Jonathan was a bundle of nerves. Before receiving the telegram, he had programmed himself to ignore everything except the disturbing claim by the nutty orchid lady. But now, Linda’s life hung by a thread. If that was not tormenting enough, another frightening thought came to him. If the fire had been deliberately set, then they might try to harm her again. He had to try to get back today. He thanked Hark, paid him and left.
Jonathan was one of the first to pull up to the station in the nearby village of Broa. At eight o’clock sharp, the gate opened, and he drove onto the five-lane-wide open ferry, a large yellow-colored vessel with the words KAJSA-STINA painted on its side.
The drive back to Visby was aided by Jonathan’s lead foot. But speed made no difference. The flight to the capital was delayed. He didn’t board until almost twelve-thirty, and, as feared, the flight arrived at Bromma Airport well after he could make any transatlantic connection from Stockholm’s main airport north of town.
He was resigned to the fact that he would stay the night in Stockholm. To take his mind off Linda, he cast about for a productive way to make use of the enforced delay. But he also needed to keep a low profile for his own safety. Everything seemed to be turning on its head, and no one could be trusted.
Before leaving the airport, Jonathan arranged a reservation at a budget hotel. An attendant with limited knowledge of English had helped him find one well off the beaten path. But when Jonathan arrived by cab and stared at the accommodations, he realized the language barrier was to blame for this terrible selection. It was quite a change from Hark’s quaint rural oasis: a floating hotel sitting alone on a dock off an industrial park at the foot of a forested hill topped with a cluster of high-rises. The barge was some seventy feet long, with about ten rooms and a grossly tattooed man—a cross between a biker and a Viking—manning the front desk and apparently surprised to see a guest.
Jonathan’s only solace was that this temporary abode was the perfect hideout, as few humans with any standards would ever crawl on board this pit. A creepy, dark hall led to Jonathan’s room, a place fit for shooting second-rate porn flicks and hiding fugitives. The room was half below the waterline, and the stench of mildew blended with the pungent odor of cigarette smoke that emanated from the linens, curtains and woodwork.
Jonathan couldn’t sit or lay down or pace. He had tried. Silence brought his collapsing world closer, an intimacy that was driving him nuts. He had to do something. Anything. Finding answers was the goal. And being the capital, Stockholm harbored government offices that surely had some sort of records relating to the plane crash. The problem was deciding where on earth to begin.
From his hotel room, he phoned the Consular Section of the U.S. Embassy. But it took only a few minutes for him to wonder why his tax dollars were supporting such shamefully incompetent and unfriendly civil servants, none of whom were the least bit interested in helping him.
He also had little luck with the transportation ministry and the foreign affairs ministry. But by chance, the Swedish Ministry of Defense offered hope. At least a little. After being accidentally disconnected, he was transferred to a man named Otto Johannsen, who not only spoke perfect English, but also seemed to take an interest in Jonathan’s claim. He was in charge of aviation safety for the ministry’s Department of International and Security Affairs.
Jonathan wanted two things in particular: information about the pilot and any records of the plane crash off Gotland. Jonathan explained to Otto much of what Tantina had said and added the relevant dates. But after some twenty minutes on the phone, Jonathan sensed that Otto was stalling.
“Let me get back with you next week or so,” he said to Jonathan, even though Otto knew the American would be gone in the morning. “That’s the best I can do.”
Jonathan was angry. He realized nothing more would happen unless he pressed his case with Otto in person. He hung up but didn’t tell the man he would be right over. Instead, he simply gave him his contact information in New Orleans. He also gave him the phone number to his trashy barge, something he later realized was an imprudent move.
The sky was darkening at four, and judging by the heavy clouds, Jonathan was prepared to see more snow by evening. Bundled in his thick coat, he left the hotel by cab, heading to the Ministry of Defense headquarters on Jakobsgatan Street.
