He just raised his hand. No time to stop.
A man began walking on the opposite side of Strömgatan, same direction as Jens, same pace. Was he one of them?
There was nobody else close by. Jens quickened his pace. The man on the other side did the same.
He reached the foreign ministry, figuring he’d go into his office, but then the man he had thought was following him turned and jogged up the steps to the opera house, greeted a waiting woman and kissed her on the cheek.
Ghosts, Jens thought. He was seeing ghosts. He had to get rid of this bloody file.
He continued onto Malmtorgsgatan only to see three men walk in after him.
He began to run. Slowly at first then with all his might. Past Jacobsgatan, the tails of his jackets flying, into Karduansmakar-gatan. He didn’t stop until he’d pushed open the doors to the office of the newspaper Svenska Dagbladet.
“Emil Persson, please,” he said to the receptionist, breathlessly.
His heart was pounding. The street outside was empty. He walked to the window. Nobody was outside.
Emil came down. “You look like you’ve been running,” he said.
Jens shrugged.
“Would you like something to drink?” Emil asked.
Jens shook his head. He only wanted to leave the folder and be done with it all.
Then the three men Jens had seen on Malmtorgsgatan entered the reception. Emil saw Jens’s gaze.
“Come,” he said. He opened a door and they walked into what must be the printing house. The printers were working full speed. The room smelled of oil and paper.
“Here,” Jens said and handed the folder to Emil, who took it.
Emil opened the folder, flipped the pages.
“Whatever you do, don’t relax,” Jens said. “Stay alert. Look over your shoulder at all times. You get one shot at publishing this. One. Then they’ll get to you. They’ll stop at nothing.”
Emil frowned.
“I mean it,” Jens said.
The journalist licked his lips. “I’ll go back to my office now,” he said. “It’ll be out tomorrow.” He pointed to another door. “This door leads out to the back. You might want to take it.”
60.
Blackåsen Mountain
The director’s living room was large and bright. Gunnar stood in the doorway. The curtains were a glossy yellow; the desk made of dark shiny wood. There was a cabinet with sparkling glass bottles on top of it and a patterned carpet on the floor. He had never seen a room like it.
“Enter,” his father said, as if it were his house. Gunnar took a step to the side so as not to walk on the rug.
Behind him came miners who worked for his father. Just like Gunnar, each one paused in the entrance, taking in the cleanliness, the light, the pretty colors. Each of them avoided the rug.
The door kept opening and closing. The room became full of men in workers’ clothes, and yet his father didn’t start. He was waiting for something, Gunnar thought. Or someone.
Dr. Ingemarsson came downstairs. If he was surprised at all the men in the living room, he didn’t show it. “Infection,” he said grimly. “We have no penicillin. I have given him sulfa and now we must hope for the best. I will stay with him for now.”
He asked the housekeeper to bring more hot water and then went back upstairs.
The men looked at the foreman, shuffled their feet, waited.
Then: a soft knock on the door.
The foreman walked to open it. They heard him greet someone and then he walked back to show them in.
The Sami!
His father had been waiting for them?
They entered in their leather trousers, long woven shirts and those distinctive hats on their heads. A long line of men. A young boy much like himself among them.
The miners shuffled their feet and withdrew to the back wall.
“Well,” the foreman said and began talking. He talked for a long time. Once he stopped, the room was so still, no one could have guessed it was full of men.
Gunnar thought about Mr. Notholm and the hare and felt sick. This was Sweden. Yet it was the same as what Hitler was doing. They’d read about it, his mother sighing and shaking her head. This was why his sister had died?
The room was still quiet.
The foreman looked out at his men and Gunnar could see what he must be thinking. Find it in your hearts. Find compassion. Find justice. His father had tried his best. He had laid out the facts and made his views clear. But some of his men still hated the Sami. They feared them. Feared anything that was different. Some of them might just subscribe to the view that the Sami were beneath them.
After what seemed like an eternity, Robert, one of the older miners, cleared his throat. “Well,” he said in his slow, singsong voice, “we can’t have that. Not on our mountain.”
Then the men around Robert began to nod. “Right,” someone said. “Yes,” someone agreed. The Sami raised their heads. His father exhaled. His men had come through.
TOGETHER THEY WORKED out a plan. They would try their best to avoid bloodshed.
“Do we have any idea how many there are?”
“No,” the foreman said. “And we won’t know until tonight. We are going to have to improvise as we don’t have much time. Your people,” he said to Nihkko, “need to make sure the captured Sami know what’s going on. I don’t want them to get themselves killed. We’ll take the guards out one by one. The four men who arrived from Stockholm . . . I assume they’re police or similar. We need to be careful.”
“Just make sure Mr. Notholm is there,” the young Sami boy said and, beside him, Gunnar nodded. “You need to take him first. Make sure he doesn’t get away.”
“We will,” the foreman said, grimly. “We will.”
