Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  “To have an excuse to move their positions forward and regain lost territory. That’s not inconceivable. And while this is all going on, some honcho whose responsibility is the interests of Russian minorities has come to stay in Stockholm for an indefinite period of time. I think Charlie’s afraid that something’s brewing, and it’s going on under the radar while everybody is staring at the surface of the Arctic Ocean and wondering what’s happening to a hundred Russian sailors on the seafloor.”

  The Russians were known for having used this type of method to move their positions forward many times in the course of history. It was undeniably extremely subtle, but it was not unimaginable behavior given that a former KGB man now led the country.

  “They grab their chance when they have the whole world’s attention focused elsewhere. And when they have the world’s sympathies?”

  “Something like that,” said Sarah.

  “Okay. I’ll add Centrs to the list of things to check up on.”

  “What does the rest of your list for today look like?”

  Max finished his coffee.

  “Symbols,” he said. “Police work.”

  “Okay. This afternoon I’m going to be off getting ready for the big day tomorrow.”

  “Charlie’s seventieth birthday party? What’s the plan now?”

  “We’re going to his place on Värmdö and surprising him. I’ve arranged for all the food and drink. Only things Charlie likes.”

  “What he wants least of all is for someone to draw attention to the fact that he’s turning seventy.”

  “Yes, I know, but we can’t accept that, can we? I mean, seventy, good Lord, that’s big. Screw all of our love problems and international crises. We need a party!”

  Max laughed. “You have a point there.”

  45

  Pashie and Malin Marklund were sitting on a cognac-colored leather bench in a café on Götgatsbacken, the trendy pedestrianized stretch of Götgatan, not far from Södermalmsskolan, the school where Malin worked as a teacher.

  “Ola’s great—I really think so—and he’s supported me so much during the difficult years,” said Malin. “But sometimes I can’t keep my eyes from wandering.”

  Pashie looked at the other people in the café.

  “To whom?” she asked. “The guy with the beard over there?”

  The guy wore a beanie, green half-length trench coat, turned-up jeans, and a full beard.

  “No, I’ve never been into beards. Don’t see why men would want to have a lot of hair on their faces.”

  “Beards can be super good-looking. And sexy.”

  “What’s Max’s beard growth like?”

  Pashie smiled. “He doesn’t let it grow.”

  Malin took a sip of her lemonade.

  “So you sometimes fantasize about a bearded type of guy? Maybe the guy over there?”

  Malin nodded toward the Press Stop shop that shared space with the café. “Looks hot.”

  A man in a dark-gray suit stood looking at photography magazines. He had an oxblood leather briefcase between his feet and well-polished low-cut black shoes.

  “Sophisticated, interested in art, no doubt well traveled,” said Pashie. “Is that how you like them?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes there’s a bit too much biology and research at home. I love Ola, but sometimes I daydream about falling so wildly in love I completely lose control. I know it’s wrong to think like that. I’m not offending you, am I?”

  “Of course not,” said Pashie.

  The cell phone on the table between them buzzed. Malin looked at the screen.

  “Tell me he’s got a big beard,” she said.

  “God, I really have to take this call.”

  Pashie accepted the call.

  “Hi, Denis,” she said in Russian.

  She stood up and gave Malin an apologetic look.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called you before now,” said Denis. “I could tell when I talked to you how important it was to you, but I haven’t had a chance.”

  “You must have had tough days at the embassy.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “What did they say at the meeting? Did you tell them about our initiative?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And? What was their reaction?”

  “You know what, Pashie? I’m fully booked all day long. What would you think about eating a late dinner with me tonight? Then I’d be able to explain everything to you better. I have a table at Gondolen at eight thirty. Shall we meet there?”

  Pashie didn’t know what to say. Was he asking her out on a date, or was he talking about a pure work meeting? Pashie assumed this would be up to her to determine.

  Malin was staring at her with a silly smile on her face, rubbing her chin. Beard.

  Pashie waved her away and turned around. Her eyes lit on the stylish man looking at the magazines. She thought of Max, of their attempt in the bathroom last night. Of the call from the female police officer that had ruined everything. Of what she’d said to him when she’d rushed out of the bathroom. Tonight was their last opportunity this month.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have another commitment tonight.”

  “That’s too bad. I was really looking forward to seeing you.”

  Now there was no doubt about it anymore. Pashie felt both flattered and angry. What a fucking nerve. The rescue operation was as good as canceled. The submariners were surely dead. And now Denis from the Russian embassy wanted to invite her out on a date. He could take his information and shove it.

  “I’m sorry. Another time.”

  She could hear someone beginning to talk to Denis in the background.

  “Sure. When you have time to get together,” he said. “Give me a call tonight if your plans change.”

  And with that he ended the call. Pashie shook her head. She stuck her phone in her pocket and sat down next to Malin again.

  “Bad news?” asked Malin.

  “I think someone just hit on me.”

  46

  “Sofia? Hola, qué tal? It’s Thornéus. How are things going for you?”

