Red Wolf

by Liza Marklund

  ‘I don’t remember anything else,’ she said.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘You’re going to tell me what you know before you leave.’

  ‘Am I being arrested?’ Annika asked. ‘Suspected of some crime?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Right, then,’ Annika said. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘I’m ordering you to stay.’

  ‘So lock me up,’ Annika said, and walked out.

  She took a taxi out to Lövskatan to pick up her car, and paid with the paper’s credit card, one of the few perks she had been able to keep since she voluntarily stopped being an editor. As the taxi rolled away she was left standing there, infinite space above her, listening to the rumble of the steelworks.

  She had hardly thought about Thomas all day. One of the nurses had called to tell him that she had been taken in for observation in Luleå Hospital, which wasn’t quite true, she had just been examined and released, but she wasn’t complaining. It wouldn’t do him any harm to think she was ill.

  She took a deep breath, the air crackling like sandpaper in her throat.

  The light around her changed. She lifted her face to the sky and saw a veil drift across the moon, and the next moment a firework display went off above her head, like something she’d never seen before.

  From horizon to horizon, an arc of pale-blue light stretched across the sky, moving in sweeping ripples, splitting into cascades of luminous colours over the whole sky. She stood there gawping at it. Pink, white, swirling and twisting, colours and lights and stars tumbling over one another, getting brighter and then dissolving.

  The northern lights, she thought, and a second later the sky began to crackle.

  She gasped and took several steps back, surrounded by sparkling space.

  A streak of purple merged with a semicircle of green, the two playing around each other, cracking and sparking and vibrant.

  It’s a strange world up here, she thought. When the earth is frozen solid the sky starts singing and dancing.

  She laughed quietly, a soft and unfamiliar sound. It had been a very peculiar day. She clicked open the lock, climbed in and put the key in the ignition. The engine protested but decided to cooperate, and she found an ice-scraper in the glove compartment, got out and cleared the ice and frost from all the windows. Got in again, turned the headlights on full.

  There was a glow at the top of the hill where Karina Björnlund had disappeared earlier. On the horizon she saw a ribbon of pink light flicker and die, and suddenly remembered the transformer box and the duffel bag.

  Less than a kilometre away, she thought.

  She put the car in first gear and drove slowly up the road, as the ball-bearings in the wheels protested. She went past the no vehicles sign, under the power lines, past the Skanska building and the empty car park. The track got narrower and narrower; she crept along as the headlights played over scrub and craggy snowdrifts.

  She put the car in neutral and pulled on the handbrake shortly after the viaduct, climbed out and walked towards the box. There was a handle, and a sliding bolt. Hesitant, she took hold of the frozen metal, twisted and pulled. The door opened and the duffel bag fell out at her feet. It was heavy, but not as unwieldy as it had looked when Göran Nilsson was dragging it behind him.

  Annika looked round, feeling like a thief in the night. Nothing but the stars and northern lights. Her breath hung white around her, making it hard to see when she crouched down. Whatever this might be, it was Ragnwald’s bequest to his children. He had gathered them together to read them his will. She held her breath and untied the large knot holding the bag closed, then stood up, holding the bag upright.

  She peered into it, heart pounding, saw nothing, reached in her hand and found a box of Spanish medicine. She put it carefully on the ground, reached in for the next.

  A bottle of large yellow pills.

  Göran Nilsson had been heavily medicated towards the end.

  A packet of suppositories.

  A box of red and white capsules.

  She sighed and reached in one last time.

  A five-centimetre-thick bundle of notes.

  She stopped and stared at the money, as a light wind blew eerily through the trees.

  Euros. Hundred-euro notes.

  She looked around her. The sky was flaming, blastfurnace number two over at the ironworks was roaring.

  How much?

  She pulled off her gloves and ran a finger over the notes, new notes, entirely unused, at least a hundred of them.

  One hundred hundred-euro notes.

  Ten thousand euros, almost one hundred thousand kronor.

  She pulled on her gloves again, leaned over and pulled out two more bundles.

  She folded down the sides of the bag and looked openmouthed at its contents. Nothing but bundles of euros, dozens of them. She pressed the bag, trying to work out how many layers there were inside. A lot. An absurd number.

  Then she felt sick.

  The executioner’s death-tainted bequest to his children.

  Without reflecting any more about it she picked up the bag and threw the money into the boot of the car.

  49

  The glass internal doors of the City Hotel slid open with a swishing sound. Annika walked into the chandelier-lit space, blinking against the light.

  ‘I think she’s just walked in,’ the receptionist said into a telephone behind the counter. ‘Annika Bengtzon?’

  Annika looked at the young woman.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it? From the Evening Post? We spoke when you were here two weeks ago. I’ve got your boss on the phone.’

  ‘Which one?’

  The woman listened.

  ‘Anders Schyman,’ she called across the lobby.

  Annika hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and walked over to the desk.

  ‘Tell him I’ll call him in five minutes, I just need to check in.’

  Ten seconds of silence.

  ‘He says he wants to talk to you now.’

