Samson.
ISRAEL
The lion was everywhere, its image on manhole covers and flags, on ceramic ornaments and pieces of jewelry.
“The lion is the symbol of Jerusalem,” Isak Ben-Zwi explained when Fredrika asked him about it. “There are early references to the lion’s significance for the city in what Christians refer to as the Old Testament, and the symbol of the lion played a major role when we were a part of the Ottoman Empire.”
They had left the American Colony in the eastern part of Jerusalem for a late-evening walk. Isak led her down Nablus Road to the Damascus Gate, set in the magnificent wall that encircled the Old City. The wall was lit up, shining against the dark sky, beautiful and uncompromising.
“During the day the Old City is a gigantic marketplace,” Isak said. “We can come down tomorrow if you like; nothing is open now.”
Even though Fredrika had visited Jerusalem before, she really wanted to go to the market again. If she had time.
Tomorrow she was due to visit the kibbutzim; theoretically she would be able to go home in the evening.
“Did you find out any more about the Paper Boy?” she asked Isak. “You said you were going to do an online search in Hebrew.”
He didn’t reply. Was she imagining it, or was his expression less amiable than it had been earlier?
“This way,” he said. “I will show you the Old City by night.”
He took her hand and led her down the stone steps toward the dark opening of the Damascus Gate. She presumed he was being a gentleman, but the gesture felt much too intimate. Discreetly she withdrew her hand, holding the strap of her shoulder bag instead.
Isak looked at her. He was clearly annoyed, much to her surprise.
So much for being a gentleman. It had been an invitation. And she had turned him down.
The Old City was both dark and deserted. The long, narrow alleyways were normally packed with traders, but now there were only endless dark walls with huge metal doors protecting the goods behind them.
“They arrive first thing in the morning,” Isak explained. “Open the doors and set out their wares. Earlier in the year, when we had a lot more tourists, it was almost impossible to walk along here.”
Fredrika could easily picture the scene, in spite of the fact that it was so quiet now. A scruffy cat padded silently by, and Fredrika gave a start. She would never have ventured down here alone.
They turned left into the Via Dolorosa, walked along the road where Jesus had allegedly carried his cross, although in the opposite direction. At the end of the narrow thoroughfare the Lion’s Gate stood before them.
“This is where our soldiers entered during the Six-Day War,” Isak said, “and raised the Israeli flag over Temple Mount.”
His voice was suffused with pride and warmth. He was much too young to have been around back then, but Fredrika guessed that older members of his family might well have fought in the war.
Or wars.
Because there had been so many more wars in the territory that had been known as Israel since 1948. I wonder if there will ever be peace here, she thought.
She felt slightly ashamed and instead focused on the symbol of the lion, trying to understand how it fitted into the investigation: why someone calling himself the Lion had emailed Jewish children in Stockholm—emailed and possibly murdered them.
They walked back up the Via Dolorosa.
In silence.
Until Isak suddenly stopped. Fredrika stopped, too, on her guard. She wondered what the hell she was doing between two silent walls of stone with a man she didn’t know.
“I’ve given you almost an hour,” he said.
His voice was perfectly calm, but his expression was dark and aggressive. He moved a step closer.
“An hour. And still you haven’t told me.”
Told him? What did he want her to say?
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.
She backed away until she was pressed against the yellowish-white wall, with Isak much closer than he should be.
“I think you do,” he said. Still utterly calm.
The fear he aroused in her made her angry.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m going back to the hotel right now.”
She tried to sound determined but failed. As she moved to walk away, he grabbed hold of her and held her tightly, pressed up against the wall with his face only inches from hers.
“You and your colleagues haven’t told us everything there is to tell.”
The words emerged as a protracted hiss.
When she didn’t reply, the grip on her wrists tightened.
“The Paper Boy,” he said. “You know who he is, don’t you? That’s why you’ve come here. You and your subterfuge. You want our help to drive out someone you wouldn’t be able to get at otherwise. Fucking liar!”
He let go of her, and she collapsed like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
What the hell was he talking about?
She made an attempt to reason with him.
“I’ve no idea what you mean, but I can see that you’re very upset. I don’t know what’s happened to make you so angry, but I can assure you that neither I nor my colleagues know anything about the Paper Boy. That’s why we came to you.”
Her torrent of words was interrupted by a scornful laugh.
“You’ve made me and my men look like idiots! Getting us to run errands that you should have asked your own security service to take care of.”
Security service?
He swore again.
“Did you think I was going to share that kind of information with you? Did you?”
Fredrika’s entire body was shaking. Something had gone wrong. It was hardly a coincidence that Isak had brought her to the Old City late at night, when he knew the place would be deserted.
She was tired and frightened; she just wanted to go back to the hotel.
“I promise you, we didn’t and don’t know anything about the Paper Boy. That’s why I’m going to the kibbutz in the morning, to find out more.”
