The Chosen (35 page)

Fred went into the kitchen to fetch a bottle of wine, and they sat down in the living room.

‘It was after 9/11,’ Fred began. ‘2001. A lot of people thought it was our turn next. Through an undercover informant, MI5 learned that Palestinian terrorists were
preparing a major attack on several British embassies around the world. A major investigation team was assembled to look into the threat, but they got nowhere. So they contacted the Israelis.
The key player in the plot was supposed to be in a village on the West Bank, to which we had no access. The various attacks were to be carried out by Palestinians living in diaspora across the
world.’

Eden listened carefully. She thought about the role the British had played in Palestine after the First World War, and the subsequent chaos which still reigned in 2001. Eden hadn’t started
working for MI5 at that stage.

‘The Israelis were interested when they heard what we knew. MI5’s contact on the Israeli side was Efraim Kiel. He led a special team operating on the West Bank, and they had someone
in that particular village who was both reliable and willing to co-operate.’

Fred took a sip of his wine, and Eden automatically reached for her glass. She shouldn’t drink; she knew that. But if Fred was drinking, she didn’t want to sit there stone-cold
sober. It sent out the wrong signals.

‘Anyway, MI5 set up a joint operation with Mossad in order to track down the man behind the plot, and thus put a stop to it. Efraim Kiel’s team were supposed to locate him with the
help of a source on the West Bank. I don’t know how much you remember about the situation in Israel at the beginning of the twenty-first century, but it was no picnic over there.’

Eden remembered those days very well. That was when her parents, particularly her mother, had been radicalised and eventually decided to emigrate to Israel. Eden recalled endless discussions
with her mother and father, weeping with rage at the dinner table.

It had always been clear to Eden that disappointment was the strongest impetus for violence, disappointment over everything that didn’t happen, or didn’t happen fast enough.

The West Bank had been in flames during those years, and that was also when the decision was made to start constructing the barrier that now separated the two peoples. Running a source in a
Palestinian village at that time must have been doomed to failure.

‘I assume it didn’t end well,’ Eden said.

‘To say the least. What I’m about to tell you stays between us, Eden. It’s more sensitive than everything else I’ve told you put together.’

She nodded. She had no words to express what she was feeling.

‘In February 2002, just before the Israelis moved in and reoccupied the West Bank, they thought they had a breakthrough in the source operation in the Palestinian village. Mossad
contacted MI5, and we were offered the chance to be there when they went in to seize the man suspected of being behind the plot. We already had staff in Jerusalem; one of them joined Efraim
Kiel’s team and accompanied them to the West Bank. A high-risk project in those days. For example, sometimes Palestinian terrorists or insurgents rigged up booby-trapped buildings.’

Booby traps. Eden had never needed to worry about that kind of danger, but she knew all about them – bombs that went off when someone stood on them; bombs that could be hidden under the floor so
that an entire building would collapse on top of the intruder.

‘Efraim’s team ended up standing outside a house they were afraid was booby trapped,’ Fred went on. ‘For that reason they hesitated before going in, and Kiel moved aside
to request reinforcements so that they could smoke out anyone who might be inside. At that moment a child emerged, a boy aged about ten. Two members of the team went over and spoke to him, asked if
he was home alone or if there were any adults in the house.’

‘
They did what?
’

‘I know – unbelievable. They didn’t want him in there if they were going to use tear gas, or blow the place up, so they confronted him. But they completely misjudged his reaction.
The boy panicked and pulled away from them. He was much faster than they were, of course, and he ran straight back inside through the nearest door, which evidently wasn’t the one through
which he had come out. And the team found out whether the house was booby trapped or not.’

The wine became impossible to swallow, stuck in her throat.

‘The house went up,’ Eden said.

Fred nodded, his face expressionless.

‘They didn’t have a chance; in two seconds the whole place was in flames. We later received confirmation that the suspect had died in the explosion. There were no attacks on British
embassies. Afterwards, however, MI5 was extremely critical of the way in which the operation had been carried out. A child died that day. How many British citizens do you have to save for it to be worth the life of a Palestinian boy?’

Eden had no answer to that question. She looked down into her glass, feeling wave after wave of nausea. She realised how little she had known about Efraim’s background.

‘We had nothing more to do with Efraim Kiel after that,’ Fred said. ‘Until the day when he approached one of our brightest and best.’

He gave Eden a wry smile, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Were you there on the West Bank?’ she asked.

Fred shook his head.

‘I found out about the operation when I was reading up about Kiel in order to understand who he was. Painful secrets hidden away in the archives under a bizarre code name.’

‘How bizarre can it be?’ Eden said. ‘How do you name an operation that so obviously went against important principles that we’re supposed to represent?’

‘You give it the name the Israelis gave their source. And on this occasion the source on the West Bank who led Efraim Kiel’s team to the main suspect was apparently known as the
Paper Boy.’

T
he longing had been aroused deep inside him on the very first day, when the snow outside the Solomon Community was still red with blood, and the two boys were missing. He had felt his pulse
rate increase, felt the surge of adrenalin. And he knew that he had done the wrong thing on the day when he walked away from the police and handed in his badge without even putting up a fight. Had
he been crazy? How could he have done something so stupid?

Peder Rydh knew the answer to that question.

He had been out of his mind.

His brother had been murdered, and nothing else mattered.

But now things were different. Peder was different.

I want to go back, he thought. I really, really want my old job back.

There were so many things he missed; being around Alex was one of them. Working with such an experienced investigator so early in his career had been a blessing. Peder’s success could
have taken him a very long way if he had played his cards right. It wasn’t just the fact that he had shot his brother’s killer that had landed him in hot water; there were the women
too.

