Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  “We’re starting to establish a trail,” said Max.

  “What was that about?”

  “A bomb exploded in a shopping center in Riga almost two weeks ago. The Latvian police are calling it an act of terror against the Russian population that lives in the country. There are diverging opinions about who was behind it, extremist Latvian nationalists or the Russians themselves.”

  “And you think there could be a connection between an attack on a shopping center in Riga and the murders we’re investigating?”

  “I think we need to find out whether there is.”

  52

  As Pashie stepped out of the elevator, a man clad in black and white took her coat. She had never been to the restaurant before, just passed by it down on the street, amazed by the way it hung high above the ground. Through the big panorama windows, the fiery pink glow of the sunset illuminated Stockholm. It was a beautiful city they lived in. Especially on a late-summer evening like this one.

  The dapper man led her to the table where Denis was sitting. A window table with a view of the Djurgården green area and the water of Saltsjön. On the other side of the bay, colorful rides at the Gröna Lund amusement park were still in motion.

  Denis looked up as she approached. As usual, he was wearing a sharp-looking suit. He took off his reading glasses and pushed away a sheet of paper. Then he stood up and took her hand, kissed her three times on the cheeks.

  “Pashie,” he said. “I’m really glad we could get together. It’s nice that I don’t have to eat by myself at the embassy.”

  Pashie sat across from him.

  “Is it lonely working for the fatherland?”

  “Sometimes,” Denis replied. “But do you never miss it?”

  “Loneliness?”

  Denis smiled. “No, the fatherland, everything Russian.”

  Pashie looked out the window at the boats that lay like a string of pearls along the quay Stadsgårdskajen. In fact, she did miss it. Being able to talk to people who understood her, in her own language. But she didn’t want to get into that right now.

  “How are things going for all of you at the embassy?”

  “Our newly won Russian pride sank to the bottom with the Kursk Saturday morning.”

  “Why did it take such a long time to get to the submarine? Why is it taking the authorities such a long time to recognize the disaster?”

  “For exactly that reason.”

  “Because of pride?” Pashie sighed. “Saturday was when we had a chance, during the first twenty-four hours. We had the whole world’s sympathies on our side. We had a chance to save the men who were lying there suffocating in a tin can. We had a chance to bring them up and reunite them with their families. That would have turned the disaster into a victory for Putin. Why didn’t we do it?”

  Denis nodded. “I had hoped I would have had a chance to order the appetizer before you attacked me. That turns out to have been unrealistic.” He waved at a waiter. “But I like it that you say we, Pashie, and not you.”

  Pashie looked away. She realized she’d interlaced her fingers and put her hands in her lap, as she often did during tense conversations. It wasn’t Denis’s fault those sailors had died. After all, he was just working at the Russian embassy in Stockholm. Don’t shoot the piano player.

  “I can recommend the Skagen toast for the appetizer and the Wallenberger for the main course. To drink?” said Denis. “We should have a little wine, shouldn’t we?”

  Pashie saw the open cabinet in the bathroom at home, the bottles from the pharmacy with their recommendations and warnings printed on the sides.

  “Yes, we should have wine,” she said.

  “Is it all right if I choose?”

  Pashie nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  Denis waved away her apology. The waiter came and filled their glasses.

  “I had to buy a little food after work to take home today—there was nothing in the refrigerator at home, not even a piece of bread for breakfast,” he said. “In the little supermarket near the embassy, they know me and other people who work there. I didn’t get served at the fish counter. The man standing back there ignored me and took care of the other customers instead, even people who had gotten there after me. Finally I objected. Do you know what he said?”

  “I can imagine,” said Pashie. “Something about the Barents Sea?”

  Denis nodded.

  “Suddenly we’re the evil people again. I thought those days were gone.” He raised his glass. “To your health, Pashie Kovalenko.”

  Pashie took a large sip of her wine. It laid itself in her stomach like a wet, calming blanket. The stomach pains she’d been feeling from her shots started to fade. She took another sip before she set her glass down. Denis watched her. Pashie felt the energy in his gaze.

  In an effort to confront that energy, she said, “Your wife—I can’t remember her name, but I met her at some point. You introduced me to her at the Russian school?”

  “Julia,” said Denis. “She’s in Moscow. She doesn’t like to be away from there for very long. Born Muscovite, you know. Only one city is good enough.”

  Pashie smiled. “I imagine you must get lonely, then.”

  “But not tonight. Thanks to you. You should do it more often.”

  “Eat dinner with you?”

  He laughed, and his white teeth gleamed. He must have had them bleached. One of his upper teeth was gold.

  “Give talks to the children at the Russian school, I mean. Eduard is still talking about it.”

  As part of the buildup phase for the Mir 2000 project, Pashie had given a lecture on the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child to the older children at the school. Eduard was Denis and Julia’s son; he was born when his parents were very young. Pashie had put a lot of effort into making the subject of her lecture understandable and entertaining for the children. Every day she had visited the class, she had given an assignment. She had chosen one of the convention’s themes, which they could present to the class in a manner of their own choosing—via a dance, a song, a drawing. The children’s creations had touched her deeply. For them there was nothing that blocked joy and goodness. She’d felt that these young Russian children stood for hope.

