“A kind of disaster relief aid, then?” asked Stenman.
“Precisely,” said Charlie.
Sarah nodded. She hadn’t talked with Charlie about how the government would pay for the operation. Presumably Charlie had covered this in preliminary discussions with his friends in the armed forces. It would not be acceptable for a rescue operation to result in decreased funding for the Swedish Armed Forces’ budget, which was tight to begin with.
“We followed the preparations for this exercise with great interest and with a certain amount of fear,” said Elisabeth Vogel from the disarmament and nonproliferation group. “There are far too many signs that Russia is engaged in a military buildup, not least in our immediate proximity. The increase in tensions over the last twenty-four hours brings to mind the Cold War. It’s not at all a desirable development that NATO’s submarines are in the area and the Russians have rejected their offer to help. The fact is, we still don’t know what caused the Kursk to founder. We are very concerned about the possibility that a new conflict is developing.”
“We, too, have picked up signals that suggest this, unfortunately,” said Anastasia Friedenberga. “And that suggest the tensions are not limited to what is happening in the Barents Sea.”
Sarah looked at the other women. What was it they were suggesting? That they opposed a Swedish rescue operation? That it was too early to make a decision?
“So what do you conclude from your discussions of these matters?” Robin Molander asked Anastasia. “That we should attempt to determine the actual cause of the sinking of the Kursk before taking action?”
“There’s no time for that,” said Sarah. “With every hour that passes, it becomes more likely that this rescue operation will become a grave-robbing operation.”
As soon as she had finished her sentence, she realized she had tipped her hand, had made clear that her patience was nearly at an end.
“Be that as it may, we should take action first to coordinate next steps with the other side,” said Elisabeth Vogel.
The other side? thought Sarah. Did she mean that Sweden had to ask the United States before offering Russia help? She couldn’t be serious.
When she realized what was going on, Sarah closed her eyes. The state secretaries and ministers wanted to stay out of it and let their subordinates come up with a proposal that wouldn’t offend anyone. In the meantime, a number of Russian sailors would share the last oxygen molecules in a tin can a hundred and eight meters under the sea. You could always expect the same thing from Swedes.
“Robin, I assume you took into consideration the uncertainty about the accident’s cause when you discussed the matter at the Ministry of Defence?” Elisabeth continued.
Sarah knew Charlie had spent his whole Sunday working on influencing his contacts at the Ministry of Defence. Now he was sitting here passively watching what was going on around the table with no change in his expression. Why was he keeping such a low profile? Did he know something she didn’t?
“What Charlie suggested doesn’t just have budgetary implications,” said Robin. “While we would be rescuing members of the Russian Navy, we are talking about a kind of humanitarian mission, not a military mission. We would be happy to make available our resources at Berga, but perhaps the crew could wear orange vests and act under the civilian authority of the Swedish Rescue Services Agency?”
Kurt Stenman nodded. “In fact, we discussed that possibility yesterday at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs,” he said.
Sarah looked at the polished young man. Had they come up with this solution before the meeting? Because the matter was controversial, the civilian solution would be better. Neither the minister of foreign affairs nor the minister of defense would get dirty hands.
“And what’s the next step if we want to go the Rescue Services Agency route?” she asked.
“We would proceed by talking with State Secretary Lindström,” said Robin. “He’s the person who’d be responsible for preparing such an operation.”
“And where is Lindström?”
“As it happens, he’s at Berga today for a long-planned visit,” said Robin. “He was briefed yesterday afternoon after all the telephone calls. He’ll discuss the matter with the Swedish rescue personnel there face-to-face.”
That’s good, thought Sarah. Max is going to Berga—he can take on Lindström. She glanced at Charlie, who nodded. She would excuse herself and go and call Max to prepare him for his meeting with the state secretary.
“That sounds good,” she said. “Humanitarian aid and defense working together in harmony.”
“It’s sometimes difficult to draw the line,” said Anastasia, “between that which is military and that which is humanitarian.”
Sarah regretted that she’d made her last remark. She should have been satisfied with simply concluding the meeting. Now she had to fight the impulse to scream Who in the hell are you? There was a coolness about Anastasia, as if the temperature dropped a degree as soon as she opened her mouth. A real ice queen.
“Well, this might not be so simple,” said Robin. “Maybe there’s no option here that’s obviously right or wrong?”
Sarah started. Charlie met her gaze and discreetly shook his head. What are you up to? she thought. Why aren’t you saying anything?
Sarah turned toward Anastasia.
“We have a world-class rescue vehicle. We can fly it to the area in a few hours. The operation itself should take two and a half hours once the URF is in place. Which means that if we give the government a strong recommendation, we can have Russian sailors reunited with their families in time for supper. Sweden and all the damned organizations we represent get a massive credibility boost. It’s the right thing to do. The wrong thing to do is to let the Berga team wait so the Russians suffocate.”
