To the Top of the Mountain

by Arne Dahl

  ‘You were photographed coming out, the whole group, by a paedophile up in Söder Torn. A bit ironic, don’t you think?’

  ‘So you’ve had me for a long time, then?’

  ‘The picture was useless, unfortunately. You could see a bit of the beard, that was all.’

  Ludvig Johnsson laughed. ‘See,’ he said. ‘A blessing in disguise.’

  ‘Tell me everything now.’

  ‘OK. It was February, something like that. I found a whole load of hidden websites online and tracked down a whole group of pseudonyms. I put all of them away – all apart from one. The idea was born right away when I realised that “brambo” was Nedic. Taking money from that bastard didn’t feel so dangerous. My life was a complete mess. All I did was run. I was running for my life. Like the original marathon. I hated winter more and more. It was in winter that my family had been wiped out. Damn winter roads. I wanted to get away. Die in the warmth somewhere. I had the strange idea of just going to some Polynesian island and drinking myself to death. Me, someone who doesn’t even like the strong stuff much. Anyway, I sent all the material to a friend in Säffle and got in touch with Nedic. He was completely dumbfounded. Had thought he was completely secure online. I put a sum that sounded good out there, ten million, and he went with it. I was speechless. He went with it. Ten mill. You have to wonder how much a man like that has . . . We agreed that I had to meet his men to decide on a handover. I suggested Kvarnen – as public as possible. Somehow, it must’ve got out.’

  ‘Nedic’s closest man was called Lordan Vukotic. He knew the Kvarnen meeting was going to take place. He’d trained as a corporate laywer in the Kumla Bunker and was probably going to be the one looking after the empire’s finances. Evidently, he told his friends inside about it, and one of them – a Croat called Risto Petrovic – told one of his old friends from the Foreign Legion, a right-wing extremist and former officer called Niklas Lindberg. He seems to have been the leader of some kind of “Nazi clique” in Kumla. Sven Joakim Bergwall and Dan Andersson were involved in it, too. Andersson was released in February, so he was out when the information about the handover of ten million came up in . . .’

  ‘It must’ve been May,’ said Johnsson.

  ‘In May, the ideological motor Bergwall was released. By that point, Andersson might’ve already started to get a gang together to steal that ten million. Lindberg was inside until the twenty-fourth of June, the day after your meeting in Kvarnen. He knew that Bergwall and the men were going to listen to your meeting, but at roughly the same time he decided to torture Vukotic to find out what he knew about the meeting place. The next day, he was released. The men picked him up from Kumla in a van. Once he was safely outside the walls, he detonated a bomb, blowing the injured Vukotic to pieces. A farewell gesture to Kumla, a greeting for Nedic, and a way of erasing his tracks – all in one go.

  ‘Then this gang of six right-wing extremists set off for the Sickla industrial estate. Lindberg blew up the car containing the three monsters from Bosnia. One of them died immediately. They took the briefcase containing the safe-deposit-box key and the radio, got a shock when there was no money in the briefcase, and that gave the battle-tested Bosnian monsters their chance: they whipped out their pistols using the mechanisms in their jacket sleeves and shot and killed two of them, Carlstedt and Bergwall, injuring another, Andersson. They died themselves, of course. But at the same time, the briefcase disappeared.

  ‘A completely separate gang, calling itself Orpheus and Eurydice, some kind of Nedic defectors, also knew about your little delivery. In the middle of the firefight, they managed to steal the briefcase. They’re not too thrilled about finding a key and a radio instead of money, either. They split up and set off into the countryside, looking for the bank. They must have some kind of idea about where it should be. That means they must be relatively close to Nedic. From the Nazi gang, Lindberg, Sjöqvist, Kullberg and an injured Andersson are left. Kullberg’s a civil engineer, and made some kind of device for locating the police radio. They set off after Orpheus, Eurydice and the briefcase. Eurydice had the briefcase. After a couple of weeks of hunting, they found her. In Skövde. We were there. We killed Sjöqvist and Andersson and captured Kullberg. Lindberg managed to get away. Eurydice, too. Hjelm and Holm were shot.’

