Gieger

by Gustaf Skördeman

  ‘To stop it all. Alternatively, to get rid of everyone involved. Now that it’s in motion, they don’t want anyone left to testify.’

  ‘But why? The Soviet Union no longer exists!’

  ‘There was a lot that changed in the world of intelligence when the USSR collapsed. We may have changed the names of our organisations, but the same people were still working for them. Take Robert Hanssen – he spent twenty-five years spying from 1979 to 2001, first for the USSR and then Russia. In his eyes, there was no difference – and the same went for the Russian bear. Remember that Putin was a KGB officer. He’s never made an apology or opened any archives, and there’s a tremendous thirst for revenge in the former KGB. They adapt. They used to control the far left in Europe, today they control the far right. Ideologies are of no interest. Realpolitik is everything. And in that regard, they consider Europe as a supporter of America. A supporter that must be removed in order to weaken the great enemy.’

  ‘What? They want the bombs to blow up?’

  Given that they were surrounded by sun-seeking holidaymakers, the thought was hard to stomach.

  ‘This is just a theory, remember. And we don’t think the current holders of power in Russia would initiate an operation like this. But if someone else does it, then they wouldn’t try to prevent it either – quite the opposite. Like if Islamists happened upon information about the bombs, and some old warrior from the Palestinian terrorist groups is willing to get them the codes in return for payments. The Russians would hardly try to stop that. President Putin can actually use rising levels of terror in Europe to justify harsher regulations at home. And he needs that, now that his popularity is plummeting and people are taking to the streets to protest. Seeing the detested West humiliated by rabid fanatics is just a bonus.’

  ‘So you think Agneta works for Russia?’

  ‘It’s important to remember that the FSB took over all of the KGB’s resources.’

  ‘But why would she still be loyal to Russia after so many years? She has her children and grandchildren here.’

  ‘That was part of the mission.’

  ‘But it’s a long time since it was given to her. A whole lifetime with her own family must have had an impact on her? Can you really pretend for so many years?’

  Sara thought about her own children. There wasn’t any single conviction in the world that would have made her regard them as merely a facade. She couldn’t understand how anyone could ward off the emotions and instincts that their own children awakened within them.

  ‘The illegals were brainwashed and drilled from infancy. The truth implanted in her then is the only thing she knows. That’s her everything. It’s the only thing she cares about. The KGB would often take orphans and raise them in their secret schools. So she probably has no trouble relating to her Swedish identity as an orphan. She probably regards her entire life in Sweden as preparation for what she’s been trained to do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Handling tricky situations.’

  Sara thought about it, but couldn’t grasp it. She just couldn’t imagine Agneta in any of the three scenarios.

  ‘Then we have to find her,’ she said eventually. ‘Not just for her own sake, but for the sake of all the innocent people who’ll die if we don’t. We have to raise the alarm. Circulate her description.’

  Breuer thought about it for a while. Then she said:

  ‘I think you need to do that.’

  44

  At first she had been disappointed. She had been summoned to the secretariat in the middle of rehearsals for celebrations to mark the anniversary of the great victory over fascism. Every single member of the party leadership would be sitting up on the podium, and she was so eager to show how committed she was. How talented the entire troupe had become after a few bad apples had been forced out.

  Nadia, who hadn’t marched in time with everyone else, Jelena, who had sung too quietly, and Katryna, who had lacked any fire in her gaze.

  Without them it was perfect.

  The songs, the banners, the marching. The bright voices merged together into a strong, encouraging unit.

  Sometimes, local groups of Young Pioneers were allowed to participate in the big celebrations in Moscow. That was what gave them the strength to keep rehearsing into the late hours each day. What made them forget about their fatigue, hunger and thirst.

  The dream of demonstrating their commitment to the leaders in Moscow. The celebrations of that victory were everything.

  She loved hearing what a role model she was. Not out of vanity – that was bourgeois and reactionary. No, it was because it showed how much could be achieved with willpower and discipline.

  If she could do it, then so could everyone else. She held in contempt all those who failed to reach their full potential – who held themselves back.

  Nothing was impossible.

  Workers of the world, unite!

  She had once sworn allegiance to that motto – to help change the world. To put an end to all evil. Together with the young in all countries, they would build a new world.

  As she crossed the large courtyard, she glanced down at her clothes. It wasn’t always easy to keep them clean when rehearsing in the large, dusty yard caked in dry mud. But they couldn’t let the elements defeat humankind. Your outer appearance said everything about your inner appearance, and the new world wasn’t going to be built with stains and wrinkles.

  An alert gaze, straight-backed posture, clean and well-ironed clothes. That was how to honour the heroes who had saved the Motherland during the Great Patriotic War, as well as the sons of the Motherland who had once upon a time liberated the people of the Soviet Union from the shackles of imperialism and the tyranny of the tsars.

  *

  She stopped in front of the huge wooden door. Was she supposed to knock? Was she allowed to?

  Yes. A Young Pioneer was fearless.

  She clenched her small white fist and knocked three times, then she waited.

  ‘Come in,’ said a deep voice.