They all stared at her, the Polish woman from Vektor, this nongovernmental expert on Swedish security policy. She knew not everyone in public administration liked the idea of a privately financed think tank. Had her comments just given her opponents ammunition? Had she been too eager? Too impulsive to do any real good? She sensed that Charlie wasn’t entirely pleased with her.
“You’re quite right,” said Kurt Stenman. “And I’m going to present your point of view to State Secretary Lindström personally. Damn it, those submariners should eat supper at home tonight.”
Charlie laid his hands on the table and smiled at them.
“We’re in continual dialogue with Vardø,” he said, referring to the NATO station in northern Norway. “Our colleague Max Anger has good contacts with the commanders up there. They convinced us to participate in this initiative. I can assure you that NATO won’t regard a rescue mission as a provocation.”
Finally he’d said something. But was he bluffing? Sarah couldn’t figure out what his game was. She looked around the table, hoped the doubters would buy what he said and the way he said it. No one could sound as trustworthy as Charlie.
“That’s easy to say if, like you, one doesn’t have a position to defend,” said Anastasia. “According to our national intelligence services in the Baltic states, the exercises in the Barents Sea are only a part of a much bigger maneuver. Russia has started moving its positions forward again. Moscow wants to protect the interests of Russian minorities and intends, ultimately, to integrate Baltic areas into the Russian Federation. There is a great deal of evidence that the so-called terrorist act in Riga about a week ago was a sign of what awaits us. Russian agents blew up the Centrs shopping mall and killed one person. Thirty-five people were severely injured. Agents have been placed in the Scandinavian countries; there is a particular interest in the Åland Islands and Gotland. Incursions into your waters are going to increase to a level that has never been seen before. Tell me, Charlie, is this the state and the president you want to help?”
“Your embassy has always done whatever it could to exaggerate the Russian threat, so what you’re saying now doesn’t surprise anyone who knows you,” said Charlie.
/> Who knows you? Suddenly Sarah realized what was going on. Charlie knew exactly who this strange woman was. They had crossed swords before.
“Perhaps we should ask ourselves why the young Russian president has cold-bloodedly rejected the help he’s already been offered,” said Anastasia. “By people who are already in place and who—with all due respect—have vessels that are significantly more advanced than the ones at Berga.”
“Something tells me you already have the answer to your question,” said Charlie.
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to save them.”
“Why doesn’t he want to do that?”
Anastasia glanced at Sarah. “Your colleague suggested the reason in your gripping presentation. They were poorly prepared. Inadequately trained and equipped. Perhaps this was intended to happen?”
“Do you mean the Russian state would do this to itself, to its own people?” asked Charlie.
“That’s certainly not inconceivable. And they might well let people in other countries believe that an American submarine could have caused the explosions. You and I both know the Russian state has done considerably worse things to its own people. If the end is right, any means are justified.”
“Why this? Why now?”
“To make it possible to implement changes.”
“Why don’t you say straight out what you’re really talking about?” said Charlie. “You’re talking about casus belli.”
Anastasia said nothing, but Sarah thought she could see the ghost of a smile on her neutral face.
“Casus what?” said Elisabeth Vogel.
“Casus belli,” said Sarah. “An event that provides a reason for declaring war.”
14
Kandinsky attached Elias Skagerlind’s military ID badge to his chest and took his place in the guard hut at Berga Naval Base. He admired his handiwork with the new photograph and the lamination. He’d had plenty of time to master the art. Decades of undisturbed preparation.
The security at the naval base was rigid but had a weak point. In recent years substitute guards from a pool of old Swedish Air Force Rangers had been hired to supplement the regular personnel at the outermost security ring. These substitutes were vetted, but not as thoroughly as they should have been. The Swedish Armed Forces only contacted the permit-granting unit at the regional police department to ensure that the candidate’s name did not appear in Swedish police records—the same kind of background check used to vet people applying to work for a security firm. A more extensive check would have revealed that however strong, smart, and capable they might have been when they were in their twenties, men like Elias Skagerlind were not suitable for guard duty at one of the country’s most important defense facilities.
The Ministry of Defence man for whom Kandinsky had been waiting closed the rear door of the dark-blue sedan he’d been riding in and walked toward the guard hut alone. The car turned back toward the parking lot. After the man told Kandinsky his name, Kandinsky stepped out of the guard hut and opened the door of an attached room that ordinarily functioned as a storage space. Most of the room’s contents had been removed, and the space had been cleaned. The floor was covered with weather-resistant housewrap. Only a chair and a table stood in the middle of the room. On the tabletop, which was covered with transparent plastic, lay a sharpened pencil and a knife.
Kandinsky said a Swedish word he had learned to pronounce perfectly. “Säkerhetskontroll.” Security check.
With a smile, he welcomed the man into the room. The defence minister’s state secretary, Torbjörn Lindström, stepped across the threshold, and Kandinsky closed the door behind them.
15
Three other couples about the same age as Max and Pashie sat in the waiting room. He looked at his watch. Soon he would get in his car and drive to Berga. He had gotten a text message from Sarah saying the Defence Ministry’s state secretary would be present at the meeting and had been assigned a decisive role with regard to a possible Swedish rescue operation.
