Anger Mode

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Edvinsson tore open the unlocked door and suddenly found himself facing a bearded man in a nightshirt.

  WHAT IS TAKING such a long time? Martin Borg thought impatiently and watched the backs of the NI task-force controllers sitting by their monitors. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and threw a glance at his colleague Ove Jernberg, who seemed to be completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. That did not surprise him. Ove was an idealist; he had drifted through life and had never known which side of the fence he should stand on. He changed principles like a teenager swaps clothes. Martin wanted to believe that he had been successful in converting him to his reality. But he was not completely sure that he had succeeded.

  Even more men, most of them with beards, stood lined up along the wall. They all had their hands in the air.

  “Down!” Edvinsson roared and pointed with military precision at the floor as adrenaline pumped through his body. He kept the MP5 aimed at the man standing closest. Only when some officers crossed his firing line did he lower his weapon. The men were getting down onto the floor, but apparently not quickly enough – they were thrown on their stomachs by the charging police. Their hands were handcuffed behind their backs.

  “All five subjects secured,” the police radio finally reported.

  Martin immediately felt a hundred kilos lighter. The few minutes of radio silence had been infinitely long. He had felt a knot growing in his gut. Not out of fear of one of his men being injured or even killed. That did not concern him. He had been afraid that there would be no one in the flat. The Surveillance Unit had a habit of not being able to keep track of the location of those they were monitoring, even when they had beards and were wearing nightshirts. Lack of resources was the usual, tired excuse. So he was relieved that the subjects had been secured. He was looking forward to the subsequent interrogations, when he would break them one by one. He could not wait to get started.

  Members of SÄPO’s forensics team had just arrived when Martin marched in through the demolished front door. The door frame had been ripped off its hinges by the force of the battering ram. They have taken off the kid gloves, he thought, and smiled contentedly. The team leader, Anton Edvinsson, stood in the hallway with his helmet under his arm and the ski mask pulled upwards into a woolly hat.

  “Did they offer any resistance?” Martin asked.

  “No, they just looked surprised,” Edvinsson answered and took a swig from his water bottle. “So would I, if someone broke in and rammed a machine gun in my face at three-thirty in the morning.”

  “Anything else of significance?” Martin asked dryly.

  “Check out their study,” Edvinsson suggested.

  “Study?” Martin said, surprised.

  After entering the flat, Martin understood what he meant. The room Edvinsson called a study was crammed full, with bookshelves, desks and different types of containers. Drawings illustrating buildings lay rolled out on long desks lined up along the walls.

  “Blueprints!” one of SÄPO’s technicians concluded, bending over one of the desks. He wore blue nylon overalls with a hood and a white mask that not only effectively blocked bacteria but also turned his voice into static.

  After teasing his way into overalls and putting on his face mask, Martin went into the room.

  “Alf?” he asked and approached the technician.

  “Not quite,” the man answered. “Peter Danielsson. Alf and I are like identical twins in these suits.”

  “What am I looking at?” Martin asked and stared at a drawing.

  “Detailed blueprints of buildings,” Danielsson answered. “The majority seem to be mosques.”

  “Which mosques then?”

  “Not a clue,” Danielsson answered, shaking his head. “But the drawings are in Swedish. If you look at the dates in the headers, most of them are no more than a few years old. Perhaps these are ongoing construction projects.”

  “Nothing else?” Martin asked, disappointed.

  “No, not so far,” Danielsson answered.

  Martin looked troubled. Mere drawings of mosques would not sit well with the prosecutor. Whatever their purpose, this case would never hold up in court. It was, after all, not illegal to build mosques if one had building permission. He could still claim that the group had received terrorist funds. But until the terrorist prince was on the US blacklist, this would also be a dead end. The most he could do would be to freeze the group’s assets for a while, but there would be hell to pay when the prince found out. The royal family in Saudi Arabia would send the yanks to read the riot act to the primitive Vikings in the north. If there were no traces of Drug-X in the flat, there was only one way forwards.

  “ABDULLAH KHALIL: THIRTY-EIGHT years old and born in Sudan. Came to Sweden as a refugee eight years ago. Is that correct?” Martin Borg asked and looked at the bearded man facing him. It was six-thirty in the morning and Martin felt euphoric. He was not the slightest bit tired despite the fact that a full day had passed since he last slept. He took a large sip of coffee and grimaced when he realized that the coffee had gone cold.

  “So you don’t want a lawyer to represent you because you don’t accept our democratic form of government and all that it represents in terms of rights and obligations. Is that correct?” he continued his interrogation. He already knew what the answer would be.

  The man was silent. He did not move a muscle, instead looking down at the table as if he was praying.

  “What are you using the blueprints for?”

  The man looked up and laughed contemptuously.

  “Well?” Martin asked impatiently.

  “If we have done anything that displeases the great Allah, we shall be punished,” the man began slowly and with a heavy accent. “And only then, not by you unbelievers. Who are you to forbid us to build mosques, God’s houses?”

  “We will ask the questions and you will answer. This is how interrogations are usually done, if you didn’t already know that. What were you using the drawings for?” Martin repeated.

