Borderline

by Liza Marklund

  She put her palms over her eyes. They smelt of salt. When she spoke her voice sounded flat. ‘What can I say?’

  Her hands dropped to her sides. Halenius was still standing there.

  ‘Be as vague as possible. Don’t mention any details about where they went missing, how long they’ve been gone, who the others are. You can say that a group of men are holding him captive. That’s what the man in the video says, and that’s what the media will spread.’

  ‘What was it he said again?’

  ‘That Fiqh Jihad have taken seven EU delegates hostage as punishment for the decadence of the Western world, more or less.’

  ‘Fiqh Jihad?’

  ‘A group nobody knows anything about. We haven’t had any intelligence about them before now. “Fiqh” means the expansion of Islamic law, the interpretation of the Koran and so on, and you probably know what “Jihad” means.’

  ‘Holy war.’

  ‘Yes, or just “struggle” or “striving”, but in this case we don’t believe the words themselves have any literal meaning. They’ve been chosen for their symbolic value. There are a couple of things I’d like to go through with you. Can we go in and sit down?’

  She felt her cheeks turn red – she really was a hopeless host. ‘Of course,’ she said, gesturing towards the living room. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The call to the Spaniard’s home number came precisely one hour and nine minutes ago. Just before I left the office I heard that the Frenchman’s family had also received a call, on his wife’s mobile.’

  He’d said ‘the office’ rather than ‘the department’.

  ‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ he added. ‘You could get a call at any moment.’

  The room lurched. She glanced at her mobile and gulped. ‘What did they say to the Frenchman’s wife?’

  ‘She was so shaken she couldn’t remember the amount of the ransom they wanted. Unfortunately she made several fundamental mistakes during the call. Among other things, she promised to pay the ransom at once, no matter how much they wanted.’

  ‘Isn’t that good?’ Annika said. ‘Being co-operative?’ She sank into the sofa.

  He sat beside her and looked into her eyes. ‘We don’t have kidnap insurance,’ he said, ‘but we’ve spent time with the FBI, learning how to handle a hostage situation. Hans and Hans-Erik have more experience of this sort of situation, but we didn’t feel that you and they had made much of a connection. So I was asked to come and talk to you.’

  She suddenly felt freezing, pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms round her shins.

  ‘We still aren’t entirely sure what sort of kidnapping this is,’ Halenius went on, ‘but if it’s about business rather than politics, then things usually follow a particular pattern. If the ransom is the key demand, you might be looking at a fairly protracted period of negotiations. Do you speak English?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort? Where have you done most of your talking? Were you an exchange student somewhere, have you worked abroad, have you picked up a particular accent?’

  ‘Washington correspondent,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ Halenius said.

  After all, he had arranged for Thomas to have a research post at the Swedish Embassy while she was there.

  ‘Speaking the language is incredibly important for anyone negotiating in a kidnapping case,’ he continued. ‘Even minor misunderstandings can have serious consequences. Do you have any recording equipment here?’

  She put her feet on the floor. ‘What for? The telephone?’

  ‘I was in too much of a hurry to find anything in the department.’

  ‘So I’m supposed to sit here, at home in my living room, and talk over the phone with the kidnappers? Is that the plan?’

  ‘Have you got a better suggestion?’

  She wasn’t the one who’d sent Thomas to Nairobi, or made him get on the flight to Liboi, but she was having to deal with the consequences.

  She stood up. ‘I’ve got a recorder for interviews but I don’t use it much. It takes too long to listen to the files afterwards so I prefer to take notes.’ She went into the bedroom, poked about on the top shelf of the linen cupboard, and eventually found the antiquated digital recording device, which could be plugged into the phone and directly into a computer through one of the USB ports.

  Halenius whistled and stood up. ‘I haven’t seen one of those for a while. Where did you get it? The Historical Museum?’

  ‘Funny,’ Annika said, pulling her laptop closer and plugging it in. ‘Now you just have to attach the phone or mobile and it’s ready to go.’