  Ludvig Johnsson stared at his formerly apathetic colleague, half amazed.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘You’ve been working hard. Who are this Orpheus and Eurydice?’

  ‘That we don’t know, and it’s no longer of interest. We’ve got the key. Do you have any idea where the bank might be?’

  ‘No, but it should be near town. Stockholm. My box, with the material from the investigation, is in town. The branch of Handelsbank on Odenplan. Why are you telling me all of this? The criminal? The “policeman”?’

  ‘So that you can tidy up after yourself. I’ve got computer equipment and mobile phones and connection devices in the car, enough for two men in a cottage without electricity or a telephone. I’ve filled your fridge with food. So now we’re damn well going to stay here until we’ve cracked this!’

  ‘But what’s left?’ Johnsson exclaimed.

  ‘To hell with Nedic for the moment,’ Gunnar Nyberg said clearly. ‘I think Sara will deal with that. To hell with Orpheus and Eurydice, too. They’re out of the game. What’s left – properly left – is Niklas Lindberg. He wants your ten million for something particular. He sets off advanced, extremely powerful microscopic bombs with pleasure, and he managed to steal almost a million kronor while he was hunting for Eurydice. He’s hardly going to get hold of that ten million unless he goes directly for Nedic, but maybe that near-million he already has is enough.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Johnsson.

  ‘I think the first bombs were a test. He blew up Vukotic for fun, more or less, and the car in Sickla could’ve been stopped without using explosives. He’s test-bombing. Like in Polynesia, that crazy bastard. They’re samples he’s setting off. That ten million is going towards a serious amount of the liquid explosive that apartheid South Africa’s security services developed. It’s connected to the same international, right-wing movement that Lindberg came into contact with in the Foreign Legion and which caused Nedic’s colleague, the Croatian fascist Petrovic, to squeal to Lindberg. The explosive could’ve been smuggled into Kumla, and now it’s going to be used for something bigger. You and I are going to find out what Niklas Lindberg is up to, and stop it. That’s what we’re going to do. You owe it to me, to Sara and the world, you stupid bastard.’

  Ludvig Johnsson looked at Gunnar Nyberg. What he saw was something remarkable. A kind of focused energy. An absolute determinedness that he never would have predicted. Though, on the other hand, he had never been part of the A-Unit.

  ‘But what about you? Have you left the A-Unit?’

  ‘If we can solve this, maybe we can save both our skins,’ said Gunnar Nyberg, heading towards his rusty old Renault.

  41

  KERSTIN HOLM HAD been moved to the Karolinska hospital. It was Tuesday, and her head hurt.

  It wasn’t so strange. She had seen the X-ray. It looked like there was a hole right into her head, but it was just that her skull was thin as an eggshell above her ear. Translucent. Dan Andersson had shot away a bit of her skull. Just one hit. A bit of her skull, gone with one hit. Part of her head had been trampled into a rain-soaked lawn in Skövde. Maybe a tiny Kerstin Holm would grow up out of it, to the surprise of the hotel guests.

  Though that wasn’t very likely.

  She turned to Paul Hjelm, sitting on the edge of her bed with that expression of compassion that hospital visitors always have.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said.

  ‘Stop what?’ he asked.

  ‘That face.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to mean anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The thing with Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It might be a coincidence.’

  ‘You’re right
.’

  ‘Don’t say I’m right just because I’m in hospital and have awful hospital-breath. Tell me I’m wrong instead. Disagree with me.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Thanks. Why am I wrong?’

  ‘You don’t have awful hospital-breath.’

  ‘Why am I wrong?’

  ‘Because he’s been in our thoughts for so long. Because he reacted so strangely to that mention of Orpheus. Because he was sitting reading Ovid’s Metamorphoses in a packed pub. Because the others said he was pretending to read. Because, even though he was reading, he saw everything apart from the group sitting closest to him, speaking English right in his ear. Because he’s one of the three witnesses who, in spite of everything, we can’t get hold of. Because the young pair aren’t using one but two of Ovid’s metamorphoses when they contact one another. Orpheus and Eurydice and Philemon and Baucis.’

  ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘Per Karlsson. It can’t shape the investigation, but we should keep him in mind.’

  ‘I agree. What happened, then? Unemployed, uneducated Per Karlsson, twenty years old, is sitting and listening to three ex-Yugoslavs and a “policeman” coming to an agreement on a meeting place. Was he there by coincidence? Did he just happen to hear it? Or was he there to listen? In which case, how did he know those gangsters were going to be there? He and his girlfriend are using Internet-enabled mobile phones belonging to Rajko Nedic’s restaurant, the Thanatos – the kingdom of the dead, of course. Something’s missing. Sure, Per Karlsson might’ve worked there temporarily – illegally, that is, unregistered – as a waiter or dishwasher, but it’s not enough. Two sophisticated mobile phones and knowledge that the meeting in Kvarnen was going to take place. That implies real closeness to Nedic, a man who doesn’t let anyone get close to him.’

  ‘Though it could’ve been a coincidence. He really was in Kvarnen, trying to read. Then he hears the conversation and gets hooked on it. He pretends to read and doesn’t say a word to us about the neighbouring table. He sees it as a gift from above. X number of millions as a gift to an unemployed slacker. It’s also very possible.’

  ‘But then they set off, each on their own, to look for the safe-deposit box. Why did they go where they did? Why to Dalarna and Västmanland, Halland and Västergötland? I mean, they can’t search the whole of Sweden. Does that mean they’ve got some kind of close knowledge of Nedic?’

  ‘Maybe. But that has to fall in the shadow of Niklas Lindberg. Per Karlsson didn’t exactly seem like he was a danger to society. Also, they seem to be out of the game now.’

  ‘True. Bloody hell, everything’s starting to spin again.’

  Hjelm stood up and stared at her. She watched him spin. He looked so awkward, like all hospital visitors.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Kerstin Holm, spinning away.

  42

  THROUGH THE GATES, you could catch a glimpse of paradise. But the walls were high and guarded by an armed cherub.

  Which, in this case, was a surveillance camera, an entryphone and a metallic-sounding voice which said: ‘Name and business.’

  She cleared her throat and looked at the four thick-skinned police assistants she had in tow. All stared up into the camera. It was like an audition for a TV talent show.

  ‘Detective Inspector Sara Svenhagen,’ she said. ‘Criminal Investigation Department. We’re looking for Rajko Nedic.’

  ‘Mr Nedic is not available at the moment,’ said the metallic voice.

  ‘Then we’d like to speak to someone else. Who is in charge?’

  Silence. The gates of paradise slid open. The fantastic garden didn’t seem to have allowed a single conceivable shade of colour to get away, and the brilliant sunshine only served to make them brighter. Sara Svenhagen felt almost blinded by the display of colours and drugged by the richness of scents. It really was fantastic. The Garden of Eden.

  A well-dressed little man in his fifties came out to meet them in the garden. He held out his hand to Sara. She shook it.

  ‘I’m Ljubomir Protic,’ he said in slightly broken Swedish. ‘I work for Mr Nedic. What can I help you with?’

  ‘Isn’t he home?’ asked Sara Svenhagen.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Ljubomir Protic said politely. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘That depends who you are.’

  ‘I’m Mr Nedic’s right-hand man, you could say.’

  ‘I thought that was Lordan Vukotic. Though he’s dead, of course.’

  Protic maintained his polite smile, answering: ‘I don’t recognise that name, unfortunately.’

  ‘Are you close to Rajko Nedic, Ljubomir?’ asked Sara.

  ‘Very close, Mrs Svenkragen.’

  ‘Svenhagen. And not Mrs Sara. You can call me Sara, Ljubomir. We’re going to be talking a lot in the near future. And of course you’re close to him. If I’m not mistaken, you left Yugoslavia together almost thirty years ago. Two youngsters, Rajko and Ljubomir, hitching their way through Europe on the way to a golden future in Sweden.’

