Gieger

by Gustaf Skördeman

‘Illegals,’ said Kozlov, draining his coffee cup. ‘Well, we had them.’ He sighed. ‘And yes, they’re still around today. But back then it was for a purpose – they had a mission. To even up the odds. To help deliver progress. To make the world a better place, even if their methods were controversial. We believed in something. The current one – he doesn’t believe in anything. Just power.’

  The current one.

  The former ambassador was apparently unwilling to even say the current president’s name.

  ‘For those in charge, there’s no difference,’ Kozlov continued. ‘It’s the same empire. Slightly smaller now, but they intend to recoup their losses. Faith in the Motherland is at the heart of it. Communism was a passing phase, but Mother Russia endures.’

  ‘The illegals,’ said Sara. ‘What did they do? What can they do today?’

  ‘Gather information. But back in the day it was for preventative purposes – to avoid being taken by surprise by the enemy. Now, it’s industrial espionage that is the order of the day – defence secrets. Everything is about money. Ideology is dead.’

  ‘To avoid being taken by surprise by the enemy?’

  ‘You must have heard the people who spent years bleating on that the USA and its allies should have attacked the USSR after the defeat of Nazi Germany. Even that they should have used atom bombs, like they did on Japan. To crush the evil empire. You would never have succeeded – of that I’m certain. It would merely have caused millions of deaths.’

  ‘Was Agneta Broman an illegal?’

  Sara felt it was time to apply some pressure to get to the truth.

  ‘I didn’t know Agneta. I would greet her at the Bromans’ parties – she was a very beautiful woman. But I never really conversed with her.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question. Was she an illegal?’

  Sara swapped Kozlov’s empty glass for her own almost-full one.

  Kozlov waved his hand in front of him like a conductor summoning the attention of the orchestra. Then he took Sara’s glass, drained it in one and set it back down.

  ‘I can tell you about Desirée.’

  The dead wife, Sara supposed. She regretted tricking him into the second giant vodka.

  ‘The illegal Desirée,’ Kozlov continued. ‘Born in Ukraine, orphaned at a young age, recruited by the intelligence services for her fiery patriotism. Raised in the Swedish village in Ukraine – so she spoke Swedish from infancy. Albeit somewhat dated Swedish. Deployed into Sweden with a stolen identity, as a Laestadian child from the far north without any family. Trained in social skills, instructed to work on her appearance, and then assisted onto the social scene in the capital. After a couple of brief engagements to prominent industrialists, she finds the winning ticket. She attends a party at the home of the country’s most famous television personality, where the entire social elite are to be found. And not only that – they’re on such a rampage that they’re targets for all sorts of influence. This becomes Desirée’s mission – send home information about all the guests. Get them to talk while drunk, while in bed, photograph their papers. Find out everything about their lives.’

  ‘Agneta?’

  ‘I’m merely recounting the story I’ve heard within KGB circles. I have no name for Desirée.’

  ‘Did she work together with Stellan?’

  ‘Sara,’ said Kozlov, putting a hand on her knee. She pushed it away, at the risk that he would be angry. But he didn’t seem to care. ‘In the world I’m talking about, secrets and double-dealing were at the very heart of it. Espionage and counter-espionage went to great lengths to avoid two agents being aware of each other’s existence. There are countless examples of spies and informants and illegals who worked side by side for years without knowing about each other. Especially when it came to an East German informant and a Russian – we would never have told them about our personnel. Better to let them act as supervisors and secondary informants. It made it easier to find out if someone became a double agent and started reporting to the West, or was trying to plant disinformation. You can’t imagine how paranoid we were.’

  ‘You spied on your own spies?’

  ‘We spied on everything.’

  Kozlov paused and seemed to be daydreaming.

  ‘Desirée was special,’ he said. ‘I hope she’s well.’

  ‘Special?’ said Sara. ‘In what way?’

  Kozlov looked at Sara as if considering how much he could tell her. How much he wanted to tell.

  ‘She went against her handlers to help me. As a straightforward favour to a friend. I don’t think that’s ever happened in the history of the Soviet Union.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘You’re aware that I was the foreign minister?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sara.

  She knew that. Even if Kozlov had only held the role briefly.

  ‘When Gorbachev was deposed in the coup, Desirée advised me to speak up for him, even though it was her senior chiefs at the KGB who had ensured he lost power. I did as she told me – then Gorbachev returned, and as thanks for my support he appointed me foreign minister. Not a bad career for a little orphan farm boy from Kyrgyzstan! How she could have known, I have no idea. Later on, I’m afraid, Yeltsin went against Gorbachev – and when Gorbachev fell, I fell, too. But thanks to Desirée I’ve still been one of the most important leaders in one of the world’s biggest, most feared countries.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Sara.

  ‘But today it’s all gone,’ said Kozlov.

  It was not altogether easy to digest that Aunt Agneta had played such a major role in history. The question was whether this might have any connection to Stellan’s death.

  ‘And if Desirée were to be activated today,’ said Sara. ‘What reason might there be for that?’

  Kozlov leaned his head back and appeared to be thinking.

