Into a Raging Blaze

by Andreas Norman

  She got up and grabbed the balcony door, but it wouldn’t open. The door was bolted; the latch was on. Without really thinking, she took her bag and used it to break the window. Then she stretched her arm through it and undid the bolt before pulling the door open.

  She entered the stairwell and rushed up toward the attic. She couldn’t risk coming out of the neighboring door on the street—she would be seen—she had to get away cleanly. A gray fire door led into the attic. She put down her bag and rooted through her swimming things and other possessions until she found her keys, and unlocked the door. At first she could see nothing and she groped around helplessly. It smelled of dust and damp. The dark was so dense that it was impossible to adjust her eyes to it. Then she spotted the small red dot in the darkness and rushed forward to press it. A row of pale light bulbs came on, revealing a narrow, winding passage between hundreds of storage units, all with small, numbered wooden doors. She knew that the attics in the apartment blocks were old and ran right across the top of the building. With a little luck, she would be able to make her way across the building and come out on the other side. There was a door that opened on to a small side street. She jogged into the storage area in the next attic, until the lights turned off and the darkness enveloped her in the blink of an eye. She groped her way to the next light switch, found the fire door to the next attic and continued along the lit passage. The storage units stood at attention in the gloomy light; small side passages led off to all sorts of dark places. Finally, she reached the end of the attic and crept through a fire door.

  A stairwell. There was music playing somewhere.

  She ought to be three doors down from her own stairwell, if she had calculated correctly. She heard nothing and caught her breath before hurrying down the stairs. On the penultimate floor, she paused to try and quell the sound of her panting while she listened.

  No one was visible down by the door on to the street. The cold, fresh air hit her when she carefully opened the door. She was, as planned, three doors down, at the opposite end of the building from her own, the door that faced on to a narrow cul-de-sac. When she stepped on to the pavement and looked around the corner, she could see the dark-blue cars; they were still there. No one was visible on the street.

  She crossed the road and walked, quickly, crouching down slightly behind a row of parked cars. She wanted to run, but someone might still be sitting in one of the cars and spot her.

  At the corner of Tegnérgatan she couldn’t stop herself any longer, she began to run, crossed to the other side, and ducked under some scaffolding, heading toward the crowds on Sveavägen. The whole time, she wanted to turn back and check no one was following her, but at the same time it was as if the action of looking over her shoulder would give her away, make her face stand out among the crowd. Every second, she was expecting the dark-blue cars to glide up alongside her, for firm hands to grab hold of her. Her legs shook. She felt unwell. She stopped at a pedestrian crossing by Sveavägen and was able to slow down and fall into the same leisurely pace as everyone else crossing the road when the light turned green. She hurried past a 7-Eleven and rushed up the hill, taking the steep steps up to the Observatorielunden park three at a time. She turned around the corner of one of the buildings belonging to the Stockholm School of Economics and almost knocked over a woman pushing a stroller when she reached the Observatory hill.

  She ran up one of the small sets of steps. On the hill, just below the observatory, she had to stop to catch her breath. Her arms and legs were shaking and felt powerless. A couple of youths sitting on a bench looked at her. Why were they staring at her? Go to hell. Stop staring. She was sweaty, but shivering. Slowly, she carried on along the gravel path toward the viewing point next to the old, venerable observatory building that rested among the trees with its large, dark and shiny windows. She leaned against the railings that ran along the edge of the steep hill and looked out over Stockholm.

  It had started to get dark. The darkness protected her and she relaxed a little. Her face hurt; she could feel it now the agitation was wearing off. It was all so unreal; the police had come to her home. Perhaps it was a mistake, she said to herself. Perhaps they were looking for someone else. But she knew that wasn’t true. They had rung her doorbell; they had been looking for her, not anyone else. When she was sure she was out of sight from the street, she lay down on the grass. The damp chill pressed against her back right away.

  22

  Stockholm, Monday, October 3

  An overcast sky loomed between the gaps in the trees, but in an hour it would be completely dark. Carina sat up and wiped her nose. The slight contact stung; tears filled her eyes. The back of her hand came away covered in blood. She got the towel out of her bag and held it carefully against her nose and waited.

  The wet grass was soaking her pants so she stood up. There were no people here, just a grassy hill, trees. She took the towel away from her face. A deep red stain had formed on it. She rooted through her bag, found her cell, and called Jamal, but he didn’t answer. He was in Vienna again this week, she remembered. She left a short message and asked him to call her. She didn’t want to tell him what had happened; she had been the bearer of enough bad news lately. But she needed help. She wouldn’t be able to return to her apartment; the police might still be there, and, even if they had left, she couldn’t risk being there. They might come back tomorrow, or in just a few hours; it was impossible to know. She called Greger. He answered right away, as if he had been standing by with the phone in his hand.

  “Hello, Carina,” he said cheerfully.

  “Greger, something has happened.” She told him quickly.

