She’d been prepared. The room key was in her hand, and she had jabbed him in the eye. She wasn’t a military man’s granddaughter for nothing. She left him in the corridor, bent over, bleeding. The next day, he wasn’t part of the negotiations. Nothing was ever said, but there was a new air of respect toward her from his countrymen involved in the negotiations. The man himself never came back.
HEAR SWEDEN’S LEADING NAZI SPEAK, it said on the posters outside Hotel Carlton. Laura walked in. The meeting room was filled with young men in army shirts and riding trousers. There were plenty of young women, too. She’d heard the party had been successful in recruiting them. Not that they were believed to have political views, but they were helpful—in distributing those flyers, carrying the flags and so on.
Laura walked to the front. She sat down in the first row, crossed her legs and waited. She was the first thing Sven Olov saw when he came on stage. His mouth half opened then closed. She smiled. I will stalk you, she thought, until you tell me all that you know. I will bring the thing that you are scared of with me and stalk you until you see me as a risk to yourself. I will stalk you and stalk you and stalk you . . .
26.
Jens
It was a beautiful morning. The sun was out. Jens paused briefly on the doorstep to feel the warmth on his face. The weekend had been wonderful. He and Kristina had walked around Stockholm and met up with friends. The first few warm days of spring. The first proper weekend off in a long time. Farther away, in one of the doorways on his street, a man in a gray suit wearing a dark fedora was standing smoking a cigarette. As Jens looked his way, he took out the newspaper that was folded under his arm, unfolded it and began to read. He was probably one of the policemen watching Mr. Enander, Jens thought. They’d have to do better than that if they wanted to evade notice.
As he got into work, one of the administrative staff popped her head through the door to say that Günther had called a meeting of all personnel straight away.
Jens grabbed his notebook and a pen and followed her into one of the meeting rooms.
Günther was already standing at the front. People streamed into the room until it was full. As the last people to arrive found seats and fell quiet, he began to speak.
“Daniel Jonsson died last night.”
Died?
“Most of you know him as an archivist who’s been working here at the ministry for a decade. What you most likely don’t know is that for some time, Daniel had suffered from a weak mind which, ultimately, led to a difficulty in separating reality from fiction. Last week, he was put on indefinite leave. Last night, regrettably, he took his own life.”
The floor dropped underneath Jens. His ears began to buzz. He had to look down to steady himself. When he glanced up, Christian Günther was staring straight at him.
“We grieve for Daniel Jonsson,” the foreign minister continued, “but his death has also left us with a problem. Through his position, Daniel had access to all kinds of sensitive material. In view of the delusions he was suffering, we don’t know if he shared information. We don’t know if he instigated something that is now running without him.”
Jens’s hand flew up to touch his tie. He shivered; felt cold, sick. The note, he thought. He’d pushed that note through Daniel’s door slot when Daniel first disappeared. What had he written? Please get in touch, and I believe you. He cursed himself. Why had he added that last sentence? How incredibly stupid. He had formed a mental picture of Daniel—on leave, on his own, depressed. He was always trying to be nice—that was his problem, just like Kristina and Sven kept pointing out.
“The Security Services will manage this situation,” Günther said. “And while they are in the process, you might find yourself being interviewed.”
Only now did Jens see the men in dark suits at the back of the room. Three of them, arms crossed.
“Any questions?” Günther was looking out over the audience.
“How did it . . . he kill himself?” someone ventured.
“He hanged himself in his flat. His sister found him this morning.”
The room fell silent.
“I wanted to let you know myself,” Günther said. “The funeral will be next week, but his family are looking after that. We have offered our condolences, of course. Feel free to take a moment, should you need it.”
People rose. There was a mumbling of concerned voices as they walked out.
JENS RETURNED TO his office and sat down heavily in his chair. Daniel was dead. And Jens’s note was in the apartment. Had they already found it?
Daniel had been delusional. He might well have given information out to people who should not have it; like the phone calls he had told Jens about. How many other “suspicious things” had he seen and passed on to other people? Oh, why had Jens not been more careful?
Günther had already warned him, told him to leave well enough alone. And only now that Jens knew what the phone calls had been about, did he understand why. Jens should have listened to Günther, trusted him, rather than thinking he knew better. And now there was that note he had left for Daniel: I believe you. The fact that he had written this note after Günther had already warned him would not go down well.
He sighed and tried to calm himself down. Justice would prevail. He believed this. He knew this. He would explain what had happened and he would be heard.
The phone rang. He answered: “Jens Regnell.”
“Sven here. I have something of yours.”
“Something of mine? What?”
“Just some papers. You forgot them at my apartment when you last came over.”
They hadn’t met at Sven’s apartment for months.
“But . . .”
“I know you need them,” Sven said. “I’ll wait for you by the statue of St. Göran and the dragon at Köpmantorget in ten minutes.”
