In Harm's Way

by Viveca Sten

  Stiletto heels came tapping across the oak parquet flooring. “How can I help?”

  Pauline Palmér appeared, wearing a gray angora sweater and dark-blue jeans. Her blond hair was gathered in a messy ponytail. She smiled pleasantly at Thomas and Margit.

  “Peter called and said you’d probably come over,” she went on. “Coffee?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she led the way into the kitchen, which was a symphony in pale wood. In one corner a fire burned in an old-style baker’s oven. The air was filled with the smell of baking, and a basket of cinnamon buns had been set out on the table, along with coffee cups and a plate of Christmas specialties and cookies.

  “Do sit down,” Pauline said, pointing to the oval table surrounded by six chairs. “Anyone take their coffee with cream?”

  Once again she didn’t wait for a response, but opened the refrigerator and took out a small china jug.

  Margit’s face had taken on a skeptical expression, but she sat down as Pauline poured the coffee.

  “Please help yourself,” Pauline said, pushing the breadbasket in Thomas’s direction.

  He hesitated; this was weird. He had the distinct feeling he’d wandered into a 1950s commercial. The woman busying herself with coffee and cookies didn’t exactly fit with his image of New Sweden’s general secretary.

  “We wanted to speak to you in connection with an ongoing homicide inquiry,” Margit announced with her usual lack of patience.

  Pauline looked at her.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of a journalist by the name of Jeanette Thiels? She was found dead on December 26.”

  “Oh?”

  Pauline put down the coffee pot as she waited for Margit to continue.

  “We’re treating her death as suspicious. When we searched her apartment, we found a considerable amount of information about the organization you lead. We’re wondering if Jeanette was working on an investigation into New Sweden?” The collar of Margit’s thick green sweater was sticking up; she smoothed it down and continued: “She seems to have been documenting your activities for quite some time. And now she’s dead.”

  A brief pause as Margit allowed her words to sink in. “So maybe you can see why we need to speak to you.”

  “That sounds dreadful, but I have no idea how I can help you.”

  Pauline bit into a cinnamon bun. Her teeth were unnaturally white against her top lip.

  “Are you sure you won’t have one?” she said, pointing to the basket. “They’re homemade, using real butter.”

  She smiled warmly and took another bite.

  “Were you aware that Jeanette Thiels was working on an investigative piece on New Sweden?” Margit persisted.

  “Goodness me, how could I possibly have known that?”

  “We thought she might have arranged to see you to ask some questions?”

  “I’ve never met her.”

  The tone was more reserved now, and a furrow appeared between Pauline’s eyebrows as she frowned. “You have no idea how many journalists decide to write about me in this country. Unfortunately most of them only want to have their prejudices confirmed. Their attitude is negative from the get-go, and they prefer to write lies rather than look at the truth. If I said yes to every single request for an interview, I’d never get anything else done.”

  The concerned expression vanished. “One just has to learn to separate the wheat from the chaff. By this stage I know who’s worth talking to.”

  Margit couldn’t help herself.

  “It’s hardly surprising that some journalists have a negative attitude, given the views you promote.”

  “If only you knew how grateful ordinary people are that there’s someone who’s prepared to express what everyone is thinking, you wouldn’t say that.”

  As if she realized she’d been a little too sharp, Pauline lowered her voice.

  “Every week I receive hundreds of emails from Swedes who are unhappy about the treatment we are subjected to in the media. We have fantastic support across the country—from immigrants, too. They don’t want Sweden to accept even more refugees that our society can’t cope with. It’s not fair to anyone.”

  She leaned forward, clasping her hands together on the table. Her nails were painted the palest translucent rose pink, and two plain gold rings adorned the third finger of her left hand.

  “Talking about the current situation in this country isn’t without controversy. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, if conflict and controversy can provide the driving force for change. We are just a tool to create a better Sweden, and a voice for those who cannot make themselves heard.”

  Thomas realized that Pauline wasn’t going to be any help at all. He loathed everything she stood for, but this was neither the occasion nor the place to express his opinion.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said, getting to his feet.

  Pauline’s handshake was firm, and her eyes reflected the conviction in her voice.