  He fell quite silent. Then he asked where she was.

  “I’m in the Observatorielunden park.”

  “Wait there. I’m coming.”

  She went back to the viewing point and hung off the railings that ran along the park perimeter. The ground here fell downward in a steep slope, as if the hill had been cut with a large knife. From where she was standing, she had a panoramic view of the city. Far below was the evening rush hour on Sveavägen, while a mild light shone from the tall windows of the cylindrical main building of the city library into the dark evening. The people were small black dots, impossible to distinguish from one another. Traffic gathered at red lights. Carina shivered; goosebumps appeared on her arms. It was windy here. Plastic bags, stuck in the bushes, rustled and flapped. She looked around, but the only people nearby were some teenagers, smoking on a bench some distance away.

  Why had Säpo come to her home? She didn’t understand. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she had merely responded in the way she had been trained to; perhaps she had made a mistake, but she was no criminal. Thoughts whirred around her mind like a dark mass of flies. She was a suspect, but for what? She knew how the MFA’s procedures worked and she had expected to be called in for a disciplinary hearing. But Säpo . . . That was quite different. She had thought the matter could be sorted out, but instead she had quietly become a suspect—perhaps she was on a wanted list—and she didn’t even understand why.

  The sharp sensation of anxiety made her draw in the air through her teeth. Jamal. She needed to talk to Jamal. She went and sat on a bench, checking the time on her cell. It had been fifteen minutes since she called Greger; it would probably be a while before he arrived. At that moment, her cell began to vibrate. Incoming call. Number withheld.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Carina Dymek?”

  An unknown, businesslike voice.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Bente Jensen. I’m calling from the Security Service. I’m calling about a document that you’ve come into contact with—about the circumstances surrounding it.”

  Carina said nothing.

  “This is a tough situation for you; I understand that. But it can be resolved—if you’re prepared to talk to us.”

  The voice stopped, waiting for her answer.

  “I haven’t done anything,” she said
finally.

  “I’d like to meet you. You don’t need to worry. You know where the Security Service is based, on Kungsholmen. Come to the main entrance at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you there.”

  She heard how the woman waited a few seconds for an answer.

  A sudden impulse made her hang up and put the phone down beside her. Perhaps it was stupid, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her mouth was completely dry, and the knowing anxiety had returned. That woman, with her businesslike, calm voice, had tried to get inside her head. Säpo, she was just a case for Säpo. She got up from the bench and moved restlessly toward the old observatory. She really wanted to believe the woman, that things could be resolved. But how would she ever find Jean if they held her back, took her into custody?

  A car appeared on the street. It drove past, made a right turn into a nearby residential street, and disappeared. Carina spied down through the trees. The street was empty.

  Wait here, Greger had said. But for how long?

  She threw her bag over her shoulder and began to wander toward the sloping lawns.

  A grainy half-light lingered between the trees. The lawns were empty, dark surfaces. She was halfway through the park when a dark-blue Volvo appeared on the street. She stood completely still and watched as the car drove slowly along the edge of the park.

  23

  Stockholm, Monday, October 3

  Bente reached out toward the conference phone in the middle of the table, lying there like a flying saucer at rest, and switched it off. The persistent sound of the cutoff phone line disappeared, and, in the silence that followed, she heard Hamrén swear quietly. Everyone else around the table said nothing. A few seconds later, the comms radio on the table in front of the Head of Operations came to life, crackling. One of the spotters was reporting in. No Dymek. They had left Dymek’s apartment and done a few laps of the nearby area in search of her, but there had been no trace.

  There were around thirty surveillance cameras in the area and Dymek’s description had gone out to the command center. The patrol that had entered her apartment had been able to ascertain that she had left the apartment quickly: by all appearances, she hadn’t packed anything and hadn’t taken any outdoor clothing. A window was open; she had probably climbed out of it. She had not been seen leaving the building.

  “I think we’ve lost her.”

  Hamrén looked up and nodded slowly.

  Bente hurried down two stories and through the security doors in the corridor that led into the technical unit. Before Dymek had put down her cell, they were able to triangulate her exact coordinates by following her phone’s GSM network communications through the base stations.

  A technician passed Bente some headphones. She pulled them on and immediately all sound around her vanished. All she could hear was a kind of whistling, rustling. She took off the headphones. It was the silences in the conversation between her and Dymek, explained the technician. He made some adjustments with the computer—enlarged the sounds, purified the quality—and turned up the volume. Then she heard it: trees. The unmistakable rustling of treetops moving in the wind. But no voices; no one there except Dymek. She was moving on foot. She was probably therefore within a radius of no more than three kilometers, if she was moving at a high pace. If someone didn’t help her to disappear, she might still be on the way out of town.

  Dymek had fled. That surprised her. She hadn’t thought Dymek would react so dramatically; it didn’t fit her profile as a careful, conscientious civil servant. Perhaps Badawi was controlling her, like the Brits had said. In that case, this wasn’t just an individual but a terror network responding, pulling together, regrouping.