  ‘Do you want to take the call when it comes?’

  She held on to the back of the sofa. ‘You’re sure there’s going to be one?’

  ‘If there isn’t we’re stuffed. Our only option is to negotiate, and someone has to do it.’

  She brushed her hair away from her face. ‘What do I need to do?’

  ‘Record the conversation, take notes, write down any specific demands, all instructions and comments. Show you’re taking the situation seriously. Try to establish a code that you can use the next time, so you know you’re talking to the same person. That’s very important. And try to get a specific time for the next call. But you mustn’t promise anything. You mustn’t talk about money. You mustn’t be threatening or confrontational, suspicious or nervous, and you mustn’t start crying.’

  She sat down. ‘What are they going to say?’

  ‘The person who calls will be nervous and intense. He – it’s usually a man – will demand a ridiculous amount of money, which has to be delivered within a very tight timescale. The intention is to throw you off balance and make you agree to demands that you can’t back out of later.’

  ‘Like the Frenchman’s wife,’ Annika said. ‘What’s the alternative? That you take the call? Have you done this sort of thing before? You said you did that course with the FBI.’

  ‘I could take it, or Hans or Hans-Erik …’

  At that moment the front door flew open and Kalle and Ellen tumbled into the hall.

  Halenius nodded to her. ‘Do it.’

  She caught them both in her arms, kissing and hugging them. Their cheeks were cold and red, like frozen apples. She pulled off their coats and scarves, asked Ellen where her gloves were, and was told, ‘Gone.’ She rubbed and blew on the little girl’s hands.

  ‘We’ll be eating after children’s television tonight,’ she said. ‘But first there’s something I want to talk to you both about.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Jimmy Halenius had connected the landline to the recording device. He was standing in the living room, balancing the phone, the gadget and Annika’s laptop in his arms, and smiled at the children. The top button of his green shirt was undone and his hair was a mess. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jimmy, and I work with your dad.’

  Kalle stiffened and frowned at him suspiciously.

  ‘Jimmy’s here to help us,’ Annika said, crouching down. ‘You see—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Annika, but is there anywhere you could take a call without being disturbed?’

  She pointed towards her and Thomas’s bedroom. ‘There’s a phone socket under the desk,’ she said, then turned back to the children. Ellen was twirling a lock of hair and cuddling up to her, but Kalle was still stiff and unapproachable.

  ‘What’s happened to Daddy?’ he asked.

  Annika tried to smile. ‘He’s been taken prisoner in Africa.’

  Ellen twisted in her arms and stared up at her. ‘In a castle?’ she asked.

  Kalle’s eyes were wide with confusion.

  ‘I don’t know, darling,’ Annika said. ‘We only found out this afternoon. Some men in Africa have taken Daddy and some other people prisoner.’

  ‘Will he be coming home on Monday?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ A
nnika said, kissing her daughter’s hair. ‘We don’t know anything, darling. But Jimmy from Daddy’s work is here to help us.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Ellen said. ‘Aren’t they going to be set free?’

  ‘Oh, yes, them too. Kalle, come here.’

  She reached out to the boy, but he ran past her into his and Ellen’s room. He slammed the door.

  The phone rang.

  ‘I’ll answer!’ Ellen cried, trying to wriggle out of her arms.

  ‘No!’ Annika shouted, loud and desperate, grabbing the top of her daughter’s arm hard. Tears sprang to the child’s eyes.

  The phone sounded again. She heard the bedroom door close.

  ‘No,’ she said, trying to sound normal again, and letting go of Ellen’s arm. ‘It might be the kidnappers. You and Kalle mustn’t answer the phone for a while.’

  Ellen was rubbing her arm. ‘You hurt me.’

  The phone rang a third time and the receiver was picked up.

  Annika swallowed and stroked the child’s hair. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. But it’s very important that you don’t answer the phone. Do you understand?’