Isak gazed wearily at her.
“And you think they’ll be able to tell you something? You’re obviously deluded. If you want to go somewhere tomorrow, you’re on your own. I’m done with you and your games.”
With that, he turned his back on her and walked away. Fredrika hesitated for a second, then set off after him. He stopped and spun around.
“Don’t fucking follow me. This is where we go our separate ways. If you have any more questions relating to your investigation in Stockholm, fax them over when you get home.”
She stared after him as he disappeared into the darkness, the sound of his rapid footsteps echoing between the walls and fading away.
She stood there in the cold and the darkness without any idea of what she had done to upset him so much. Perhaps the answer lay in his assertion that he had been used to carry out tasks that should have fallen within the responsibility of the Swedish security service.
She didn’t have a clue what he meant by that. The only thing she could imagine was that any links to the world of intelligence were stronger and more numerous than they had realized and that they had inadvertently marched straight into affairs that were both secret and sensitive. But how? And how were they supposed to find whoever was behind the murders if even those in authority were determined to protect their secrets?
But that wasn’t her biggest problem right now. Her biggest problem was finding her way out of the labyrinthine streets of the Old City, with the lights out and not a soul in sight.
Fredrika knew that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the Damascus Gate without Isak’s help. However, she thought she could find the Lion’s Gate, which meant she would be able to get out of the Old City and follow the wall back to her hotel.
Walking as fast as she could, her arms tightly folded across her chest, she set off along the Via Dolorosa once more.
CO
NCLUSION
FRAGMENT VI
The case has been like an octopus, with each tentacle representing a separate lead. The inspector remembers every single one of them. The leads that took them to Lovön. To Israel. And now to the home of a colleague.
He knows that it is over now.
That the Paper Boy has claimed his last victim.
All that remains is to understand what has happened.
And that will be impossible, because too many people are keeping quiet. Sheltering behind rules he knew nothing about.
During the past few days they have trampled on secrets they didn’t even know existed. Upset people they have never met, without being able to apologize. Because how can you say sorry when you don’t know what you’ve done?
As he stands in the apartment where a family has been smashed to pieces, he has a horrible feeling. A horrible feeling that he has missed something.
Something vital.
Something staring him in the face.
It was something I saw, something that didn’t feel right.
He walks around the apartment once more. It is beautiful. Turn of the century. Stylishly renovated, perfectly in keeping with the period.
As he stands in the hallway, it suddenly strikes him. The bloodstains. They don’t make sense.
He calls one of the CSIs over.
“You think the man died here in the hallway,” he says.
“It looks that way. Check out the concentration of the blood; it’s all over the floor, from one side right across to the other.”
From one side right across to the other.
“But why are there no bloodstains linking the scene of the murder and the bedroom?”
The CSI has no answer to that question.
“The witness claims the man was shot in the doorway,” he says. “Maybe he didn’t die right away. Maybe he managed to get to the bedroom before he lost consciousness.”
But the inspector doesn’t think so. Because there is blood in the hallway, where the first silenced shot was allegedly fired.
Then it dawns on him what he saw.
His gaze returns to the wedding photograph. To the man’s face.
His brain stops working.
It can’t be true.
But it is.
He shouts to everyone else in the apartment.
“Listen to me—there’s a man missing here!”
He looks at the wedding photograph again. The man smiling into the camera is not the same man who was lying on the bed with the children. He is not the children’s father. And he is not married to the woman who was standing here a few minutes ago, saying good-bye to her children.
Earlier
The Sixth Day
Monday, January 30, 2012
Time: Before 22:10
It was as dark as if it were the middle of the night, even though it was morning. It was seven thirty, and Alex Recht was exhausted.
Polly Eisenberg was still missing.
He had expected her to be found dead as quickly as her brother, but that hadn’t happened; however, he had no idea whether that meant she was still alive.
He started the morning by asking Carmen and Gideon Eisenberg to come to Police HQ. He had run out of patience. Someone had to start talking, and it seemed reasonable to expect the missing child’s parents to oblige.
Fredrika had called him late last night, sounding very upset as she told him how her Israeli contact had abandoned her in the Old City in Jerusalem. She said he had “gone crazy” before he walked away, which could only mean that they had stumbled on highly sensitive information without being aware of it. He didn’t even want to think about what implications that had for their chances of solving the case.
“Go and visit the kibbutzim,” he had said to her. “Then get back here as soon as you can.”
“I will, but I don’t know if it’s going to be any use: Isak seemed to think it would be a complete waste of time.”
Alex had lost track of the days, having worked all weekend. He reminded himself that it was Monday and that Fredrika would be back the following morning. Good. He needed her. More than ever.
Mona Samson was today’s project. She wasn’t answering her phone and hadn’t responded to the two messages Alex had left on her voicemail.
