“What can I do for you?” he asked and threw his briefcase onto his desk in what he hoped was a confident manner.
The older of the men, silver-haired, with a large, swollen nose, said, “We’d like to talk to you about your colleague.”
“Daniel Jonsson,” the other one added. He was younger, dark-haired, honest-looking.
“Tragic affair,” Jens said. “I didn’t know he was sick.”
The older one nodded. “Very sick. Delusional. Conspiracy theories . . . you know the drill.” He curled his lips. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice. I’m told you worked closely with him.”
“I saw him as diligent. He didn’t give me any reason for concern.”
“People can get . . . contaminated, when they work with someone like that. They, too, begin to see things that aren’t there.”
“I don’t,” Jens said.
“Are you certain?”
“I’m quite certain I only see what’s there.”
The older man had paused. Now he chuckled. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
Want to play it? Jens didn’t want to play anything. But what choice was there? It won’t happen here, he thought. This is the ministry. Nothing will happen to me here.
When they left his office, he stood up and walked to his door. The men walked farther down the corridor and across to the foreign minister’s office. When they knocked, Günther let them in. Jens waited for a long time, but the agents didn’t come out while he was watching.
IT HAD BEEN a long day. It was late when Jens finally left. They got him as he walked home. He didn’t know at what point he became aware of being followed, but by the time he entered Old Town he was certain. The street was empty. He should have taken another road. He’d known they would come for him sooner rather than later, so he ought to have been more careful. He lengthened his steps. One of the followers laughed. The laughter echoed in the empty street.
Should he run? He glanced over his shoulder. Three of them. Young, fluid in their movements. Confident. Walking fast. Not policemen—they were much too smart for that—these were hired thugs. Jens wouldn’t be able to outrun them. Not the three of them.
He kept his head down and walked faster. Every now and then he glanced up, hoping to see other people—but the street lay as deserted as when he had entered it.
He had to try. He set off at a fast run.
The men yelled, and their feet thudded on the pavement as they came for him.
Jens ran as fast as he could, but they were faster. They were approaching, and there was no way out.
When they were right behind him, he swung around, hitting out with his briefcase. The first man screamed and bent over, holding his nose.
Jens backed away, but the first punch landed on his cheek and it was as if his face had exploded. I won’t give up, he thought. Not this easily. He leaped forward and grabbed the man who had hit him. They stumbled together for a moment before the man’s partner hit Jens on the head from behind with something heavy. Jens dropped to his knees. His vision was going in and out of focus. The man in front of him grabbed his head in his hands and brought up his knee to hit his nose. There was a crack—a dull, deep snap that seemed to run all the way to the back of Jens’s head.
He was bleeding now. There was blood on his hands. The kicks were raining over him pitilessly, hitting all the weak spots on his stomach and back. Jens was on all fours, then on his side, trying to curl up and protect his head.
Before he slipped out of consciousness, which by now seemed merciful, one of the attackers leaned over him.
“Final warning, secretary,” he whispered. “Final warning.”
WHEN JENS WOKE up, he didn’t know where he was. Then he realized he was lying in one of the side alleys behind a heap of firewood. The windows above him were all dark. Gingerly, he sat up. His stomach heaved and his head reeled, but everything stayed in one place. He touched his face and winced. His ribs were killing him. And his lower back, his buttocks. There was an empty bottle of vodka beside him. By the smell of him, they’d poured it over him before leaving. He got to his knees and, using the wall for support, stood up. He thought he was going to vomit and squeezed his eyes shut and waited until the nausea passed. Good grief, he thought. But he’d live. He’d just suffered a massive beating.
He began to walk home. It wasn’t far, but in the state he was in, it might as well have been the other side of town.
He lurched and had to steady himself using the houses beside him to walk. To anyone looking, he would have appeared drunk.
He staggered up the stairs to his apartment. Inside, it was dark. There was a note on the hallway table: Sleeping at home tonight. Working. Kristina xxx
He laughed and didn’t know why. It was just so typical.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the table: both eyes swollen, his nose and one of his eyebrows bleeding, blood all down the side of his face, blood on his teeth. Sores on his cheeks and forehead. He probably needed a doctor.
Jens limped into his living room. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, sank down in the armchair and pulled the cork. He took a swig and then leaned his head back.
Normally, he would have called Sven, but not this time. He didn’t want to hear this, too, being explained away. Kristina, he thought. Why was he not even considering calling her?
45.
Blackåsen Mountain
They’d been gone for four days. Sandler had expected it and yet he feared something had gone wrong. He was also always watching his surroundings. Every sound startled him. Notholm had shot him and said they would try again. He hadn’t seen Notholm since that day. Perhaps he’d followed Laura and Taneli. If they don’t come back, he thought, I will . . .
And that was where his plan ended. What on earth could he do? There were others who were on their side—that was what Laura Dahlgren had said—but she hadn’t given him any names. “Let’s not,” she’d said. “The less each one of us knows the better.”