SVEN WAS STANDING by the bronze statue, the thorny green dragon bristling above his head. He had his hands stuck in his coat pockets even though the weather was warm.
“What’s up?” Jens asked, irritated. He’d had to show up at short notice and his day was already not going well. But he’d concluded on the way over that perhaps Sven needed his help. Otherwise, why the rush?
“I think I should ask you that,” Sven said and pulled his hand out of his pocket. In it was Jens’s note to Daniel Jonsson.
Jens exhaled. “How on earth do you have this?”
“Möller, my minister, sent me to Daniel’s home when we heard what had happened. The police were there, but they hadn’t begun their search.”
Jens was still looking at the note in Sven’s hand.
“The note was on his desk, Jens. For anyone to see.”
“You took it?”
“Of course I did.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“You know it was necessary.”
“No,” Jens shook his head. “No, I don’t. It’s illegal.”
There was a sneer on Sven’s face. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“You’re too naive, Jens. Plenty of people are just waiting for the opportunity to bring you down.”
Jens shrugged. “This note is innocent. I can explain it. I know you have my best interests in mind, my friend. But to take this away from a scene the police are about to search . . . That’s just plain wrong.”
“Jens, listen to me. You could go far, really far. We both know you could go all the way. It would mean something if you did: you would change things. And to be incriminated by a small thing like this . . .”
Sven offered the note to him. Jens took a step back. “No,” he said and held up his hands. “I won’t take it. You shouldn’t have done it.”
BACK AT THE office, he wondered what his friend would do with the note: try putting it back or throw it out? Sven had faith in him. Sven looked out for him . . . They’d looked out for each other. But this, this amazed him. Sven knew what was right and wrong.
It would have been easy, a small voice inside hi
m said. You could have taken the note. Nobody would ever have known. The whole thing would have gone away . . .
No! He would have known. This was the mindset he was fighting against: complacency, entitlement, lies. He would have none of that. He had never taken the easy route—he wasn’t going to start now.
Across the hall, the foreign minister’s door was closed. Jens sighed.
27.
Blackåsen Mountain
Sandler was tired; he hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d been robbed. By a kid. A Sami kid. He grumbled at the thought. On seeing the boy, black hair falling over eyes as scared as a rabbit’s, two things had gone through his head: first, if this boy had dared to come, he must really need the money; second, the director had realized he didn’t know who to call upon. I’m being robbed by a . . . child? He couldn’t see himself do it. He should have, of course. He could only hope that this wouldn’t unleash a whole series of robberies, with people saying that stealing from the director was like taking candy from a baby.
And then there was his overarching worry about Notholm’s visit and the sheer insolence of the man when he came with his payment. The director bristled at the thought. Notholm was up to something; Sandler could feel it in every fiber of his being. And, regardless of what his superior said, he could not leave it be. He was in charge. If something happened, it would be his neck on the line.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose. He pulled on his trousers and put his head in his shirt, buttoning it as he trotted downstairs. His office was empty. He noticed that the boy had pushed the window shut upon leaving.
The director opened it and shouted out, “Saddle my horse!”
The stable boy undid the door to the stables and waved.
“Breakfast, sir?” the housekeeper asked.
“Not today.”
He walked out. His dog was sitting by the stairs, wagging its tail.
“You worthless piece of . . .” he mumbled then relented and patted the beast on its head. “I couldn’t be mean to him, either,” he admitted to the animal.
HE FOUND THE foreman in his office. Hallberg wrinkled his forehead upon seeing him but nodded to the chair opposite his.
“How are things?” the director asked.
The foreman raised his brows. He tapped a finger on the file in front of him. Not one for small talk.
“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” Sandler said.
“Yes?”
“Notholm . . . He rents land from us—land on the mountain itself. What do you know about it?”
Hallberg clasped his fingers and leaned back in his chair. His hands were large and calloused, the rims of the nails black.
“The land’s been rented out for a long time,” he said. “Maybe fifteen years.”
“But Notholm hasn’t been here that long?” The director remembered hearing he came a few years ago and took over the hotel.
“Before him there was someone called Ivarsson.”
Somebody else? What kind of project could be handed over? Did this Ivarsson sell the project to Notholm?
“Who is with Notholm in this?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do they need the land for?”
The foreman puckered his lips. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t.” They had raised their voices. Then they fell silent, staring at each other. Sandler took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He just couldn’t get through to this pigheaded, small-minded . . .
“It’s none of our business,” the foreman concluded.
The director scoffed. “It’s on the mountain itself. Imagine if something goes wrong. Just imagine.”
“We’ve been told to leave them to it. It doesn’t interfere with operations. Their location has been designated such.”
“Who told us to leave them to it?”
The foreman shrugged. “The government.”
Both men paused.
“How about we go and find out what they’re doing?” Sandler suggested.
“You mean actually approach their site?”