  “I’ve heard the embassy expressed some views regarding its security?” Pashie said. “You’re working on security issues yourself at the moment, aren’t you?”

  “I have been since last year. Yes, we’ve had cause to take a look at our security. And not just our own—the security of all Russian interests.”

  “What are all Russian interests?” asked Pashie.

  She took another sip of her wine. Denis noticed that her glass was nearly empty and refilled it.

  “There are many such interests, Pashie. You know that.”

  “Do you have anything for me on what I called you about?”

  “I assume that project is no longer relevant?”

  Pashie tried to guess what he knew and didn’t know. His Swedish was perfect. He followed news reports in the media and had good contacts with Swedish authorities. Of course he knew that the defense minister’s right-hand man had been murdered and that their effort to send a Swedish rescue operation had failed.

  “Sweden can still help. And there’s still the will to do so. With your support, we could revive the issue. A quick retrieval of the bodies and fair compensation of the families could minimize the damage to Russia’s international reputation.”

  “Indeed, the damage to Russia’s international reputation. That’s not what we’re most worried about.”

  “I’ve started a collection effort, Denis. Just today, I’ve collected over half a million kronor, to be donated to a women’s rights organization to support damages suits these women are bringing against the Russian Navy. You and I may end up on opposing sides. I thought it was fair that you should hear this from me directly.”

  “Does Vektor know who killed Torbjörn Lindström?” asked Denis.

  Pas
hie spilled a drop of wine on the table as she picked up her glass to take a sip. Why was he asking her that?

  “No. The police don’t know, either, it seems.”

  She immediately wanted to push away the picture that appeared in her head at that moment: Max sitting somewhere talking with Sofia Karlsson, the female police officer running the investigation.

  “This is going to be officially announced soon, but I think I should honor your open and frank manner by telling you this here tonight. Russia is going to accept the help NATO is offering. A rescue team from Norway, including Norwegian and British divers, is on its way to the area with a rescue vessel.”

  Denis flashed one of his broadest and most self-satisfied smiles.

  Pashie lowered her glass.

  So they had finally decided to accept help from the Western powers? Why now? Why hadn’t they right away?

  She felt a mixture of frustration and relief at this announcement.

  Denis reached across the table and took hold of her hand.

  “Perhaps we’re not such evil people after all?” he said.

  He released her hand and raised his glass again. “Here’s to the surprises that are still ahead of us.”

  Pashie looked out again at the beautiful view. The big luxury cruise ship lay completely still in the middle of Saltsjön, apparently entirely unaffected by the small waves that made the ferries rock on their way back and forth between Gamla Stan and Djurgården. The Seas of the World, big as a self-contained city within the city.

  “So other than Mir 2000 and collecting money to sue our government, what are you all up to at Vektor?” asked Denis.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d asked her about the killing of Lindström. Perhaps she could use this dinner to get more out of him? Denis was smooth, but he was also showing her a lot of goodwill. She clenched the hand he’d touched. A little too much goodwill.

  She thought about what Max had said about the investigation, about the heightened state of readiness at the embassy, about the rumors of increased Russian-agent activity in the Baltic Sea region, and about the bombing in Riga that Charlie had asked Sarah and Max to take a closer look at.

  She decided to take a chance.

  “We’ve been asked to investigate the circumstances surrounding the attack on the Centrs shopping center in Riga last week. Do you know anything about that?”

  “The week before last,” said Denis.

  His expression changed. Pashie hadn’t been sure where she wanted the question to go, but she realized she’d succeeded in gaining an advantage in the conversation.

  “Extremist Latvian nationalists—we can call them Nazis, because that’s what they are—detonated an explosive charge at the peak shopping time, while Russian housewives were shopping for food,” he said. “These Russian housewives and their families are living under increasingly difficult conditions in general as the Latvian regime is stripping the Russians, who make up a majority of the Latvian population, of more and more of their civil rights.”

  “Do you know whether there are any suspects?” asked Pashie.

  Denis drained his wineglass.

  “Top leaders with Russian backgrounds in the Baltic states are being replaced right now with Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians. This is happening within the prison system, among other areas. In some of those prisons sit some of the most dangerous men in the world, men who have spent most of their lives locked up, men who know only the law of the street and the laws among prisoners. The new prison directors are releasing them, and not because they have been rehabilitated and are now healed citizens who will do great things with what remains of their wasted and twisted lives, but because they are Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians. For many of these new leaders, revenge is the only driving force behind the decisions they’re making. Revenge directed against the Russians. It’s not going to be a surprise when it turns out that those responsible for the Centrs attack were recently released from one of those prisons.”

  “We need to be able to forgive if we’re to be able to move forward, Denis. That’s true of all of us.”

  “There are things none of us can forgive. Not even women with hearts like yours.”

  The waiter removed their appetizers and set a new bottle of wine on the table. Red this time.

