Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  Sofia nodded.

  Carpelan picked up the folder he had on his lap.

  “There are already a lot of theories and speculations circulating. We need to stick to investigative work and not let ourselves be influenced by possible political motives or political pressure. Keep working on all possibilities that can’t be eliminated but seek concrete facts.”

  “Of course,” said Sofia.

  She could imagine the kind of discussions Carpelan had participated in during the night. It was his job to push back against the political pressure so she could do the police work.

  “We’ll start with the facts we have. Two highly placed civil servants. The methods were very similar, which suggests we’re looking for the same perpetrator in both cases. Have you gone over the first victim’s private life and professional CV?”

  “Callmér was as right-wing as Thatcher. Distinctly anti-Russian. Pro-NATO,” Sofia said. “From his post in Tehran, he played a more active role in the First Gulf War than had actually been approved. As the head of the Migration Agency, he was responsible for rejecting many immigration applications, so there’s no shortage of possible enemies on that front. He worked too much and earned too little to acquire bad habits or engage in luxury consumption that would have attracted attention. No scandals other than an extramarital affair that ended several years ago. We’ll follow up on that, of course, but it’s nothing unusual. It’s worth noting that he was extremely well liked by his staff.”

  Carpelan nodded. “So Callmér had a long career in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs before he became the head of the Migration Agency? Could the Ministry for Foreign Affairs be the link between him and Lindström?”

  “I asked Seve in the analysis department to check on that. They never worked on the same issues, and Lindström was almost twenty years younger than Callmér.”

  Carpelan took a sheet of paper from a folder on his desk and laid it in front of Sofia.

  “These were sent out to all the departments during the night.”

  They were pictures of the swastika carved into Torbjörn Lindström’s neck.

  “It’s not possible to say with certainty, but the experts call it the thunder cross, a variant of the swastika that is used by certain neo-Nazi groups. The surveillance and intelligence units have both reported that neo-Nazi groups in the area have increased their readiness and willingness to fight. Not least on the edges of Stockholm County, both in Norrtälje and in Södertälje.”

  Sofia was well aware that nationalist extremism was thriving in those areas. It was feared that neo-Nazi groups had gotten hold of weapons from depots the military no longer guarded adequately. She looked at the symbol again. It could very well be the thunder cross.

  “What are the people who were sent this picture saying?”

  “If we stick to facts and avoid speculation, we can look at the fact that Claes Callmér was entirely of Jewish descent and well known in Stockholm Jewish circles. The Migration Agency recently rejected an application from a leader of the Turkish extremist, fascist Grey Wolves organization who has a lot of friends in Swedish nationalist circles. There’s also suspected symbolism; for example, the fact that the chest had the auction number fourteen.”

  Fourteen as in 14 Rising? That was one of the groups the police were keeping an eye on; it was based outside Norrtälje. Sofia had encountered them a few times. The 14 in their name was inspired by the fourteen Swedish words Vi måste säkra existensen för vårt folk och en framtid för våra vita barn (“We must secure the survival of our people and a future for our white children”).

  “And Lindström?” she asked.

  “Married to a Jew. Converted to Judaism before marrying.”

  “So one possible explanation of the crime is based on the ZOG theory?” asked Sofia. “On the theory that neo-Nazi groups in Sweden have decided to eliminate powerful Jewish officials in the Swedish government because of the idea that those officials possess the real power and the other democratically elected members of the government are their marionettes?”

  “Exactly.” Carpelan nodded. “You know your neo-Nazis.”

  ZOG was an abbreviation for Zionist Occupation Government, a conspiracy theory that had wide currency in neo-Nazi circles.

  “The thunder cross has been used by a lot of different cultures in the past,” said Sofia. “What do we know about the other symbol, the reversed C?”

  “Nothing,” said Carpelan. “But we don’t have the luxury of focusing on only one track, unfortunately.”

  Carpelan took a new sheet of paper from the folder.

  “The meeting at Berga?” he continued. “What do you think about the speculations that Lindström’s murder is somehow connected to the Kursk?”

  “Aren’t we getting into pure theories now?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you should know about this. First there was a complaint that came to us the usual way, via the embassy unit at the Norrmalm police department. Apparently some joker went to the Russian embassy and sprayed murderers on the facade. The embassy perceived it as a major threat. In their letter to the police embassy unit, the Russian delegation requested permanent observation by a police van outside the embassy. No one in the police took it seriously. We knew that was just a first step. Then Schiller got a call from the director-general of the Swedish Security Service. The Security Service registered that someone has come to Sweden from Russia, a real political heavyweight and highly trained special agent, and he’s brought with him a slew of clean-cut military types. According to the embassy itself, they’ve strengthened their own security because we didn’t provide them with monitoring as they requested.”

  Carpelan paused and allowed himself a smile. They both knew that the request for permanent monitoring was theater, a kind of smokescreen the Russians were world champions at creating, in this case to justify moving personnel to Stockholm. No doubt the Russian reinforcements had arrived before the embassy even requested Swedish police protection.