  When she returned to the top floor again, she found Hamrén and the Head of Directed Surveillance in the command room. Two teams had reached the park. They had found her cell—it had been lying on bench by the observatory—and they had done a sweep of the area. But no Dymek. Bente went to the window, where she had a view of central Stockholm and the railway tracks running toward the central station. She put her hand against the cool glass, drummed her fingers against the blank surface. Darkness was falling.

  24

  Stockholm, Monday, October 3

  Carina crouched behind a tree and tensed each and every one of her muscles, ready to jump and flee. They had found her, despite everything, she managed to think, before the car moved slowly on.

  She stayed behind the tree until she heard someone shouting. She recognized the voice but barely dared to believe it was actually him.

  “Carina!” Greger appeared on the path. When he caught sight of her, he came to her and gave her a hug. “What have you done to your face?”

  Blood had flowed; some had smeared across her cheek.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just a nose bleed.”

  Greger looked at her in concern. “You look fucking awful.”

  They hurried down to a waiting taxi. She noticed the driver looking at her in the rearview mirror and brushed her hands over her face. Red flakes of dried blood stuck to her fingers. She sat and looked out of the window while they drove through the city center, looked at the people and traffic flowing by. Soon enough they were in the southbound half of the Söderled Tunnel. Splashes of yellow light pulsed through the car. They got on to the main road. Neither of them said a thing; she didn’t want to talk while they were in the taxi. At Gullmarsplan, the taxi turned off and continued through the dark and deserted suburban streets of Årsta, before finally coming to a halt at the end of a long street in front of a tall apartment block.

  She waited while Greger paid and then followed him through the main door. Standing in the elevator, she saw her reflection in the mirror for the first time. She looked terrible—blood smeared across her cheeks and around her mouth.

  The tenth floor had paint-speckled walls and dark wooden doors. It smelled of fried fish. She had never visited Greger’s before; they always met in town. Greger unlocked one of the doors at the end of the hallway and let them into a dark entrance hall, taking care to close and lock the door behind them.

  For some reason, she had thought Greger would live a spartan existence. Perhaps because he was an IT technician, perhaps because he had never said a word about interior design. But this apartment was anything but a random assortment of furniture. The living room was dominated by a sofa suite that looked expensive and designer, with a fancy coffee table with chrome legs in the middle. A large portion of the walls was covered in framed photographs and old concert posters. The entire apartment gave her the bizarre feeling of having entered an exclusive rock club. Greger quickly folded up a few sweaters that were lying on the floor and put them in a wardrobe.

  She remained standing still until Greger told her to sit down; it was as if she had stopped thinking. She sank on to the sofa.

  “What’s happened, Carina?”

  “I told you—the police came.”

  He looked anxiously at her.

  “They rang the doorbell while I was in the apartment—three plainclothes officers. Then I got a call from Säpo.”

  He shook his head. “Why would they call you?”

  “I guess . . .” She broke off and thought about it. She hadn’t really had time to think about why they had contacted her. Despite the fact that she worked at the Security Policy Department unit at the Ministry, she really knew very little about the Security Service and how it operated, how they worked. It was one of Sweden’s most secretive authorities and the Ministry of Justice, not the MFA, ran it. Only those who had authority, who had working relationships with that part of the police, had any insight into the organization. But she knew that they dealt with cases to do with breaches of secrecy, stuff that could be categorized as the disclosure of secret documents, espionage.

  “I guess they’re investigating me.” Her voice cracked and she felt sick. Was she a security risk?

  “What did they say, then?”

  “It was a woman who called and wanted to talk to me. She said tha
t it would all get sorted out if I just cooperated with them, something like that.” It occurred to her that she didn’t know where her cell was. She rifled through her bag, felt in her pockets.

  “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “I left my cell in the park.”

  Greger watched as she rooted through her things again. But she knew she was right—the cell was lost. She had put it down on the bench, in the park. It was an expensive smartphone, full of apps, phone numbers, door codes, and her calendar that encompassed everything she needed to remember. She swore again.

  “It’ll be okay, Carina.”

  “No, it won’t be okay. For fuck’s sake.”

  “I promised to help you. So I’ve had a word with a few people that I know. Old friends. There are some people looking for Jean right now, and they know their stuff. I think we’ll be able to find him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Ninety-nine percent.”

  It was possibly her only chance. She held her head in her hands. “I never thought it would be like this.”

  “I suppose they’re in a bad mood at the MFA,” said Greger.

  “But Säpo. It’s completely insane.”

  “They just called and wanted to talk, right? If you had really committed a crime, they wouldn’t do that—they would have stormed your apartment with the sickest SWAT team they could.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the way Greger put it, as if they were in some action movie. But he did have a point. They would never have called her if they really saw her as a danger—as a threat, as Security Services liked to put it.