“Aren’t you at all curious?”
Hallberg stood up. “No, I have to say, I’m not. You know how busy we are. I don’t have time for a pointless little excursion.”
“Well,” the director said, also rising, “I don’t think it’s pointless.”
SANDLER TOOK THE longer route riding back home, through the forest. He had hoped he’d find a way to reach Hallberg, but it was not to be. He should have known he couldn’t discuss things with that man. He was like a stone wall. Everything just ran into him and fell to the ground. Sandler determined he would find out what the men on the mountain were doing. Even if he had to do it himself. By the river, behind the school, he saw Notholm. The director halted his stallion. Notholm seemed to be waiting for someone. Sandler tied his horse to a sapling and approached under the cover of the trees.
A boy came out of the school, one of the older ones, blond, hair cut so short you could see his scalp. The director had seen this one not long ago . . .
Ah, yes. Georg’s boy. The one to whom the foreman had offered employment in the mine.
“Where is the other one?” Notholm asked. “Your friend?”
The boy shrugged and kicked his foot on the ground. His cheeks looked red.
“Too much for him, was it?” Notholm laughed. “Well, most people are feeble. I’m glad to see that you’re not fazed.”
The boy looked up at the man before him.
Somehow, the director thought, Notholm had become this boy’s master.
“We have the bait,” Notholm said to the boy, “and I’ve set the trap. It will happen where I told you. Tonight. I want you there.”
The boy nodded. “Of course.”
Sandler watched as the two nodded their goodbyes. Tonight.
28.
Laura
Wallenberg had warned her about the leg. “A sabotage gone wrong,” he’d said. “The bomb went off before the passengers could leave the train. Had it not been for a doctor traveling on the train, your friend wouldn’t have survived. His colleagues transported him to Sweden, but unfortunately, his leg got infected and they had to remove it.”
Yes, she was prepared for the leg. She wasn’t prepared for the face.
She had to steel herself not to react. “Hi,” she said.
Karl-Henrik stared at her. Most of his jaw was missing. His neck was scrunched up on one side and his head leaned. Could he even speak? He was leaning on his crutches in the doorway to his apartment and one trouser leg was pinned up. She swallowed. Karl-Henrik used to be good-looking. Reserved, strict. Good-looking.
“Hi,” he said, at last. He spoke through the side of his mouth. His voice had taken on a metallic quality.
Britta would have reacted loudly, with an explosion of love and tears that nobody would have been able to resist. Britta would have hugged Karl-Henrik, caressed his damaged face, and told him it didn’t matter one damn bit. He was still gorgeous, still him. Laura was not Britta.
“I didn’t know you were in Stockholm until now,” Laura said meekly. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”
There was an awkward pause. Then Karl-Henrik said, “Don’t be sorry about that. Be sorry about Sweden’s role in all this.”
Did he know she’d been working with Wallenberg? That she had negotiated with the Germans to provide them with the iron people said was prolonging the war? She lowered her gaze.
The hardest part wasn’t his face, she thought when they sat down, but his eyes. They were naked; bare. She had a feeling she was looking into his soul. Karl-Henrik had always kept his distance from other people. She imagined that now he had to depend on others to help him. She could understand how awful that would be for him. It would be an affront to his pride and his independence.
“You heard about Britta?” she asked.
“He came,” he said. “The policeman.”
&
nbsp; “I wanted to ask you to meet with us.”
“What do you mean by ‘us’?”
“Erik, me, Matti . . . We need to talk about this. We need to try to understand what happened to her.”
He shook his head. Absolutely not.
“Please. I need you, Karl-Henrik. We need you. She was our friend. Before she died, she sent her dissertation to someone. It’s gone, but I was thinking that together, we could figure out what was scaring her . . . Who was scaring her.”
“I don’t think I can do it,” he said. “I don’t think I can focus on the suffering of one single person when I know what’s going on in the world at large . . . When I know what’s going on in my own country.”
“But perhaps we can understand the suffering of one person. We can’t do it for everyone. Please . . . She was your friend. And you were the best critical thinker among us.”
An image of Karl-Henrik popped into her head, surrounded by books, furiously taking notes, eyes gleaming. “Look here, Laura. Come! See this . . .” His enthusiasm had been infectious.
Still he said nothing.
“We used to be good at thinking together, remember?”
“Fat lot of good that did us,” he muttered. He sighed.
“For Britta,” she pleaded.
“Alright then. I’ll meet up with you just once.”
“We’ll come here,” she said without thinking. Perhaps he’d be offended. “To make it easier,” she added lamely and made it worse.
SHE FOUND MATTI in the Grand Hotel, the one out by Saltsjöbaden, where he was visiting with a delegation from Finland. The Finns had rejected the Soviet terms for peace again and again. It wouldn’t be long before Stalin lost his patience. It wouldn’t be long before he stood at the doorstep of Sweden.
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