“You’re here,” the foreman said.
“Of course. Where else would I be?”
“I heard you were ill . . .”
Ill. At least not dead.
“Rubbish,” Sandler said. He felt clammy and wanted to wipe his forehead but didn’t.
Another man was approaching on the road. Notholm! Taneli stiffened. Sandler also felt himself tense up. But Notholm wouldn’t dare trying anything here. Would he?
The foreman was also looking at Notholm. “My God,” he said. “What happened to you?”
The right side of Notholm’s face was one big sore, his right eye swollen shut. He walked with a limp and held one arm tight to his side.
“Fell off my horse,” he answered, looking at Sandler.
“That must have been some fall,” the foreman said.
“It was.”
Hallberg turned to Sandler. “Well, we have things to go through, whenever you have time.”
“Good. I’ll come by.”
As the foreman and his team walked away, Sandler and Notholm locked eyes.
“All you had to do was to leave well enough alone.”
“You shot me. You’ll pay for this.”
This was war.
“We’ll come for you again. If it isn’t me, it will be another.” Notholm looked pointedly at the boy. “And then one day . . .”
Sandler put his hand on Taneli’s shoulder.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
40.
Laura
She woke up and had no idea what time it was. Falling asleep had been difficult. She didn’t know when the sun had finally gone down—if it ever had. It had remained daylight as she lay there hour after hour, tossing and turning. The noise from Blackåsen mine was relentless: grinding, booming, thrashing. How on earth could people live here? The Winter Palace hotel was decent, but its curtains were useless. The hotel was walking distance from the railway station. As the train had arrived last night, she’d seen the armed soldiers standing on the platform, watching the trains, protecting them.
She found her watch. Eight o’clock. Perfect. She had called ahead and arranged to meet the mine director this morning at his home: Rolf Sandler.
She wasn’t certain how to play it. She needed to find Andreas, but she didn’t want to put him at risk. Then there was the schematic of the mine on Jens’s desk; the possibility of human experimentation being conducted in the mine. The director had to know about this—it was his mine!
“Start from the top and work down,” someone had taught her. Wallenberg? Most likely. It would be easier for her to ask questions of others once she could say she’d already spoken to the man in charge.
She had to admit to being scared, though.
On the steps outside the hotel, she found the air surprisingly cool. “Just a bit farther down,” the receptionist had said and pointed. On the other side of the road lay Blackåsen Mountain. On her arrival last night, seeing it from afar, it hadn’t seemed like much; a blunt, black shape, its surface cut into terraces. But then, as the train had drawn closer she could see the magnitude of it and the open pit at its base. You beast, she’d thought.
Her father would have loved to see this, she thought, then frowned. She would have to tell him what was going on when she returned. He’d be just as shocked. He would be able to help.
She began walking to the director’s house. It was cold, but her hands were sweaty. She tried not to think about the impending conversation. Instead, she tried to imagine her friend sashaying down the street; short skirt, long blond hair. She couldn’t see it. Perhaps Britta had changed when she moved to Uppsala? But on the other hand, she could never imagine Britta pretending to be something other than what she was.
The town wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the mine. What a life, she thought. Brought here by the mine. Living off it. Dependent on it. Britta, with her lively, questioning nature, must have hated everything about it. She must have felt shut in, constrained. Though it was a green town with nice houses. Actually, it was much more pleasant than she had expected.
She reached the house and knocked on the door.
“Miss Dahlgren?”
A tall, dark man came toward her through the garden. He was limping. It was his leg, she thought. But he also held his arm tight to his side, so perhaps it was his ribs. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to pay a quick visit to the mine. I’m the director, Rolf Sandler. Please come in.”
Laura thought he was a beautiful man. In all likelihood, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His dark beard was neat, his hair thick. His skin had a warm tone to it and his eyes were clear blue. Something was worrying him, though, she thought. Why would she think that? The wrinkles on his forehead, perhaps. The weariness of his eyes. But then, being the head of the mine would be a job with a lot of responsibilities.
He knows, she thought. It’s his mine. He must know.
Sandler opened the door to his study and invited her in.
“We’ll take coffee,” he called over his shoulder to a woman farther down the hallway. “What a pleasure,” he continued, this time to Laura. “Of course, I’ve seen your name on letters and other documents, but to meet in person is a nice surprise.”
He took her hand.
“It’s kind of you to receive me at such short notice,” she said and removed her hand.
He pointed to a sofa and they sat down. The housekeeper came in with a coffee tray.
“So, what brings you to us?” he asked.
“I’m looking for a friend of a friend,” she said. “A Sami man who has gone missing.”
He inhaled. It was such a small sound that she couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like a gasp.
She hesitated. “He’s a student in theology at Uppsala University. But he’s from Blackåsen.”
Sandler shook his head, his face bland now. “I wouldn’t know him. I haven’t been here long . . . I had assumed your visit had to do with the mine.”