  “That is between us and Allah,” the man answered defiantly. “We are under no obligation to tell you anything.”

  The man fell silent.

  “Who owns the drawings you had in the flat?” Martin continued.

  “Allah does,” the man continued his defiance.

  “Most likely, he does, but who got hold of them? Surely not a task for Allah,” Martin joked, trying to start a conversation with the man.

  “Allah creates everything in this world. Everything you see around you is created by the Almighty.”

  Martin sighed and rubbed his face. He was getting tired of this.

  “It’s late and I’m getting fed up with listening to your mindless ranting about Allah. We can easily find out how you came into possession of the drawings and which buildings they represent. I hardly think that God or Allah is the owner of the blueprints. Once again, what were you going to use the drawings for?”

  The man slowly shook his head. “The material world you live in is so empty,” he said. “You cannot see the light because you are blinded by your own arrogance and filled with a self-righteousness that will be your downfall.”

  “I see,” Martin said and leaned back in his chair. He surveyed the man and irritation began to build within him. It was as if he were mocking Martin – in fact, the entire SÄPO organization. Yet he could not avoid feeling a grudging admiration at the self-assurance and calm that these fanatics radiated. They were perhaps at peace with themselves and their faith, which was what made the scumbags the difficult and fearsome adversaries they were. Fanatics were always difficult to break down. Especially the ones that submitted to a higher power in the form of something as abstract as a god or a dead prophet. The Americans had had little success on the Guantanamo base, despite better resources and fewer restrictions. As a colleague in the CIA had expressed it, “It’s ten times easier to turn a communist than a brainwashed, Islamic terrorist.”

  The communists’ loathing of t
he West during the Cold War had been deep and entrenched, yet the Islamic radicals’ hatred was of such magnitude that it could be subdued only with death. Few communists would give their lives as readily for their cause as an Islamist suicide bomber would. The enemy was no longer nations like the Soviet Union and its satellite regimes. The enemy was now among us. It could be your neighbour or a co-worker. And they struck indiscriminately at both military and civilian targets – hard and soft. Women, children and old men in wheelchairs were of no significance. They were all unbelievers and were to be wiped out for the Holy Cause.

  “Let’s skip all that stuff about God owning the drawings for a while and change the subject completely,” Martin suggested and looked at his papers. “Is the name Karin Sjöstrand familiar?”

  The man looked at Martin as if he had suddenly started to speak in a foreign language.

  “Why would I know her?” he asked and shook his head in denial.

  “Lennart Ekwall, then?” Martin continued. “District Prosecutor Lennart Ekwall.”

  The man did not reply.

  “Perhaps the name Bror Lantz then?” Martin leaned towards him. “He’s a judge at Stockholm District Court, if that rings a bell.”

  The man remained expressionless.

  Martin needed to do something. The towelhead had shut down completely.

  “I myself have a problem with some of the laws and courts that we have in this country,” Martin resumed, changing tactic. By showing understanding of matters close to the interview subject’s core beliefs, one could, in the best of cases, build up an empathetic relationship, which enabled information to be gleaned by reading between the lines.

  The man said nothing and just stared condescendingly at Martin.

  “I have nothing against Islam or its practitioners. We need diversity to survive as a civilization,” Martin tried. In fact, I’m rather fascinated by Islam and would like to learn more.”

  No reaction.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see children playing side by side wherever they are in the world and regardless of their religion?” he asked, with a touch of desperation in his voice. He has to take the bait now, Martin thought. At the very least, he would start to vent his righteous anger at US politics in the Middle East.

  Not a single muscle twitched in the man’s face.

  CHAPTER 15

  MARTIN BORG CLOSED the file and asked his colleague to take over the interrogation, if one could even call it an interrogation. He walked down the corridor after progress with the interview had stalled. It was still early in the morning and he needed space to think. Martin’s contempt towards those who were appointed to defend democracy increased with each day that passed. The majority of his colleagues were blinded by naivety and preoccupied with political correctness. That would plunge them into the abyss. He leaned back against the wall and popped a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth, while tracing the contours of the charm with his thumb. It was worn down after protecting him for twenty years.

  A feeling of impotence enveloped him. It was like trying to dam a waterfall with his bare hands. Did no one understand the kind of threat posed by the Islamization of Europe? Why were everybody’s eyes closed? Probably because they were not aware of the truth. They were not as informed as he was himself and never would be because of the censoring of the press, as well as the politicians competing with each other to demonstrate their tolerance. All that he could do was to convince the general population before it was too late.

  Martin walked into interrogation room “C”, where he found his colleague Ove Jernberg in the middle of questioning another of the Holy Prophet’s lackeys.

  Martin waved Ove towards the doorway.

  “How’s it going?” Martin whispered.

  “He’s as silent as the grave,” Ove replied.

  “Has he said anything at all?”

  “Not really, just that it’s Allah who decides and dictates what he and his brothers are doing.”

  “Nothing about the drug? Not even a hint?”

  “Not so much as a syllable,” Ove answered, shaking his head.

