Ask No Mercy

by Martin Österdahl

  They call themselves Ivanovich, and they’ve declared war on Sweden.

  Could Max tell Charlie about that? What would the consequences be?

  Charlie sighed.

  “David killed himself and erased his hard disk. It has been possible to access his e-mail account via servers in Palo Alto. There were e-mails from the man it’s believed is really behind this. They showed me those in the hope that I could help them identify him.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. None of us has met him. He calls himself Ray. He’s a helicopter pilot. An expert practitioner of systema. Average height; short, dark hair parted on the side; slight harelip; dresses neatly. The police would like you to get in touch with them. Here’s the number. Sofia Karlsson at the National Bureau of Investigation is the contact person.”

  Charlie had written a number on a yellow Post-it he handed Max across the desk.

  “The National Bureau of Investigation?” said Max. “So the suspect is a Russian agent?”

  “Probably a GRU agent who’s been in Sweden for a long time.”

  Max put the Post-it in his pocket and stood up. Now he was starting to understand how everything was connected. But he couldn’t tell Charlie everything he knew. Couldn’t put him in danger, too. Enough people had been harmed already.

  “It’s very important to prevent this agent from getting the feeling that the police are on his trail. He’s still monitoring our phones,” Max said. “Can you see to it that both Sarah and the police understand that?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Otherwise, they’re never going to find him.”

  “Sofia Karlsson at the National Bureau of Investigation thinks he may be trying to find you, Max.”

  98

  Home. Max sat in the dark, going over the conversation with Charlie K in his mind. There was so much he and Sarah needed to talk about, but it would have to wait. He looked at the answering machine and the little light that indicated he had a new message.

  Perhaps it was a message from Sofia Karlsson?

  The tall white rubber boots Pashie had bought at Nordiska Kompaniet for what to her had been a huge amount of money were still standing there waiting for her.

  Her hand had been so thin when he had held it at the hospital. The warmth had returned to her body, and now she was fighting a silent battle against the infections. The doctor had said she was a strong woman. She would have to be. She had to come back here.

  But this wasn’t over yet.

  A GRU agent, a Spetsnaz soldier, was walking the streets of Stockholm. Max tried to put himself in this man’s position. It was extremely likely that the news of Lazarev’s death in Saint Petersburg had reached him. As an agent, he had two options: to go underground and return to his dormant status or to try to finish the project his boss had ordered him to undertake. It was unlikely that he would act in Stockholm on his own initiative.

  Someone else would surely become the leader of the organization that had gathered on the anniversary of Stalin’s death. No man was bigger than the movement. Not Stalin, not Gusin. Their fight would continue. What that meant for Max, Vektor, and Sweden would soon be seen.

  Max was trained to understand how people like the GRU agent thought and acted in situations like this. The agent was in a state of battle readiness. He was under pressure and risked having his cover compromised. He wouldn’t relax for a moment; he would observe anything that moved.

  Listen to everything that was said.

  A lone Swedish man and a Russian agent. No matter how brilliant they were, they couldn’t have done this on their own, run amok in Telia’s servers. Telia was a world leader in cellular technology and could depend on the world’s collective expertise for help.

  More was required to get in and remain invisible. To keep the police and all others away.

  Max remembered the voice that had answered when he had called from the Goose’s satellite telephone in Saint Petersburg. The name the man had given. And he thought of what Charlie had told him.

  These people had gone so far as to blow up Sarah’s house.

  Nothing was worse than war. But there were things Max felt he had to defend and things he felt he had to fight against. At all times, in all situations, at any price.

  If his theory was correct, there was a traitor in their midst.

  His rage spread like a fire. His cheeks flushed; his muscles tensed.

  Again he looked at the yellow Post-it he’d gotten from Charlie with the number for the police.

  You have no idea whom you’re dealing with.