Where the hell was she?
He picked up the notes one of the temporary members of his team had put together. Her company was fairly new: Samson Security AB had been registered in Sweden less than a year ago, which meant there was no information about company turnover or commercial activity. All they had was a brief statement saying that the firm specialized in various security systems. The homepage was equally sparse: there were no client testimonials to attract new business, for example.
Thoughtfully he read through the last section of the notes. Samson Security AB was part of a larger concern. There was also a note from the colleague who had originally been in contact with Mona Samson to the effect that she didn’t speak Swedish but English. There was no indication as to where the mother company was based, but Alex thought he knew. In order to double-check he phoned the tax office, which confirmed his suspicions.
Samson Security AB was part of Samson SecInt, or Samson Security International, and its head office was in Tel Aviv, in Israel.
Alex searched online for Samson SecInt but found nothing.
Of course.
He picked up the phone and called Fredrika.
“I’ve got another job for you. There’s a firm called Samson SecInt which is supposed to have its head office in Tel Aviv. See if you can find it and ask about their branch in Stockholm.”
“I haven’t got much time,” Fredrika said. “I’m in a cab on my way to the kibbutzim at the moment.”
“Do your best,” Alex said.
An unnecessary exhortation; Fredrika always did her best.
He ended the call and turned his attention back to the computer screen and the homepage of Samson Security AB. The only contact information for Mona Samson was her telephone number; no address. Could the firm have several offices in Stockholm? The apartment block he had visited the previous day had looked like Mona Samson’s private residence rather than business premises. Why had his colleague assumed this was her office?
He made a phone call, and his colleague said that he had been given Mona’s contact details by Saul Goldmann during their first interview with him. Alex and Fredrika hadn’t been involved at that stage, because they were still concentrating on Josephine’s murder.
“To be honest, I didn’t make much of an effort to check out the company. I had an address where Saul Goldmann said they had met, and Mona Samson confirmed that.”
“Over the phone?” Alex said.
“Yes. She was out of town when I called. In Skövde, I think she said.”
That might well have been what she said, but Alex had a bad feeling about the whole thing.
After a little more digging he discovered that Samson Security AB was registered at a post office box in Stockholm. Mona Samson, however, was not registered anywhere; the apartment in which she was living was presumably a sublet.
Alex thought things over. Regardless of whether or not Mona Samson could provide Saul Goldmann with an alibi, they must know one another. Goldmann had given the police both her address and telephone number and claimed they had had a business meeting, which had apparently taken place at her private residence. Unless of course her office was there, too—but why would an overseas company that had invested in a branch in another country go for such an unprofessional setup?
After a certain amount of hesitation, he called Saul Goldmann. Saul sounded tired when he answered, almost apathetic.
It was now four days since his son had been found shot dead out on Lovön, barefoot in the snow, with a paper bag over his head. That could drive any parent crazy. Or leave them feeling tired and apathetic.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Alex began. “But we’re having problems getting in touch with Mona Samson.
Do you know how we can contact her?”
“I gave her details to another officer last week. I thought you’d already spoken to her.”
His tone was sharper now, as if Alex’s question worried him. Just as he had reacted during the interview.
“We have, but I’d like to get in touch with her again, and I’m getting nowhere. Do you happen to know whether Samson Security has an office in the city? You gave us the address of her private apartment, and she’s not there.”
He was risking everything on one throw of the dice, hoping his bluff would work.
It did.
“Oh, right, yes. We met in her apartment instead of her office. I happened to be nearby, so it was easier. Well, I say I happened to be nearby, but we did have an appointment. However, I had another meeting beforehand. In Kungsholmen.”
Saul Goldmann was wobbling. Babbling.
Alex was surprised; Saul Goldmann had not given the impression that he was a person who was likely to do either of those things.
So what was he hiding?
“Saul,” Alex said, choosing every word with care, “if there’s something you’d like to tell me—something you think could improve our chances of finding the person who killed Abraham and Simon—then please talk to me. Because time is running out for another child. We still haven’t found Polly Eisenberg. And I’m afraid she will suffer the same fate as Abraham and Simon unless we track her down very soon.”
Saul’s silence was unbearable.
Say something. For fuck’s sake, say something.
“I’ve told you everything I know. I have nothing to add.”
“Okay, if you insist. But perhaps you remember where Mona Samson’s office is located?”
“Of course. Samson Security has a rented office on Torsgatan.”
ISRAEL
The landscape around Jerusalem was just as dramatic as the history of the city.
They were driving south along the main road toward Tel Aviv. Fredrika was in the back of a cab reading through her notes. The kibbutz she was heading for was called Jeich Tikvha, and according to the map lay not far from Netanya, a town about twenty miles to the north of Tel Aviv. The other kibbutz had closed down some years ago.
The Chosen Page 29