Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  Ten seconds into the lunch and he was already losing.

  “Only the best is good enough for you,” he said.

  “You haven’t changed,” she said. “I wonder how you do it. Are you keeping any other secrets from me?”

  Any other secrets? Anastasia had evidently decided to skip foreplay this time, too.

  “My only secret these days is my apple cider,” he said. “I make it myself on Värmdö.”

  “Perhaps I could taste it?”

  Charlie smiled. “You look enchanting, as always.”

  “Behave yourself, Charlie. We’re not young anymore.”

  “Wine?”

  Charlie had anticipated her choice and ordered a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet, premier cru, 1982. He turned the label toward her so she’d see that he’d remembered.

  She nodded. “I was surprised when you got in touch. Sometimes one has to wait a very long time.”

  “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

  “I’m not really sure what you want from me, though.”

  “Well, my birthday’s coming up…” Charlie dared a smile.

  Anastasia burst out laughing. Took a sip of the white wine.

  “So what have they got planned for you, your soldiers at Vektor?”

  Charlie’s smile broadened. Her energy, her aura, were the same as they always had been. Soldiers, what a choice of word.

  “A surprise at my place, but I happened to find out about it. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

  “I’m good at keeping your secrets. You know that.”

  The Montrachet suddenly seemed bitter as Charlie took a second sip. With Anastasia there was always a catch. My secrets will be safe with you as long as I do as you say, he thought.

  “Is this a big birthday?” asked Anastasia. “I need to know what caliber present I should get you.”

  Charlie nodded slowly.

  “Seventy?” said Anastasia.

  “Shh, not so loud.” Charlie took a sip of his wine.

  “Oh, those sweet young waitresses aren’t interested in you anymore, anyway.”

  Apparently Anastasia wasn’t ready to bury the hatchet just yet. He tried to keep his expression neutral.

  “No doubt the girls at the colleges aren’t, either, right? Or do your experience and all your contacts give you more charm?”

  Charlie looked over at the waitstaff. He had to resist the temptation to ask for the check. This had been a mistake. He managed to get the attention of a waiter and then looked at her again.

  “Time catches up with all of us. With one exception.”

  He raised his glass in a new toast. But Anastasia didn’t respond to this gesture.

  “What do you want, Charlie?”

  He set his glass down without having drunk from it.

  “I don’t want our…thing to stand in the way of something good.”

  Anastasia grimaced. “Why do you want to save those men? Have you gotten soft in your old age? Are you really suffering with them? With their little wives, who no longer get to serve them their cabbage soup on the weekends?”

  Good Lord, thought Charlie. This lunch was going to go down in history.

  “You said you’d gotten information from the intelligence service,” he said. “Something related to the bombing of Centrs. What is it you’ve heard?”

  “Which intelligence service are we talking about? And which am I speaking to?”

  “For God’s sake, we were young!”

  “I don’t think you’ve changed a bit, Charlie.”

  “I don’t think you’ve changed a bit!”

  “You know what I want. All I’ve ever wanted. We’ve suffered and waited long enough. We have to reach cooperative agreements with the West that are so strong that our independence will be forever beyond question. So that Russia doesn’t just push in with its submarines and tanks.”

  “And the death of the sailors would advance your cause?”

  “Can we stop talking about Russian sailors? I’m smarter than that. I know you have an entirely different agenda. You’re only doing this to raise your profile and make Vektor shine as a bastion of justice and human rights in the Baltic region.”

  “Have you decided what you would like?” a voice next to them asked.

  Charlie looked up at the waiter. How long has he been standing there?

  Anastasia smiled in triumph. “Chateaubriand for me. I want it bloody.”

  36

  Sofia Karlsson let Tom Haraldsson and the other uniformed officers search the run-down clubhouse in the Görla industrial park while she, the leader of the preliminary investigation, stood scraping the text off the gate’s intercom.