So bloody pointless.

Unsatisfactory sex with women for whom he had no respect. You just didn’t behave like that. Not towards them, and definitely not towards your own wife. One thing had led to another, and eventually he had been working so hard at being a
bastard that he no longer knew how to be anything else. Until now.

Peder had finally been forced to grow up. The question was whether he had left it too late.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the murders within the Solomon Community. He realised he had begun to regard them as his case, his responsibility. Ylva watched with unspoken anxiety as he
became unreachable, lost in his thoughts. She wondered if he was moving away from her again.

They had supper with the children and she took them off for baths and bedtime. Peder loaded the dishwasher, then fetched his laptop.

The newspapers were following the search for Polly Eisenberg. Her parents had gone to ground and were making no comment. Peder had met them only a few times, but they had made a good
impression, particularly Carmen, the mother. She seemed calmer than her husband; more comfortable in her own skin.

He wanted to ring Alex, find out how far he had got with the investigation, ask if he could help in any way. Most of all he wanted to ask whether Alex wanted him back. Whether he missed him.

I
’
d do anything for a second chance.

The sounds from the boys’ bedroom as Ylva tried to settle them reminded him that he had already been given a second chance. Things could have been much worse. He could have lost his whole
family as well.

His work mobile rang. He answered quickly, not wanting to disturb Ylva and the children.

It was the general secretary.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but . . . I have something to tell you. Something I forgot when we last spoke.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Efraim Kiel,’ the general secretary said slowly.

Peder took a deep breath.

‘Yes?’

He heard a sigh.

‘I don’t think this is important, I really don’t. But after you asked me where Efraim Kiel was when Simon and Abraham went missing, I thought back to that afternoon. I told you
Efraim was with me, but that’s not the case.’

‘No?’

‘Everything happened so fast. First of all Josephine was shot, just after three o’clock. We were both there when the police arrived, but then Efraim went off, said he had
personal contacts who might be able to help push the police a little harder. With his background he obviously knows people the rest of us wouldn’t have access to, so I didn’t react
to what he said. And he did come back; he was there when you came in, and he was the one who made the calls taking up your references.’

Bloody hell.

‘So what you’re saying is that when the boys disappeared on their way to tennis coaching, Efraim wasn’t in the community centre,’ Peder said.

‘Correct. Which doesn’t necessarily mean he was lying; it’s entirely possible that he had meetings that were none of my business.’

But you
’
re not sure, because otherwise you wouldn
’
t have called me, would you?

Peder swallowed.

Efraim Kiel no longer had an alibi for the period when the boys were abducted.

T
he sound of children in the house was a joy. Chatter turning into screams of delight, giggles exploding into laughter, bouncing off the walls. High voices calling out new words that made his
face light up.

‘Grandma!’

‘Grandpa!’

Alex’s son and daughter had both come for Sunday dinner with their families, a surprise that met him in the doorway when he got home from work.

His head was bursting with random thoughts and speculation about why two children had been shot dead and a third had disappeared. His grandchildren drove those thoughts away for a while.
They hurled themselves at him, much less easy to elude than the adults in his company. He even managed to get through the meal before his mind was once again invaded by what had happened. What
it would mean if one of the parents had lied about his alibi.

The last thing he had done before leaving Police HQ was to put Saul Goldmann under surveillance, just to be on the safe side. If he was the one who had taken Polly Eisenberg, he might lead them
to her.

Diana watched him across the table. She had one of the grandchildren on her knee, holding the child close. They were not her grandchildren, but she had taken Alex’s family to her heart and made them her own.

His mobile rang and he excused himself. Diana’s expression was forgiving as he left the table.

It was Peder. Alex almost dropped the phone when he realised what he was saying.

Efraim Kiel didn’t have an alibi.

‘As you know, this is extremely important information,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

A thank you was not enough. Follow up questions came thick and fast. Peder wanted to know what the next step would be, and whether he could be of any help.

But that was where Alex had to draw the line. Peder was not a police officer, and that was that. He could tell that his former colleague was disappointed; Peder’s silence told Alex all he
needed to know.

‘Peder, you’re not part of my team. I’m sorry, but that means I can’t let you in on everything we find out.’

Peder cleared his throat.

‘I know that.’

Another protracted silence.

‘Was there anything else?’ Alex said.

He tried to keep his tone friendly, but he was keen to call Fredrika in Jerusalem.

‘I just wanted to tell you that I . . .’ Peder said, then hesitated.

Alex held his breath, waiting for him to go on.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m thinking of trying to gain some kind of redress, Alex. I want to come back to the police. I shouldn’t have had to leave.’

Alex wasn’t so preoccupied that he didn’t have time to say the right thing.

‘That’s good news. I’m really pleased.’

He meant every word, and hoped Peder could hear it in his voice.

The three grandchildren had got down from the table and came charging into the hallway, whirling around his legs like hyperactive butterflies, each trying to shout louder than the others.

‘Peder, I’ll speak to you very soon. Thanks again for your help.’

Alex withdrew from the children and shut himself in his study so that he could talk to Fredrika in peace. He had only just sat down at his desk when he realised what he was doing.

Making the same mistake all over again.

The same mistake, but with a new generation.

How many times, irrespective of whether it was a weekday, a weekend or a holiday, had he left his family because of work? With empty promises, assuring them that he was going to make just one
more phone call, talk to one more person, stay in the office for one more hour? How much had he missed by behaving that way?

But what was the alternative? Ignore the fact that a little girl had been abducted?

That was equally impossible, and no less painful.

Fredrika sounded far away when she answered.