Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  Nevertheless, questions remained.

  On his desk in front of him he had the recordings from Tomas Schiller’s phone tap. There were many conversations to go through. Despite the fact that it was Saturday, the state secretary seemed to have had a busy day.

  He pressed Play to listen to the evening’s latest call from the Justice Department.

  “I suppose I don’t need to tell you how bad it would be if the public became aware of this,” said a woman. “Don’t forget, the information you have came from me to begin with. Now, I need you to listen very carefully to what I have to say. Soon discussions are going to take place in preparation for the summit in Prague. Our countries’ security depends on membership in NATO. Your country’s security situation will be significantly improved if the military border of the alliance is moved closer to Moscow and farther away from you.”

  “Certainly,” said Schiller. “No one thinks anything different. But these murders—”

  “We know nothing for certain,” she hissed. “Are my people supposed to suffer once more because some lost brother, or a few lost brothers, went astray and committed insane acts? We can’t all be punished for such things. Not again!”

  “How much longer are you going to keep bringing up what happened such a long time ago?”

  “It’s the blackest chapter in your history. Not least in the history of your own organization.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” asked Schiller.

  “Are you aware of what the C-Bureau did in the forties, or are you too young and stupid? Are you aware that that organization came into existence without the approval of the government? That it cooperated with the Nazis in order to smuggle people in exchange for providing liquor to alcoholic Nazis who raped our sisters and mothers? That the same C-Bureau men, in their black coats, established concentration camps in Sweden in which brave men were interned and worked as slaves? That they put up barbed wire and guarded those brave men night and day with German shepherds and loaded guns? I know your bosses, Tomas, and I know those who were the bosses before them. Your actions in this situation will define the rest of your career. You don’t want all that surfacing again, do you? Particularly not now?”

  Schiller was quiet at the other end. Seemed, if anything, to be catching his breath.

  “Two things are coinciding within the next few days,” the woman went on. “You are launching Mir 2000, a new project for cooperation with Russia, in Kungsträdgården tomorrow. That is a major event. The city expects thousands of visitors. During the following week, the UN will appoint a new High Commissioner for Refugees. That is one of the United Nations’ top jobs, a prestigious post that brings with it a great deal of influence. It is the prime minister’s explicitly stated wish that this post should go to a Swedish candidate. And we both know her.”

  “My boss,” said Schiller.

  “It’s good you understand. Then do as I say. If all of the cruelty associated with the extradition of the Balts comes back up to the surface, you can scrap Mir 2000 and forget about a Swede getting one of the United Nations’ most important posts.”

  Carpelan switched off the tape recorder and looked at the notes. The call from Schiller’s office had been to a number with an address in Stockholm.

  Odengatan 5.

  The Latvian embassy.

  Berlin, October 1994

  The car dropped him off outside the restaurant in Prenzlauer Berg, in a part of the city that had been situated in the German Democratic Republic before Germany was reunified. Ozols pulled open the door and looked at the robust, varnished wooden tables, the light-blue wall paneling, the excess of cuckoo clocks, the miniature wooden figures of old men and women, and flower arrangements that gave the place its national-romantic character. An elderly waitress in traditional folk costume momentarily made Ozols think he had come here in a time machine and not in a very ordinary beige Berlin taxi.

  Just as he had expected, the man he’d been looking for was sitting with his back to the wall, gazing out at the open space. The restaurant was otherwise empty; it was too early for dinner. Perhaps he was still stuck in the routines and the daily rhythm that had existed in Kolyma despite the fact that so many years had passed?

  The man looked up from his large lump of meat when the little bell over the door announced Ozols’s arrival. When he saw who had arrived, he set his knife and fork down.

  Ozols walked up to him.

  “You’re not an easy man to get hold of, nemetski.”

  “You’re alive? How can that be?” The old doctor got up and held out his arms. “Come here, my friend!”

  Ozols threw his arms around the German. He was still just as thin and rangy as he had been then. An old man now, just like Ozols himself.

  Ozols sat down and ordered a glass of beer.

  “How long did you stay?” asked the doctor.

  “Long after Khrushchev’s amnesty. Thirty-five years in all.”

  “Thirty-five years? What does it take to kill you?” He clinked his beer glass against Ozols’s and took a large sip. “I thought the amnesty meant the work in the mines was no longer being carried out by political prisoners but by volunteers?”

  “Volunteers and convicted violent criminals. I started fighting with our good friend on the train out. It was chaos. Almost two hundred thousand men were suddenly leaving. He hadn’t forgotten that I had resisted his authority. I had to deal with it.”

  “The chief?”

  “He couldn’t tolerate the fact that I was still alive. Only one of us was going to survive. I was convicted and sent back. I was no longer an enemy of the people, but I remained in Kolyma.”

  The nemetski sighed deeply and shook his head.

  “And then?”

