To the Top of the Mountain

by Arne Dahl

  They see blood. Lots of blood. Three bodies. And two silver mummies on a sofa.

  And a man on his knees by the window. Sara recognises Rajko Nedic. As soon as the room has been secured, she goes over to him. He’s deathly pale behind the silver tape. He’s nodding his head strangely. A gesture. She reaches for the tape. He shakes his head frantically and continues to make the nodding gesture.

  Then she understands.

  The gesture is telling her: get out, for Christ’s sake.

  She reacts like lightning. Gets her men out into the stairwell.

  Once they’ve gone, the great man feels great for the second time in his life. Then his head explodes.

  Sara Svenhagen hears the blast from out in the stairwell. She both understands and doesn’t understand it. They return. Cautiously.

  Rajko Nedic is lying by the window. The silver tape has split over his mouth. Blood is trickling out. Sara forgets all her caution. She runs over and unwinds the tape.

  His tongue falls out. A bloody lump.

  Someone has blown the tongue out of Rajko Nedic’s mouth.

  She stands up. Takes several staggering steps over to the window. She has to get some fresh air. It doesn’t work; she can’t open the window. There isn’t any fresh air to get.

  A shimmering green bluebottle nosedives towards her forehead.

  She throws up on the windowpane in the flat with the soundproofed walls.

  They leave the bank, each clasping the other’s hand. Hard, hard. A full-to-bursting bag dangles between them.

  She casts a quick, furtive, shy glance over the street. Four floors up in the building opposite. She sees vomit running down the window.

  She smiles. It’s an appropriate farewell.

  45

  SARA SVENHAGEN WAS pale and worn out. She was sitting at the front, on Hultin’s desk, swinging her legs. He thought it was charming. But then, he was also an old chauvinist.

  What she had just told them wasn’t quite as charming. But it was illuminating. Horribly illuminating.

  Aside from Gunnar Nyberg and Kerstin Holm, everyone was there. The World Police and Fire Games were getting off to a false start with a few events. At 3 p.m. the following day, the opening ceremony would take place. Even if there wouldn’t be as many competitors as planned, and even if the organisers had mismanaged it to the point of being put on trial, Stockholm Stadium would be full of policemen and women from all corners of the earth.

  ‘So you met Niklas Lindberg on the stairs on the way up?’ asked Arto Söderstedt.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sara Svenhagen. ‘Though we didn’t know that there was a Niklas Lindberg. The walls between us have been much too high.’

  She cast a glance at Jorge Chavez. He was pale and worn out, but met her eyes. He looked deeply sorry.

  ‘Has Rajko Nedic said anything?’ asked Viggo Norlander.

  Sara Svenhagen smiled grimly. It wasn’t a smile, it just looked like one.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He can’t talk. He’ll never be able to talk again.’

  ‘But he’s alive?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in Söder hospital. They’re trying to patch up his mouth, but his tongue couldn’t be saved.’

  ‘A precisely calculated charge,’ said Hjelm. ‘Has Daddy said anything about the explosive?’

  She gave him a dark look.

  ‘Yes, Daddy said that it’s the same explosive. And Rajko Nedic is under arrest for sexual assault of children, as well as distribution of child pornography. I’m sure you can add to the charges eventually.’

  ‘The thing with Gillis Döös and Max Grahn is interesting,’ said Söderstedt. ‘Former Security Service men, about to crack an earlier investigation for us, they were also supplying Nedic with information on the investigation?’

  ‘They call themselves “security consultants”. But they don’t seem to have got hold of much.’

  ‘Overpaid consultants are a sign of our times,’ Söderstedt concluded.

  ‘And the “policeman” is Ludvig Johnsson,’ said Hultin. ‘He was blackmailing Nedic because he’d found out he was a paedophile. Now he’s on holiday. And absolutely no one has any idea where?’

  ‘No, someone does,’ said Sara Svenhagen. ‘He’s there now.’

  ‘Gunnar, my Gunnar,’ Hultin nodded woefully. ‘Do you think he’s in any danger? Do you think Johnsson might decide to bump Nyberg off to get away?’

  ‘No,’ Sara said definitively. ‘No, there’s no chance.’

