The Chosen

by Kristina Ohlsson

  “Tell them what you told me,” he said.

  The boy shuffled uncomfortably, obviously overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation. Alex sat down opposite him.

  “There’s no need to be scared,” he said. “No one thinks you’ve done anything wrong.”

  “But you think something terrible has happened to Abraham and Simon!”

  His eyes were huge with anxiety. Peder knew that his parents had been heavily involved in the search.

  “We don’t know that yet,” Alex said. “But we are worried that they might come to some harm if we don’t find them soon. It’s bitterly cold out there.”

  The boy automatically glanced over at the window as if to confirm what Alex had said. He nodded, gazing at the snow.

  “I spoke to Abraham yesterday.”

  “And when was that?”

  Fredrika stayed in the background, next to Peder. They had both silently reached the same conclusion: it was best if Alex handled this on his own.

  Peder looked at her profile. Motherhood had made her even more attractive. Her face was more relaxed, not as stressed as it used to be. However that worked—having small children wasn’t exactly a piece of cake. At least, not at Peder’s house.

  “I called just before he left for tennis; I’d forgotten he had a lesson.”

  “Do you play, too?”

  “No, my dad wants me to play soccer instead.”

  Alex smiled, but said nothing. Peder and Fredrika made no comment either; what kind of father forces his kid to play soccer?

  “And what did Abraham say?”

  “He was walking to the bus stop when I rang.”

  Abraham didn’t live far from Karlavägen, where he was supposed to be meeting Simon. About two hundred yards in the direction of Djurgården.

  The boy went on:

  “I was going to ask if he wanted to play computer games later, but he told me to call back after his tennis lesson. I asked him if he knew whether we were going skating with the school today, because if so I needed to ask my mom to get my ice skates down from the loft.”

  He paused, and Peder noticed that Fredrika was moving her feet up and down impatiently. It took an eternity for children to get to the point; interviewing them required an enormous amount of patience.

  “Abraham said he thought we were going to the skating rink, but then he said he had to go. He said that really, really quickly.”

  “Because he’d reached the bus stop where Simon was waiting?” Alex asked.

  “No, because someone in a car had pulled up and offered him a lift. At least, that’s what he said before he rang off.”

  Alex turned to Peder and Fredrika, stunned into silence. Peder could see that they were all thinking the same thing.

  The boys had accepted a lift and been abducted by someone known to them.

  Two mothers on a journey through hell that Fredrika Bergman could not and would not begin to imagine. Their sons had been missing for just over eighteen hours. During those hours the silence had been deafening; they hadn’t heard a word from or about their ten-year-old children.

  I wouldn’t be able to cope, Fredrika thought. Without Isak and Saga I am nothing.

  Before she had children, she had sometimes doubted whether she was capable of a mother’s love, a mother’s strength; of those qualities that seemed to make women capable of moving mountains for the sake of their children. Fredrika had thought she was too egotistical, too self-centered to stand being needed all the time. She had been wrong. On the contrary, it suited her perfectly to be so loved, so much in demand.

  She looked at the woman in front of her.

  Her name was Carmen Eisenberg, and her son was missing.

  It seemed to be a very conservative arrangement: the men were out in their cars searching for the boys, while the women remained in the center, engaged in a different aspect of the search. Abraham’s mother was in the room next door, talking to Alex.

  “Have you been here all night?” Fredrika asked.

  “Of course—where else would I be?”

  “I thought perhaps you might have other children at home.”

  “Some good friends are looking after our daughter. We have two children. Simon is the eldest.”

  Fredrika already knew how many children they had. She also knew how old they were and where they had been born: Simon in Jerusalem, the year the family moved to Stockholm, and the girl in Sweden. She thought about the elderly lady who had seen Simon at the bus stop and said he looked angry.

  “What kind of person is Simon?”

  “Quiet. Conscientious. Popular. Maybe too nice.”

  Maybe too nice? Was that possible when you were ten years old?

  “What do you mean?”

  Don’t evaluate what is said; just listen and ask for clarification if you don’t understand.

  “He’s always keen to fit in with everyone else, always ready to compromise. Sometimes others take advantage.”

  “His friends, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Abraham?”

  “Especially Abraham.”

  Her tone was neutral; she didn’t look upset. Fredrika had watched the interaction between the two mothers for a little while; they seemed to know each other well, and worked together with no friction. However, she hadn’t gotten the impression that they were close friends.

  “Tell me.”

  Carmen crossed her legs and tilted her head on one side. She spoke with a noticeable accent, a legacy from Israel. Fredrika didn’t understand a word of Hebrew, but she recognized the language.

  Israel. The country to which Spencer would be traveling on Sunday.

  Without her.