  ‘It’s absolutely certain that they have younger resources they can use. And Stellan Broman’s contacts are not current. It would have to be something that only she was able to do. A skill of some kind. Or personal connections, of course. Current events in some other sector tied to her active years would likely give you a clue.’

  ‘Stay-Put,’ said Sara.

  She’d signed the confidentiality paperwork and knew what was at stake. But she had to try it out. Stay-Put was no secret. It had been known about in the 1980s. And the magic words worked.

  Boris Kozlov’s face cracked into a wolfish grin.

  ‘Why are you here if you already know everything?’

  ‘Is this to do with Stay-Put?’

  ‘Yours or ours?’

  ‘So you had your own?’

  ‘NATO had Stay-Put, so of course the Warsaw Pact had Stay-Put. We responded in kind.’

  ‘How did it work? Is it still active?’

  Kozlov looked at Sara for a long time, then he straightened himself up, looked at the ceiling and began to deliver a small lecture. She hoped that he would get to the point sooner or later.

  ‘Monitoring of the western side of the Fulda valley was primarily handled during the seventies by the American Fifth Corps under the command of General Starry,’ said Kozlov. ‘His reasoning was that it had to be possible to attack the Warsaw Pact’s forces in East Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia before they had made it to the battlefield, to ensure that in the event of any attack there was no need to use nuclear weapons that would impact their own forces and the West German people. A strategy adopted by NATO which made us in the East assemble the same radical defences – we planted explosive charges in the ground at roadsides and key locations. But the chiefs weren’t content with just ordinary explosives.’

  Kozlov paused for effect before continuing.

  ‘They went for nuclear explosives,’ he said, letting the words resonate around the room. ‘To make the ground impassable and secure Soviet borders through a wide, radioactive buffer.’

  ‘The devastation of Europe?’

  ‘A corridor straight through Europe, running along the
border between East and West. The military probably felt they were simply responding in kind – after all, we had all of NATO’s war plans. I can tell you that much, because they were found by Western powers in the Stasi headquarters in Berlin when the Wall fell – so it’s public knowledge. The Warsaw Pact knew exactly what NATO was thinking. And they responded to it all.’

  ‘So you buried atom bombs in the ground.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And the atom bombs . . .?’

  ‘Have never been found. Most Soviet archives remained sealed, unlike in the DDR. The KGB and GRU managed to keep their secrets.’

  ‘Could the information about them have leaked out by any other means? Could it have been sold? Would the current Russian powers be interested in the bombs being detonated?’

  ‘Let me answer each part separately. The information could have been sold. Most things were sold when the Soviet Union collapsed. It could also have been sold in East Germany, which was – after all – the intended scene for this devastation. But in that case, there would have been only a very few people who knew about it. To your final question – would Russia have anything to gain from the atom bombs being triggered today?’

  Kozlov paused.

  ‘Yes. Well, the country’s leaders would certainly have an interest in information about the bombs being leaked. It would cause panic and undermine society in a string of European countries. And you know that Ivan likes destabilisation. And if responsibility was shouldered by some terrorist group – say, an Islamist cell that obtained the information from their Palestinian brothers . . . Well, I think our friends in the Kremlin would be unlikely to cry tears of blood over that.’

  ‘So a Russian illegal could very plausibly be tasked with cleaning up all trace of any such operation, and helping to realise it? But what type of information might be here? Something someone has to come here to collect?’

  ‘After having seen the complete disappearance of East Germany, there were many who hid important information in neutral locations because they were worried the USSR would go the same way as the DDR. Some wanted to protect themselves, others wanted to use it as a weapon in the struggle against developments or quite simply to sell it and earn a bundle. Everything was sold when the Soviet Union went down. Tanks, submarines, transport planes, warheads. It’s a miracle more of them haven’t turned up. Either the quality was too poor, or we’ve been extraordinarily lucky. But it’s not too late. Munitions keep for thirty years. Easily.’

  ‘So Desirée was guarding the information?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why is she getting rid of the entire East German spy ring, then?’

  ‘Is she?’

  Damn. Now she’d said too much.

  ‘That has to remain between us,’ said Sara. ‘At least until it’s official.’

  ‘It’ll never be official. No matter how many die.’

  ‘But why is she killing them all?’

  ‘To cover up tracks, if you ask me. Perhaps the East German spies were originally assigned the mission, but now that it’s actually happening she’s tasked with cleaning up and ensuring that no one can talk. After this many years, they won’t dare rely on people’s loyalties. Or perhaps they’re just afraid that some old spy with dementia will start babbling in their golden years. In the good old days, no one ever expected a spy to see old age – but there are actually rather a lot of them who made it.’

  Sara took a sip from her coffee and tried to formulate her next question, but thoughts were spinning in her mind.

  A Soviet stay-put. With hidden atom bombs that no one knew the locations of.

  Or rather, a few people knew.

  The wrong people.

  46

  With her walking poles almost dragging along behind her rather than working rhythmically, she drew no attention. Just another old lady who thought a pair of sticks would compensate for a lifetime of being sedentary. As yet, no one had guessed that the anonymous old woman who had been wandering around the neighbourhood in recent days was the wife of the murdered Uncle Stellan, currently being searched for by every police force in the country. Their neighbour. Unrecognisable. A complete stranger in her own neighbourhood.