  “To each what he deserves,” it said. A Swedish translation of the German text that had hung over the entrance of the Buchenwald concentration camp. Fucking idiots.

  Sofia had carried out enough searches at sites belonging to extreme right-wing groups that she was not surprised. When she and her colleagues had arrived in the industrial area, the welcoming committee had consisted of no fewer than five individuals. As usual, they’d protested. But after the officers had put the leader, Sebastian, in the back of one of the police cruisers, the gang had reluctantly given in.

  After the officers had finished searching the club, Tom came out to Sofia.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Liquor and cigarettes that didn’t enter the country the usual way. Plus a number of brochures and documents they’re going to defend with their right to free speech. And then we found an old Luger of questionable functionality above the ceiling panels. No doubt the property of the leader who’s sitting in the car.”

  Sofia nodded. “Good job. And the symbols? Did you show those to the guys?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “They weren’t familiar with the reversed C or the wave-shaped symbol. But they did comment on the thunder cross we found on Lindström.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That one doesn’t do that to the swastika. They said it was like blasphemy to modify it. Don’t know whether they were joking.”

  Sofia stifled a sigh. The significance of the reversed C and the wave-shaped symbol remained a mystery.

  It surely wouldn’t take the tabloids Expressen and Aftonbladet long to start running headlines connecting the murders to various conspiracy theories. And no doubt also to neo-Nazis, even if only one of the symbols was related to Nazism, because articles about Nazis sold newspapers. She felt considerable doubt as to whether neo-Nazism had anything to do with this, but she knew her boss. Carpelan needed to be able to identify actions taken and results obtained, even if those results later proved to have led them down the wrong track.

  “We’ll take Sebastian on a trip to Stockholm with us,” she said.

  She left Tom at the gate and walked to the cruiser in which the group’s leader was sitting. She opened the door and sat down beside him.

  Sebastian’s head was shaved. He wore tall black boots, black workout pants, and a black shirt with two breast pockets. The pocket over his heart bore the text “Brooklyn 77, no right, no wrong.” No doubt a gift from some like-minded comrade on the other side of the Atlantic. Scars ran from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones. A so-called Chelsea smile, a mark extremist fans of English soccer teams left on rival hooligans.

  “Heil Hitler,” said Sofia.

  Sebastian said nothing, stared silently out the window.

  Sofia looked at his trousers. Adidas, with white stripes. Much too casual.

  “Aren’t those pants niggers play basketball in?” she asked.

  Sebastian still said nothing. His expression didn’t change at all.

  “Am I so hideous you can’t look at me?” asked Sofia. “White woman. Am often told I have a pretty nice figure. But maybe you like boys? There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s the year 2000 now, after all, a new age.”

  “I assume you’re planning to take me to some police station. Are you planning to tell me why w
e haven’t left yet?”

  “I’m planning to talk to you about something when you’re looking at me.”

  Sebastian slowly turned his head toward her.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Sorry, sweetie pie, no declaration of love. I understand if you’re disappointed. I do think you should get down on your hands and knees and let each of us have a turn with you. So you could get properly fucked. By real men.”

  Sofia clenched her fists. She couldn’t lose control now.

  She took out the bracelet Max had given her in Skeppsmyra.

  “Nice bracelet, huh?”

  “What do you want for it?” asked Sebastian.

  “It’s not for sale. I want you to tell me about it.”

  “I’ll give you twenty-five thousand. Now.”

  Sofia shook her head. “Where would trash like you get twenty-five thousand?”

  “I’m industrious.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I’m sure you’re getting unemployment, government child support, and housing support. But twenty-five thousand kronor is a lot of money. Have you been on Björkö recently?”

  “What the hell would I do there?”

  Sofia looked at his scarred face. Did he really have the intelligence and cool to commit the kind of murder she was investigating?

  “What can you tell me about the bracelet? Does it belong to your buddies?”

  “No, it’s the real thing. It’s old. Original.”