  She opened the heavy door and stepped into the semi-darkness.

  The chairman was sitting on a chair beside his desk. The light from the small window was reflected off his bare head, and in one hand he was holding a handkerchief that he was using to wipe his runny eye. No one knew what was wrong with it – all they knew was that it was always runny. Some said it was a war wound, others said it was punishment for a lack of commitment, while there were those who claimed that the eye was running because his soul was crying tears for the citizens of all those countries where socialism had not yet been able to liberate them.

  Behind the chairman’s gigantic desk there was a man she didn’t recognise. He was wearing a uniform with a lot of gold on the lapels, and he was scrutinising her with an intense gaze.

  ‘Lidiya Alexandrova,’ said the chairman. ‘Do you love socialism?’

  What a question!

  ‘Yes, Comrade Chairman!’

  ‘Do you want to see socialism victorious?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Chairman!’

  ‘What ought we to do to ensure the victory of socialism?’

  ‘Everything, Comrade Chairman!’

  ‘Lidiya Alexandrova, will you contribute to the final victory? Will you dedicate your life to the most important of tasks? Will you participate in the salvation of the earth and its working masses?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Chairman!’

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you, as you know.’

  The chairman had had more than his eye on her, but she chose not to mention anything about that. It was necessary to withstand anything to contribute to the final victory. Her suffering was nothing compared with the suffering on the battlefield – her body was a mere triviality by comparison.

  ‘Yes, Comrade Chairman.’

  Perhaps she should have protested, shown herself to be humble. But she settled for answering concisely. Powerful men weren’t to be interrupted with your own thoughts.

  ‘You a
re a role model to all your comrades in the Pioneers. Your discipline, your stamina, your ideological maturity for one so young. You are an example and a very good servant to socialism and the global revolution.’

  ‘Thank you, Comrade Chairman. But this is only what the Soviet Union is entitled to demand from its sons and daughters.’

  ‘Comrade Bogrov here is very interested in young girls who set themselves apart. Assignments encompassing great responsibility are available to such girls.’

  ‘I’ve heard that you speak Swedish,’ said Bogrov, leaning forward as if he was awaiting the answer with anticipation.

  ‘Just like everyone here,’ said Lidiya Alexandrova.

  In the Swedish village, they were all the offspring of Swedish immigrants and had retained their language – something the Soviet authorities had not appreciated, but had benevolently allowed to pass.

  ‘But not everyone has your conviction,’ said Bogrov. ‘And I gather you are alone in the world.’

  ‘My mother died in the service of the Motherland, and my father died as a result of his betrayal of the Soviet Union and her people.’

  ‘That is tragic,’ said Bogrov. ‘But all tragedies can be transformed into something good. What do you feel towards your father?’

  ‘I regret his treachery towards my Motherland, but a child is not condemned by her parents’ actions. Just as the freedom-loving Soviet Union rose from the ruins of the oppressed tsarist Russia, so I shall rise from the ruins of my father’s demise and help to build a new society. I do, however, sometimes miss my mother.’

  Bogrov turned to Chairman Yuchenko.

  ‘You were right to persuade me to visit.’

  The chairman mopped his eye, despite the fact that it was at that moment dry.

  Bogrov leafed through a bundle of papers in front of him. The chairman produced a carton of cigarettes, but a look from the visitor made him put them away again.

  ‘Lidiya Alexandrova, will you give your life to the realisation of the idea and potential of socialism?’ said Bogrov, looking the girl straight in the eye.

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel!’

  She knew her ranks, the visitor thought to himself.

  ‘Are you prepared to leave everything in your old life behind and start a new life? One where you place the mission of socialism and the Soviet Union ahead of all else?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel!’

  ‘Are you prepared to leave behind your comrades here in Ukraine and start afresh in another country?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel!’

  ‘Do you promise to do your utmost to complete any assignment that your Motherland may ask of you?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade!’

  ‘How much time do you need to pack and bid farewell to your friends?’

  ‘None. Sentimentality is a sign of weakness, and cannot be permitted to delay the advance of our struggle.’

  ‘Lidiya Alexandrova, your name is now Agneta Öman. You were born and raised in Sweden. You were orphaned at a young age. We will teach you your past so that you are able to recount it when we wake you up in the middle of the night, so that it is the one you cry out if the enemy tries to force the truth out of you with physical methods. Think only in Swedish. Your old self no longer exists. You are Agneta Öman. And your loyalty to global peace, the final victory of the working masses and the Soviet cause is complete. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel!’

  45

  The view across the Västerbron and the island of Långholmen was breathtaking. Sara had never seen her city look so beautiful.

  Fyrverkarbacken was adjacent to Marieberg, not far from the Dagens Nyheter tower, and it was just a stone’s throw from the Russian embassy. From the outside, the building fulfilled all prejudices about Eastern bloc architecture. It was big, anonymous and completely lacking any joy. But when you stepped through the doors the impression was very different. Granted, the flats were dull. Like everything from the big bang social housing projects of the 1960s, the ceilings were low, the walls were thin, and there was no coving or plaster. But what the location offered was unparalleled natural beauty outside the window, which more than made up for the building’s shortcomings.