  Sofia stifled a yawn. She hadn’t spent more than three hours in bed the night before. As was usual when she was in the middle of a major investigation, she was sleeping poorly, and any time her sleep got interrupted she was immediately wide awake. She had read a report on the Odal defense organization right after she’d arrived at work this morning. It had been an interesting history lesson, but she was having a hard time seeing how it could have anything to do with what was going on now.

  “Muy bien,” she said, without conviction. “What about you? Do you have anything for me?”

  “Yes. We finally have some results from the lab.”

  She took out her notebook. She had been waiting for this for a few days now.

  “What have we got?”

  “What we got first were the shoe prints, as you know. Size forty-four. But the print didn’t match any manufacturer we have in our database.”

  All shoes from the same manufacturer, in the same model and size, were identical when they left the factory. When they were used, their prints became unique as a result of the wearer’s particular pattern of wear and tear. For this reason they were of forensic value. That they had not found a manufacturer match for the shoe print was highly unusual.

  “It’s not like you to give up that easily,” she said.

  “No, but these shoes are not from Sweden. Maybe not even from this planet.”

  “An extraterrestrial, then,” said Sofia. “How bothersome.”

  “But I think we can forget about the shoes. We found something else that’s even more valuable. Fingerprints and DNA.”

  Sofia started. “Are you kidding me? I thought you said we were dealing with a careful killer.”

  “That’s true. He has been very careful. But every criminal makes some mistake—you know that. In this case it took time. We’ve obtained two fingerprints. One was on the row
boat’s oarlock. The other was on the chest at the auction. The prints were far from one hundred percent complete—actually they’re two of the trickiest we’ve ever worked with.”

  “And your conclusions?” asked Sofia.

  “The perpetrator is definitely the same individual in both cases,” said Thornéus. “But we have no match.”

  Sofia nodded. It was as she’d feared. The murderer was not someone with a police record.

  “And the DNA?”

  “We found a trace of blood at Berga that hadn’t come from the victim, under the plastic on the table in the storage room where Lindström was found. We’ve analyzed it, but the result there was the same. No match. We can’t yet confirm that it came from the individual whose fingerprints we found. However, we have eliminated the two suspects you sent samples for, Elias Skagerlind and Sebastian Öberg.”

  Sofia set her cup in place and pressed the button, and the coffee machine started humming. Could we have gotten this damned lucky? she thought while her cup was filling. At Berga, the little room had been covered with cardboard and the table with plastic, and the room had been washed clean. Nevertheless, the technicians had found a lead.

  Even if mistakes had been made, evidence suggested that the perpetrator had prepared carefully and had killed before. A professional killer? But there weren’t many professional killers. While the steaming black coffee streamed into her cup, she thought the thought she really hadn’t wanted to think. Professional killers almost always worked exclusively for governments.

  47

  “Perhaps it’s nice for you not to have to commute for a while, Robin?” said Sarah, nodding at Edsberg Castle behind them.

  She and Charlie had called the Ministry of Defence and tried to get in touch with Robin Molander. Eventually they had learned that the director-general for administrative affairs was at home in the Edsviken area of Sollentuna, on sick leave. Now he was tearing slices of white bread into bits and tossing them to the Canada geese that had gathered at the water’s edge, his eyes fixed on the wide bay in front of them.

  “What happened to Torbjörn was horrible,” said Charlie.

  Robin Molander sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep going over it again and again. What if he was murdered because of the meeting we were going to have? Can you imagine the hell his wife and children are going through?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  Robin threw the last piece of bread far out onto the water with a strong arm movement, like an American baseball player. Then he turned to Sarah and Charlie.

  “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

  “We’ve heard that you’ve abandoned plans to send the URF to the Barents Sea,” said Sarah.

  Robin nodded and began walking toward the old steamboat pier on the east side of the bay. Sarah and Charlie followed.

  “We’ve been talking about trying to get there anyway,” said Charlie. “To bring up the bodies, if nothing else. Just as in the case of Lindström, there are grieving families. Families that need help bringing damages cases against the Russian government so they’ll have enough money to get by on. Families that will need a grave they can visit.”

  Sarah took Robin’s arm. “You know the Russian attempts to dock onto the Kursk are pointless. Their equipment is too old and in too poor a condition. They’re not going to manage it without help.”

  Robin stopped and looked toward the park. A preschool class had gathered there. Three teachers had their hands full getting a group of three-year-olds in neon-yellow vests to gather around a picnic blanket.

  “I know it sounds terrible to say it, but in a strange way Lindström’s death has come at a good time,” said Robin.

  “At a good time? How do you mean?” asked Sarah.

  “It effectively put an end to our project. And it may have protected us from something worse that would have made us the targets of even harsher criticism from within our own ranks.”

  “You involved yourselves in a project intended to save lives,” said Charlie. “Why were you criticized?”

  “Our top boss…” Robin trailed off. “I shouldn’t say this.”

  He continued walking along the gravel path at the water’s edge.