  “How can I explain?” Carmen said. “On the whole, Abraham is a good kid; he’s tough and confident, and nobody can tell me that those aren’t important qualities in life. But the negative side is that he’s incredibly competitive. Every single thing is a competition. Reaching the front door first when you get out of the car; scoring the highest marks on the math test. Simon’s not like that at all. He won’t take on Abraham’s constant challenges; instead he just lies down, so to speak. In school he runs his own race. If Abraham wants to make comparisons, he’s welcome to do so, but as far as Simon is concerned, thinking of every test or piece of homework as a competition does nothing to improve his motivation.”

  “And of course Abraham is aware of this?”

  “Absolutely. So if they’re playing soccer or computer games or whatever, he’s very good at getting his own way. Whatever the cost. Simon can’t cope with all that.”

  Fredrika thought about Simon standing at the bus stop, annoyed and probably cold.

  “Does Simon often end up waiting for Abraham?”

  “Far too often. My husband sometimes tells him off about it; he thinks Simon should make it clear to Abraham that you can’t behave like that.”

  Very wise. As long as Dad’s criticism didn’t turn into yet another problem.

  “I realize this might sound stupid, but I have to ask,” Fredrika said. “Do you think there’s the slightest chance that the boys might have gone off somewhere on their own?”

  “No.”

  Neither do I.

  “Abraham wouldn’t be able to persuade Simon to do something like that?”

  “The point is, if Simon ever got the idea of doing something as ridiculous as running away from home, Abraham would be the last person he would choose as his accomplice.”

  • • •

  Why did it have to be so hot in here? Alex thought about taking off his jacket as well, but would that look too informal? Probably.

  So he kept it on as he interviewed Abraham’s mother.

  Daphne Goldmann. A tall, dark woman with a steely expression. Just like Simon’s parents, Abraham’s mother and father had relocated to Sweden ten years ago. Alex wondered if this was a coincidence or whether the move had been a joint enterprise.

  “I understand that you’re under immense strain,
” he began. “Is someone helping out with your other children while you and your husband are here?”

  “Abraham is our only child.”

  So if something happens to him, you have no one left.

  “Do you work outside the home?”

  “My husband and I run a company offering various kinds of security solutions for organizations involved in activities in need of protection.”

  Alex had no idea what any of that meant, but didn’t really want to dig any deeper.

  “When and how did you discover that Abraham was missing?”

  He already knew the answer, but he had to start somewhere.

  “We realized something had happened when he didn’t come home after tennis. We called his coach, who said that neither Abraham nor Simon had turned up for their session. He had assumed they’d had problems because of the weather; apparently several of the children weren’t there yesterday.”

  “And what was your initial reaction?”

  “That something was wrong. That something had happened to them. If they’d got stuck somewhere because of the snow, they would have called.”

  “Why? Couldn’t they just have decided to skip tennis and do something that was more fun?”

  Daphne folded her arms.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Because?”

  “Because as far as Abraham is concerned, nothing is more fun than playing tennis.”

  “Is he good?”

  “He’s good at everything he does. Tennis is no exception.”

  Alex ran a hand over his chin, remembering the photographs he had seen of the boys.

  “What’s his temperament like?”

  “He’s very similar to his father. He can be hotheaded, but he can also be very considerate. Above all, he’s totally loyal.”

  “To his family? His friends?”

  “To everyone he cares about.”

  “Does he have a lot of friends?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Alex thought about Simon, waiting in the cold at the bus stop.

  “We think Abraham was late getting to the bus stop where he was due to meet Simon. Have you any idea what could have delayed him?”

  “No. Abraham always has a thousand things to do, which means he sometimes finds it difficult to keep an eye on the clock.”

  She shrugged and reached up to touch a pendant hanging around her neck.

  A silver Star of David.

  “My husband and I don’t regard it as a problem. People don’t usually mind waiting for someone who has a reasonable excuse.”

  Alex thought this wasn’t necessarily true, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his job to correct a grown woman.

  “It sounds as if Abraham is very driven. Qualities like that can sometimes lead to conflict.”

  “Really?”

  Not a hint of irony in her voice. She really didn’t get it.

  “I’m just thinking about other people who either regard a competitive instinct as provocative or who are equally competitive themselves. Does Abraham have any enemies?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Why did he dislike her so much? Alex looked searchingly at the woman sitting opposite him. A woman whose son had been missing for much too long in a bitterly cold Stockholm. Why didn’t he feel any empathy for her situation?

  Because her whole attitude rejected empathy and understanding. She was like a predator on the hunt, completely focused on the mission to find her son.

  Dead or alive.

  “Is there anywhere Abraham particularly liked to go?”

  He disregarded the fact that she had just said that she didn’t believe her son would have gone off of his own accord. Children sometimes got the strangest ideas, and Alex was sure that Abraham was no exception to that rule. Alex also guessed that if he was as driven as he sounded, he could probably carry through quite advanced projects behind his parents’ backs.

  “You mean in Sweden?”

  Alex was surprised.

  “Well, yes—that’s where we are.”