She shook her head. “Not this time.”
“Why are you looking for him? If you don’t mind me asking . . .”
“He was a close friend of a friend.”
“Was?” The director suddenly had a frown line between his eyes.
She hesitated. “My friend died.”
“Died, as in . . . ?”
“She was murdered.”
“And this had to do with this young man? Do you think he did it?”
“No! No, I don’t. It’s just that he disappeared afterward. I was hoping he might know something about it.”
“Disappeared?” Sandler sighed and his frown line grew deeper.
She nodded, changed tack. “The State Institute for Racial Biology is active here, isn’t it?”
“With the Sami populations, yes,” he said, slowly.
“What are they working on?”
“The usual things: measurements, studies and so on.”
Laura nodded. She couldn’t say any more.
The director was looking at her as if evaluating her.
“Is . . . this linked to your friend’s death?” he asked, finally.
She ought to lie. She ought to. But he looked so honest. How do you know who you can trust?
Nobody, she answered herself. You can trust nobody. But she had always trusted her instincts.
“I think so,” she admitted.
He exhaled, rising with effort, pushing himself off the sofa with his hand. He walked to the door opposite the one they had come in and opened it. “Taneli?” he called into the room.
A young boy came out. His hair was black, his eyes dark. The clothes told her he was Sami.
“We’ve had some . . . incidents here,” Sandler said. “Could you tell us your story, please, from the beginning?”
She hesitated.
The man’s eyes were a piercing blue. “Trust me, I understand the risk you feel you are taking.” He unbuttoned his shirt and showed her a large bandage around his chest. “Even t
hough I don’t understand what’s going on, I’m pretty sure I was shot for it.”
She could see it now, the pain showing on his face: the shiny forehead, the blank eyes.
She had to risk it. And so she told them both all of it, about Britta, her death, the meetings of the three kings, the aim for a Scandinavian Reich, and—she hesitated, a child being in the room, after all, but the director nodded to her to continue—human experimentation, perhaps in the mine.
When she had finished, Sandler had covered his mouth with his fist. He let his hand fall to his knee. “This explains everything.”
The child had bent his head. The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sami people have gone missing. His sister was one of them.”
Laura was so sorry. She wished she could offer comfort but found none.
“There is an area in the mine,” Sandler continued. “I’ve been forced to rent it out—to the owner of the Winter Palace hotel. I think it’s them. Is there no one who could intervene? The government? The Security Services?”
She shook her head. “They’re in on it—or at least factions of them are. We need evidence to be able to denounce them publicly. We don’t see any other way.”
“Who’s in on it here?”
She shook her head. “The Institute, obviously. Otherwise, I don’t know.”
“They’ll need staff,” he mumbled and frowned. “And this . . . missing Sami man?”
“We were hoping he knew who they were. Britta died and he disappeared immediately afterward.”
“What’s his name?” the boy asked.
“Andreas Lundius.”
“I know him,” the boy said. “Andreas Lappo. Or, I know his family. They’re not far from here. I can take you there.”
“Really?” she asked.
He nodded.
“How will you take me there?”
He looked at her shoes. “We have to walk,” he said, hesitant now. “Through the forest.”
“I can walk,” she said.
“It’s about two days.”
“I can do it.”
“I can’t come with you,” Sandler said. “I’m worried what will happen if I leave town. Things here feel vulnerable. Also,” he grimaced and pressed his side, “I’m not sure I would be of much help as things stand.”
“Tomorrow morning,” the boy said. “We leave early.”
She nodded. She’d be ready.
“I was going to see Britta’s family . . .” she said to the director before leaving, asking for his advice.
“Who are they?”
“Her father is the foreman of the mine. Hallberg.”
“Hallberg? She was his daughter?” Sandler frowned and then shook his head. “I wouldn’t go see them,” he said. “I see him every day. He never mentioned that his daughter died. I tried to talk to him about this area in the mine at one point; suggested we go see it. He blankly refused. I guess, right now, we just don’t know who’s in or not.”
And that was the crux. They didn’t.
41.
Jens
I’m sorry to call so late.”
Jens had picked up the phone, not quite knowing he’d done it. It was the middle of the night. A woman’s voice.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“It’s Julie, your father’s neighbor. It’s your father, my dear. He’s in hospital.”
“Why? Is he alright?”
“I found him on his porch. Maybe a heart attack. He’s been taken to the Karolinska Hospital. They don’t think he’s going to make it.”
HE CURSED HIMSELF the whole way to the hospital. They got him, he thought. There was nothing wrong with his father’s heart. In fact, for his age, he was remarkably healthy. Jens had been worried about Kristina, but he’d never imagined that they would attack his father. If his father died . . . Oh, he couldn’t think about it.
Jens’s mother had died of cancer ten years earlier. Since then, it had just been Jens and his father. His mother had been sick for so long that, in fact, it had almost always been just the two of them. He could see the gray-haired man before him now, stooping slightly, preparing sandwiches of soft bread and a thick slice of cheese with his clumsy fingers.