  Charlie reached out a hand and laid it gently on his arm.

  “We’ve known each other for a long time. You know you can trust us.”

  Robin twisted out of Charlie’s grip. “No one wants to have anything to do with this anymore. We’re pulling out completely.”

  “You know we’ve invested a lot of emotion in this in addition to contacts and time,” said Charlie. “What is it you’ve been told? I think we’ve earned the right to know what’s going on.”

  Robin rubbed his neck. “Apparently the Russians’ claim that the sinking of the Kursk was caused by two submarines colliding is not entirely unfounded.”

  Charlie looked at Sarah, didn’t know what to say.

  “We’ve heard reports that Russian sonar equipment is supposed to have detected two submarines on the seafloor rather than just one,” Sarah said. “Also, the Pentagon has issued a press release saying that one of the American submarines, the Toledo or the Memphis, didn’t report back to the American armed forces headquarters when it should have.”

  Robin nodded.

  “Russian sonar registered a submarine on the seabed that succeeded in moving away very slowly,” he said. “Independent radio amateurs heard a submarine requesting permission to dock at the Tromsø naval base in northern Norway in an emergency situation. The Norwegian embassy has informed Russian authorities that emergency repairs are being carried out. We have seen Russian satellite images of Tromsø showing a submarine with serious hull damage. We have verified the identity of the submarine. There is no doubt that it is the USS Memphis.”

  48

  Pashie threw her purse into the corner of her office and started at the cracking noise that followed. What could have gotten broken? Her cell phone? Just as well.

  Denis’s shameless flirting had provoked her, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The Kursk disaster was threatening to propel the world into a new war. Max was being drawn into a murder investigation. And what did her contact at the Russian embassy want in this situation? To get her into bed? Of course I’ll come over. I’ll bring along my cannulae and syringes and give you my water-swollen body. Because I want to get your information. Like a Soviet honeypot spy.

  She put a hand to her forehead. Had she overreacted? Maybe Denis wasn’t so shameless. Maybe he had really just wanted to have a conversation that would be easier to have over dinner than over the phone.

  In any case, she wanted to be able to do her job. At the meeting yesterday, Max had given her the chance to focus on the women who were almost definitely widows now and faced an existence in which they would try to survive on state compensation that wouldn’t even cover food for their children. Pashie had heard the stories so many times, stories of desperate attempts to meet new men, a solution many saw as the only one available. Men often wanted to have them but not their children, and because of this the relationships were often abusive. Nevertheless, that was not the worst scenario. Many simply decided to disappear, either into the sweet and sweaty hell of vodka or with the aid of their deceased husbands’ service pistols, which they put to their foreheads one night when the children were sleeping deeply. And what would happen to those children? The prisons of the former Soviet Union were filled to bursting with such children, who had grown up sniffing glue and tattooing each other with knives and heated ink.

  In a way, she was one of those children. Her mother had had to take care of her all by herself after her father was picked up by the KGB one day and never returned. They’d never been told what her father had been charged with. As a child, she’d always wondered what the nation’s security service had wanted a fisherman for. But everyone knew it made no difference. If there was a warrant out for your arrest, you were guilty, and it was best to confess immediately.

 
; She passed a hand across her desk, sweeping all the papers to the floor. She stepped over the mess she’d created and took out her address book, flipped to the first person she wanted to call. Greta Hammar, Stockholm’s Women’s Lobby.

  “This is Pashie Kovalenko at Vektor. I suppose you’ve heard about what happened to the nuclear submarine Kursk?”

  Greta coughed. “Yes, it’s really terrible.”

  “One hundred eleven Russian sailors have left behind grieving families, families that have no chance of surviving on compensation from the Russian armed forces.”

  “I heard about the knocking, that they were still breathing down there during the first twenty-four hours. Poor bastards. Are they all dead now?”

  “That hasn’t been confirmed, but we fear that’s the case. We’re planning to collect two hundred fifty thousand kronor today to help the widows bring damages claims against the Russian government. We know what’s going to happen to these women and children if they don’t get help. We can’t just sit by and watch it happen. They’re women like you and me, Greta.”

  “How much do you want from me?”

  “Anything from ten thousand up. Plus for you to call three other organizations in your network and ask them to do the same thing. We have to have this taken care of before we go home tonight.”

  “I’m with you. No question.”

  “Thanks, Greta.”

  “We should thank you,” said Greta. “Never stop being exactly the way you are.”

  49

  Max stuffed the copies he’d made and the books he’d checked out into his bag as he left the Stockholm public library, walking toward the subway to make his way to the National Bureau of Investigation headquarters on Kungsholmen for the second time. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to get his subway card out but felt something else at the bottom. It was the slip of paper that had been stuck in one of the links when he’d picked up the SS bracelet in Maj-Lis’s house. He brushed his fingertips across the dry, brittle paper. It looked like an old receipt or an address tag. Latin letters, but a language he did not understand. What was written at the bottom appeared to consist of signatures and corresponding printed names.