Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  “What was this about?” he asked. “As far as I know, this was a regular guy? Not a high-placed civil servant?”

  “Can we agree it’s not the Russian government that’s behind this—at least between the two of us? I don’t feel like losing any more valuable time.”

  Carpelan quickly glanced behind him. Schiller was talking to Thornéus, the forensic technician.

  “Apparently the technicians have found fingerprints and DNA here as well,” he said.

  “Goga Golubkin?” asked Sofia as she shook her head. “Why would a Russian agent be carrying on like this?”

  Carpelan stepped closer.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “What have you and Max concluded?”

  “We got hold of a professor of semiotics in Tartu, Estonia. She gave us a lot of insight into these symbols.” She pointed at the bicycle wheel. “This is the symbol we found on the body in there. I would think it’s an old symbol from Baltic mythology. A sun god or something similar.”

  “A sun god?” said Carpelan. “How did the Wass family arouse the wrath of the sun god?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Carpelan looked over at the other men again.

  “I don’t think we have a lot of time. What do you actually know? What made you call a professor in Estonia?”

  “We followed the symbol track. The university in Tartu has a department that’s a leader in the area of symbology.”

  “Why didn’t you call a university in the United States or England?”

  “In Maj-Lis Toom’s house we found an old Nazi bracelet that very likely belonged to a Latvian legionary—that is, a Latvian man who joined the Nazis voluntarily.”

  “I know what a legionary is, Sofia.”

  “The bracelet led us to a semisecret organization that existed during the Second World War called the Odal defense, which was founded on a cooperative agreement between the Swedish government and Nazi Germany. Maj-Lis Toom fled from Estonia to Sweden. The Odal defense organization smuggled out descendants of Swedes, while others were forbidden to leave the territory. Many people were imprisoned, others executed.”

  “Can we move into the modern age?” Carpelan fidgeted impatiently, his gaze shifting between her and their colleagues a short distance away.

  “On the Swedish end, the organization was run by the C-Bureau.” Sofia nodded at Tomas Schiller.

  “The C-Bureau?” said Carpelan. “The predecessor of the Swedish Security Service?”

  “Yes. On the other end, it was run by Latvian Nazis. The whole thing was approved by Heinrich Himmler himself.”

  “Good Lord,” said Carpelan. “But how in the hell do you connect that to this?” He pointed at the destroyed house.

  “The professor in Estonia told us that old Baltic symbols are being used again, sometimes in connection with what’s called the third national awakening—that is, used by extreme nationalists.”

  Schiller and Thornéus were walking in their direction, and Carpelan turned to walk to meet them. But he glanced in her direction one last time.

  “Okay,” he said. “Continue where you and Max Anger were digging and report to me as soon as you have something.”

  Given how fast things had been moving the past few days and how little she had slept, it felt as though an eternity had passed since she and Max had called the University of Tartu. There was something odd about her boss’s behavior, about the game he was being forced to play with the state secretary. How long had he felt there was something fishy about this? From the very beginning?

  The C-Bureau. The predecessor of the Swedish Security Service.

  Sofia didn’t understand the scope of the game. But she knew she wasn’t the only one who thought something strange was going on in the corridors of power.

  69

  Charlie Knutsson opened his eyes. The bedsheets at the Radisson Blu Royal Garden Hotel were nice and soft. When he’d arrived at the hotel, he’d been so tired that he’d fallen asleep watching CNN even though it hadn’t been very late.

  The morning sun shone through the hotel room’s thin white curtains. He reached for his phone, which was lying on the night table. Good Lord. Thirty-six missed calls. Twenty-two text messages. He scrolled through them. With a few exceptions, they were birthday wishes. Four messages from Sarah. He read the last one.

  Charlie, we’re worried that something might have happened to you. Can you call me or the office as soon as possible?

  What could be behind this concern? After all, he’d told Sarah he didn’t want anyone celebrating his birthday.

  He thought of the events of the last week. The message he’d received from London. The concerns about what might be behind the large Russian exercise. The stress signal noted at the Russian embassy in Stockholm.

  On Sunday he’d done what he’d been asked to do. He’d taken control of the meeting before anyone else had had the chance to. Fortunately, there had been no Swedish mission. It was extremely important to prevent any rescue team from Sweden from going down to the seafloor and seeing the damage to the Kursk. That would put a sensitive agreement between Presidents Clinton and Putin at risk.

  Was Sarah on his trail?

  I’m doing this with our own best interests at heart, he thought. To achieve what we’re all trying to achieve. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about it.

  It would be best if he stayed away from Sarah and Max for a while. Until this was over.

  He opened the curtains and looked at the pretty view of the river Nidelva and Trondheim. Everything felt calmer here. No murder investigation they’d suddenly become involved in, no press hysteria. No old lover climbing into his bed. Perhaps one should take one’s age a little more seriously, he thought. Perhaps it wasn’t good for an old man’s heart to be spending time around people like Anastasia Friedenberga? He smiled at the thoughts that came back to him. Felt his penis fill with blood and become stiff.

