‘Do you trust her?’ Yassim asks, still calm. ‘Are you even sure she’s a Swedish spy?’
Jacob thinks about the ambassador’s car and what happened at the bathhouse, Myriam’s blackmail and ruthlessness. He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t know what I trust.’
They sit in silence for a while.
‘So what you’re saying is that the Russians want these terrorist attacks to be carried out,’ George says.
‘Look at it this way,’ Yassim says. ‘Several terrorist attacks in Europe at once, just a few weeks after the massacre in Paris. Coordinated with military precision. It would push Europe into greater involvement in the war against ISIS in Syria, and it would help those forces in Europe that want to take a more aggressive stance on immigration. There’s nothing that irritates the Russians more than a Europe with open borders. These attacks mean calls for the opposite. For the Russians it’s a win-win. A few hundred people are an acceptable price to pay.’
‘But why not go to the media yourself?’ George says. ‘Why pull Jacob into this?’
‘I had the chip,’ Yassim says quietly. ‘I had the plan, but I didn’t have the password. I knew it involved multiple coordinated attacks. But I had no details. And I trusted the Russians before Paris. But after that, when I realized how ruthless they were… I realized that if I gave the cell in Brussels the chip everything would be over, they’d have the information and I would lose control. And the Russians wouldn’t stop them. Jacob offered to do it that very evening.’
Yassim turns around and looks at him.
‘I didn’t want to at first. The thought had occurred to me, but I couldn’t pull you into this. I definitely couldn’t suggest it. But when you brought it up…’ He shakes his head slightly. ‘I knew it was an opportunity. It was dangerous, of course, but it gave me a few days to find the password and then pick you up at the airport. But they were suspicious and insisted on meeting you themselves. I had no alternative so I had to agree then try to improvise. It was just dumb luck that you were smart enough to remove the chip, Jacob. Even though in the moment I was afraid they were going to shoot us both. It was close – I think I got you out at the very last second.’
‘But how did you get the password?’ Jacob asks. ‘If you tried so long…?’
‘How do you think?’ he says, staring coolly into Jacob’s eyes.
‘You forced them?’ Jacob says. ‘Somehow?’
‘Somehow,’ Yassim says, turning his gaze back to the forest and darkness outside.
25 November
Bergort
Two men have entered the soccer field and they’re coming towards her unhurriedly with their hands at their sides. One is dressed in a long, dark coat, bareheaded. His well-trimmed, grey hair is styled in a way that doesn’t seem to be affected by wind or snow. In the dark, Klara can just make out that he seems tan, with deep wrinkles on his forehead.
The other man, walking right behind him, is very large and wears some kind of Gore-Tex jacket, with a hat pulled low on his forehead.
He has a gun in his hand, but it’s pointed down towards the AstroTurf.
They stop about five metres from Klara without saying a word. She throws a glance over her shoulder, towards the other end of the field, and sees another man there.
She’s surrounded. It’s a trap, just as she thought, and now it’s time. Time to drive this story to its end. Her mouth is very dry, but she feels strangely focused, strangely calm. Despite the men coming towards her.
‘I know you’re waiting for someone else,’ the man in the coat says in excellent English that’s not quite free of Slavic diphthongs. ‘I apologize for the fact that we had to hack your friend’s email and be so – how shall I put this? – mysterious.’
‘Who are you?’ Klara says. ‘Where is Gabriella?’
‘Gabriella is, as far as we know, still in jail,’ he says coolly. ‘The evidence against her is apparently quite damning.’
‘What kind of evidence?’
Klara takes a slow step back when the man steps towards her.
‘This is not your fight,’ he says, holding up his hands as if to calm her. ‘You were pulled in by chance when a project of ours in Syria took an unexpected turn.’
He stops, maybe trying not to scare Klara any further.
