Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  Max walked to the window, opened the blinds, and let a little of the morning sunshine come into the room.

  “Mir 2000?” he said.

  “Here, I have some pictures of Kungsträdgården from yesterday afternoon. The city of Stockholm is expecting a few thousand visitors today.”

  Max looked at the pictures. He knew very well what this was. It had been Pashie’s highest priority at Vektor. “Increased humanitarian aid and a new beginning for stronger cultural ties between Sweden and Russia.”

  He thought of what Sarah had said to him on the telephone about the stress signal and the journalist’s nervous source. The signal was on a timer and would stop sending its warning sometime today. The Russian embassy’s head of security had suddenly announced that the ambassador would not be able to attend the inauguration in Kungsträdgården. Papanov had used torture to extract information from Kandinsky before he’d shot him. The car had still not been found.

  “Sofia,” said Max. “You asked me something on the plane to Trondheim when we were looking at Lietuvens’s cross. What would happen after the ten murders were committed? You put your finger on the symbol in the middle of the cross.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” said Sofia. “Dievs’s symbol.”

  “The most powerful of the symbols. With the rage of Dievs, the vault of heaven falls on human beings and the ground opens beneath our feet. We were wrong, Sofia. The murder of ten Swedes was only the prelude.”

  116

  The police cruiser drove at top speed from Kungsholmen to Kungsträdgården, with its blue flashers on but no siren.

  “We’re in contact with the ministry, Per,” said a voice from the little radio receiver in Carpelan’s hand. “The state secretary is very upset. He’s on his way to the site and is going to want to talk to you as soon as you show up.”

  “Looking forward to it. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Carpelan turned to Max and Sofia in the back seat.

  “I hope you’re right, Max. Otherwise I’ll lose my job, effective today.”

  “Everything has fit up to now. Mir is the Russian word for ‘earth,’ and it also stands for ‘world’ and ‘peace.’ According to the myth of Dievs, the ground collapses when his rage is awakened. A hole opens up to the fires of hell in the underworld. What’s happening now is the culmination of the acts of vengeance.”

  “It’s quite convenient that the Russian ambassador is sick, then,” said Carpelan.

  “Do you think Papanov got this out of Kandinsky?” asked Sofia. “That he was the one who warned the embassy?”

  Max nodded. “This explains something that’s been puzzling us the whole time. Why Papanov is here in the first place. Why he’s taking such extreme measures. It’s not about getting revenge for the killing of an agent. It wasn’t Kandinsky himself he needed to get hold of. It was something else. Something connected to the last part of the plan.”

  “What?”

  “I hope we’ll understand that when we get there.”

  There weren’t many people in Kungsträdgården on this early Sunday morning. A few wide-awake dogs and their owners. A few spirited nightclub guests staggering out of McDonald’s and looking for a taxi that would take them home so they could sleep off their drunk.

  Arriving police officers broke the calm. Dog patrols. The rapid response force.

  A man in a suit walked up to Carpelan.

  “Is that Schiller?” asked Max.

  Sofia nodded. Schiller began talking to Carpelan with great agitation, gesticulating before the bureau head.

  Suddenly a call came through on Sofia’s personal radio. She turned a knob to adjust the volume. Max saw that Carpelan was doing the same and ignoring the state secretary.

  “They’re confirming a suspicious object,” said Sofia. “We’re going to evacuate Kungsträdgården. Rosenbad has been warned,” she said, referring to the prime minister’s offices. “The Security Service is evacuating the prime minister. Anyone not wearing a bomb suit must leave.”

  117

  They were back in Carpelan’s office at the National Bureau of Investigation. They had confiscated Tomas Schiller’s cell phone and locked him in one of the interview rooms. He had stopped talking in midsentence when Carpelan took him by the arm and pulled him over to a police cruiser. Since they had arrived at the police building, the state secretary hadn’t said a word; he had only stared straight ahead.

  Opposite Carpelan sat the leader of the bomb group, the only police officers left down in Kungsträdgården.

  “We found a piece of luggage under the light console,” he said.

  “Can you describe what it looks like?” asked Max.

  The bomb man looked at him.

  “Max Anger,” said Carpelan. “He’s a consultant assisting with the investigation. An expert on Russia with a military background, a member of an organization called Vektor. It was Max who warned us that there could be a bomb in Kungsträdgården.”

  “It looks like an old-fashioned suitcase: grooved metal body with black steel details.”

  Max nodded.

  “What’s in it?” asked Carpelan.

  “I can’t say, because we don’t dare touch it,” said the bomb man. “The suitcase itself is equipped with a booby trap.”

  “A molniya,” said Max. “Russian for ‘lightning strike.’”

  “Is this a Russian suitcase?” asked Carpelan.

  Max realized how sensitive this situation was. No good would come of spreading panic. He tried to keep his worst fears to himself.

  “I think it’s a Russian suitcase,” he said. “A molniya is a Russian booby trap, an explosive device that can be placed on containers to make it impossible for unauthorized individuals to open them. During the Cold War, the Russian intelligence services hid weapons, decryption equipment, explosive charges, and other items underground or behind walls in various locations in a number of Western countries, including Sweden. All of these were equipped with versions of the molniya. Only a small number of individuals could open them.”