  “The heavyweight’s name is Papanov. Officially, he is President Putin’s envoy and is responsible for the protection of Russian interests and minorities outside of Russia’s borders. The Swedish Security Service is wondering what his actual mission is. According to trustworthy sources in the Latvian security service, they’ve registered a new type of Russian aggression in the Baltic states and in Sweden. They’ve recommended that the Swedish Security Service raise its level of preparedness. We cannot simply ignore the fact that the arrival of specially trained agents—and everyone agrees that that’s what they are—coincides with the murders of Callmér and Lindström, two highly placed Swedish officials. And one of those men was widely known to be critical of Russia, while the other was involved in planning a rescue mission to aid the crew of the Kursk.”

  First they say they’re being threatened, thought Sofia. Then they bring over their agents. Around the same time, the Kursk sinks to the bottom of the Barents Sea.

  “The numerals are a little easier to decipher than the symbols on the bodies,” she said. “A nine, then an eight. As far as I can see, that’s the most concrete clue we have at the moment.”

  Carpelan nodded. “Let’s stay in contact. And continue to keep all this to yourself. We’ll talk here every morning at the same time.”

  “I know my neo-Nazis significantly better than my Russian agents. If I’m going to get anywhere with the Russia track, I’m going to need help from outside.”

  Carpelan nodded. “I heard you’ve met with Max Anger.”

  “He burned me once,” said Sofia. “I don’t know whether I can trust him now.”

  “As far as I recall from that investigation, Max has unique competence, just the competence we need. Do whatever it takes, Sofia. We have to solve this before the murderer puts together a whole telephone number.”

  28

  “Is Max on his way?” Sarah asked as she switched on the TVs in the conference room.

  Pashie had woken during the night and looked at the clock next
to the bed. It had been three thirty then, and a light had still been on in the library. Max must have stayed up all night after coming home from the police station. Pashie had gone back to sleep. When she came downstairs in the morning, there was a note on the kitchen table.

  “Going out to Roslagen this morning. Will call from there.”

  Pashie squirmed in her chair. She looked at Charlie to avoid meeting Sarah’s hard gaze.

  “It would probably be best if we started without him,” she said. “He was at the police station late last night. Then he took off early this morning, maybe to help the police with something. We think Lindström is dead.”

  Sarah looked out the window at Valhallavägen, shook her head. Charlie looked as though he’d seen a ghost.

  “Tell me it’s not true,” he said.

  “If it is, we can forget about this plan,” said Sarah, still looking away from the others.

  For a while, none of them said a word.

  “Do you know where Max went?” Charlie finally asked.

  “I would think he’s gone to the area he grew up in,” said Pashie.

  “The Callmér murder?” said Sarah. “The police see a connection between the murder in Skeppsmyra and what happened in Berga, then?”

  Pashie shrugged. “I don’t know. He was planning to call later today.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Sarah. “We’ll meet here again this afternoon when Max is back. Have we heard anything more about how it’s going with the Russian rescue attempts?”

  “There are gale-force winds blowing up there right now,” said Pashie. “The prevailing conditions are making rescue efforts more difficult. The strong currents and the angle at which the Kursk meets the sea bottom have thus far prevented the rescue vessels from hooking on to the Kursk.”

  Sarah sighed. “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Yes, there is one other thing,” said Pashie. “Reports from Russia are saying that the sonar equipment that has located the Kursk indicates that there are two submarines lying on the bottom of the sea, not just one.”

  29

  Max turned off Skeppsmyravägen and drove along the little road that led to the Estonian colony in Starbsnäs. His car bounced around in tire ruts, and the tall grass growing in the median strip tickled its undercarriage. Maj-Lis’s house had originally been a boathouse; she had converted it herself into a dwelling in stages. In the beginning she had lived in the way she’d been accustomed to in her homeland, with an outhouse and a sauna separate from the main building. She still had the sauna, which stood in what she called her enclosure, a little strip of beach she shared with four other property owners who’d also received housing support from the Baltic Foundation.

  This morning, Max had woken at his desk, surrounded by binders and documents. He’d tried calling Maj-Lis, but again, she hadn’t answered.

  He got out of the car and looked in the direction of the pier, her pier. He remembered how it felt to sit there on the caisson with a fishing rod in his hand. Every day, regardless of the weather, Maj-Lis had climbed down the swimming ladder and taken a short swim. Sometimes she’d stood in the water bailing rainwater out of her skiff, which was tied up at the pier. Maj-Lis felt safe and secure in the water. She liked to say that every time she descended into it she came closer to the two people she loved the most, the people the sea had taken from her.

  Max stepped onto her stoop. In contrast to most of the houses in the area, Maj-Lis’s did not have a porch, just a few steps leading up to the little stoop. To the right of the door was a worn bench. In places, the yellow and white paint had flaked off. The wooden door was worn from the winds that had whipped against it over the years.

