches to the cash register. Tor guessed that it would contain roughly two thousand crowns, which was what he would need for the taxi to Sigtuna. He stood up and went to the entrance door. The street outside was deserted. Unless there was a night worker who needed a coffee fix planning to drop in, he had plenty of time.

Tor turned and walked silently towards the counter. Behind the curtain, he glimpsed the waitress. She sat with her back to the café and was busy doing something on a computer. Tor walked around the counter and to the cash register. The key sat conveniently in the lock, so all he had to do was to press the correct button. There were countless types of cash registers and they all used different buttons to open the till drawer. If the wrong button was pressed, the till would set off a loud buzzer.

He read the row of buttons. After a while, he decided to press the button marked “Cash”. No buzzer sounded. Nor did the till drawer open. The display then queried if it was a cash payment.

Cash payment? Tor thought. That was exactly what he wanted. He was just about to press the “yes” button when the woman behind the curtain coughed.

Tor tensed and leaned forwards cautiously. She was still sitting with her back to the curtain and her index fingers tapped frenziedly on the computer keyboard. Tor pressed the “yes” button and the till drawer slid out with a dull thud.

Suddenly, the tapping stopped and he heard the chair scraping behind the curtain. Tor quickly grabbed the notes and raced out of the café. He took a left down Götgatan, running as fast as he could. Several times, he almost slipped and fell in the mushy snow. After a few blocks, he saw a parked taxi with its light on the roof lit.

Tor tore open the passenger door and ordered the half-awake driver to drive to Sigtuna Stadium. The taxi driver quickly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and started the car. Then he made an illegal U-turn and drove back in the same direction that Tor had just come from.