Pashie was sitting in the chair next to him. Her cheeks were pale, and she looked worn, very unlike the woman who had stepped out of their apartment bathroom just a short while ago. She was holding her thin mother-of-pearl-colored nylon bomber jacket in one hand, her purse in the other. Staring vacantly ahead. Max took the jacket and squeezed her hand.
“How are you doing?”
“Not very well.”
“We don’t have to do this.”
She shook her head.
“We must do this,” she said quietly. “It’s our turn now.”
“Welcome back,” said the doctor, who introduced himself as Rutger Axelsson as he entered the room. “Dr. Kruger has moved to a different clinic, but I have your information here.”
What the hell is this? thought Max. A new doctor? Pashie reached for his hand again.
Axelsson sat down at a small height-adjustable desk and looked at a computer screen. Then he turned to face them, laid his hands on his knees.
“Any thoughts?”
Max looked at Pashie, who swallowed several times. Neither of them said anything.
“You should know that you’re not alone. Far from it,” said the doctor. “The chances of getting pregnant from unprotected intercourse are only a few percent. About one in four women of childbearing age will get pregnant by having unprotected sex every day for a month.”
Max knew Pashie hated it when doctors talked about their problem this way. Clinical, crass, and stripped down. She called it “the Swedish engineering culture,” and it predominated here. Who would even think of having sex after having talked about it like that? She had told him that during her first meeting with a fertility doctor, she had felt as if she’d been sitting in front of him naked. Sophiahemmet Hospital replacing their doctor in the middle of their evaluation made it all that much worse. There was nothing here that resembled a personal relationship, a personal reception. The hospital’s failure was Max’s own failure. He was the one who had suggested coming here.
“We’re familiar with those statistics,” said Max. “It’s been almost six months now.”
“Sure,” said the doctor, looking at the screen again. “You should know that approximately one in five couples in Sweden is suffering from an unfulfilled desire for pregnancy. And there is still much we can do. Ovulation induction, insemination with sperm, in-vitro fertilization, egg donation, and so on. It can be a psychological strain to go through all this, and that’s why there’s an organization called—”
“We know that, too,” said Max.
He was bothered by the doctor, by his way of speaking in generalities. He was also bothered by the clinical language. Unfulfilled desire for pregnancy? As though he were making a simple request and there was someone who would either approve or reject it. Max thought the doctor could at least have read through their file before they arrived for their appointment.
Tell us we’re sterile, he thought. We can take it. Anything is better than this uncertainty.
“We should be at the end of the investigation phase now, shouldn’t we?” asked Pashie.
“Well, what was the situation, again? Have you had any sexually transmitted diseases?”
The doctor didn’t look at either of them, but there could be no doubt about which of them he was directing the question to.
“No,” Pashie answered.
“No chlamydia or gonorrhea?”
“For God’s sake,” said Max. “Didn’t you hear what she said? We went over that with our last doctor already.”
The doctor paled when he met Max’s gaze. “Certainly. Sorry. Just trying to eliminate possibilities. I have information here about a serious infection?”
Pashie laid a hand on Max’s thigh.
“Four years ago I was kidnapped. My kidnapper lowered me into a pit filled with water. The bacteria and other microorganisms living in that pit made their way into my uterus, my oviducts, and my ovaries. That led to a serious infection. I have never had an
y sexually transmitted diseases.”
Axelsson stared at Pashie, his mouth open. Finally he swallowed.
“I’m terribly sorry. I regret that you have to talk about this. That explains what I’m seeing in the file here, though I wish Dr. Kruger would have—”
“Dr. Kruger examined my ovaries and my uterus via my vagina, using ultrasound,” Pashie continued. “And then we had an X-ray examination done. No polyps or nodules. Since then I’ve been getting hormone therapy.”
“Yes, I can see that here,” said Axelsson. “We’ll need to take a new blood sample from you, Elzie.”
“Let’s do that now so we can finish this meeting. And my name is Elza, with an a at the end, but I go by Pashie.”
“Sorry, Pashie, I didn’t read carefully. A blood sample doesn’t take long. I’ll ask a nurse to take care of it right away. And, Max?” He turned toward Max without looking at him. “I see that we’ve done a swim-up test and that the results were good. But I don’t think I have your health declaration?”
“I have it here.”
Max took the form from the inner pocket of his jacket. He had finally taken a moment to complete it.
While Axelsson was looking over the health form, there was a knock on the door. “Would you like to come with me, Pashie?”
“I’ll see you outside,” said Pashie, caressing Max’s hand before she left the room.
Max clenched his fist as he watched Dr. Axelsson finish reading the document.
Axelsson looked at Max.
“I’d like to apologize again.”
“Are we done here?”
“Is the information on your health form correct?”
“Yes,” said Max.
“Given what it says here, we need to take a new blood sample from you—I have to…”
“After I came home from Bosnia, I was prescribed benzodiazepines—alprazolam,” said Max. “If that’s what you’re wondering about?”
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