  Max knocked. Waited. He heard no answer and no footsteps from the inside; he smiled at the little hand-painted sign next to the door. “A good friend is always welcome.” Under the sign hung the key, as usual. He took it down, opened the door, and entered the kitchen. On the woodstove stood a few clean pots. On a bench in one corner lay a few issues of the newspaper Norrtelje Tidning. Max looked at the dates. They were from the seventh and eighth of August. Eight and seven days ago. In the opposite corner was a cupboard containing glasses and plates. One of the shelves looked empty somehow. Max wondered what was missing. Then he remembered. Three small framed photographs. One of her son, Taniel, and her husband, Anton; one of Maj-Lis as a young girl, sitting in a hammock with her best friend; and one of Max himself that he’d given her long ago. Sometimes she put the photographs away when she was expecting a visitor so she wouldn’t have to talk about them.

  Max looked at his watch. It was a quarter past nine. Where could Maj-Lis be? He walked through the little living room and into the bedroom. There was nothing there but her bed, a night table, and a picture of Jesus at the head of the bed.

  He looked at the black-and-white picture. It was dark, the Savior’s face and throat the only light areas. The neck was tensed with pain, the face marked by sorrow. After all these years, he still found the picture disturbing.

  Could Maj-Lis have taken a long morning walk with an acquaintance? Perhaps to visit the family grave in Rumshamn?

  He went outside and was about to walk over to the car when it occurred to him that it would be faster to cut through the forest on foot to Rumshamn than to drive there on narrow, winding roads. He left the car where it was and followed the path to the cemetery. After only a few minutes, he glimpsed Rumshamn. The old cholera cemetery was ringed by stone posts. The sun shone on the bone-white crosses. The mounds, which were each the length of an adult person, created the impression that people had not gone to the trouble to dig proper graves but had just laid the dead on the ground. He opened the iron gate and went in.

  The first graves were from 1834. The largest group of crosses belonged to the harbor pilot and his family, all of whom had died of diphtheria. In addition to them were seamen who had died, most of them of cholera. But then there were the exceptions. The people who had been killed not by communicable diseases but by the waves of the sea. Max walked up to one grave. “September twenty-eighth, 1944. Anton and Taniel Toom.” He squatted down. No flowers.

  But there were footprints around this particular grave. Footprints of different sizes.

  “Max?” A man’s shout. “Is that you again, Max?”

  Max stood up and turned to face the man. It was Tore, the old Estonian Swede who took care of the cemetery.

  “Yes, it’s Max. What do you mean by again?”

  “Wasn’t that you who was here last week? With Maj-Lis?”

  “I haven’t been here in at least fifteen years.”

  “Aha. Well, he looked like you. Just as big and tall. But it was raining so terribly hard.”

  “What day was this?”

  “Thursday.”

  “You’re completely sure about that?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Max thought about the newspapers on the kitchen bench, the missing photographs.

  “Why did you think I was the man?”

  “Maj-Lis is always here alone. Well, maybe with a female acquaintance once in a while, but she’s alone a great deal, as you know. And it was as if the man were leading her. There aren’t many people who come here from that direction.”

  “They both went back to her place?” asked Max.

  “Yes. The man had his arms around her; that’s why I thought it might have been you.”

  There was something wrong with what Tore was saying. Maj-Lis lived alone, and she had never cared for physical contact. Even when Max was little, she hadn’t let him hug her.

  30

  There was a knock on the door. Pashie took her feet off her desk, but she didn’t manage to get up before the door opened and Sarah stepped in.

  “Am I disturbing you?” Sarah asked.

  Pashie shook her head. She’d had a feeling that either Sarah or Charlie would come by after the morning meeting for a one-on-one conversation. She had hoped for Charlie. Sarah had the ability to see straight
through her.

  Sarah sat down on the edge of Pashie’s desk with her feet swaying over the floor, a little too close to Pashie for comfort. Pashie could smell Sarah’s unique scent, a combination of hairspray, cigar smoke, too much perfume, and a little sweat. It was unusually early in the morning for that last scent. A clear sign that she was stressed.

  “Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” said Pashie.

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  Pashie looked out at Valhallavägen and the cars going past.

  “How are things between the two of you right now?”

  “Sarah, please.”

  “I would like to pretend that your private life had nothing to do with me, but you and I both know it doesn’t work that way. We’re a family here.”

  Family. Pashie had to swallow. As usual, she failed to hide her feelings from Sarah.

  “We have our problems. As you know.”

  Sarah straightened her back and sighed. “I understand,” she said.

  “What happens to a man when he finds out there might never be more than this?” said Pashie, spreading her arms.

  “I don’t know whether I’m the right friend to give you a wise answer to that question,” said Sarah. “The guys I know—the ones who aren’t gay, that is—can be divided into two categories. The first type, who are often a little bit older, say they only regret one thing, which is that they didn’t spend more time with their children when they were little or that they didn’t have more children. The second type live their lives as if they consisted of two halves, like a soccer game. During the first half they run their legs off chasing the woman they want until they win her and get her pregnant. During the second half they run their legs off to get away from home, away from the woman they chased and the children they fathered. They play golf, they hunt, they work like hell and come home late smelling of liquor and then take out the dog.”