  CHAPTER 60

  Nora stared at her boss.

  “I’ve always been loyal to the bank,” she said.

  It sounded pathetic.

  Einar was looking her up and down. A few moments ago, she had felt safe and secure with him; now she didn’t know what to think.

  “Project Phoenix has been confined to a very small circle of those in the know, and as you’re aware, negotiations have been ongoing for quite some time,” Einar said. “I’m not sure you understand the importance of closing this deal. The financial market is in crisis, and we have to ensure that the new banking group is well equipped to face the future. That’s also why we have to dispose of the branch network in the Baltic states as soon as possible.”

  He folded his arms, and the cuff links bearing his initials were hidden beneath his sleeves.

  “I realize that we need to confirm the identity of both the buyer and any possible major investors, but I’m assuming you’ve done that?”

  “Yes,” Nora said, much too eagerly. “I’ve contacted a number of overseas legal practices and carried out all the usual background checks.”

  “According to the Financial Supervisory Authority’s rules.”

  “Yes.”

  “There you go, then.”

  Einar leaned back in his armchair.

  “Is there anything about the payment structure itself that bothers you?” he said after a little while. “Have you found anything that’s against the law, or could be regarded as outside legal boundaries?”

  “No,” Nora admitted.

  There was nothing in the proposal that was actually illegal, nor had she found anyone with a criminal record among those involved. It was the whole thing that bothered her. The process was moving too fast; she needed more time to investigate those involved, find out what was behind the façade.

  “I can’t find my way through the setup,” she said eventually. “I just end up with new parent companies and a trust in Gibraltar. At that point it’s like hitting a brick wall, even though it’s inside the EU.”

  “But we’ve met the Financial Supervisory Authority’s requirements?”

  Nora nodded.

  “It’s not illegal for a buyer to optimize his tax position,” Einar said slowly. “Nor is that our concern. I’m sure you realize that; you’ve been a lawyer for a long time.”

  Einar’s tone implied that her career within the law could soon be behind her. Did he think she didn’t know how deals like this worked? She swallowed hard. She felt as if she was about to cross a line. She didn’t want to destroy Einar’s trust and confidence in her, but she couldn’t keep quiet.

  “The reason I asked to speak to you today is because you’re my boss,” she said quietly. “I thought you should be fully informed before I pass on my recommendation to Jukka Heinonen.”

  “By which you mean your recommendation to oppose the buyer’s suggested payment structure for Project Phoenix? Which means the buyer will withdraw hi
s offer. Successful closure depends on our agreement on that point, which was a specific and nonnegotiable condition from their side. Although you couldn’t possibly have known that.”

  Einar fell silent, interlacing his fingers as he gazed at her, eyelids half closed.

  Emotional reactions have no place at this level, his look told her. If you can’t stand the pressure, then maybe you should go and work somewhere else.

  “If the deal doesn’t go through, the bank will lose an enormous amount of money,” he went on. “Do you think we’re going to ditch the entire sale because of a recommendation from you? A recommendation that lacks any real substance, as far as I can see? So far I’ve heard nothing concrete that might impede the process.”

  The sinking feeling Nora had experienced during the meeting was growing stronger by the second. Whatever she said now, she wasn’t going to be able to salvage the situation. And yet she couldn’t help giving it one more go.

  “Shouldn’t we at least let compliance take a look?”

  She heard the pleading note in her voice; she hardly recognized herself.

  “You’re aware this is on the agenda for the board meeting on January 20?” Einar said. The question was rhetorical. They both knew it would take a lot longer than that for compliance to carry out a full review, which would mean that the project couldn’t be discussed at the meeting.

  “In my professional opinion, I think we ought to insist on a different arrangement for the transfer of the purchase price,” Nora said. “Or simply walk away from the deal.”

  The ensuing silence was painful.

  “You know what, Nora? I don’t think you need to give this any more thought. However, if you’re so concerned, it might be better to pass the project on to someone else.”

  Nora stiffened. “I don’t want to lose the project.”

  A few seconds passed. Nora waited, wondering what was going to happen next. Suddenly Einar stood up, walked around the table, and sat down next to Nora on the sofa. He gave her that reassuring smile she had seen so many times before.