  Annika reached for the receiver.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The editor-in-chief sounded muted and clenched when he spoke.

  ‘The newspaper’s telegram agency has just sent out a newsflash that the police in Luleå have cracked a thirty-year-old terrorist cell. That the attack on a Draken plane at F21 has been cleared up, that an international hitman has been found dead, and that a suspected terrorist is still at large.’

  Annika glanced at the receptionist’s inquisitive ears, turned round and stretched the lead as far as she could.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said.

  ‘It says you were there when the hitman died. That you were locked up with some of the terrorists. That Minister of Culture Karina Björnlund was one of the members. That you alerted the police so that they could be arrested.’

  Annika shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘Oops,’ she said

  ‘What are you planning for tomorrow?’

  She glanced at the receptionist over her shoulder, who was trying hard to look as though she wasn’t listening.

  ‘Nothing, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m not allowed to write about terrorism, that was a direct order. I obey my orders.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Schyman said. ‘But what are you writing? We’ve torn up everything we’ve got, all the way to the centrefold.’

  She clenched her jaw.

  ‘Not one single line. Not in the Evening Post. I’ve got a hell of a lot of material, but because you’ve forbidden me to gather it then of course I won’t be using it.’

  There was a short, astonished silence.

  ‘Now you’re being silly,’ he eventually said. ‘That would be a very bad miscalculation on your part.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but who’s responsible for the miscalculations on this story?’

  Silence echoed along the line. She knew the editor-in-chief was fighting against a justifiable instinct to tell her to go to hell and slam the phon
e down, but with an entirely empty news section he couldn’t afford to.

  ‘I’m on my way to bed,’ she said. ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’

  Anders Schyman started to say something, but changed his mind. She could hear him breathing down the line.

  ‘I’ve had some good news today,’ he said, trying to sound conciliatory.

  She swallowed her derision. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m going to be the new chair of the Newspaper Publishers’ Association.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you answering your mobile, by the way?’

  ‘There’s no coverage up here. Goodnight.’

  She handed the phone back to the receptionist.

  ‘Can I check in now, please?’

  The door of the lift was heavy and Annika had to strain to push it open. She stumbled out onto the fourth floor, the thick carpet swallowing her steps.

  Home, she thought, home at last.

  Her business-class room was off to the left. The hotel corridor was tilting slightly from side to side, and she had to put her hand out to steady herself against the wall twice.

  She found her room, pushed the card in, waited for the little bleep and the green light.

  She was greeted by a gentle hum, and narrow slivers of light creeping round the closed curtains, her safe haven on earth. She shut the door behind her; it closed with a well-oiled click. She let her bag slide to the floor and switched on the main lamp.

  Hans Blomberg was sitting on her bed.

  50

  She froze to ice, her body utterly rigid. She couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Good evening, young lady,’ the archivist said, pointing a pistol at her.

  She stared at the man, his grey cardigan and friendly face, trying to get her brain to work.

  ‘What a long time you’ve been. I’ve been waiting for several hours.’

  Annika roused her legs and took a step back, fumbling behind her for the door handle.

  Hans Blomberg stood up.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, my dear,’ he said. ‘My trigger finger is terribly itchy tonight.’

  Annika stopped and let her arm drop.

  ‘I can believe that,’ she said, her voice high and very thin. ‘You haven’t hesitated so far.’

  He chuckled. ‘How true,’ he said. ‘Where’s the money?’

  She leaned against the wall for support.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The money? The Dragon’s bequest?’

  Her brain rattled into action, her thoughts rushing in a torrent, the day ran past in images and emotions and conclusions.

  ‘Why do you think there’s money, and why would I know where it is?’

  ‘Little Annika the Amateur Detective who creeps around the bushes. If anyone knows, it’s you.’

  The man approached her with an ingratiating smile. She stared up at his face.

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why did you kill those people?’

  He paused, and leaned his head to one side.

  ‘But this is war,’ he said. ‘You’re a journalist, haven’t you noticed? The war on terror? That must mean armed struggle on both sides, don’t you think?’ He chuckled contentedly.

  ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ he went on, ‘but suddenly it was legitimate to eliminate dictators and false authorities, and there are lots of those around the world, they’re everywhere.’

  He looked at her and smiled.

  ‘As a journalist, Annika,’ he said, ‘you’ll be familiar with the old adage, “dig where you stand”. There are stories everywhere, why cross the river to fetch water? The same thing applies to false authorities, why look further than you have to?’

  ‘And Benny Ekland was one of them?’

  Hans Blomberg took a few steps back and sat down on the bed again, waving with the pistol to indicate that she should sit at the desk. She obeyed, moving through air as thick as cement, and dropped her polar jacket beside the chair.

  ‘You haven’t quite understood,’ the archivist said. ‘Hans Blomberg is just my alias. I’m really the Black Panther; I’ve never been anything else.’

  He nodded to emphasize his words, as Annika searched feverishly for a loose thread, something that could make him unravel.