  ‘Still, Gunnar Nyberg has cut himself off from the A-Unit again. This time he’s hardly got the law on his side.’

  ‘Would you have done anything differently?’ asked Sara, looking Hultin in the eye.

  ‘Hardly,’ he said, gravely. ‘That’s why I’m not planning on taking any action against him. For the moment. We’ll see how it pans out, I suppose.’

  ‘I think they’re busy working on a parallel investigation,’ said Hjelm. ‘Gunnar’s pig-headedly set about getting Ludvig to tidy up after himself. And when Gunnar sets about doing something like that, he doesn’t give up. Ever.’

  ‘That seems likely,’ said Hultin. ‘Anyway, these are all parentheses for the moment. We’ve got to focus on saving people’s lives at the World Police and Fire Games now. We’ve got just over a day. We’ve got to start asking ourselves whether we should cancel the ceremony pretty soon. Bloody good advert for Stockholm and for the supremely competent Swedish police. We’ll be the laughing stock of the world. We should try to avoid that. Can you summarise your interrogation, Paul?’

  ‘Risto Petrovic is behind the whole mess. He’s got links high up among the right-wing extremists. They’re going to be supplying Niklas Lindberg with serious amounts of the liquid explosive sometime soon. Around a million kronor’s worth. It’ll be a hell of a bang. Not a ten million-krona bang, that’s true, but big enough. Stockholm Stadium’ll probably become part of the townscape of the past.

  ‘Worst-case scenario? He could kill thousands of people, mainly police. So how can we get to Lindberg? Four ways: through Kullberg, through Petrovic, through other acquaintances, through the right-wing umbrella organisation. The fourth is impossible in principle, we’re talking about the most shadowy organisation imaginable, people who’re probably at the top of societies all over the world, who want to see ethnic cleansing on a large scale. The second is difficult. It would only be possible if we could find a weak link in Petrovic, something which would get him to think like a person and not like a severely war-damaged sociopath. The first is probably our best bet. We loosened Agne up yesterday, we got the World Police and Fire Games out of him without him really knowing it. I think we can still get more out of him. The third is difficult, but we might have time to poke around in Lindberg’s circle of acquaintances and find . . . some girlfriend or boyfriend or someone else he trusts.’

  Hultin looked cool. Cool under fire.

  ‘You’re hardly alone now,’ he said. ‘Mörner’s released the entire thing to the press. Since he doesn’t get more than about one per cent of any of this, he didn’t give them much. But what he did give them were the four named incidents: “the Kumla Bombing”, one dead; “the Sickla Slaughter”, five dead, one injured; “the Skövde Shooting”, two dead, two injured; “the Hornstull Hit”, three dead, one injured. It’s starting to resemble a battlefield. We’re up to eleven dead now and since we know that papers like Svenska Dagbladet are fond of counting bodies, we should try to pause.

  ‘We’ve been lying low with Nedic, with the “policeman”, with Orpheus and Eurydice, and with the threat against the Police Games. The press is trying its best to put the pieces together, and the result is slowly becoming quite amusing, if you have that kind of gallows humour. Which we don’t. Anyway, Niklas Lindberg’s name and face are now on every front page in Sweden. That should limit his room for manoeuvre a bit. You’ve got access to every policeman or woman in the force. Put a baton in the hand of the National Commissioner and he’ll wave it. The power’s in your hands.�
�

  ‘Or maybe in yours,’ said Söderstedt.

  Hultin ignored him completely.

  ‘The power’s in your hands,’ he repeated. ‘Use it well. The following work schedule applies. Paul and Jorge will work on the interrogation again. Press all the buttons you can find. Hit below the belt. Arto and Viggo, you’ll take care of the international material on Petrovic. Look for possible areas for blackmail: parents, siblings, anything.’

  Hultin opened his mouth to continue. There was nothing left to say. There was no one left.

  Though not quite.

  ‘I can help with Lindberg’s acquaintances,’ said Sara Svenhagen. ‘If we’re tearing down the walls.’

  Another glance at Jorge.

  ‘OK,’ said Hultin neutrally. ‘You and I will work on his acquaintances. We must be able to find something.’