  “I’m only asking because he loves visiting my parents in Israel,” Daphne explained. “I’m not sure if he has any favorite places here in Sweden. We have a summer cottage that he loves, but he never mentions it in the winter when we’re not there.”

  Alex made a mental note of the summer cottage, but he didn’t really think it would get them anywhere.

  He was just about to end the interview when his cell phone rang. The call came from one of his colleagues at HQ.

  They thought they had found the boys.

  If Eden Lundell had the choice, she thought she would like to die on a cold winter’s day just like this one. But not until she was old or worthless, of course, whichever came first.

  The call had come in just under an hour ago. Someone had reported hearing shooting out at Drottningholm. Two shots at an interval of approximately twenty minutes. Not in the immediate vicinity of the palace, but security had decided to contact Säpo’s personal protection unit anyway. A group of bodyguards accompanied by members of the National Task Force had searched the park and surrounding area but found nothing out of the ordinary.

  They were just about to call off the operation when they found the bodies on the edge of the Royal Drottningholm Golf Club. They were lying on their backs, approximately fifty yards apart.

  Eden was informed about the original call only because she was spending a few weeks as acting head of the personal protection unit while carrying out her duties as head of counterterrorism at the same time.

  “I know you’re not exactly short of something to do,” GD had said. “But I’d really appreciate it if you could support our bodyguards while their chief is on sick leave for two days a week.”

  Eden always had time. Time was something you created, not something you were given. She also felt that the work of the personal protection unit had many links to the activities of her own team.

  The discovery of the two bodies was reported directly to Eden and the head of the protection unit. Five minutes later they were in a car heading toward Drottningholm, at Eden’s suggestion.

  “I hope it’s not those boys who went missing in Östermalm yesterday,” her colleague said.

  Who else would it be? Eden thought.

  It did her good to get away from Kungsholmen for a while. There had been just one thing on her mind ever since GD called her the previous evening:

  Efraim Kiel.

  The biggest fuckup in her entire life.

  What the hell was he doing back in Stockholm?

  She had had a brief meeting with GD first thing in the morning. Efraim had checked into the same hotel as last time and was already under surveillance. No doubt he felt safe there. He wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without them knowing exactly what he was up to. Whatever that was supposed to achieve.

  They stopped in the avenue leading to Lovö Church, where several vehicles were already parked. Eden slammed the car door and greeted the colleague who came over to meet them, a young man she hadn’t seen before.

  “You were the one who ran the investigation into the plane hijacking last year, weren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I was.”

  She had been relatively new to the job back then. A plane carrying four hundred passengers had taken off from Arlanda and was hijacked high above the clouds. The only person who had so far been held responsible for his actions was the captain, who had been sentenced to life imprisonment in the USA. The chances of his being allowed to serve his sentence in a Swedish prison were negligible, and the prospect of a pardon was even less likely.

  They plowed through the snow, sinking up to their knees.

  From a distance they could see only two paper bags, sticking up out of the snow and breaking the line of the landscape. Brown and hard. Both bodies had sunk down and were difficult to see from a distance.

  Two children. Like snuffed-out snow angels with paper bags on their heads.

 
Two boys. With bare, frozen feet.

  Eden crouched down.

  “Fuck,” the head of the protection unit said behind her.

  The forensic pathologist would be able to provide more information about what had happened to the boys, but at first sight there didn’t appear to be any major injuries, apart from the bullet wounds that had presumably killed them.

  “Is this where they died?” Eden asked one of the CSIs standing a short distance away.

  “We haven’t got that far yet, but, yes, I think that seems to be the case. If you look at the tracks in the snow, it looks as if the boys walked or ran to the spot where they are now. They appear to have been shot in the chest.”

  Eden looked around.

  Children’s footprints in the snow. Bigger prints alongside the small ones. The killer’s. He, or she, had walked up to the victims to check that they really were dead.

  And put paper bags over their heads.

  Why?

  Someone had drawn faces on the paper bags. Big eyes, wide open as if in terror. And big mouths that looked as if they were calling out to someone or something.

  “This isn’t our case,” her colleague said. “I’ve spoken to the police and they’re on their way.”

  Eden gazed at the boys for a moment before she got to her feet. She knew instinctively that the paper bags were important to the killer. They carried a message, directed to someone other than the police.

  The only question was: To whom?

  But someone else could work that out. Eden had enough problems of her own.

  If Efraim Kiel dared to take as much as one single step in her direction, he would pay a higher price than he could ever have imagined.

  Three murders in less than twenty-four hours. Something like that would send shock waves through any community, particularly in a country like Sweden. Sheltered and protected, a kingdom of safety and security.

  A discovery had been made on the edge of a golf course not far from Drottningholm Palace. No further details had been released, but that was enough for Efraim Kiel. He realized they must have found the boys. He listened attentively to the news bulletin on the radio.