  Sara knew it would take time for Anna and Bielke to get to grips with what she and the Germans had concluded. But she wanted to move on – she wanted to know everything. Not least for her own personal reasons. Her online searches had only provided her with the historical background, and she’d thought long and hard about who might be able to help her – who might know more about the illegals and their role today.

  Why not one of the leading figures of the Cold War in Sweden?

  Sara knew that one of the former ambassadors from the Soviet Union, Boris Kozlov, still lived in Stockholm following his retirement at the time of the USSR’s collapse in 1991.

  She wasn’t due at work for another couple of hours, and when she found Kozlov’s number online and rang him, the former diplomat invited her to his flat in Marieberg without hesitation. Perhaps he was curious about what she had to say. Or maybe he was just a bored pensioner who missed the rough and tumble of big politics.

  Just like many visitors, Sara was enraptured by the view. Magnificent.

  ‘You were close to the embassy then,’ said Sara.

  ‘Yes. It was good back then. Now the important thing is that I don’t have to look at it.’

  He was right about that. All the windows faced the water, the park and the bridge. The Russian embassy was to the rear of the building.

  ‘Is this the building they call the Erlander Building?’ said Sara.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he live here?’

  ‘In this very flat.’

  It was impossible to tell whether it was an anecdote Kozlov enjoyed telling, or whether he just knew that Swedes liked to hear it.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Since he died. 1986. They were all rented flats back then.’

  The father of the nation, Per Albin, had lived in a terraced house, his successor Tage Erlander in this slightly sad concrete tower, and his heir Olof Palme had lived in an ordinary house out in Vällingby. Before the advent of the official residence at Sager House, none of Sweden’s prime ministers had felt any need to live lavishly, so it seemed.

  The purchase of Sager House had been precipitated by the murder of Olof Palme, so they said. But if it was just a matter of security, they could surely have found better solutions.

  However, times had changed. Now Sweden was supposed to have leaders who lived it up. Even the rather ordinary Ingvar Carlsson had supported it, and neither Carl Bildt nor his successor Göran Persson had raised any objections. Naturally. It didn’t matter whether you’d grown up in Vällingby or in well-heeled Östermalm – if you became prime minister, then you wanted to live well.

  Kozlov set down a tray with coffee cups and two large schnapps glasses filled with transparent liquid.

  ‘Is that vodka?’ said Sara, astonished to encounter the legend in reality.

  ‘It would be impolite to decline.’

  ‘I’m driving.’

  Kozlov merely looked at her. Sara decided to try and delay the issue of the drink.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ said Sara.

  ‘One does not say no to the police.’

  Sara couldn’t discern whether Kozlov was speaking from a Soviet perspective, or whether he merely wanted to conduct himself appropriately in his new homeland.

  ‘So how can I be of service?’ said the former diplomat, sipping his coffee.

  ‘Illegals,’ said Sara.

  Kozlov put down his cup carefully and leaned back in the armchair.

  ‘What am I supposed to know about them?’

  ‘As ambassador, I should imagine you knew most things.’

  ‘The diplomatic core knew nothing. That was left to intelligence.’

  ‘You didn’t get to be an ambassador without being part of the intelligenc
e service.’

  Kozlov raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, as if to say ‘maybe’.

  ‘Many illegals stayed on in the countries they were deployed to,’ said Sara.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge. Well documented in lots of articles and books. They also say that Russia took over the illegals from the former USSR. They are still on assignment. And still passing information to their handlers.’

  ‘Possibly. But I’ve left politics.’

  ‘I want to ask you about someone from your day. Agneta Broman – Stellan Broman’s wife. Was she an illegal? Is she still?’

  Kozlov raised his schnapps glass.

  ‘Za zdorovie!’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Sara. ‘Not in the middle of the day.’

  ‘It helps me to think better.’

  ‘But not me.’

  ‘I won’t drink alone. And if I don’t have this, then I doubt I’ll remember anything, I’m afraid.’

  He seemed to mean it. A former ambassador, even briefly the Soviet foreign minister, a personal friend of Gorbachev and Palme, Kohl and Blair, who was now pressuring Sara Nowak into drinking. Like a teenage boy.

  Mad.

  But she just had to go with the flow.

  Sara raised the schnapps glass. It was big – probably at least a quadruple shot. Kozlov downed his and Sara took a sip from hers. A snifter.

  ‘I’d rather tell you over a bite to eat,’ said Kozlov when he’d put down his glass. ‘Let’s go out to eat and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’

  ‘I need to know now. If you tell me, then we can go out for a meal another time.’

  ‘It’s hard to concentrate when you look at me with those beautiful eyes.’

  ‘Are you flirting with me?’

  Sara was completely dumbfounded.

  ‘I was faithful for forty-five years,’ said Kozlov. ‘But now she’s gone, may she rest in peace.’

  ‘Agneta Broman first,’ said Sara.

  Dear God – she couldn’t get away from horny blokes even when she was on a murder investigation. But the most annoying thing was that almost every man seemed to be like that, except her own.