  Jorge stood up. He looked profoundly serious. The weight of the seriousness of the moment.

  ‘This thing with tearing down walls,’ he said, as though beginning a speech. ‘If Sara and I hadn’t built those walls between us, the case could’ve been solved more quickly. We would’ve had the “policeman” more quickly, we would’ve had Nedic more quickly and, not least, Sara would’ve been able to catch Lindberg in the stairwell at Hornsgatan 131. In a way, I’m glad she didn’t. He wouldn’t have given himself up willingly. And then my future wife would’ve been in mortal danger.’

  They looked at one another. A vacuum grew in the Supreme Command Centre. Time, working overtime, took a break. Burdens were lifted from shoulders. But only for a moment.

  During that moment, Jorge Chavez said: ‘No more walls, Sara. Never again. I’m asking you in front of the people I’m closest to: will you marry me?’

  Sara Svenhagen smiled faintly. ‘If we get Niklas Lindberg,’ she said.

  They met in a kiss on Hultin’s desk.

  He didn’t mind.

  46

  NIGHT. A DESERTED garage somewhere in Stockholm. A waiting car. A shadow slipping into it.

  A faint light fell onto the driver of the car. Stone-faced. He didn’t turn round. Still, he saw.

  ‘You can take that off,’ he said in English.

  Niklas Lindberg took his gold-coloured balaclava off. He was holding a carrier bag in his hand.

  ‘Is that the money?’ the man asked with a certain disgust. ‘How could you lose millions? That’s not a good sign.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lindberg. ‘There’s nine hundred and twenty-six thousand, seven hundred and seventy kronor.’

  The man took the bag, weighing it in his hand.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to do a better job than this in future. Otherwise we’ve got no use for you. And Petrovic is stuck.’

  ‘Stuck?’

  ‘The police are interrogating him flat out. Detective Inspectors Hjelm and Chavez. Do you know them?’

  ‘Wog? No.’

  ‘They’ve uncovered your entire plan. It doesn’t look good. If they find a link to us, we won’t be happy.’

  ‘Risto’ll keep his mouth shut. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What about Kullberg?’

  ‘Him too. It’s OK.’

  The man leaned his head back slightly. Six months seemed to pass before he said: ‘It’s OK? You’re leaving tracks behind you and saying it’s OK? I’m telling you: it’s not OK. Do you understand?’

  ‘They won’t talk, I promise. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Let’s change the subject. Were you happy with the test samples?’

  ‘Very. Has the explosive been put in place?’

  ‘It’s where it should be. The flag is in place.’

  ‘The flag? We talked about a corner post, didn’t we?’

  ‘Change of plan. The conditions are different now. The police are on high alert. We couldn’t risk anything with the sniffer dogs. All our tests have shown that dogs don’t react to the substance, but we’ve got to be one hundred per cent sure.’

  ‘Which flag?’

  The man with the stony face laughed. Briefly. It passed. He said: ‘The substance is in the flag that’s going to be carried in with the procession. The Swedish flag. It seemed appropriate, somehow.’

  ‘So we’ll really be flying the flag, then,’ said Niklas Lindberg, laughing.

  The man gave him an icy look, and he fell silent.

  The man handed him an envelope. He opened it and took out a key, a scrap of paper and a flat little black box with a red button on it. It looked like a miniature calculator.

  ‘The key for the door,’ said the man. ‘On the paper, you’ve got the new entrance code; they changed it yesterday. You know what to do with the detonator. Why did you blow Nedic’s tongue out?’

  ‘An old promise,’ said Niklas Lindberg, thrusting the three items into his pocket and opening the car door.

  The man placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘There’s a chance they’ll cancel the opening ceremony. If that happens, we’ll never see one another again. And I mean never. Is that clear?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Niklas Lindberg with emphasis. ‘I’m not planning on letting you down. I’ve been an admirer of yours since Palme, February ’86.’

  ‘You can’t have been very old then,’ said the man, releasing his grip.

  Lindberg transformed into a shadow, becoming one with the darkness.