‘Someone contacted your friend Gabriella. A person we had eyes on and who had access to sensitive information. Something we could not allow him to share. We thought it would be enough if we had our Swedish colleagues put a lasso around Gabriella so we could take care of it in Brussels. But, but… We didn’t account for you. Or that this Jacob would end up being so resourceful. Or that our man would fall in love with him. Or…’
The Russian looks slightly disappointed as he throws his arms wide.
‘Nine out of ten projects are so predictable,’ he says. ‘But the tenth? The tenth defies all description. Unfortunately, you’ve landed in the tenth.’
He starts to walk towards her again, purposefully.
‘But now it’s time to take care of all this. You have something we need. A memory card.’
‘No,’ Klara says, shaking her head. ‘I don’t have it.’
The man looks disappointed and cocks his head.
‘We are on the same side here,’ he says. ‘I give you my word that we’ll get your friend out of detention. The evidence against her could quickly prove to be thin as air. Do you understand? And if you’re worried about letting something happen, I’ll give you my word on that too. Do you think we’re beasts?’
‘I don’t know,’ Klara says, looking straight into his eyes. ‘How should I know what you’re capable of? I don’t even know who you are.’
He stares at her with such coldness that Klara almost has to look away. But only almost.
‘What do you know about making this kind of decision?’ he asks. ‘What do you know about the world, Klara Walldéen?’
She sees the man in Gore-Tex moving towards her now, something intentional in his eyes, the gun in both hands. There are a lot of things that could go wrong here. That insight goes off inside her head like a bomb. She thought she was in control, but anything can happen now. Anything at all.
Her knees start to tremble but she pushes away her growing panic.
‘You or one of your friends have the card,’ the man in the coat says. ‘It’s in everyone’s best interest to make sure we get it.’
Klara shakes her head. How long will she be able to handle this?
‘I know what’s going to happen,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen the information. I know there are supposed to be coordinated terrorist attacks tomorrow. As long as we have the information, they can’t carry them out.’
If he’s surprised Klara knows what’s on the chip, his face doesn’t show it. ‘Are you really so naive?’ the man says. ‘What you have is the information for one of the cells we managed to infiltrate. We have reason to believe there are several. And that all the cells got the same information. Terrorists don’t let a plan this carefully arranged rest on just one person’s shoulders. Surely you understand that?’
‘Did you know about Paris, too?’ she says without looking away.
He stares at her with those colourless eyes. ‘You don’t understand what this is about,’ he continues. ‘You don’t know what’s at stake. We have spent years analyzing ISIS, their leadership, how they communicate. Do you think we’d let the biggest terrorist attack since September 11 be ruined by a couple of self-righteous Swedish women? Do you seriously think you can stop the wave of history?’
But Klara can see he’s self-conscious after her mention of Paris, and no longer calm. He considers her beneath his dignity. This whole fiasco, a bunch of gays and women, all beneath his dignity. He nods to the man in Gore-Tex, who takes a step towards Klara and raises the gun.
‘You and your friends are completely alone,’ the man says. ‘The Swedish police think you’re working with a terrorist, which you are. You have nowhere els
e to go. Not you, not Gabriella, and not your friends. All you have is me.’
‘And what can you do?’ Klara whispers.
She’s backed all the way up to the fence now. There’s no way out.
‘You can cooperate, and I’ll explain to my friends in the Swedish intelligence service that there’s been a big mistake,’ he says. ‘Or I could kill you here. And then hunt down your friends one by one. Your choice.’
The man in Gore-Tex takes one more step forward, pushes the cold gun against her head. The world freezes around her. How could she have been so stupid? How could it all go so wrong?
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘Please.’
Then a shot rings out, and the world flashes to white.
25 November
Bergort
It’s half past eight by the time they drive past Södertälje, above water and rocks and trees, and then in among the warehouses, office complexes and grey, dreary industrial areas that start popping up more and more frequently. Small pieces of ice beat ever more intensely against the windshield as Jacob opens his eyes.