Without him, I’ll be an orphan, he thought, and the pain was so clear, so sharp, it cut through him and made him wince. Not his father. Anyone but his father!
He ran in the main entrance of the redbrick building and found the way to the ER. The hospital smelled of disinfectant. The lights were bright, the corridors clean. At the reception desk, a nurse was standing.
“I’m looking for my father,” he said. “He was admitted earlier tonight. Henrik Regnell.”
She looked at her register. Flipped a page over. “I have no one here with that name,” she said.
“Look again,” he demanded.
She lifted her book, ran her finger down the lines of names. “No,” she said. “No one called Henrik Regnell has been brought in. In fact, no one has come in at all tonight. Our last patient was admitted early in the evening.”
“But they called!”
“Who called?”
“His neighbor.”
“Could he have been taken to a different hospital?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. She did say Karolinska.”
The nurse shook his head.
There was a pay phone on the wall. Gripped by a sudden thought, Jens approached it and dialed his father’s number.
One ring, two, three . . . then his father’s sleepy voice: “Henrik Regnell.”
“Dad?” Jens’s voice broke. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the telephone.
“Jens? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Dad.” Jens squinted hard to try to stop the tears from coming. “I had a minute . . . thought I’d check in on you.”
His dad chuckled. “Nothing wrong here, Jens. Apart from someone calling and waking me up at two in the morning.”
“Sorry.” Jens sniffled.
“I’m joking. It’s always good to hear your voice. Are you alright?”
“Yes. Dad, do you have a neighbor called Julie?”
“No, there are just old men out here, you know that.”
Three of them, with weather-beaten skin. Coffees by the boats each morning and each afternoon since retirement, not saying much, spending their time together looking out over the sea. He did know that.
“I forgot.”
“Strange question for the middle of the night.”
“Yes. Yes, I guess it is.”
“Come and visit, Jens.”
“I’ll come soon, Dad. Until then . . . please be careful.”
“I’m always careful, Jens. I’m old.”
As Jens hung up, the nurse was watching him. “False alarm,” he said.
“That’s stressful,” she answered.
“Yes. Very.”
“How did that happen?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
He walked down the corridor back to the main entrance. This had been a warning. No doubt about that. You can never keep the ones you love safe. If you continue . . . The woman who called it could have been anyone. This is how it begins, he thought. And it won’t stop until it’s over. One way or another.
SVEN WAS AT his apartment when Jens came to find him many hours later. Jens hadn’t gone home after the hospital. He’d found an all-night café and had nursed his one beer until morning came. Kristina would find an empty bed beside her when she woke up. Who would they take from him first? He ought to stop. Stop the questions, stop looking, go back to his work and do his best for Christian Günther. Who was he to take this on? What did he ever think he could accomplish? But how could he ignore it? If he stopped, then this . . . thing would continue. If everyone stopped, where would it end? And how could you possibly stop, knowing what was going on, what was being done to people?
“Jens,” Sven said when he opened the door, “you look awful. Everything alright between you and Kristina?”
“Yes, but everything else is wrong.”
“Come in.”
Sven prepared him a cup of coffee. He was dressed in slacks and a light blue shirt open at the neck. Saturday morning. Jens sat down at his kitchen table.
“They lied to you,” Jens said. “Whoever told you about Britta being killed by a former lover, about Daniel committing suicide, about those phone calls being about the safe passage of Jews. They lied to you.”
“I doubt that very much,” Sven said.
Jens told Sven all of it from beginning to end. Halfway through, Sven sat down opposite him.
“Jens, God, I don’t know,” Sven said when he had finished. “A mega conspiracy, human experimentation, racially motivated murders? I can’t believe it’s true!”
“It is.”
Sven was still shaking his head.
Jens frowned. “It’s true,” he repeated, “starting with Britta dying and the bomb in Laura’s flat.”
“That was an ex-lover . . .”
“I called him, Sven. I called the policeman. He said he had no idea what I was talking about.”
“If you call again, you’ll find that the policeman you spoke to has been removed from his post. I heard it yesterday. He’s a gambler, apparently, who neglected his job. And he’s under investigation for fraud. The policeman now in charge will tell you that it was an ex-lover, I’m sure. They have arrested him.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t remember, Jens. I can find out . . . But call and you’ll see I’m right.”
“What about the man who lost a daughter? What about the phone call about my father?”
“The woman rang you by mistake. She never mentioned your father’s name, did she?”
Jens thought back at the call and had to admit Sven was right: she hadn’t. But there was no doubt in his mind. It was them. It had been a threat. Not someone calling the wrong number.
“And as for the man who lost his daughter, when we’re grieving, we see what we want to see, Jens. Sometimes it’s easier to blame somebody else for our misfortune rather than accept it was a meaningless accident.”
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