  For a brief moment, the man with the stony face allowed himself to think about February 1986. It was worthy of a certain admiration. They had managed to change a country. An invisible coup.

  A bomb had detonated under the Swedish flag.

  It was time to do it again.

  Enough nostalgia. The man with the stony face started the car and drove away.

  Far away.

  47

  ‘IT’S NOT GOING to be cancelled,’ said Gunnar Nyberg, leaning back.

  They were sitting under the glow of paraffin lamps and candles in the old nineteenth-century Uppland cottage. In front of them were the modern laptop computers, connected to the Internet and the central police computer via mobile phones.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Ludvig Johnsson, stroking his bald head.

  ‘Internal message,’ said Nyberg, pointing at the screen. ‘The National Police Commissioner, the head of CID, the Minister for Justice, the Prime Minister, the head of the Secret Service and Mörner were in meetings late into the night. It can’t happen. The loss of prestige would be too big. And there’s international pressure. Police forces from across the world would be a laughing stock. If we can’t even protect ourselves, how are we supposed to be able to protect others? There’s a risk it’d be a deathblow to the police force as we know it.’

  ‘What kind of death blow will it be when it goes off, then?’

  ‘Mmm . . . The reasoning goes like this: it can’t go off. It’s that simple, it can’t go off. An argument rooted in practical reasoning.’

  Ludvig Johnsson sat motionless. He closed his eyes. He didn’t know if he could really be held responsible for this, too. He didn’t care. It was all his fault, he knew that, and now things were set to escalate dramatically.

  He came to a decision.

  ‘Another beer?’ he asked, getting to his feet. His running clothes were plastered to his skin.

  ‘Why not?’ said Nyberg. ‘We’re not getting anywhere. We’re stuck. Hell, I thought we’d find an opening somewhere, but it’s not working. Damn it, it’s not working. Fuck.’

  Johnsson came back, placing a can of beer in front of him. It was open. Johnsson opened his with a hiss and took a couple of big gulps. Nyberg emptied half of his in one go.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ludvig,’ he said. ‘Lindberg broke Nedic. Nedic had his tongue blown out. Isn’t there a clue in that, somewhere?’

  Ludvig Johnsson stood motionless. He looked out into nothingness, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘There’s no solution,’ he said.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked
Nyberg.

  Johnsson took another gulp and looked at his watch.

  ‘Almost six. Six in the morning, Saturday the seventeenth of July. Nine hours left until the opening.’

  Ludvig Johnsson was no longer motionless. Slowly but surely, he started to spin. Eventually, he was spinning through the room. And the room began to fold up like a book.

  Nyberg slumped forward over the ill-placed plastic table. He was face down, and the room continued to fold in on itself, time and time again, until only a tiny square was left in the middle of all the blackness.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gunnar,’ said Ludvig Johnsson’s voice from somewhere far away. ‘I have to clean up on my own now. There’s no other way.’

  And just like that, the little square disappeared.

  Though Agne “Bullet” Kullberg looked worn out, his gaze was crystal clear. He wouldn’t let himself be duped a second time. He had seen through their tricks now, and he had one single strategy: to keep his mouth shut. To not open his mouth even once.

  It had worked for almost a day. It was eleven o’clock, and Paul Hjelm could feel the hopelessness rising.

  There were four hours left until the opening of the World Police and Fire Games in Stockholm Stadium.

  The past twenty-four hours had been strange. No one had slept. Söderstedt and Norlander had managed to find Petrovic’s parents. They lived in Germany, and through them, they managed to find a brother in trouble with the law. They put together a fake deportation order to Serbia for the brother, and Hjelm and Chavez took it to Petrovic in Tumba. Lars Viksjö looked as though he had been sleeping in his clothes for the past six months.

  ‘We’ve proved that your brother’s Serbian and should be sent back to Belgrade,’ said Hjelm.

  Petrovic stared at them, his eyes flitting from Hjelm to Chavez, Chavez to Hjelm.

  Then he laughed. ‘My brother’s an idiot,’ he said.

  And so another attempt went down the drain. Petrovic didn’t say another word. He was extremely steadfast. They went back to prison and the even more silent Bullet. It was starting to feel uncomfortable.