  Ljubomir Protic looked at her, his smile beginning to falter.

  ‘What are you getting at? I have nothing more to say. I think I’d like to ask you to leave now.’

  ‘I think I forgot to say where I’ve come from. The child pornography unit, CID. It has nothing to do with Nedic the drug dealer. This is about Nedic the paedophile.’

  His reaction was important.

  Since her conversation with Gunnar, Sara had devoted her time to finding out as much as possible about Nedic’s organisation. The drugs squad had a lot to offer when it came to its structure. The most important new addition was Ljubomir Protic, who had known Rajko Nedic for practically his entire life but had only recently entered the organisation as Nedic’s right-hand man. From the outside, he seemed like the weakest link – but, on the other hand, there was an internal band of friendship that was even stronger.

  His reaction was clear. He paled slightly. He tried to maintain his polite, obliging expression, but the colour of his face changed. It was the reaction she had been hoping for.

  She turned to the other police officers.

  ‘Take him with you,’ she said, wandering through the gates of paradise.

  Ljubomir was in an interrogation room. It felt strange. Just him and the walls. The moment he blew on them, they would come tumbling down. He knew it. And so he tried to refrain from breathing. It felt as though life was being blown out with each breath.

  Eventually, there was almost nothing left.

  He had been there for two hours now. No one had been in to see him, but he knew that someone was watching him. From somewhere within. And by this point, the great man would surely know where he was. He couldn’t really see any kind of future.

  He remembered what the great man had drilled into him. A rule book to use in the event of a confrontation with the police. Always be polite and obliging. Deny everything with an expression of regret. Be aware of yourself and the smallest of expressions. Don’t say a single unnecessary word.

  The great man had already made it clear to him that he was seen as a security risk. He knew roughly what he would be thinking by this point. Two hours with the police. He’s already told them everything he knows. Good job he doesn’t know anything.

  But the great man didn’t know which police unit he was with. The paedophile police. And he really did know everything about that.

  The door opened and the short-haired policewoman came in. Finally. She seemed so unassuming. Young. Having your life shattered by a young woman wasn’t so unusual after all, despite everything. And now she had been gathering her aces. Would he be able to keep calm – if that place was brought up?

  She brought it up immediately.

  Sara Svenhagen placed a pile of papers on the table and said: ‘By this point, he’ll think you’ve told us everything, right? Which means your life isn’t worth much. So you might as well tell us everything. About his paedophile den with the golden soundproofed walls, for example.’


  ‘Do you really think it’s that easy to crack the organisation?’ Ljubomir asked, sounding like he was reeling off a line he’d learned by heart. ‘Don’t you think it’s stronger than that?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘When it comes to the drugs. Then it’s practically impossible to bring down. All the safety locks are still in place there. But this isn’t about the drugs. It’s about the back route into the organisation. Via Rajko Nedic’s sexual escapades.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sara,’ said Ljubomir. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Of course not. What do you think about child pornography, Ljubomir? What do you think of small girls’ vaginas, split to the navel by broken Coca-Cola bottles? What do you think of five-year-old boys whose anuses are so ruptured that the shit just runs straight out of them?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ljubomir, staring at her.

  ‘I’m going to show you hundreds of pictures of your employer in such situations, and you’re going to look at every single one of them, even it it means pinning your eyelids to your forehead. Do you understand?’

  Ljubomir looked at the young woman with the cropped hair. He could see her determinedness and knew that it was over. He would fight it, but only because it was ingrained in him that he should fight. But it was over. He would start to cry. He would be forced to go to that place and see everything he’d been turning away from his entire life. It would all collapse in on him. He knew that when he looked into Sara Svenhagen’s eyes. And he knew she could see it.

  ‘Rajko Nedic, using the pseudonym “brambo”, has been particularly active in online paedophile circles. It’s only now that we’ve managed to identify him. In practice, he’s already out of the game. It would be good if you could tell us more, Ljubomir. What happened? Was he already a paedophile when you came to Sweden, two youths with the world at their fingertips? Was there something in his childhood that made him into what he is?’