He agreed. Only, if she didn’t come back, he had no idea where to turn next.
His superior within the industry had also been like a mentor to him for a long time. But when Sandler had raised the issue of Notholm renting land, he had refused to discuss it. Did he know what was going on? Was he onboard? Or was he, too, only following orders without knowing what they implied?
The magnitude of what they were up against struck him in waves. He looked up at the black lump of stone and his chest squeezed together imagining what was happening inside.
He was standing at the foot of the mountain with Hallberg, discussing breaking a new tunnel. It was hard to concentrate. The air was cool, but he felt hot. Feverish. He shivered. Things had to continue as usual. If he didn’t keep the facade up, people would wonder. The foreman was pointing to something on a map he had brought, but Sandler had stopped listening. Had this man just lost a daughter? He found himself studying him until the foreman stopped talking and frowned.
“What?” Hallberg said.
“I heard a rumor about your daughter.”
The foreman touched the sides of his mouth with black fingers. “Yes,” he said finally.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“She had it coming,” Hallberg said, without taking his eyes off the mountain.
Sandler couldn’t believe his ears. “I beg your pardon?”
“She had problems,” the foreman said. “Too smart for her own good. She thought herself better than . . . this.” He continued looking up the mountain. “The previous director decided she should study.” He shrugged, as if her studies had been the problem.
And therein lies the whole issue, Sandler thought. He assumed the foreman would have been happier if his daughter had been daft; if she had had no prospects but to stay here with them.
Perhaps the men in the mine were all working together to cover something up . . . keep the secret. Even if it meant sacrificing daughters.
No. It couldn’t be. But
some people must be working for Notholm and Öhrnberg; helping them run things. The question was who.
He was sweating now. He could feel a drop running down his back.
“We don’t always know what is truly in somebody else’s heart,” he said. “My condolences.”
Then a stab of pain in his chest made him bend forward. His pulse rate was rising, his heart pounding in his ears. The foreman put his arm under his, helping him to straighten.
“Are you alright?” he asked. “Director?”
“Of course,” Sandler said with effort. “A muscle spasm. It happens sometimes.”
He removed his arm from Hallberg’s grip.
Without looking, he knew his wound had begun bleeding. He pulled his jacket closer, making sure it was covered.
WHEN HE RETURNED to his house, they were back. He could sense it. He found them in his office, Miss Dahlgren standing up as he entered, Taneli already on his feet.
They were both pale and their clothes were dirty. Laura had tied her hair back.
“What’s happened?” He eased himself into a chair, groaning with the effort.
“They shot him,” she said. Her hands were clasped in front of her as if she needed to hold onto something.
“Who?”
“Andreas. It’s my fault. They must have followed us.”
“Who shot him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He only had the time to confirm what we knew.”
“God,” the director said.
Her eyes were large. “They’ll stop at nothing,” she said. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”
Sandler shook his head. That wasn’t true, but it would take time for her to see it.
“You’re both still alive,” he said.
“I know.” She nodded and looked at him. Why? she seemed to ask him. Why am I still alive?
Yes, indeed, why?
“So what will you do?”
She exhaled. “I’ll go back to Stockholm tonight,” she said. “On the train.”
“But you can’t leave us,” the boy said. “They’ve still got them. They’ve got my sister.”
Sandler and Laura’s eyes met. Neither of them believed the girl was still alive.
“I need to leave in order to help,” Laura said. “I can’t see any other way to stop this than to make sure the world knows. Britta thought the same. That would force them to stop. But we need evidence. At this point, this is but a tale. We need more than that. Will you ask someone to investigate Andreas’s murder?”
“I don’t know,” Sandler said, truthfully. “Normally the Sami manage themselves. I’ll have to talk to our police constable and see.”
They both fell silent.
“What will you do when you get back?”
“We have to somehow enter the State Institute’s building in Uppsala. Surely there would be something there. Meanwhile . . .”
He waited.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Meanwhile, we’ll hold the fort,” he decided.
46.
Laura
Her grandfather was up when she got home. She was tired after the train ride and stricken with guilt and loss.
“Your father is very unhappy with you.”
She paused. “I know,” she said then. At the moment, everyone’s unhappy with me, she thought. Including myself, first and foremost. She hung her jacket in the wardrobe and picked up her bag.
“He is angry, Laura.”
“I know. He’s worried about me. But he’s overreacting.”
Her grandfather remained in the hallway. Laura paused. He hesitated, seemed to be weighing his words. “I think you need to be more careful around your father, Laura.”
“Careful?” She frowned, didn’t understand.
Her grandfather had clasped his hands and now he looked down at them. Laura put her bag down again.
“Your father is a very strong man. In fact, I cannot think of a single time when he hasn’t gotten his own way. I never know what he’s up to—of course—but, for some reason, lately, I’ve worried.”