  ‘That isn’t strictly true,’ she said. ‘You’ve tried to fit in as Hans Blomberg as well, haven’t you? All those articles about the county council that were always published at the bottom of page twenty-two, was that it?’

  A flash of anger crossed his face.

  ‘A way of maintaining my façade until the Dragon came back. He promised, and his return was the signal.’

  Then he smiled again.

  ‘Benny made sure I ended up in the archive. Not that I’m bitter, because of course I won in the end.’

  Annika forced back a feeling of nausea.

  ‘But why the boy?’

  Hans Blomberg shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It was a shame that he had to go, but war claims many civilian casualties.’

  ‘Because he recognized you? You used to see the family socially, didn’t you?’

  Hans Blomberg didn’t reply, merely smiled gently.

  ‘Kurt Sandström?’ Annika said, fear pounding in her stomach, putting pressure on her bladder.

  ‘False authority,’ he said. ‘A traitor.’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘From Nyland,’ Hans Blomberg said. ‘The big lad on the next farm, he was one year older than me. We were at Uppsala together, and joined the movement at the same time. But Kurt’s faith was weak, and he drifted over to the side of capitalism and exploitation, to the farmers’ movement. I gave him a chance to change his mind, but he chose his own fate.’

  She was holding on to the desk.

  ‘And Margit Axelsson?’

  Hans Blomberg sighed, adjusting the hair across his scalp.

  ‘Little Margit,’ he said. ‘Ever-lovely, trying to make the world a better place. She always meant well. A shame she was so loud and obstinate.’

  ‘And that’s why you strangled her?’

  ‘She betrayed us.’

  Annika shifted on the chair and felt that she would have to pee soon.

  ‘So tell me,’ she said, ‘why did you blow up the plane?’

  The man gave a small shrug.

  ‘It was really just a test,’ he said. ‘Of the Dog’s loyalty.’

  ‘And she did as she was told?’

  He chuckled at the memory.

  ‘She was so angry about the Wolf leaving that she would have done anything. The Dog was so disappointed, but you know what girls are like. Popular little Karina was only interested in fucking whoever all the others wanted.’

  ‘But,’ Annika said, ‘why were they getting married, if that was the case?’

  The archivist laughed out loud. ‘You really fell for that,’ he said. ‘The marriage announcement. I made it up there and then, wanted to give you something to chew on. And, my word, you did chew, didn’t you?’

  He calmed down and nodded thoughtfully, and Annika stood up.

  ‘I have to go to the toilet,’ she said.

  Blomberg was on his feet with the same speed she had seen when he attacked the Minister of Culture in the compressor shed.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Then I’ll wet myself.’

  The man stepped back, but hit the bed.

  ‘Go on, then, but no tricks. Leave the door open.’

  She did as he said, went into the bathroom, pulled down her trousers and underwear, and relieved herself.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, and in her eyes she could see what she had to do.

  If she stayed in the room she would die. She had to get out, even if that meant taking Hans Blomberg with her.

  ‘Who’s the Tiger?’ she asked as she walked back into the room, concealing her intentions behind dull eyes.

  Something needy and lustful had lit up in the archivist’s eyes. He wa
s staring at her crotch.

  ‘Kenneth Uusitalo,’ he said. ‘Departmental manager at Swedish Steel. A really great guy, active in the Manufacturers’ Association, negotiates slave-contracts with the Third World. Unfortunately he’s been away for a while.’

  He licked his lips.

  Annika went over to the desk again, and leaned over it.

  ‘But really,’ she said, ‘you’re not much better yourself. You’re only after Göran’s money.’

  He flew up like a shot, raced across the room and pressed the pistol to her forehead.

  ‘For being sarcastic,’ he said, taking the safety catch off, and she felt fear loosen her bladder and let out the few drops that were in there.

  ‘Good luck with the treasure hunt,’ she croaked, her mouth completely dry.

  He stared at her for a few seconds, then pulled the gun away from her head, pointing it at the ceiling.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, ‘but I saw Göran Nilsson put a duffel bag in a transformer box next to the railway. Could that be it?’

  She gulped audibly, the man raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘so it’s suddenly time to tell the truth, is it?’

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  He moved so that he had her in his line of fire as her knees gratefully lowered her onto the chair.

  ‘Where exactly is this box?’

  She struggled for air for several seconds.

  ‘Not far from the viaduct,’ she said. ‘There’s a little clump of pine trees right next to it.’

  ‘How come you saw that?’

  ‘I was hiding, watching Karina, and I saw Göran put the bag in there.’

  The archivist went up to her, put his hand round her neck, breathing right in her face and staring into her eyes.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘I do believe you’re telling the truth. Put your coat on.’

  Hans Blomberg backed towards the door.

  ‘I’ll have the pistol in my pocket the whole time. If you try anything you won’t be the only one. You’ll be taking the girl in reception with you to hell. Understood?’

  Annika nodded, pulling on her jacket. They stepped out of the room; the corridor was tilting and swaying. In the lift the archivist stood so close to her she could feel his chest against her breasts.

  ‘How did you know where I’d be staying?’ she asked, looking up at his face.