  “We have three more left to question, but it’s hardly likely that any of them will say anything that will help the investigation. On the other hand, one bonus is that we are spared any legal eagles spouting off about the law. We’ll just have to keep chipping away at them and try to wear them down. Besides, we should get a shot at other members of the Allah fan club. It seems, however, that they are out of the country.”

  “When will the Chief Prosecutor be put in the picture?” Ove asked.

  “In a few hours. We have a meeting with Åsa Julén at eight-thirty.”

  Ove nodded and returned to the interrogation.

  CHIEF PROSECUTOR ÅSA Julén was fifteen minutes late for the meeting on the investigation of which she was in charge. Stressed out, she sat down, complaining that the traffic remained busy, despite the congestion tax, an economic recession and increased petrol prices.

  Martin Borg gave Ove Jernberg and the head of the County Drug Squad, Michael Stjerna, a meaningful look. All three smiled a little at Julén’s harassed entrance.

  The County Police Commissioner, Folke Uddestad, was the one who opened the meeting, which irritated Martin. Lack of sleep did not improve his mood. It was, in fact, SÄPO that now led the operational part of the investigation and he was the most senior officer from SÄPO in the room. Commissioner Uddestad contributed nothing to the investigation. He was probably more of a hindrance, with his bureaucratic rigmarole and concern about motives. Martin knew that the Commissioner would actively meddle in the investigation now. He had probably prepared many counter-arguments.

  “Well, as you all know, we have taken in five people for preliminary questioning. And as we feared, we haven’t managed to get anything out of them,” Uddestad began, taking a bite of a gingerbread biscuit, which then broke into pieces and ended up in his mug of coffee. For a moment, he lost track.

  Martin saw an opening.

  “It’s correct that we haven’t got anything out of the initial questioning,” he began. “All five have also waived their rights to legal aid, which perhaps says more about their antagonistic position to Swedish society than their religious beliefs.”

  The room fell silent as all eyes were directed towards Uddestad. Martin watched the Commissioner as he fished with his spoon in the coffee mug. A clown in a uniform, Martin thought, and felt angry that somebody like Uddestad could become a police commissioner. But if an idiot like Uddestad could make County Police Commissioner, then Martin could very well become a department head eventually. This fact eased Martin’s irritation slightly.

  “How’s it going with the detective work? Has the Drug Squad found any leads on Drug-X?” Åsa Julén asked.

  “Very few,” Michael Stjerna answered. “And that worries us.”

  “In what way?” she asked.

  “Normally, there’s always someone who knows something,” Stjerna explained. “We’ve shaken down every fuck – dealer and supplier,” he said, correcting himself. “They all look at us like village idiots when we press them. Which can only mean one thing.”

  “That the drug originates from a tightly-knit gang,” Martin interrupted. “Coincidentally, we have such a group here in the building.”

  Stjerna nodded in agreement.

  “But the interrogations are not making any progress,” Julén pointed out.

  “No,” Martin admitted. “We need more time.”

  Julén deliberated for a brief moment. That the suspects had not said anything was, in itself, suspicious. When suspects had nothing to hide, they were usually talkative. But she was walking a tightrope; she was aware of that. “Innocent until proven guilty” was playing in the back of her mind. The new laws, however, made her decision considerably easier. She had something to fall back on.

  “I will invoke the anti-terrorism laws from now on. I have gained approval from the Prosecutor-General and the Minister for Justice. You will have more t
ime and more room for manoeuvre. The limited period of detention is no longer an obstacle,” she informed them.

  All signalled their approval, except Uddestad, who raised the question of whether it was unlawful to withhold blueprints of mosques.

  “We have examined the technical drawings we found in the flat,” said Alf Gunnarson from SÄPO’s forensics team. “Most factors suggest that they are building plans for new mosques, as well as of some mosques that are already completed. Some are entire buildings; others are premises in larger properties.

  “I see,” Julén said, with a worried frown. “What are we really getting out of the drawings? Are there any secret tunnels indicated or storage facilities where they might want to keep something secret? Anything that can be classified as terrorist activity?”

  “We have found nothing so far,” Gunnarson said.

  Julén looked hesitant.

  Uddestad shook his head doubtfully. “We still have to identify a link to Drug-X, the two court officials and the district prosecutor, which is the original reason we are sitting here. Also if the terrorist prince is indeed supplying them with the drug.”

  Martin bit his lip hard. That tosser could not keep silent. If he were allowed to continue, he would make Julén waver. At heart, Åsa Julén was a coward and disliked taking risks; everyone who had to deal with her knew that. Martin must get the County Police Commissioner away from the investigation before he did any damage, but, even for a team leader of SÄPO, that was easier said than done. The prosecutor in charge of the investigation made the final decision. She was, for all intents and purposes, Martin’s superior and, to top it all off, Uddestad was also personally connected with a big player in the political world. And it was not just any politician. Of all the bloody zombies in parliament, it had to be the Minister for Justice. Even if a politician could not directly interfere and give them instructions, they could whip up public opinion over individual cases. In any event, the Minister for Justice had a legitimate reason to be concerned about any investigation involving the judicial system.