  “What else can you tell me about it?”

  “A real rarity. Worth a lot of money, if you’re familiar with the market.”

  He paused and smiled broadly. “That belonged to an SS legionary. Given the way it looks, I’d guess from the Baltics, probably Latvia.”

  37

  “A third victim?” said Sarah. “And she was your old teacher?”

  They’d all gathered in Vektor’s conference room. The late-afternoon sun shone through the windows. Max had told them about everything he had seen in Skeppsmyra.

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear this, Max,” said Charlie.

  Max nodded, couldn’t let his feelings show now.

  “The police have asked me to help them as an external consultant,” he said. “Apparently this case has been given the highest priority. The government is following its progress, and the justice minister’s state secretary is personally involved. I’m going to have to let go of the Kursk. I have vacation days coming to me.”

  Sarah nodded. “The rest of us can take care of anything that might happen now with the Kursk. And you don’t need to use vacation days. Of course you should help the police with an important case like this if they ask you to.”

  Pashie wouldn’t meet Max’s gaze.

  “What are the police saying?” asked Charlie.

  “Before I drove out to Skeppsmyra, I was at a meeting at police headquarters, and they asked me whether there’d been threats against us.”

  “Why would there be?”

  “Because I showed up at Berga and the first murder occurred in the area where I grew up. But I think that’s a coincidence. I can’t imagine any connection between Maj-Lis and the other two. And if there is such a connection, it really has nothing to do with me, or us.”

  Charlie leaned forward. “So it is pure coincidence, then?”

  Max didn’t know what to say in response. He shrugged.

  “Okay. Shall we move on to our business?” asked Sarah. “Who wants to start?”

  “I can start,” said Pashie.

  She still hadn’t looked Max in the eye.

  She had herself under control, but Max sensed the unease within her. Once again a great evil had invaded their lives. This time in Sweden.

  “This morning the Russians said poor visibility was making rescue efforts more difficult. But we do have a president who’s evidently able to speak after all. From his vacation in southern Russia, he’s now said that this situation is critical but that Russia has everything she needs to carry out the rescue on her own. Shortly after the president’s speech—just a few minutes ago, actually—Deputy Prime Minister Klebanov said there were no longer any signs of life from inside the submarine.”

  Charlie slammed a palm against the table. “We could have brought them up yesterday.”

  “Yes, or on Saturday,” said Max. “The explosion happened three and a half days ago. No human being can last that long under those circumstances. If there was an explosion, which all the evidence suggests, there would have needed to be a rescue operation immediately.”

  “A triple murder in Stockholm and a Russian president who doesn’t want to save his own sailors,” said Sarah. “And when is it that the prime minister, the minister for foreign affairs, and the Russian embassy are supposed to inaugurate Mir 2000 in Kungsträdgården with pomp and fanfare?”

  “I didn’t think anyone could have missed the countdown clock on the square,” said Max. He glanced at the watch on his arm. “Four days, eighteen hours, and ten minutes.”

  “When is this August curse going to end, Pashie?” asked Sarah.

  “What type of explanation would you like?”

  “Give me the one you believe.”

  “According to the country’s most prominent astrologer, the chaos will continue until the middle of September because of the positions of Saturn and Uranus.”

  Charlie sighed. “Can we leave superstition aside and focus on concrete activities where we benefit from our expertise and satisfy our sponsors and clients?”

  “Of course,” said Max. “The financiers. They’re the ones we have to think about now.”

  Charlie looked at him angrily, and Sarah cleared her throat.

  “Okay, what can we do in this situation?” she asked.

  “We could focus on the families,” said Max.

  Charlie shifted in his chair.

  “Yes, perhaps,” he said. “We can still get the URF there and get the bodies out.”

  Sarah nodded. “Yes, absolutely. The men have to be brought up, even if they’re dead.”