Stockholm was a sprawling maze of waterways. He crossed several bridges, most of which were built low over the water. He crossed another one, this time to Galma Stan, the largest island in the city. Both sides of the street were filled with restaurants, bookshops, souvenir stores and antique dealers. The street passed by the Royal Palace and led to another bridge and onto a built-up area dominated by ornate office buildings, many of them with greenish copper roofs. The driver circled a spacious open square across from the elegant Royal Opera House. An equestrian statue dominated the middle of Gustav Adolf Square. The driver then veered right, past a medieval church, and stopped at a six-story building facing the square.
The Ministry was a stylish copper-roofed building, nothing like Jonathan had expected. It wasn’t monstrously austere like the Pentagon, which his brother had once shown him on the day of his promotion to Second Lieutenant. And he was amazed at how simple it was to enter the building. No metal detectors. No band of zealous armed guards. Just one unarmed, fat-bellied security guard, no more intimidating than a bellman.
At the reception desk, Jonathan asked to speak with Otto, although he was not brazen enough to pretend he had an appointment. He simply said it was urgent and that they had spoken earlier. Surprisingly, Otto agreed to meet in a third floor conference room overlooking Gustav Adolf Square, but the Swede did not take kindly to Jonathan’s intrusion. He shook hands roughly but did not invite Jonathan to sit down. Jonathan began explaining more details about what Tantina had said, but Otto interrupted him.
“I’m not sure we can find this information. This happened a long time ago and when—”
“For God’s sake,” Jonathan cut in as he swept some papers off the table. “There must be someone here who knows that a Soviet army helicopter landed in your country. This sort of thing doesn’t happen every day, does it? Are you such an idiot that you can’t understand the seriousness of what I’m telling you?”
“There is no reason to get angry,” said Otto with the calmness only a Swede could pull off after being insulted.
“Yes, there is!” Jonathan blurted out, clutching the edge of the heavy wood table as if the next move was to dislodge it from its legs and crush Otto’s skull. “My brother may have been kidnapped on Gotland, and I want answers.”
Otto rolled his eyes, which angered Jonathan as much as if it had been a physical assault.
“Why do you stand there as if this isn’t important?” asked Jonathan, once more slamming his hand on the table and secretly wishing this Nordic block of ice would respond with either an ounce of cooperation or a manly fighting stance. Jonathan threw his arms into the air and stormed out of the room. “Someone else will have to help me.”
“Lugna ner dig!” Jonathan heard Otto say from the room, but by then there was no stopping him. He remembered reading on the English language directory at the reception desk downstairs that the defense minister’s office was on the top floor, so he quickly followed the signs to the stairwell and headed upstairs.
He exited the stairwell, turned the corner and headed straight for the door at the far end of the hallway. This has to be it, he thought, spotting the Swedish flag on one side and a coat of arms mounted on the adjacent wall.
Without a second thought, Jonathan barged into the office and spotted a mustached man standing a few feet away, reading a document, and a woman—probably his assistant—sitting at her desk. She got up and moved toward Jonathan as he drew nearer.
“Are you the Minister?” Jonathan asked. “I apologize for my abruptness, but I desperately need your help.”
The man took a few steps back but said nothing.
“Please, sir, I’ve asked Mr
. Johannsen for help, but he is not interested. My brother is missing and—” Before Jonathan could finish his sentence, he felt a huge force bear down on him from behind. His body collapsed face-down under the weight, his chin hitting the floor before he could even make a sound. Jonathan struggled to free himself, but he felt yet another person jump on top of him. “I’m only asking for help!”
“Du ska få igen, din jävel!” shouted a man who sounded like Otto. “Kalla på vakterna!”
After a few more seconds of struggle, Jonathan could no longer move his limbs and could barely breathe. He was in a headlock, his arms and legs pinned down by at least two men. And all he could see was a beefy arm around his throat and the parquet floor inches from his face. Several people spoke loudly to one another in Swedish.
“Get up!” said the person who held him in a chokehold. He felt another man frisk his pants pockets and jacket.