  Max had left the pistol in the hangar outside Saint Petersburg. He had no firearms, no protection, no helpers. He was more alone and vulnerable in Stockholm than he had been in Saint Petersburg.

  He had to do something. So Pashie and Sarah wouldn’t be threatened again. For the sake of his own survival. He now understood how things were connected. And that he couldn’t hand this over to the police.

  But how could he see to it that justice was done and at the same time act within the confines of the law?

  He went into the bedroom and took a box out from under the bed. There it lay, the gift his father had given him, the gift he’d had such a hard time accepting but nevertheless been unable to make himself get rid of. He took out the hunting club, held it in his hand. It was heavy but well-balanced. He slid it into the sleeve of his jacket and carefully replaced the box back under his bed.

  When he stood up, he saw the mannequin standing next to Pashie’s side of the bed, with her yellow hat on its head. It was as if it were looking at him, meeting his gaze. He walked up to it, lifted the hat, and saw the bare head and the motionless plastic face.

  The plan came together. Now he knew exactly what he was going to do.

  He opened the closet and took out his green military backpack. Then he went to the cleaning closet, where he kept some tools. He put his wire cutters in the backpack together with rolls of bandage and twine.

  When he was done, he took the car key from the hook in the hall.

  Finally, he pressed the Play button on the answering machine.

  The message was the one he had been awaiting for several weeks.

  “This is Carl Borgenstierna.”

  99

  Max spent several hours at Södersjukhuset. He studied a diagram showing emergency and side exits, timed shift changes and deliveries of goods, investigated the security system and the level of surveillance. The results were satisfactory and expected. Security was disastrously poor.

  He had no problem swiping a wheelchair, which he stashed under a staircase where he would easily be able to retrieve it. It was near the loading dock for food deliveries. The loading dock and the door were completely unguarded, and the door was easy to unlock with the swipe card Max had taken from a serving tray when a nurse went off to get more coffee.

  He steered the car out of the hospital area, followed Ringvägen to Skanstull, and drove toward the on-ramp to the E4.

  He thought about what Mishin had said to him at the cemetery, that business about how the opponents of democracy claimed democracy was the religion of egotists. These opponents wanted to create a world that belonged to no one—or, as they put it, a world that belonged to one.

  It was this one incarnate that he had met in the hangar on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg. Viktor Gusin.

  Max had come far in his search for the truth, but he was missing some puzzle pieces. A few things remained to be done before Pashie would be safe. After that he would get the answers to his outstanding questions. When Pashie was safe, he would go and see Carl Borgenstierna.

  As Max was approaching the distant southern suburbs, he switched on his Swedish cell phone for the first time. Now it picked up the network. Telia.

  He dialed Sarah’s number.

  “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

  “So nice to hear your voice, Max. I’m bruised, shocked, and a little overwhelmed, but we’ll have to talk about that la
ter. How is Pashie?”

  “She’s safe. It’s over now. Her medical insurance via Vektor covered emergency transportation to Sweden by ambulance helicopter. She’s at Södersjukhuset. Ward 56.”

  “My God, Max. It’s just crazy that things have gotten to this point.”

  “She’s in a private room, a so-called high-risk room, with an air lock. She’s asleep all the time. Her face is bandaged.”

  “Are you staying there with her?” asked Sarah.

  “As much as I can, but as you know I’ve promised to show up at Vektor’s party tonight. I’ll be there for a while in the beginning and will be back with Pashie around eight at the latest.”

  “Have you been able to communicate with her?”

  “No. She still hadn’t woken up when I left her, and there’s some doubt as to whether she’ll be able to talk. Her throat is ripped up and infected. But I’ve left a notebook and pen with her. I wrote a greeting from me. And just a little while ago they called and said she’d woken up and written something.”

  “What was that?”

  “It had to do with something she’d found that I hadn’t expected.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I think she’s figured out who’s controlling Ivanovich’s operation in Sweden. If she’s written that down in the notebook, we’ll be able to have them all arrested and brought to trial.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Sarah. “Take care of yourself and say hello to Pashie.”