  “I’m glad you’re taking a closer look at Centrs,” said Denis. “It’s a perfect example of what our countrymen are being subjected to. Let us help each other bring about justice for our Russian sisters and brothers and ensure that the guilty are charged.”

  He raised his glass, and Pashie clinked hers against his.

  53

  “Take a look at this,” said Max, handing a black-and-white photograph to Sofia.

  They had called DISS in Riga. An assistant had told them Kaldenis would not be available until Friday morning and booked a time for them to talk then. Sofia had asked a colleague to put together existing information on the attack at Centrs. While they were waiting, they read about the Balts’ flight across the Baltic Sea at the end of the war and went over documents from the Baltic Foundation’s files that illuminated what awaited a number of them after they arrived. Internment.

  The photograph Max handed Sofia was from 1946. It showed two Swedish police officers in black coats pulling along a naked blond man, his feet dragging across the damp ground. They were leading him toward a bus that was, according to the documents, waiting to take him to Trelleborg and the Soviet vessel Beloostrov. About twenty men in uniform, armed with rifles with bayonets mounted on them, surrounded the men.

  “I had no idea about all this,” said Sofia.

  “It’s not exactly something we focus on in school,” said Max.

  “But how in the hell could we do this?”

  “Pressure from the Soviet Union, and opinion in Sweden was divided. I found an old article from the newspaper Ny Dag that described admitting these men into Sweden as importing brown-shirted Baltic fascists. The Communist Party of Sweden—today the Left Party—wasn’t satisfied with deporting those who had fought for the Germans. They wanted to extradite all thirty thousand Baltic refugees.”

  “But why?”

  “Because they were Soviet citizens, and the Soviet Union was one of the victor nations of the Second World War. They had freed Europe from Nazism, and the conditions of the German surrender specified that all refugees from the Baltics were to be repatriated to the Soviet Union.”

  “How many were handed over?”

  “One hundred forty-six. Those who were confined to internment camps in Sweden took the view that their homelands no longer existed. They went on hunger strikes that lasted weeks.”

  Sofia shivered.

  “Have we never apologized to the Balts?” she asked.

  “Actually, we did just a few years ago at a royal reception at the palace in Stockholm. Then-minister for foreign affairs Margaretha af Ugglas said that handing over the Balts had been a mistake.”

  Max handed her a newspaper article about the apology offered to the Balts. The author of the article noted that some countries, including the United States and the United Kingdom, had never recognized the Soviet Union’s annexation of the Baltic states. But Sweden had, and it maintained its stance for a very long time. During his visit to Tallinn, Sten Andersson, Sweden’s minister for foreign affairs at the time, was asked on four occasions whether Estonia was an occupied country. Each time he had answered that Estonia was a part of the Soviet Union. That had been in 1989, not more than eleven years earlier.

  Sofia shook her head.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Max had hardly eaten in two days.

  “Yes,” he said, checking his cell phone.

  It was late. When are you coming home? Pashie had asked in her text message.

  “The hotel kitchen right across the street stops taking orders in fifteen minutes,” said Sofia. “What do you say?”

  Max thought of Pashie, of what had happened in the bathroom the prev
ious night, of how his phone ringing had wrecked the moment, and of what she had said to him. “Tomorrow is the last chance this month. To hell with you if something gets in the way then.” Something always got in the way, it seemed. The fertility evaluation, the shaman, the murder investigation, the Kursk disaster, the fund collection for the widows. It was getting so there were a lot of major obstacles to intimacy in their day-to-day lives.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”

  As they walked into the restaurant, Sofia said, “I need to go freshen up first.”

  “Same here,” said Max.

  “Unfortunately, we’re in the process of renovating our restrooms,” the waiter said. “But our guests are welcome to use the restrooms on the conference level. If you go over to the reception desk, they’ll help you with that.”

  Max shrugged, walked over to the reception area with Sofia close on his heels.

  “Maybe we’ll have to ask for a room?” Sofia said as he took the elevator key from the man behind the reception desk.

  Max smiled at her.

  When they returned to the restaurant, the same waiter showed them to their table. After they’d ordered, Sofia sat frenetically pushing buttons on her cell phone.

  “How are you doing?” asked Max.

  “I don’t need to pee anymore.”

  She looked up from her phone.

  “Other than that?” asked Max.

  “I’m doing okay. I’m hungry.” Sofia put her phone away.

  “Why does a guy like you spend his days sitting in an office? And have a business card that says ‘Analyst’?”

  “You don’t think I seem like an analyst?” asked Max.

  “Analysts are skinny guys who don’t want to stop going to school. Who hug the wall when guys like you pass them in the hall in middle school.”

  “You shouldn’t be so prejudiced. It’s not good in your line of work.”

  “Sure, but still. Why this? Why Russia and Vektor?”

  “I thought you knew my story.”

  “Okay, but let me put it like this. Does it seem meaningful? Do you think we’re ever going to be able to live in peace and not worry about our mighty neighbor to the east?”