  “What happens if someone tries to open one without knowing how?” asked Carpelan.

  “Two years ago, a container equipped with a molniya was found in a forest outside Bern, Switzerland. They sprayed water on it using a high-pressure hose, and it exploded. Everything in the container was destroyed. If people had been near the container, the explosion would have killed them.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend spraying water in this case,” said the bomb man.

  “Why not?” asked Carpelan.

  “The Swiss had ascertained that there were no explosives inside the container,” said Max. “I assume that in this case you haven’t been able to exclude the possibility that explosives are present.”

  “That’s correct,” said the bomb man.

  “So if I’ve understood this correctly,” said Carpelan, “we probably have a bomb we can’t disarm because it’s protected by a separate explosive charge.”

  Max nodded. That’s exactly right.

  “Can you say anything about how you think the bomb in the suitcase could be detonated?” asked Carpelan.

  “You might have read about a stress signal registered at the Russian embassy?” said Max. “At Vektor we’ve received information that this signal indicates a countdown.”

  “Okay,” said Carpelan. “We’ll have to put up roadblocks at the Royal Dramatic Theatre and in a ring around Berzelii Park, all the way to Stockholms Ström. To the west we’ll have to close the area to traffic up at Sergels Torg.”

  One-third of the explosive force of the Hiroshima bomb. The Stockholm area would have to have been evacuated from Knivsta in the north to Järna in the south.

  Carpelan looked at Max, bit his lower lip.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “I don’t know. But we have no time to lose.”

  118

  Tomas Schiller looked up when Max came into the room. He had undone the top buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie. Hi
s eyes were bloodshot.

  “What do you all think you’re doing?” he hissed. “And who the hell are you?”

  Max sat down on the table near Schiller, who glanced at the window.

  “There’s no one on the other side, Tomas.”

  “Don’t you know who I am?” asked Schiller. “What unit are you from? Are you military?”

  “You wanted to be like your idols, huh? Like the men you’ve studied and admired. Cabinet secretaries, the ministers’ supersmart policy pros who took care of the dirty work and kept Sweden out of the war.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. You have no right to keep me here.”

  “Who would have thought that extraditing the Balts after the Second World War would come back to bite us like this? You wanted to keep that from resurfacing at any cost. It was better to hinder the investigation than to let the truth come out? I hope you had very good reasons.”

  Schiller shook his head.

  “You knew what was behind these murders when you checked out De vi vårdade with your wife’s library card, didn’t you?”

  Still no answer.

  Max laid his right hand on Schiller’s shoulder. Pressed inside the clavicle with his thumb. Not hard, but enough to make Schiller grimace. He leaned close to Schiller’s ear and said in a low voice, “It’s time to put your cards on the table. Five people have already died. If you don’t talk now, many more will.”

  “What have you found in Kungsträdgården?” asked Schiller.

  Max whispered what he thought it was. Schiller closed his eyes.

  “If you tell me everything you know, we’ll have an outside chance of making things right. But the clock is ticking now.”

  Tomas Schiller nodded and started talking.

  119

  After fifteen minutes in the interview room with Schiller, Max had heard all he needed to know. And he had gotten the state secretary to do an important thing for him.

  It wouldn’t be possible to get to Anastasia Friedenberga using ordinary methods.

  He had remembered Charlie Knutsson’s final words: “For her, nothing is beyond the limits of the reasonable.”

  Max had imagined himself in her situation. What would he have done if he had been in her shoes? So close to achieving her final goal? If he’d had the privileges that came with diplomatic immunity, he would have exploited them. Sofia’s colleagues monitoring the embassy had reported that Anastasia was staying in its suite of rooms for overnight guests. They couldn’t enter the building. That was why he’d been forced to lure her out.

  State Secretary Schiller had sent her a message from his cell phone.

  “Meet me at Café Nero on Roslagsgatan for an important talk. A short walk from the embassy. I can’t come to where you are. Not now, not today.”

  Max had informed Sofia and Carpelan of what would happen next. They were sitting in Sofia’s civilian car a short distance from the café, ready to act on Max’s signal. Sofia had called the café in advance and given the manager instructions on what to do. She had assured the café that it would all be over within a few minutes.

  Max sat in the café’s inner room with his left shoulder toward the front room. Anastasia Friedenberga walked in with quick steps. When she found the café empty, she stopped. She seemed to sense Max’s presence, but she didn’t turn around. She slowly moved a hand toward her purse.

  Max stood up. The moment she saw him, he took hold of her arms and pushed her down onto one of the tables.

  “You?” she said.

  When Max had made sure she wasn’t carrying a weapon, he pulled her purse out of her hand, turned around, and closed the door behind them.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “Who are you really, Max Anger?” she asked. “Chto ti?” she repeated in Russian.

  “I’m the person I claim to be, which is more than we could say about you, Anastasia. The game’s over now as far as you’re concerned.”

  He took out his cell phone and sent a message to Sofia that she could come to the café and wait for them on the other side of the door.