  “I returned to Latvia, enjoyed spending time with my mother during her last years. I tried to get in touch with my son, but it proved to be the case that he had followed in my footsteps, if you know what I mean, even though we’d never met. Now I know where he is. I have plans finally to be reunited with him, even though it’s late. He’s not a boy anymore, Doctor. He’s a middle-aged man.”

  The doctor waved over the waitress.

  “I need something strong. You?”

  Ozols nodded.

  “Two Doornkaats!”

  The waitress set two small glasses of German schnapps on the table, and the doctor raised his.

  “I have you to thank for my life. It cost you many years, my friend.”

  “I’m here to give you an opportunity to restore the balance.”

  The doctor grimaced when he swallowed the liquor.

  “I thought so. What can I do for you?”

  “They would never have let you go if they hadn’t needed you for something special. That you’re sitting here alive and free today is a greater miracle than my own survival.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Ozols could see fear returning to the doctor’s gaze.

  “The worst mistake you made in your life,” said Ozols, referring to what the doctor had told him when they’d first met. “I put together what you had told me and your sudden release with things I read about and other things I heard about from my fellow prisoners. You have no idea what kind of information is exchanged in the camps. You gave your knowledge to the Soviet intelligence services and were the driving force behind the development of what came to be known as RA-115s—terrible weapons.”

  “Not all human beings have your strength, Ozols. I know what I’ve done to survive, and I’m not proud of it. But I can tell you one thing: every hour of my life, now as then, I hate the Russians more than anything else. If there was anything I could do to punish them, I would do it, whatever it was, despite the fact that Yeltsin is suddenly Germany’s new best friend!”

  “That friendship is highly temporary,” said Ozols. “Vanyka never changes his spots.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “So what do you have planned, Ozols?”

  “The weapons you and the GRU de
veloped were so unpredictable and dangerous that the two superpowers agreed to forbid them. You have mastered the underlying technology; you know how to use it.”

  “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right. How would I get my hands on such weapons?”

  “You know I’m good not only at making enemies inside the barbed wire but also at making friends. During my last years in Kolyma, I became a good friend of a Bulgarian who dealt in weapons. I did him a few favors. In return, he contacted me after we were released. He told me that a weapon of the kind I am seeking has lain hidden in Sweden since the mideighties. I have an old friend in Stockholm. We have found the weapon.”

  The doctor gave Ozols a hard look.

  “Are you aware of the consequences of what you’re suggesting?”

  “Yes. It would lead to the third war. The inevitable war that is a prerequisite for restoring the rights of my people and creating Aistia, the great Baltic region of which my people and your people spoke after the First World War, the dream that was crushed by Hitler and Stalin. There won’t be a better opportunity than right now, when Russia is on her knees. We must seize this opportunity and secure our independence for all time.”

  “So you want me to teach you how to move the weapon safely and how to activate it?”

  Ozols nodded. He extended a hand across the table. The doctor took it.

  “I never thought this day would come,” said the nemetski. “That I would get the chance to pay them back.”

  “It will begin in Sweden,” said Ozols. “Then it will spread to Uncle Vanyka and the swine in Moscow. I want to watch them burn before I draw my last breath.”

  SUNDAY,

  AUGUST 20

  114

  Papanov sat in his provisional command post in the underground shelter in Solna. On a grainy screen, he saw underwater movements that would have been impossible to understand were it not for the colleague on the Barents Sea commenting on the action via earphone.

  “The Seaway Eagle is sinking a remote-controlled camera down toward the Kursk to inspect the hull of the submarine.”

  “The first Norwegian diver has reached the submarine.”

  “Norwegian divers have opened the outer hatch.”

  “The airlock is flooded with water.”

  “No bodies found.”

  “It will be several minutes before the inner hatch is opened.”

  “I’ll wait,” said Papanov.

  He looked at his watch. It would soon be six thirty in the morning, local time, in Stockholm. Five and a half hours left; then it would all be over. One way or another.

  “Norwegian divers are opening the inner hatch.”

  “The cabin is flooded with water. I repeat, the cabin is flooded with water.”

  “The evacuation team has established that the crew are dead.”

  “Their mission is not to evacuate dead bodies. The mission is canceled.”

  “I have received word that a representative of the Russian Navy will shortly make an announcement that all one hundred eighteen people aboard the Kursk have been confirmed dead.”

  Papanov pulled out his earphone, reached toward the screen and switched it off. It was as he’d expected. Anything else would have been a miracle.

  Rest in peace, Comrade Lyomkin.

  He recalled the conversation they’d had early on the morning of the first day of the military exercise, before the accident.

  “In 1984 you participated in a secret submarine operation in the Baltic Sea. This operation involved transporting a weapon and going ashore to hide it in a secret location on Swedish territory.”

  “I am still protecting it with my life.”

  Now that that life had been extinguished, there was only one thing left to do.