Jonathan managed to look up at the man he thought was the defense minister, or at least someone much higher up the food chain than Otto. “I’m not trying to cause problems; I’m only asking for help. My wife has been attacked, I’m being followed, and my brother is missing. I beg you...”
Jonathan felt the grip around his neck loosen. He was brought to his feet, his hands now cuffed tightly behind his back, just as Otto thrust his face forward. “This is not the way to get help, you stupid cowboy.”
Jonathan spat on Otto’s face and then tried to wrestle his arms free. But the men dragged him out into the hallway. “Okay, okay!”
Otto was furious. He wiped his face with his sleeve, pointed angrily at Jonathan and cursed in Swedish.
The two men who had custody of Jonathan shoved him into the elevator, whisked him through the downstairs lobby, butted him up against a wall while they unlocked the handcuffs and then threw him out onto the sidewalk like a trash bag.
Except for a bruised knee, a sore neck and a torn collar, he had fared well enough to walk upright, flag down a cab and head back to his floating hotel with a semblance of dignity. He later realized how fortunate he was not to have ended up in jail.
From a payphone some distance from his hotel, he called the ER to check on Linda. Her condition had not changed.
* * *
Just past midnight, Jonathan was awakened by a phone call. It was the front desk.
“There’s somebody heah to see you, sah,” the man said in English, his accent Indian. “He says it’s urgent.”
“Who?” Jonathan asked, imagining for a moment that it was Otto coming with the cavalry to even the score. Perhaps Swedes have it in them to shed their genetically imbedded passivity for a healthy dose of revenge. But Jonathan quickly sensed renewed fear that perhaps it was not the Swedes at all. What if...it’s Scarborough’s killers?
“I do not know, sah,” the man said. “It’s not the police,” he added as if he was accustomed to saying this to his guests. “He said he has information about what you were asking at the Ministry.”
“Can you pass him the phone?”
“Sorry, he’s waiting outside now, sah.”
Jonathan scratched his jaw, his lucidity coming to him quickly after the abrupt awakening. He wasn’t sure what to do, but it now sounded as if it could be Otto. He didn’t want to leave the relative safety of a nasty hotel to be beaten or killed. But if it is Otto? Against his better judgment, he got dressed and left the room, but not before placing his lucky fountain pen in his sock. It was the only weapon he could come up with. He walked down the barge’s narrow, smelly hallway, passing the front desk, where the man behind the counter pointed to the dock.
“Out there, sah.” He sounded as if he wanted to say something else. Good luck, perhaps. Or don’t come back in here if things get nasty.
Jonathan stepped into the glacial air wearing only a sweatshirt, jeans, socks and shoes. A tall man in a dark trench coat stood by the large dock cleat to which the barge was moored. Jonathan at first felt strangely disappointed and nervous that it didn’t appear to be Otto.
“Who are you and what do you want?” Jonathan asked from a safe distance, his warm breath steaming out of his mouth.
“Please come with me to the car,” the stranger said in English, his Swedish accent intoxicating. “Someone has information about your incident in Gotland.”
Jonathan hesitantly complied.
A black Saab sedan idled at the dimly lighted end of the parking lot, vapor spewing from its tailpipe. As he got close enough to hear the low-pitched hum of its engine, the man suddenly turned, pulled Jonathan forward, grabbed his belt from behind and expertly frisked him with one hand. The man then opened the front passenger door and waved Jonathan in.
Jonathan noticed that the inside dome light was not functioning as he sat in the warm seat. The man quickly shut the door and circled around to the driver’s side, only to stop and light a cigarette. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw a dark figure in the backseat.
“Don’t look, please!” snapped the man behind him, preempting Jonathan’s instinct to turn all the way round. The man’s English was better than his colleague’s.
“What’s going on?” Jonathan asked, quickly grabbing the door handle but stopping short of pulling the latch.
“Please face forward; you don’t need to see me.”
“Who are you?” Jonathan asked, slowly reaching for his ankle to grab the pen.