  He saw his reflection in the big mirror over the desk in his “superior” hotel room. You’re officially an old man now, Charlie boy. Into his third and final period of play. He’d have to see to it that he used it well.

  His meeting with his contact person was down in the lobby in an hour. He’d just have time to take a shower and eat breakfast. And then get dressed for a few days at sea.

  Perhaps he wasn’t treating Sarah very nicely, but Charlie didn’t want to take any chances. Surely he would eventually be able to get her to accept that he’d given himself some extra freedoms on this of all days.

  One only turns seventy once.

  70

  Kandinsky had had to stop and rest just after passing the Norwegian border. The summerhouse on Ingarö had doubtless burned to the ground. In the flames, another Swedish citizen had passed out of this earthly life.

  The next in line was the aging man sitting and eating an expensive hotel breakfast. Kandinsky watched him from his parked car through the hotel restaurant’s big window. Kandinsky again felt the heat fill his body. That was the most wonderful aspect of this revenge: no one saw it coming.

  There was no doubt about their guilt, but they were unaware of it themselves. Such people could not defend themselves and could not warn others. They were beyond help.

  Kandinsky again went over the clear instructions he had received by phone. Park the car. Leave everything in it. All of that would be taken care of.

  The heavy suitcase in the trunk was never to be out of his sight; that was specified in the plan. Kandinsky was responsible for checking it regularly to confirm that the clock mechanism in it was ticking as it should. The new instructions Kandinsky had been given on what to take care of here, at this location, deviated from the original plan. But Kandinsky felt no doubt. He knew the man who had called him never did anything in haste or acted in an ill-considered way. The suitcase would continue to be in good hands.

  The man who had given him the new instructions had also called the Seaway Eagle in advance, falsely identifying himself as Captain Sharov of the Northern
Fleet’s headquarters in Severomorsk, making it possible for Kandinsky to get aboard the ship under an assumed identity. There, he would complete his next job.

  Number six.

  Kandinsky flipped down the sun visor and looked at his reflection in its mirror. Adjusted his uniform collar and cap. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  71

  Max saw Josefin Anger sitting on the edge of her bed, her back to him, her gaze turned toward the dark-stained closet door in front of her. She was wearing her light-blue-and-white nightgown, seemed to be rubbing her hands together. She turned around and looked toward Max, who was standing in the doorway. She was completely calm. Her face not ravaged yet. This was before the wrinkles, before the rings around her eyes, before the liquor and the cancer. Before the hunt for the truth had begun. She was no older than Pashie was now. Beautiful, rested, ready to meet the day, without worries.

  “Some of history’s greatest leaders have suffered from dementia. Roosevelt, Kekkonen, Stalin,” she said. “It doesn’t have to mean the end.”

  Max opened his eyes. His back felt very cold. He was lying on a hard, smooth surface. Something soft had been placed under his head.

  The cold light of the fluorescent tubes above him burned his retinas. Was he lying on an operating table? He shivered and tried to sit up, but his stomach was on fire, and he had to lie down again. The pain spread through his body. It was worst over his ribcage. Then he felt the throbbing agony in his forehead. What had the person hit him with? An iron pipe?

  He turned his head to try to get an idea of where he was. But that brought on a dizziness even worse than the kind he’d been experiencing lately. He was forced to lie completely still and close his eyes.

  A voice spoke to him. Max couldn’t understand what the voice was saying. It was just a series of strange sounds. The man spoke again, and Max realized what language the man was speaking. Russian.

  A hand touched him, and Max opened his eyes. A young man with close-cropped hair in a black leather jacket took hold of him under his shoulders and helped him sit up. Max grimaced. He put his hands on his knees to keep himself upright; his feet dangled in the air. He realized he was sitting on a table.

  Another man with darker hair approached him with a cup of steaming liquid. Max took the cup; someone laid a blanket over his shoulders.

  “Leave us,” said the voice.

  The two young men left the room. Max watched them go, noticed that the walls were concrete. The ceiling was of rough stone. He was down in an underground shelter. He could not see the man speaking to him. The speaker was in some place the light did not reach.

  “You speak Russian,” said Max.

  “So do you, Max Anger,” said the man.

  “Where am I?”

  “Solna.”

  Ten minutes by car from the boxing club. He tried to restore his blurry memories of what had happened since he had left Feliz. Someone had struck him down and kicked him. Then he had heard the sound of screeching car brakes.

  “You rescued me.”

  “You needed rescuing,” said the man.

  “Who were they?”

  “They were masked. We never got a chance to get to know them.”

  The man stepped out of the shadows. Nice haircut. Loose-fitting, expensive clothes that concealed an extremely fit body.

  “My name is Papanov,” said the man.

  Max put a hand to his forehead, touched the bump there. Where had he run across that name before?

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “It’s early in the morning. You’ve been examined. Since then you’ve slept. You should see a doctor for further care.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help. Can I leave now?”

  Max could taste something in addition to blood and stomach acid. What had they given him? He took a sip of the cup’s steaming contents. Russian tea. Chai.

  Papanov sat down next to Max on the table.

  “We have a little to talk about before you do that.”

  “Then maybe you could start by telling me why we’re in an underground shelter in Solna. A Swedish shelter.”