  Max ended the call, turned in at a gas station just before he reached Södertälje, switched off his cell phone, and threw it in a trash can.

  When he got back to Södersjukhuset, Max rolled the wheelchair out onto the loading dock and then down to the street. He hurried away from the hospital building and over to the staff parking lot. There he parked the wheelchair next to some barracks for construction workers, covered it with house wrap he found on the adjacent construction site, and took the wire cutters out of his backpack. He cut a hole in the fence large enough for two men to get through, crept through the hole, and tied it shut with four pieces of twine. From a distance, no one would be able to see that a hole had been cut in the fence.

  He jumped in his car and drove to Stureplan. Parked in a garage, as close to the elevators as possible, got out of the car, and pressed the button for the elevator.

  100

  He got up from the sofa in front of the big TV. He’d seen enough of the reports from Moscow. Things seemed to be proceeding according to plan despite the fact that so much had gone wrong in Russia. Yeltsin had put himself in a position to win. They held the real power, and their man was ready to take over from the drunk in the Kremlin. Give him a few years, and then the change would happen. The new man would be able to handle both capital and the world beyond Russia’s borders.

  And capital was moving down there on Stureplan, right in front of his eyes. Did any of the people down there understand the forces that were in play? He put his overcoat on, forced his large hands into tight leather gloves. When he was finished with the night’s exercise, he would get rid of them. Burn them or throw them in Stockholms Ström. Together with an old acquaintance.

  Sarah Hansen hadn’t appeared in public after what had happened on Tyresö. Evidently, she was under police protection somewhere. But he was convinced that before the evening was over, Ray would acquire information about where she was and silence her for good. He missed nothing. The Swedish police would hardly constitute an obstacle.

  He chose not to order a taxi in advance for the ride to Valhallavägen. It was better to get a taxi down on Stureplan—one of the independent operators that didn’t register their rides. He looked at the clock. How late had it gotten? It was only seven thirty. The party would hardly have started, but Charlie Knutsson had probably poured so much champagne down his throat that he wouldn’t be much trouble.

  He checked that he’d locked the door behind him properly and walked over to the elevators. Pressed the button. The elevator pinged, and the door opened.

  In the elevator car stood a man.

  “Hello, Frank.”

  “Max Anger?” he said. “What a surprise meeting you here.”

  He extended his hand.

  Max looked at the hand Frank Ståhl had extended. Before Frank could react, Max had pulled him close, wrapped an arm around his neck, and squeezed. Frank was strong, but he couldn’t break free.

  “I was the one who called from Lazarev’s phone,” Max whispered into Frank’s ear. “You answered by saying your name. I couldn’t believe it, but since then I’ve put a few things together. And found out who you really are.”

  He squeezed Frank’s neck harder, taking care not to block the airway and cause permanent brain damage. He pushed his shoulders back to stop the flow of blood. Silently counted the seconds.

  After four seconds, he let Frank’s body fall to the floor of the elevator car.

  Max wasted no time. He knew Frank would soon regain consciousness and try to resist. He pushed the button for the garage level, and while they were on their way down he took off Frank’s overcoat and gloves, opened his backpack, and took out the rolls of bandage. He wrapped Frank’s forearms and hands so the bandages secured Frank’s arms as well as handcuffs would have, wrapping Frank’s hands so that only the tips of his fingers stuck out. Then he wrapped his legs similarly.

  The elevator reached its destination, and Max dragged Frank into the garage, still unconscious. He bandaged Frank’s head, wrapping a few extra layers over his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to scream and leaving only his eyes exposed. When he was finished, he poked holes in the bandaging over Frank’s nose so he’d be able to breathe.

  He looked the result over with satisfaction, opened the rear door of the car, and laid Frank on the backseat.