“Call me Erland. I’m here for two reasons. First, I have information to give you—I assume you are still interested, since your visit to the Ministry of Defense can hardly be called a success. Secondly, I have a request.”
Jonathan heard a loud click. The cocking of a gun? he asked himself. He took a big gulp of air and slowly leaned back in his seat and stared out the windshield, calculating an escape route should the meeting turn uglier than it already seemed. His hand discreetly clenched his pen, but he left it in his sock for now.
“Must you point a gun at my back?” Jonathan asked.
“One can never be too careful,” Erland responded coldly. “Not after your tantrum earlier today.”
“I’m an attorney, I’m unarmed, and I have no interest in hurting anyone. I assure you.”
Erland sighed. “Perhaps.”
Another clicking sound came from behind; perhaps he’d uncocked the weapon, but Jonathan wasn’t sure.
“Your spectacle today was foolish. Expect that our state security services will be watching your every movement for the rest of your stay in Sweden.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.”
“Well, at least you did your circus act in Sweden,” said Erland with a chuckle. “Imagine what would have happened to you if you had entered the Pentagon, stormed into the Secretary of Defense’s office, and spat on one of his senior deputies. Imagine. I think we Swedes are a bit more forgiving.”
Jonathan grinned in spite of himself. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Like most Scandinavians, I’m pragmatic. So, I’d like to make a mutually convenient arrangement with you.”
“First, tell me who you are.”
“I’m with the Militära underrättelse- och säkerhetstjänsten—our military intelligence service—in Uppsala. I also collaborate with the Försvarets Radioanstalt, our signals intelligence directorate, located in Lovön.”
“So what arrangement are you proposing?”
“I have answers to your questions. But I need two promises in return.”
“Promises?” asked Jonathan incredulously, crossing his arms.
“First, that you will not return to Sweden looking for trouble.”
“If you give me the truth, I’ll have no reason to return,” Jonathan said gruffly. “And the other promise?”
“That if you travel to Russia, you will obtain information for us, on an unrelated matter of interest to me.”
Jonathan was tempted to accept for the sake of expediency. What can he do to me anyway, once I leave this country? Send me poisoned meatballs? Sabotage my Swedish furniture? He no
dded and replied nearly child-like, “Okay, I promise.”
Jonathan felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the edge of a folder.
“Here, take a look,” said Erland. “It’s the radar track of a transport or reconnaissance aircraft, I believe American, but it is possible it was British. It crashed on March 7, 1989.”
Jonathan, his pulse quickening, plopped it on his lap and unfolded the large chart inside with both hands, tilting it at an angle to gather the best light from the nearby lamppost.
“Coincidentally,” Erland said, “the Pentagon had relayed to our embassy in Washington a dozen flight plans for that month. These were routine flights, some VIP, but most signal intelligence missions—usually by either a U.S. Air Force RC-135 or a U.S. Navy P-3 Orion aircraft. The planes usually departed from West Germany straight up the Baltic, then they either turned back or headed west, flying over our airspace and continuing to Norway, and then to Iceland or the UK.”
“Was there a flight plan for this plane that went down?”
“Yes, supposedly a transit flight by an Orion. You see, the plane’s course is extrapolated from the series of red dots, each representing a hit from one of our long-range primary radars. The black line represents the flight plan, which starts in Germany, heads north past Gotland and then turns westward to Stockholm and then on to Norway. But what is unusual is that the radar first detects the plane off the Latvian coast, not Germany. The aircraft flew fairly low, at about eighteen-hundred feet at that moment. It slowly gained altitude. But less than twenty minutes later, it began a rapid descent. The aircraft never used its transponder, which means it was trying to keep a low radar signature, and it never communicated with our air traffic controllers. Notice the multiple returns in the flight’s last five minutes. That’s because it was breaking apart.”
“It crashed, right?”
“Looks that way to me,” Erland conceded.
“Why are you so sure it was an American aircraft?”
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