  “Police officers from the homicide division of the National Bureau of Investigation are waiting out there. You’re going to be arrested, interrogated, and very likely charged and sentenced to many years in prison for abetting murder and terrorism.”

  “Murder? Terrorism?” she shrieked. “I’m not guilty of anything!”

  “Save it for the police and the prosecutor. I have a bone to pick with you, and then I’ll let the police take care of you. Given that five men have died because of your actions, I wouldn’t hope for particularly lenient treatment.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Anastasia was still trying to maintain her mask. It took a strong and intelligent woman to succeed in doing what she’d done, but Max wasn’t surprised. It took an intelligent woman to fool them all, including Charlie Knutsson.

  “You couldn’t get over having the man you’d loved taken from you, could you, Tasenka? Ozols, the man you’d cared for. The man whose story resonated in your depths, in your longing for your homeland. You wanted the two of you to live as man and wife in a free Latvia, a great pan-Baltic nation.”

  Anastasia snorted. “I’m not going to comment on your fantasies about my love life, but I still haven’t abandoned that dream about my country. I am the chairwoman of the group of countries that…”

  “I know that,” said Max. “I also know you lied to me when you said you didn’t know where Charlie was going. By refusing to tell me, you sent him to his death. I know you were in contact with Kandinsky after Ludwigs Ozols returned to Sweden. I know the two of you helped him plan the Centrs bombing. I know you managed to get people to believe the bombing was a Russian provocation. I know that Kandinsky stole something dangerous from a Russian agent named Goga Golubkin. All of this has brought about an acute crisis that threatens to cost a far greater number of human lives than you can justify with your insane desire for revenge.”

  Anastasia shook her head; she was unable to suppress a smile.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

  She seemed to no longer care that Max knew she was lying.

  “There’s only one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Why Maj-Lis Toom? Your childhood friend.”

  Anastasia emitted a short laugh. “You really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Her voice had changed; she sounded as though she still believed she had the upper hand.

  “You loved her when you were a child—is that right? And she loved you? That would make you the only person who ever got any love from that woman. When I was young and new here in Sweden, I did everything I could to help those who were fighting for our cause, for our country, my brothers and my sisters. The woman you call Maj-Lis Toom was actually an entirely different person. She was a Latvian traitor. She lied her way through life. Left her family, even abandoned her own child!”

  “No, she did not. Her son, Taniel, died with his father on the crossing to Sweden.”

  “They did not!”

  Anastasia pounded her fist on the table. Her knuckles were white.

  “Her real name was Rebeka Meija, and she left her only son in a children’s home in Riga, a hellish place run by Jesuit pedophiles who subjected the children to things you could never imagine!”

  The bracelet. The slip of paper inside its links. The names Rebeka Meija and Raimonds Cilpa. The children’s home director Kandinsky had murdered.

  Could it be true?

  “She sat there on Björkö and hated all men and felt sorry for herself. She wrote letters to me. In them she told me about everything she had done to save her own skin. When she had finally cheated her way to Sweden, there was a thing, one single thing, she could have done for her country and her sisters and brothers. She could have protected the life of the man she had betrayed, a man who’d fought for our country more bravely than any other. When she turned her back on him, she turned her back
on the Latvian nation. To save her own skin!”

  It was as if Anastasia had become a different woman. She screamed the words.

  The puzzle pieces were finally coming together for Max, changing things he had believed all his life. Things that had involved him in this mess in the first place.

  He recalled the photo in Maj-Lis’s house. Two young girls sitting side by side in a hammock. Best friends. Tasenka.

  Maj-Lis Toom’s entire life had been a lie. And she had gotten Max and everyone else to believe it.

  “She didn’t protect the life of the man she’d betrayed?” said Max. “Ludwigs Ozols?”

  “Yes, Ludwigs Ozols!”

  He should have grasped this. Mara, the mother of all. She had been the first victim. Suddenly Max understood why.

  “Maj-Lis had no son named Taniel,” he said. “She had a son named Oto. Oto Zagars. Kandinsky.”

  Anastasia nodded, seemed to collapse when she realized that Max understood.

  “Thirty-five years in the remotest part of Siberia, Max. Ludwigs fought to survive there. To build facilities for thousands of people who lacked his strength, who had been betrayed by the Swedes and stolen by Stalin. He was sent there because Rebeka, or Maj-Lis, as you call her, couldn’t allow the lie she was living to include him. Her own son’s father!”

  The last words came as a sob. The woman in front of him had been consumed by her hatred. Maj-Lis had been similarly destroyed. Two women, destroyed in their youth by ideologies, politics, and war.

  “Sometimes we have to move on, Anastasia. We can’t let hate win.”

  “We will never lay down our weapons.”

  “Where is Ozols now? Don’t let more innocent people die. I know he’s in Stockholm.”

  “For fifty years he longed for his son, kept himself alive for his son’s sake. And what do you think he found after he finally discovered where his son was?”

  Max thought of what he’d heard about Kandinsky’s time in the children’s home and in the Soviet prisons. He saw Kandinsky’s naked, tattooed body as it had looked after Kandinsky had been tortured and shot in the head in the hunting cabin.