“Worried? Why?”
“Your father can be merciless with those who get in his way. The older he gets, the stronger this trait seems to get.”
She wasn’t certain what her grandfather was telling her. He knew how close they were. “Not with me,” she said.
“Laura.” Her grandfather touched his heart with his hand and for a moment she thought he might falter. “You are special to him, that’s true. So far you have been shielded from his anger. But you don’t know what he’s capable of.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t disappoint him if I were you, Laura.”
She hesitated, then patted him on the shoulder, picked up her bag again and walked toward the stairs.
HER FATHER WAS still in the kitchen reading the paper when she came down for breakfast the next morning.
“Good morning,” she said.
Her father didn’t respond.
He’d done this before when they had argued. The silent treatment. She would bring him round. She poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down to face him.
“I disobeyed you,” she admitted. “And there was danger. But we found things out. It’s big, Father.”
He folded the newspaper shut and glared at her.
“Britta was onto something,” Laura said. “The three kings’ meeting in 1914 set up a committee to work on establishing a Scandinavian Reich under one strong leader. They did this based on the supposed supremacy of the Nordic race.”
Her father was still there. Frowning but still listening. That was good.
“There was more to the program, though. They were working to maintain the purity of the race by breeding from the best, but they were also eliminating the worst. It’s still happening today.
“I went there. To the north. To see Andreas, Britta’s friend. He knew what they were doing and they shot him for talking to me.” Her voice broke. “This is why Britta died. She trusted the wrong person. Whoever she told was in on it.”
Her father’s face was blank; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“It’s true,” she repeated, frowning, trying not to cry.
“Do you have any evidence?” her father said.
“I was there. He was shot in front of me.”
Her father shook his head. “Something that will hold up in a court of law.”
“No,” she admitted. “Britta had. But it’s gone. But you could help.” She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “With your contacts—”
“Laura.” Her father interrupted her. “I am the governor of the Swedish Central Bank. What do you think would happen if I began to inquire into some potentially dubious racial practices in our own country? What do you think would ensue if that became known?”
“People are dying. They are being experimented on.”
“How can you be so naive?” Her father’s face was white. “We are in the midst of a war. A World War! You know how close a Soviet invasion could be. Or an Allied one. It’s all hanging by a thread. What do you think these powers would do if they heard what you’ve just told me? All they’re waiting for is some excuse. They would tear us apart. As a nation. As a people.”
“But . . .”
“No. You have a responsibility, Laura. And that responsibility lies with your country, goddammit. Your country! Your fellow citizens. Not to Britta. Not to some friends. And definitely not to the Sami people.”
47.
Jens.
Jens looked like a boxer. The face was swollen, his nose bent. He touched his face and winced. At least his eyebrow had stopped bleeding. Well, he couldn’t go to work looking like this.
He called the foreign minister, half hoping he wouldn’t answer and that he could just leave a message with the administrative staff.
“Günther.”
“Hi,” Jens said. “I’m sick.” He coughed. “A terrible flu.”
“You haven’t seemed well for a whi
le,” the minister said. “Perhaps you’re overdoing it.”
Do you know? Jens wondered. Do you already know what happened to me?
“I might be off for a few days,” Jens said. He caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror again. “Perhaps as much as a week.”
“Take your time,” Günther said. “These things can be contagious.”
HE CALLED KRISTINA’S apartment as he didn’t want her to come over and get a shock at the sight of him, but there was no response.
Instead, he lay down on the sofa. He had to lower himself, slowly. Every bone in his body screamed. So this is what it’s like to be beaten up, he thought. He’d always been able to talk himself out of anything: it had never happened to him before.
Cathartic, in some way, he thought and then he had to laugh.
Ouch, his ribs hurt. He put his hand on his side, then closed his eyes. Would he continue the quest?
How could he not?
I won’t think about it, he thought. Right now, that was a problem for tomorrow.
The apartment was warm, and a dim light came through the windows. He could feel himself relax, twitch . . .
The doorbell rang. Jens rose and walked gingerly to the door.
What if it were them, ready to finish the job? He gripped the umbrella that was standing beside the clothes rack.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“It’s Sven.”
Jens opened the door.
Sven saw his face. “My God,” he said, shocked. Then he saw the umbrella in Jens’s hand. “Are you heading out?”
“No. Just . . .” Jens put the umbrella back.
“I heard you were sick,” Sven said. “They said it was the flu. I thought I’d pop by.”
“Well, now you know,” Jens said.
Sven shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Can I come in?”
Jens hesitated.
“I just want to talk to you. About what you said last weekend.”
Jens didn’t want to hear himself be explained away again.
“I was wrong not to hear you out,” Sven said. “I’m sorry. I . . .” Sven rubbed his forehead with his knuckle. “I guess I’m scared, too, Jens.”
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