  “And there will be a legal aftermath,” said Max. “Long, difficult, and expensive court cases. There is an organization that fights for the rights of the widows. They’re going to need help now. Pashie is already in contact with them. And that, Charlie, will win us valuable goodwill.”

  Max felt the warmth spreading from Pashie to him. This was what she’d wanted to suggest herself. But it was better for it to come from Max.

  Charlie didn’t look as angry anymore. He nodded.

  “Okay,” said Sarah. “You and I will have to try to blow on the embers at Berga tomorrow morning, Charlie. And, Pashie, you keep working on the fund collection for the widows and the legal aftermath.”

  They got up to leave. As they were passing through the boardroom, Charlie stopped Max.

  “Who was it that called and told you about the seismological readings Saturday morning?”

  “Hein Espen, a Norwegian friend. Former attack diver.”

  Charlie nodded. “Former, you say? What’s he doing now?”

  “That isn’t really clear to me. But I’ll get it out of him the next time I talk to him.”

  “Okay. I’d like to get his contact information at some point.”

  “I’ll send it to you right away.”

  38

  Max drew a finger through the fine layer of dust that covered the shelves and book spines in Carl Borgenstierna’s library.

  Sofia Karlsson had asked him for two things. More information about Maj-Lis’s life, and help with things related to Russia that might be connected with the murders.

  Claes Callmér, Torbjörn Lindström, and Maj-Lis Toom. What could those three people have had in common? He thought of the strange staging, the symbols, and the number ten on Maj-Lis’s body. Of Sofia’s evasive answer to his question about whether the markings on the other bodies had also included numbers. Of the SS bracelet. Did this all have to do with the Second World War somehow? The war had ended
fifty-five years ago. Torbjörn Lindström hadn’t even been born then. But some wounds couldn’t be healed in half a century. Max knew that better than anyone.

  Sofia had said the clues seemed to point to Russia. Maj-Lis had fled from the Russians during the Second World War. Was there something there?

  Max stopped at a shelf marked “Swedish politics 1940-1950.” He took down a book called I den röda fasans spår (“On the Trail of the Red Terror”) and stood flipping through it for a while. One chapter was about how Swedish authorities had interned Swedish friends of Moscow in the same camps as foreign prisoners during the war. He looked at the source index and saw a reference to a book called Koncentrationsläger i Sverige (“Concentration Camps in Sweden”). That book, too, was on the shelf.

  From Koncentrationsläger i Sverige’s introductory pages, he learned that the first internment camps were opened at Långmora and Smedsbo in Dalarna in 1940. People were put in the closed camps not because of what they had done but because of what they were: communists, syndicalists, radical social democrats, German deserters, and the so-called Friends of England. They were forced to perform hard labor and watched by armed guards. The Social Democratic governments had classified information about the camps. One state secretary who was active in the creation and design of the camps later became the leader of the country’s fourteen camps and eventually the leader of all of Sweden—Prime Minister Tage Erlander.

  Max closed the book. He caught sight of another book called De vi vårdade (“Those We Tended”) and the book next to it, Utlämningen av tyskar och baltar 1945 och 1946 (“The Extradition of Germans and Balts in 1945 and 1946”). He tucked them under his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, yet another book demanded his attention: Det stora svenska sveket (“The Great Swedish Betrayal”).

  Max read them at Borgenstierna’s desk and traveled back in time. De vi vårdade consisted of diary entries written by a woman named Anna Isaksson who had worked as an orderly at the Örebro field hospital during the fall of 1945. The book told her own story as well as the stories of interned Balts. The interned Balts’ informal leader had been no older than twenty-two but “big and scarred for his age,” as Anna put it. The leader had given her his own notes before he was put on a bus to Trelleborg, and she’d included them in the book. He painted a bleak picture of internment in Sweden and feared what would happen when they were handed over to the Russians. Anna, the orderly, showed empathy for the Balts, whom she had cared for after they had been on a hunger strike for several weeks.