  And then it occurred to her that she had always been that. Stellan’s fame had, in a way, given the street its profile. It had set the tone. If you lived there, you lived in Stellan and Agneta’s neighbourhood.

  And yet she’d felt like a visitor – never at home. As if she’d been hopping spiritually from foot to foot on the front step, waiting for an invitation that never came.

  Had she pretended for all those years? No, she had been Agneta Broman.

  But now she was someone else.

  Faithful to her mission, Agneta had ensured she carefully documented everything to do with Geiger. Given that she’d been active long before the East Germans had managed to recruit their informant, it had been easy to identify Geiger’s instructions. Her own agency had been worried, and classified Geiger as a risky recruit. But the East Germans had been overjoyed. A prestige signing with access straight to the heart of Sweden’s corridors of power. But they were more interested in being recognised as a state in their own right than they were in defeating the great enemy.

  Agneta was certain that her family had never guessed the truth, which meant she’d been able to monitor everything that the East Germans’ secret informant had done. In the beginning, all the information had been in writing – contrary to all instructions. But that was what it was like working with amateurs. The advantage for Agneta was that she’d easily been able to photograph the notes. She noticed that once Geiger had memorised the information, the notes had been destroyed. But by then she’d already documented everything and sent it on.

  That was why she knew, among other things, where Geiger’s ‘letterbox’ was: the public place where a handler or other spies could leave messages. It could be chalk marks on a building wall, stones arranged in a certain way in the flower bed or drawing pins stuck into a tree trunk, where the different colours of the pins meant different things: ‘Contact your handler’, ‘Everything is going according to plan’, ‘You’ve been exposed’ and so on.

  Geiger’s drop was on the promenade by the water’s edge a few blocks away. She turned onto Tällbergsgränd and used the poles to manoeuvre herself towards the path that ran through the small wooded area. On the fifth tree trunk, part of the bark had been peeled off. Just a couple of centimetres, but that was enough.

  After three days, the message had finally arrived.

  She’d begun to have her doubts.

  Despite the fact that she knew that much of the assignment was about waiting, uncertainty – and last-minute changes to the plans. Despite the fact that she knew it was important for an agent in the field to retain their focus. Not to forget, not to hesitate, not to stop. Wait, be ready and then act with lightning speed when the time came.

  But after so many years of inactivity, she had to ask herself whether anything could really happen now. She’d begun to lean towards the idea that it wouldn’t.

  But now there was a message.

  ‘We need to meet.’

  Abu Rasil.

  He’d finally received the all-clear from his handlers that they were ready. So he wanted to meet Geiger to obtain the codes.

  But he wasn’t expecting Agneta.

  Desirée.

  How long had it been? Forty years?

  At one of the training camps, when they had been on the same side.

  Today, Agneta was on her own side.

  It was time.

  And she was ready.

  She plodded back towards the house, careful not to give away her eagerness. She unlocked it with the borrowed keys. She put down the poles and immediately felt twenty years younger. Then she checked what was in the fridge and freezer. She didn’t want to cut corners with her food – especially not when it might be her last meal.

  Then she went down to the basement and into the
boiler room.

  ‘How does minced veal with cream sauce and rowanberry jam sound?’

  He didn’t reply – merely stared at her. He was, perhaps, still having trouble grasping how the woman who’d recently given herself to him with such passion suddenly had his life in her hands.

  There wasn’t much he could say either, from where he was sitting. But he could at least have nodded. The ropes and the gag didn’t prevent him from nodding.

  ‘Well, that’s what it’s going to be,’ said Agneta. ‘You can have a glass of wine with it if you like. I’ve got to work, so I’ll have to abstain.’

  Agneta didn’t know whether her words were being registered.

  She looked at her captive. Bound and locked into his own home. The question was, what would she do with him when it was time?

  A bullet would be easiest, but he hadn’t actually done anything to her or otherwise impeded her mission. On the contrary, he’d given her some pleasure and enabled her to monitor the meeting spot.

  Perhaps she should just leave him there, and let luck and chance determine his fate?

  47

  With Kozlov’s words resounding in her head, Sara wandered through the large police complex at Kungsholmen.

  Agneta, an illegal.

  A Soviet citizen who’d been living in Sweden under a false identity.

  She couldn’t help comparing it with her own life when the children had been younger. She’d lied about what she did at work so as not to frighten them.

  To protect them from the sordid world that she encountered every day.

  Could she, too, have been a spy? An illegal? Would she have been able to turn off her true self completely and live as someone else?

  Lying to the children hadn’t been difficult. Would she have been just as happy to live her life alongside people who had no idea who she really was?

  Never being able to say your real name to your children, never talking about your childhood, only repeating memories learned by rote. Or details from the childhood of some stranger.

  Oddly enough, it was the children that she thought of. Deceiving your husband didn’t seem as strange. That was something you already did to a great extent – especially at the beginning of a relationship. The problems usually cropped up when you stopped pretending, when you wanted to be seen for the person you were.