“So what do we do with them once we’ve captured them?” It was a heavyset balding man who asked.
“Let’s kill them,” one of the other miners said.
“Then we would be no better than them,” the foreman said. “Bill, do you have space in your prison?”
“For sure, but if what you’ve told us is true, wouldn’t they just be released by somebody higher up?”
The foreman fell silent. Bill was right.
“Could we hide them?” he asked, finally. “Without anyone knowing?”
“For how long?”
The foreman shrugged again.
The room was quiet again. Then Bill spoke: “I don’t need to remind you of the risks. If one of us talks . . .”
“I say we vote,” the foreman said. “If anyone has any qualms, speak now. Otherwise we will all be equally at fault. All of those in favor, raise your hands.”
There was a sea of hands before him. Unwavering, reaching high. There was no doubt.
“Will we tell the director?” Bill asked.
“No. We’ll tell no one who wasn’t part of the decision. You and I will take care of it, Bill. We will destroy this setup without anyone ever knowing what happened here. It will be as if it never was. And then we will pretend we know nothing. Or we will all be at risk. Understood?”
There was a hum of agreement.
“Well then, let’s get going.”
61.
Laura
Laura avoided her father. He had only ever loved her when she was compliant. Everything she was, everything she did—even debating with him—had been alright if it didn’t question his authority. She could see that now. As long as she didn’t think for herself.
Was he right about Sweden?
She assumed, in some ways, yes. She was taking a side and it was ripping her family apart. If they succeeded, it would rip Sweden apart, too. It wasn’t clear what she would be left with. She imagined that many people would act like her father: simply choose not to see. But she didn’t feel she had a choice.
Britta and Karl-Henrik would have agreed.
She comforted herself with this. As if their moral compasses were stronger than her own and deserved to be heeded.
> SUMMER HAD REACHED Uppsala. The town was green and lush. It was early morning. People walking to work or to school were dressed in light clothes. Professor Lindahl was around. She had checked with his office. Laura and Jens had agreed to simply wait for him until he came, no matter how long it took.
Jens had told her what Schnurre had given him and that Emil had promised the story would appear in today’s newspaper.
“So what’s the plan?” Jens asked, as they walked to the university building.
His blond hair was standing up. He looked drawn, tired.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just want to hear him say it: confess it.”
“You didn’t bring Erik today?” Jens asked. “Or Matti?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know . . . I thought . . . I couldn’t see us confronting him together.”
They passed the café where Britta had met with Sven Olov Lindholm. There was something about that meeting with the Swedish Nazi leader that still bothered her; something she ought to see but couldn’t.
THEY WAITED FOR Professor Lindahl outside the classroom where they’d been told he’d teach next. There was a hollow feeling to the room without its students. Her heart was beating too fast. She was frightened. There was an odor to fear, she thought, and remembered where she had smelled it last: it had been on Britta, when the two of them met at the café in Stockholm. Now it was on her.
Jens glanced at her. Then he took her hand. They sat like that, hand in hand. The emotion made her want to cry. She longed to lean her head against his shoulder and forget everything that had happened . . . everything that had brought them to this point. But then there were muffled footsteps on the stairs, and they let go of each other.
As always, Professor Lindahl was dressed in black. His white hair was combed to the side, his lips were full, and his eyes with their different colors opened wide as he took them in.
“Laura Dahlgren,” he said in his soft voice. “How nice.” He looked at Jens. “And you’re here, too,” he said. “Welcome.”
Laura got the impression that Lindahl was not taken aback that she had come, nor that Jens had come with her. He’d been told to expect them. He unlocked the door to the classroom and invited them in.
“So,” he said. “Here you are. I’m surprised.”
“Are you?” she asked.
“You never committed to anything, Laura. I would have thought that the obstacles thrown in your way would have stopped you by now.”
Her heart sank. Then he did know. Of course he did. Dead friends, a blown-up apartment . . . To him, they were just “obstacles”?
“This time, the cause seemed worth it,” she said.
He nodded. “Well, you should be proud of yourself. You’ve given us a good fight. In fact, you’ve helped us. You’ve shown us the weaknesses in our systems. We’ll improve as a result.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “You want me to talk about the many reasons underlying a program like this one? The fiasco of democracy, the weakening of our own race, the sullying of the elite, the continual decline of wisdom to sheer stupidity?
“You used to agree with the importance of an elite. After all, your own work, the one you did with your friends on Asatru, has served as our inspiration. And do not forget, Laura, you are a child of this.”
“A child of this?”
Professor Falk had been right, she thought. He had feared what Lindahl had been up to; seen the influence he had over them. Perhaps he had tried to protect them.
It dawned on her.
“It was you in my flat every night! You read our paper.”
“I did,” he said. “I was not displeased.”
“You groomed us,” Laura said.
“You met all the requirements. I just didn’t think you’d be so conventional. Your group was so close: I didn’t realize this closeness could mean I might lose all of you at once.” He tilted his head, reproach in his voice.