‘How long did I sleep?’ he asks.
‘On and off since Vättern,’ George says, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.
How can he still hold his eyes open? The first night they were in the truck and then he drove basically without stopping from Malmö. He looks a little pale, but otherwise unfazed.
‘Almost there,’ George says. ‘I just wish I knew what the hell was happening. All I know is that she wants to meet in some goddamn depressing suburb where she got some help from your Arabic teacher. And now she’s turned off her phone.’
Jacob bends forward to look at Yassim. His head is resting against the window, his mouth half open.
‘Is he alive?’ he asks worriedly.
George throws a glance at Yassim. ‘He doesn’t seem easy to kill,’ George says. ‘Besides, he’s spent more time awake on this trip than you have.’
George has turned off the highway now and slowed down. They drive by wholesalers and car washes, bare trees and empty streets; ten-storey apartment buildings rise up like towers on the horizon.
‘That’s our destination,’ George says. He appears to shiver. ‘This trip just keeps getting more and more depressing.’
*
Yassim wakes up as they slowly roll into the mix of ageing concrete apartment buildings and playgrounds, bare bushes with white berries, all lit by yellow streetlights waving in the wind. Jacob can see his eyes light up when they look at each other in the rear-view mirror, but he grimaces as he turns towards him.
‘You’re in pain,’ Jacob says. ‘I’m worried about you.’ Jacob leans forward and puts his hand on an unexpectedly warm cheek. ‘You have a fever. We need someone to look at your wound.’
Yassim smiles weakly. ‘It’s fine. We have more important things to think about now.’
‘I think we’re there,’ George says. ‘Or as close as we can get.’
They park the car by a school. Low buildings in yellow brick, like barracks, a playground with broken swings, basketball courts without a net, a dark, empty parking lot.
Yassim grimaces as he gets out of the car, but won’t let Jacob support him. Instead, he gently pats his cheek and stares into his eyes. ‘I can handle it, Jacob. You don’t have to take care of me.’
He doesn’t get further than that before the muffled sound of an engine revving reaches their ears, and they turn to the entrance of the parking lot where two black, unmarked vans roll in with their headlights off.
‘What the hell is it now?’ George whispers.
They are in the middle of the parking lot.
The vans stop about twenty metres away, their long sides facing them. From the corner of his eye, Jacob sees Yassim put his working hand inside his jacket, down to the small of his back where he grabs his gun. He glances at Jacob. ‘Our only hope now is your friend,’ he says.
Then he squats down, without ever looking away from the vans, and lays his gun on the ground. He kicks it a few metres beyond their reach. ‘Do not resist,’ Yassim says. ‘But say nothing. Not a sound. Whatever they threaten with, you can’t trust anything they say.’ He looks at Jacob with desperation in his eyes. ‘You got back the chip in Malmö,’ he says. ‘You have it, right?’
Jacob puts his hand in his pocket. His sweaty hands slippery on the memory card as he fumbles for it. He nods.
‘That’s all they want,’ Yassim says. ‘But if we give it to them, it’s over. Do you understand? Then we have nothing.’
‘Who are they?’ Jacob asks. ‘Russians?’
‘We should have stayed away from here,’ George whispers. ‘I should have known better.’
As if in slow motion, Jacob takes the card out of his pocket with trembling fingers. He looks at Yassim who nods calmly, and Jacob raises his fingers to his mouth. He puts the card as far back as he can, closes his lips, and swallows.
They can hear the side doors being pulled open. Then everything happens so fast that Jacob can hardly register it. A number of men in civilian clothes jump out of the van, wide-chested, ski masks over their heads, small, effective automatic weapons in their hands. Everything happens so fast, everything is violence, the threat of violence, and Jacob feels like he might vomit.
‘Lie down!’ the men scream in Swedish. ‘Lie down!’
Weapons raised and aimed at them, low centre of gravity and short, quick steps towards them.