  ‘But I could talk to the kidnappers,’ Ellen said. ‘I could tell them that they’re silly, and that Daddy has to come home.’

  ‘No,’ Annika said firmly. ‘Only grown-ups are allowed to talk to them. Do you understand?’

  Ellen’s lower lip started to tremble. Annika sighed. She wasn’t making a very good job of this.

  Halenius came back into the living room.

  Annika stood up and the world spun. ‘What did they say?’ she managed to gasp.

  ‘It was a woman called Anne Snapphane. She wanted to know if you’d heard anything from Thomas.’

  Relief.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I had to talk to someone.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What sort of mobile phone have you got?’

  She pointed at the coffee-table, where both mobiles were lined up beside each other.

  Halenius picked up her personal phone. ‘This makes your recording equipment look almost modern. Impressive.’

  ‘Don’t make fun of my Ericsson,’ she said, taking it from him.

  When she’d got home from Washington she had been given a magnificent new mobile, which, to judge by her colleagues’ enthusiasm, could tap-dance, do the ironing and win the Olympic long jump. And maybe it was brilliant if you wanted to create dance music or film forest fires, but as a phone it was hopeless. She hardly ever managed to answer it when it rang because she managed to nudge the wrong part of the screen and the call was cut off; sending a text was so fiddly it took half the day. She’d kept hold of her Ericsson, which was so ancient that it was still called Ericsson rather than Sony, but it was a nuisance having to charge two mobiles, and she kept hoping iPhone was about to go bankrupt, which was unlikely, if you considered the amount of free advertising her own paper alone produced in its delight at every new product.

  Halenius picked up the shiny new mobile. ‘Which one does Thomas usually call?’

  ‘My private one.’

  ‘Not your work phone?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s got the number.’

  Halenius nodded. ‘Excellent. So we know we won’t be getting the call on that phone.’

  He went back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  The BBC put the news on its website just after six p.m., local time. Reuters issued a short, general report a few minutes later. The identities and nationalities of the kidnapped delegates weren’t released, just that they had been taking part in a security conference in Nairobi. The editorial management team of the Evening Post was sitting in a handover meeting, which might explain why the news seemed to pass them by at first, but Schyman knew better.

  No one ever cared about news from Africa. The continent was a black hole on the news map, except when it came to famine, misery, piracy, Aids, civil war and mad dictators, which weren’t among the issues the Evening Post covered.

  Assuming no Swedes were caught up in anything, of course. Or other Scandinavians, possibly, like those Norwegians who were sentenced to death in Congo or the Danish family whose yacht was seized by pirates.

  Anders Schyman found the report because he had set out to look for it. He had held back from mentioning Thomas’s disappearance at the meeting, and was planning to wait and see what happened internationally first. Reuters were reporting that a group calling itself Fiqh Jihad had taken seven European delegates hostage, and had issued a non-specific political statement in connection with the kidnapping. The message had been conveyed in Kinyarwanda, and was hosted by a server in the Somali capital, Mogadishu. Readers were referred to the BBC, which had a link to the shaky video from the kidnappers.

  Anders Schyman clicked the link and held his breath.

  A man in basic military uniform with a scarf wrapped round his head appeared on the screen. The background was out of focus, dark red. He looked about thirty and was staring at a point just to the left of the camera, presumably reading his message. The BBC had subtitled his words in English, which Schyman appreciated (his Kinyarwanda wasn’t what it should have been).

  The man spoke slowly, his voice strangely high and clear.

  ‘Fiqh Jihad has taken seven EU delegates hostage as punishment for the evil and ignorance of the Western world. In spite of all the weapons and resources surrounding the EU, the Lion of Islam managed to seize these infidel dogs. Our demands are simple: open the borders to Europe. Share the world’s resources. Abolish punitive import tariffs. Freedom for Africa! Death to the European capitalists! Allah is great!’