He had given their names to Inspector Ackerman, Laura thought. He had told him about their interest in Norse faith, about them falling apart. To him, it was all a game. He had never doubted he would come out on top.
Jens had been sitting there in silence with his head down, but now he looked up. “You do realize you’ll pay a price? Just like Germany will when it falls.”
“Perhaps.”
“It will be all over the newspapers later today and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”
Lindahl nodded. “I heard about that, yes. However, if you buy the paper, I think you’ll find there’s nothing in it. Emil Persson left on a long holiday this morning.”
Beside her, Jens’s face was white.
“He has gone traveling,” the professor said. “Nobody knows when he will return.”
“We’ll find someone else.”
“Ah, before he left, Emil handed over all his material. He could see that, for his own good, he shouldn’t be hanging on to it. No, there will be no article. Not now. Not later. You gave it your best shot. It was not enough.”
Jens opened his mouth, but Lindahl held up a finger. “And I think you’ll find that your German connection will no longer cooperate. He’s gone out on a limb for this matter twice now to no avail. We’ve had to remind him what it means to interfere in another state’s business.”
“We’ll get you,” Jens said.
“It will be harder now,” Lindahl said. “But I do look forward to seeing you try.”
62.
Jens
Jens was in a café on Östermalm. He was on his fifth beer, or perhaps it was his sixth. There had been whiskies, too. I need a drink, he’d thought. Once he’d begun, he’d realized that what he needed was to drink himself into oblivion. Try and forget all about what was happening, if only for a while.
“They got away,” Jens said to himself. Again.
The room reeled and Jens frowned. He tried to concentrate on his glass. It went in and out of focus. He was drunk.
He put his head down on the table and breathed. The wood felt cool against his forehead.
“We’re closing now, sir,” the waitress said.
He sat up again. “Alright,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“And there’s a man in a car outside waiting for you.”
A BLACK VOLVO was parked at the curb. Jens recognized the car. The window rolled down and Christian Günther looked out.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said.
“I’m drunk,” Jens said. “A bit drunk.”
“I don’t blame you,” Günther said.
“Very drunk, actually,” Jens admitted.
Günther opened the car door.
“I haven’t been to work much lately,” Jens said.
“I don’t blame you for that, either.”
Jens wiped his mouth with two fingers.
He got in the backseat beside the minister. He must reek of alcohol and smoke. Günther was looking out the window at the water. He turned to Jens.
“You did well,” he said. “Everything I had hoped for and more.”
Jens’s mind felt fuzzy. “What?”
“You’ve done well,” Günther repeated.
His words cut through the fog. “It was you,” Jens said. “The materials on my desk.”
“I was trying to help you.”
It was Günther! He was on their side.
“Tell me about the phone calls,” Jens said.
“We were discussing this,” Günther admitted. “Or rather, how to stop it. All the current foreign ministers in the Scandinavian countries came in after the fact.”
“We failed.”
“You got close to exposing it. Closer than any one of us has done.”
“What happens now?”
“We continue,” Günther said. “And we want you to join us.”
Jens could have cried: Christian Günther was not a part of the evil he had seen; they had done well. And it was not finished yet. And he w
as not alone.
They had arrived at Jens’s apartment. The car stopped.
“We’ll find a way,” Günther said. “We will not let this evil win.”
Jens nodded. “Thank you.”
“Now try to get some sleep.”
63.
Blackåsen Mountain
Taneli lay behind a large rock. Close to him were Olet, the foreman and a few other men. Just like the previous night, the area was busy, with Sami prisoners carrying boxes out of the mine opening and loading them onto horses. The sun just over the horizon gave the scene a surreal feeling.
Taneli counted the armed guards. There were six of them on horses, guns lifted high. Two local men and four men in suits he’d never seen before. Another couple of men by the entrance to the mine. How many there would be inside the galley they didn’t know. And he couldn’t see Mr. Notholm.
He half rose. Where was he?
There! On his horse at the entrance to the forest. Why was he so far away? Watching over it all but not partaking.
Notholm rode up to the guards. “I’ll head back,” he said. “See you later.”
Back where? To town?
“Don’t mess up,” one of the men in suits said.
Notholm frowned. “Of course not,” he said.
The foreman wrinkled his forehead. “I’ll go after him,” he said. “Peter and Hans, you come with me. The rest of you are on your own here. But everyone knows what they’re supposed to do.” Then he and his men went to find their horses.
Be careful, Taneli thought. Notholm is vile.
“Are you sure about this?” one of the suits said to the other. “Would have been better if we did it ourselves.”
The other one shrugged. “He’s motivated enough,” he said. “And the man’s sick. How hard can it be?”
A wolf howl. Nihkko, Taneli thought.
“What was that?” one man asked.
“A wolf.” One of the others laughed. “You scared?”
“It just sounded close,” he muttered.
“Well then, go have a look if you’re worried,” his friend said.
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