‘Do as they say,’ Yassim says next to him, as he falls down to his knees with his hands up.
Jacob follows his example, but they’re already there and someone pushes so hard on his back that he falls forward. He feels the asphalt against his face, feels it scraping his cheek, feels blood in his mouth.
‘Who are you?’ Jacob screams. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I said lie down,’ someone says in a remarkably deep voice behind him.
It feels like they should be screaming more loudly, like they’re holding back. But now Jacob’s hands are pulled behind his head and something hard and cold is wrapped around them. He can hear George nearby. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he screams. ‘I’m not fucking resisting!’
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ says one of the faceless men and pushes a foot into his back, pressing him down next to Jacob.
Voices all around him, still deep, strangely low. ‘It looks like the two plus one more,’ says a voice.
Then somebody lifts Jacob or maybe drags him by his arms up to his feet, someone shoves him, and he turns his head and sees them doing the same thing to George and Yassim, pushing them all towards the vans.
‘Who are you?’ George shouts now. ‘What the hell are you doing? What right do you have to detain me?’
‘I’m serious,’ one of the men in black says. ‘Shut your mouth now.’
When they get to the van someone opens the door. They push Yassim up the steps and then George.
Jacob has just put his foot onto the step when a shot rings out through the frozen darkness, and he stops short. The men in black do too. Then they turn in the direction the shot came from and see the whole sky illuminated by white, electric light.
25 November
Bergort
When Klara opens her eyes, Camp Nou is bathed in light. The man who was holding the gun is stretched out flat and unmoving on his back in front of her. The grey-haired man looks around in confusion, blinking under the sudden bright light, while backing away from Klara and his lifeless colleague.
‘What the hell…’ he says.
Then they start streaming in, through the low entrance to the field. A SWAT team dressed in black with helmets on their heads and weapons in their hands.
‘Police!’ they scream. ‘Get on the ground! Lie down!’
From the corner of her eye, Klara can see that the other man who was standing guard has already been overpowered and is lying with his face against the field. Two more police officers are bent over the man who was aiming his gun at Klara.
‘He’s
wearing a flak jacket,’ one officer says. ‘Turn him over and cuff him.’
She falls down to her knees, holds her hands above her head and looks at the man in the coat. He’s also on his knees, with his hands on his head.
‘I have diplomatic immunity,’ he screams. ‘You cannot arrest me.’
Suddenly Klara is lying on the AstroTurf with a knee in her back, someone pulling her hands behind her, and she can feel cold steel as her hands are cuffed.
All around her, legs and weapons move under bright and merciless light. Somebody grabs hold of her arms and lifts her brusquely to her feet, leads her away from the light, down a slope and towards a dark, almost deserted parking lot.
They’ve made it about halfway across when two black vehicles roll in, plus an ambulance with no sirens or blue flashing lights. In the darkness by the school, Klara can see two unmarked vans along with some kind of prison transport.
It is strangely quiet. It’s almost impossible to imagine that what just happened on the football field really happened. Klara turns to the police officer who’s leading her forward.
‘Why am I being arrested?’ she asks. ‘What am I wanted for?’
The police officer doesn’t react, as if he doesn’t hear; he just pushes her forward towards the parked transport.
‘You can’t let that Russian go,’ she continues. ‘You know that, right?’
Fifty metres to her left she sees the passenger door of one of two black Volvo SUVs sliding open. Somebody jumps down onto the asphalt and heads in her direction. It’s not until he’s just a few metres away that she sees who it is.
Anton Bronzelius turns to the black-clad police officer with a firm grip on Klara’s arm. ‘I’ll take it from here. Säpo.’ He holds up his badge to the faceless man.
The officer nods and releases her arm.
Over by the vans, Klara sees doors open and two people in civilian clothes and flak jackets and stocking caps start to move towards them. Bronzelius grabs hold of her arm firmly and leads her quickly to the parked Volvo. ‘Get in,’ he says.
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