  The video ended. Thirty-eight seconds, including a shaky introduction and a black final frame.

  This isn’t going to be a picnic, Schyman thought, and headed out to the newsdesk.

  * * *

  The phone didn’t ring.

  It didn’t ring and didn’t ring and didn’t ring.

  Annika was walking round the living room, biting her nails until her teeth hurt.

  Schyman had emailed to tell her that Reuters and the BBC had released the news of the kidnapping, without mentioning any identities or nationalities. The Evening Post would be the only paper the next day with the news that the Swedish delegate was one of the hostages.

  Patrik had texted to ask if she wanted to do a sob-story in the print edition. Ideally he’d like a picture of her and the kids surrounded by stuffed toys, with tears in their eyes, and the suggested headlines ‘DADDY’S BEEN KIDNAPPED BY TERRORISTS’ or ‘DADDY, COME HOME!’ She had replied, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  Berit had emailed to ask if there was anything, anything at all, she could do to help.

  She pursed her lips and glanced towards the bedroom. Jimmy Halenius had disappeared in there with his briefcase while she and the children had eaten meatballs and macaroni bake with ketchup. They had sat on either side of the wall, him solving international kidnappings and her feeding the kids.

  Could he really sort this out?

  She wandered into the kitchen, and heard Halenius talking in the bedroom.

  Dinner had been cleared away, the table wiped, the floor swept. The dishwasher was rumbling quietly. The children had changed into their pyjamas and brushed their teeth.

  Annika sucked at a bleeding cuticle and went into their room. ‘Shall we play a game?’

  Kalle brightened. ‘Monopoly!’

  ‘That would take a bit too long. Dominoes? Ellen, do you want to play?’

  Kalle dug out the box, sat on the floor and methodically laid out the pieces, one by one, upside down. ‘We take five each, don’t we?’

  ‘Five each,’ Annika confirmed.

  She looked at the children as they selected their dominoes and lined them up. They’d be able to manage without Thomas. Somehow they would cope.

  ‘Come on, Mummy,’ Kalle said.

  She sank on to the
floor and picked five dominoes.

  ‘I’ve got double five,’ Kalle said.

  ‘You’re probably highest then,’ Annika said.

  Kalle put down his double five and Ellen had her go.

  Annika felt as if she was about to start crying.

  ‘It’s your turn, Mummy.’

  She put a domino down and the children groaned. ‘You’re doing it wrong, Mummy …’

  The game took for ever.

  And the phone didn’t ring and didn’t ring and didn’t ring.

  Jimmy Halenius came out into the living room and stood in front of the television. ‘Can I watch the news?’

  ‘Of course,’ Annika said.

  ‘How long is he going to be here?’ Kalle whispered, glaring at the under-secretary of state.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Annika said. ‘That depends on what the kidnappers say, if they ever actually call.’

  ‘Why can’t you talk to them?’ he asked.

  Annika pulled him closer to her – he actually let her. He curled up into a ball in her arms and put his hand in her hair. ‘I daren’t,’ she whispered. ‘I’m scared of them. Jimmy’s spoken to lots of bad guys before. He’ll be much better at it than me.’

  Kalle’s eyes showed a new awareness: grown-ups could feel small and scared.

  ‘Well, it’s time for the two of you to go to bed, and tomorrow it’s Friday. Would you like to go and see one of your grandmothers this weekend?’

  Kalle hid his face against her shoulder. ‘Boring,’ he muttered.

  ‘I like Scruff,’ Ellen said.

  Scruff was Doris’s fat cocker spaniel.

  My darling sunbeam, Annika thought. For you the glass is always half full.

  ‘I’m going to talk to Grandma Doris and Grandma Barbro this evening,’ Annika said, ‘so I’ll ask if we can go and see them.’

  ‘Are you going to talk about Daddy?’ Kalle asked.

  ‘The news about him will be in the paper tomorrow,’ Annika said, ‘so it’s probably best if I tell them tonight.’