  Then it was time for the next step of his plan. He drove out of the garage, onto Kungsgatan, up to Sveavägen and Söderledstunneln, and onward, toward the hole in the fence and Södersjukhuset.

  101

  Charlie K looked around the big conference room at all the people who were smiling at him. He was happy with the preparations. On one side of a long oval table, the girls hired as waitstaff had set up Sovetskoye Shampanskoye, vodka, and beer as well as red wine from Moldova and cognac from Georgia. On the other side, the food had been presented: small Russian treats such as pelmeni, shish kebab, caviar and blini, beef-tongue cold cuts, solyanka meat soup, and beef Stroganoff.

  He’d stood at the entrance and welcomed them all. “It’s been a long time, old friend. Wonderful that you were able to make it. How has it been going with setting up your branch in Nizhny Novgorod? No matter which way the election goes this summer, we’ve got reason to get drunk, wouldn’t you say? No, no, no, our work’s not going to come to an end regardless—I can promise you that. Sarah Hansen couldn’t come this evening, unfortunately; she’s sick.”

  There was the expected number of sponsors and partners. Standing at the door, he’d counted forty-six people in all: Swedes, Russians, Balts, Finns, Eastern Europeans, and an American or two. Everything was just as Charlie should have wished, but he couldn’t keep from feeling uneasy. Something was bothering him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Someone was missing. Not just Sarah.

  Frank Ståhl hadn’t shown up, but that wasn’t particularly strange given what had been going on recently. He had said he would come by, though.

  “Charlie!” A heavy hand on his shoulder. “The party of the year!”

  Charlie turned around and forced a smile.

  “Hans Pettersson, it’s good to hear that.”

  “This is exactly what we needed right now. Have a drink with me now, damn it!”

  Hans poured two big vodka shots and handed one to Charlie.

  “What do they say in Russia? What’s a really fucking good Russian toast?”

  “For brotherhood among the peoples,” said Charlie.

  “For brotherhood among the peoples!” shouted
Hans.

  He downed his vodka. Charlie sipped his.

  “Hey, wasn’t Max Anger supposed to be here? Don’t tell me he’s at home with a cold, too!”

  Max? thought Charlie. That was what wasn’t right. Max had promised to come.

  He smiled apologetically at Hans Pettersson and slipped through the guests toasting each other and into Sarah’s office. He closed the door behind him and took out his cell phone. No messages. To be on the safe side, he called his voice mail. Nothing. He dialed Max’s number.

  No answer.

  Where are you, Max?

  He went back out to the guests. Who might know where Max was? Finally, he caught sight of Sarah’s assistant, Violet. She was laughing and had a large glass of wine in her hand; her eyes flicked back and forth among the men and women standing around her.

  He laid a hand on her arm.

  “Have you seen Max?”

  “Max?” said Violet, looking surprised. “I don’t think he’s been here.”

  “Has he been in touch? Has anyone spoken with him?”

  “Not as far as I know. I didn’t know he was supposed to have been here.”

  Something was wrong. Max had clearly indicated that he was coming to the party. When Charlie had last talked to Sarah, before he had started getting ready, she had confirmed that Max was coming.

  “Charlie, what’s up with you?”

  He realized he was still holding on to Violet’s arm.

  “You’re scaring me,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Violet,” said Charlie, letting go of her. He forced a smile and tried to be his usual self. “I just need to talk to him about something. Excuse me. I’m going to see if I can get him on the phone.”

  Charlie turned around and walked slowly toward the door. In the waiting room outside Vektor’s office corridor, he looked over at the wall of TV screens in the conference room. All of them were set to the Russian channel. A wall of Russians campaigning on Red Square in Moscow.

  Something about Max had been different after he returned from Saint Petersburg. Charlie tried to remember what they had talked about, what Max had asked and what Charlie had said in response. What Max had said was more or less an order. That the monitoring of Vektor’s telephones had to continue. That if it didn’t, they would never find the Russian agent.