  Right now, the world might not be able to imagine a disaster worse than what had befallen his brothers in the Arctic Ocean, but what lay in wait was of an entirely different magnitude. Something that had lain buried in Sweden for many years had been dug up by an enemy none of them could ever have anticipated. If it hadn’t been for the built-in warning signal the object had sent to the embassy in Stockholm just over a week ago, they would never have heard about it before the catastrophe occurred.

  But that wouldn’t be all.

  General Lebed’s pronouncement on American TV. His doomsday prophecy that had made them all look like fools in the eyes of the world. Ever since Papanov had first heard the news about the Centrs bombing in Riga, he’d had the unpleasant feeling that Lebed would be proved right.

  The perfect weapon for a terrorist.

  Lyomkin was one of the two agents who had participated in the secret operation in 1984. The other was Goga Golubkin.

  Now they were both dead.

  But the stress signal was still sounding.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed the number for the Russian embassy in Stockholm.

  “Denis Zynoviev,” said Papanov. “As the member of staff in charge of security at the Russian embassy in Stockholm, I order you to cancel all of the ambassador’s official activities today and bring him to a secure place as far from the center of Stockholm as possible. Please repeat and confirm.”

  115

  Max was sitting in the meeting room at the National Bureau of Investigation that had become his and Sofia’s shared office. Exhaustion was starting to get the better of him, and his chin was falling toward his chest more and more frequently. He’d abandoned his plans to go home and catch up on sleep after Sarah called and told him Anastasia Friedenberga was Anna Isaksson. Sofia had placed the Latvian embassy under surveillance. Because of the rules and laws associated with international diplomacy, it wasn’t possible just to go in and arrest her.

  There was a knock on the door. Max jumped. He looked first at Sofia, who was typing on her computer keyboard. Then at his watch. It was five to seven in the morning.

  The head of the National Bureau of Investigation stood in the doorway and hesitated before he took a few steps into the room.

  “Charlie Knutsson died of his injuries at the hospital last night,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry, Max.”

  It was suddenly hard to breathe. Max stood up and rushed past Carpelan, out into the corridor.

  “Max!” Sofia shouted behind him.

  It sounded as if her voice were coming from a distant place. He managed to make his way into the men’s room. He stood in front of the mirror behind the sink and took out the packet of alprazolam.

  Someone laid a hand on his arm. Sofia was standing there. He hadn’t even noticed her come in.

  “Max, it’s not going to help if you—”

  He tore open the packet. The blister packs containing the blue pills flew into the sink. He stared at the number written in ink on the inside of the packet.

  “Whose number is that?” asked Sofia.

  She looked at his reflection in the big restroom mirror.

  It’s the number for someone who’s always one step ahead, he thought. The only person who seems to have any idea what’s actually going on.

  Carpelan was suddenly standing in the doorway.

  “I have more to tell you,” he said.

  Max squeezed the empty packet in his hand. The taste of metal spread through his mouth; his ribs ached. He didn’t like the way Papanov had spoken to him, as though they had been old friends, were on the same team.

  “You know the Swedish police are barking up the wrong tree. Work with us, Max. We can give you resources.”

  “I have a recording of a conversation I want you to listen to, Max,” said Carpelan. “I think you can help us understand what it’s about.”

  “What conversation is that?” asked Max.

  “It’s a conversation that took place a short while ago between Tomas Schiller and the Russian embassy.”

  Max nodded. He slipped the packet into the back pocket of his jeans and followed Carpelan.

  In his office, Carpelan pressed a key on his computer to wake it up. A marker indicated th
at he had paused the playback a little after the beginning of the conversation. He pressed Play.

  “Unfortunately, I must inform you that the ambassador is ill and has had to cancel his commitments today.”

  The man spoke Swedish well, with a slight Russian accent. The voice was not Papanov’s.

  “What are you saying?” Tomas Schiller sounded dazed. “But he can’t do that. Not today, Denis! God damn it…We’ve been planning this all year. The event kicks off today. All those months of preparation. What am I supposed to tell the prime minister? Can’t you shoot the ambassador up with cortisone or adrenaline or some damn thing? We’re talking about one hour of his time!”

  “I’m sorry. I understand that this is inconvenient.”

  “You have to be fucking kidding me!”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Schiller went on.

  “If the ambassador is not in place in Kungsträdgården at twelve o’clock, this whole Mir 2000 project is going to be launched as a fiasco. Can you really afford another fiasco?”

  “I am going to overlook your last remark,” said the Russian. “Once again, I apologize.”

  The conversation ended.

  Carpelan looked at Max.

  “Who is the man Schiller was talking to?” Max asked.

  “Denis Zynoviev,” said Carpelan. “The third man in the pecking order at the embassy. He is responsible, among other things, for the safety of the ambassador.”

  He switched to an image-processing application and showed Max a picture of Denis.

  The charming, worldly smile; the sharp-looking clothes. He was the man Pashie had been dining with at Gondolen. How wrong he’d been. She had been there on duty, working for Sarah and Vektor. Loyal to her task, as always.