  “You are in contact with the Swedish police. With a certain Sofia Karlsson of the homicide division of the National Bureau of Investigation.”

  Max did not respond to this.

  “She has met with her superior, who in turn has extraordinarily called in representatives of various Swedish police units and also representatives of the Swedish military intelligence. You know what they’re talking about, don’t you?”

  “Why would I know that?”

  “Come on, Max. We saved your life. And we’re going to let you go after we’ve had our talk. You can show me a little respect and gratitude, can’t you?”

  Max thought he should feel vulnerable, but he didn’t. He was calm. Papanov was not threatening. But perhaps Max’s calm was just due to exhaustion.

  “Okay. I think they’re talking about you,” said Max.

  “I don’t think so,” said Papanov. “But I think they’re talking about one of my employees. A man named Goga Golubkin.”

  “I don’t know him,” said Max.

  “No, and you’re never going to meet him. Sofia Karlsson isn’t ever going to meet him, either.”

  “You shouldn’t underestimate the police. He’s the object of an international manhunt, and a bulletin about him has been sent out nationwide. There’s an Identi-Kit picture of him in every police car in the country.”

  “The idea that he or any other Russian should be behind the murders in Sweden is just as ridiculous as the idea that we would be behind a bombing in Riga that harmed our own brothers and sisters. It’s insulting.”

  The bombing in Riga? He hoped his conversation with DISS would make it clear what Papanov was talking about.

  “You have your view,” Max said. “The Swedish law enforcement community plans to develop its own.”

  Papanov unbuttoned his suit jacket and removed an envelope from the inside pocket.

  “Have you seen the Identi-Kit picture?”

  Max shook his head.

  Papanov handed him a drawing. The man in the picture had shoulder-length hair, a crooked nose, and a three-day beard.

  In an information box under the picture, it said he spoke no Swedish, spoke English with a strong accent, had short, dark-brown, curly hair, and often wore a scarf or something else around his neck. Shoe size 44.

  “Let me hear your analysis, Max.”

  Max looked at him. He didn’t like the way Papanov was speaking to him. As though they were old friends. He looked at the sheet of paper again. Not so much at the picture, which didn’t tell him much. In contrast, the text said a great deal.

  “There’s a lot that’s not right,” said Max. “For example, the notion that a guy like Goga wouldn’t know Swedish.”

  Papanov nodded.

  Max didn’t need to bring up everything else that didn’t fit. The beard stubble, the curly hair, and what was assumed to be a tattoo around his neck.

  Papanov took out a different picture.

  “This is Goga Golubkin.”

  Goga was blond, considerably shorter, compact as a tank, straight features, stone-hard gaze.

  “Shoe size forty,” said Papanov. “One might think Interpol and the Swedish police should at least have noted that discrepancy.”

  “Shoe sizes based on the evaluation of shoe prints can easily be off by a size or two. The police have DNA and fingerprints belonging to him. That’s enough to send him to prison for a very long time.”

  Papanov turned the sheet of paper over. On the back was another picture.

  “This is the same person—Goga Golubkin—after the attack at Centrs. It’s not easy to recognize him, but you can see this pink mess here by the corroded freezer—that’s his round stomach after the skin covering it was blown away. What you see hanging out is his intestines. The black area up here is his charred face.”


  Max swallowed. “You want me to take this to Sofia Karlsson. Is that all? You want to divert suspicion from Russia?”

  “I know the newspapers are devoting a great deal of attention to the new Russia and the threat we supposedly represent.” Papanov took the photo back. “But never mind all that. As far as I’m concerned, it’s fine if you fear us. What interests me is something else.”

  “What is that?”

  “You’re not going to let go of this until the killer has been caught, right? You have your reasons. And you know the Swedish police are barking up the wrong tree.”

  My reasons? thought Max. Did Papanov know about Maj-Lis? Did he know where Charlie was? And whether he was in danger? He decided not to get into what he himself considered important. This could very well be a trap.

  “Why don’t you think the police will succeed?” he asked.

  “It’s not just in Russia and Latvia that the police are under the control of politicians.”

  “You can’t compare Sweden to Russia or Latvia.”

  “Work with us, Max. We can give you resources. We can find the swine who did this to my comrade and the woman who was your teacher. When we do, he’s going to beg on his knees to be allowed to serve a life sentence in a Swedish prison.”

  Max looked Papanov in the eye. He was serious.

  “Thanks again,” he said. “I prefer to work alone. But I’m sure we’re going to meet again and you’re going to keep an eye on me.”

  Papanov smiled.

  “Yes,” he said. “You seem to need protection.”

  Max grimaced when he slid off the table and stood up. He was wearing the tracksuit he had pulled on after boxing the previous evening. His jacket was bloody. He felt the pockets of the overalls, checking for his possessions. Found his watch, keys, and phone. Nothing was missing. But in one of his jacket pockets, there was a little square packet.

  “I put your medicine in there,” said Papanov. “You’ve already been given a dose. I hope it’s the right kind.”

  The taste in his mouth, thought Max. He nodded to Papanov and walked toward the exit.