  “Nora, Nora. You’re taking this way too seriously.”

  His tone was lighter, completely different from a moment ago.

  Was it my imagination?

  “We’re so cautious in this country,” he went on. “Every single point must be discussed and dissected, down to the very last detail. The famous Swedish consensus culture.”

  He gave a little laugh. Nora tried to force a smile.

  “In Finland they do things differently. The Finns do business.” He paused to let the words sink in. Nora could hear the ventilators humming in the background.

  “This is a fantastic opportunity for the new company to make a profit for our shareholders. You need to trust me: everything has been properly investigated.”

  But I’m the one who’s supposed to carry out that investigation, Nora thought. She realized she was trembling.

  “You need to let this go. I’ll have a word with Jukka, explain that you didn’t mean any harm.”

  Einar moved a little closer.

  “You have to learn not to take things so seriously,” he said in her ear, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I know how to handle Finns. I’ve lived in Finland for more than twenty years.”

  By now Einar’s thigh was pressed against Nora’s, and she could smell his aftershave—a mixture of sandalwood and a sharp, citrus scent.

  “I know your divorce took its toll, but it’s time you started having fun again.”

  Why had he mentioned the divorce?

  Nora had never discussed her split from Henrik with Einar. She had always tried to keep her private and professional lives separate; she hadn’t wanted to talk about her personal problems at work, neither with her boss nor her colleagues.

  His arm was still resting on her shoulders; she shifted sideways in an attempt to increase the distance between them.

  “I’m not completely comfortable with this,” she said. Was she overreacting?

  Einar removed his arm, but stroked her back with the palm of his hand in the process. Nora shifted again; she was now so close to the armrest that it was digging into her side.

  A few seconds passed, then Einar leaned across and tucked a strand of hair behind Nora’s ear. His fingers lingered, brushed her cheek.

  “You’re very beautiful, Nora, do you know that?”

  Nora was frozen in place. This isn’t happening, she thought. This can’t be happening.

  “You’re beautiful and talented, and you have a sharp mind. A woman like you could go far within the bank, which is why I asked you to take on such an important project.”

  A memory surfaced.

  The whole department had gone out for dinner with the new boss. Nora had sat next to Einar; they had talked and talked, and it had been an unusually pleasant evening. Shortly afterward he had asked her to work on Project Phoenix with Jukka. She had thought he valued her professional skills.

  “Einar,” she murmured, pressing herself closer to the armrest even though there was no room left. “I think you’ve misread the situation.”

  “There’s no one else as bright as you on the legal team,” he said quietly, placing a hand on her leg just above the knee. “I’ve put my trust in you, and now you have to live up to that trust. It’s important to the board that this project is a success. We don’t have time to let baseless anxiety stymie the process.”

  He had long, slender fingers with well-manicured nails. The weight of his fingertips burned through the fabric of her pants.

  “If you use your knowledge to steer Project Phoenix through smoothly, the board won’t forget it.”

  His voice was still quiet, reassuring. Everything was fine.

  “Think about it; your input will really be appreciated if this works out. By me, too; we’re a good team, you and I, we work well together. The very first time I met you, I knew we’d click.”

  Nora couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead she stared down at the carpet; there was a clump of fluff stuck to one leg of the armchair.

  The hand was still there on her leg, the wedding ring glinting.

  “Maybe I should go and get us a coffee,” she said in a shrill voice.

  “Later, perhaps.”

  Nora grabbed the folder from the table and held it in front of her with both hands.

  “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to clarify?” she said, trying to sound as if everything was perfectly normal, in spite of the fact that nothing was as it should be.

  “What’s the hurry?” Einar said.

  At long last the hand was lifted from her thigh, but now his index finger was stroking her cheek.

  “We can carry on discussing Project Phoenix if you like. We could go out for something to eat, have a meal at a nice restaurant. I’m in Stockholm until tomorrow. I’m staying at the Strand Hotel; the rooms are very comfortable.”

  The smell of his aftershave was making her feel nauseous.

  “I have to go,” she mumbled, gathering up her papers. Without another word she fled into the hallway. The elevator was already there, thank God.

  As she dashed inside, she saw a light on in Jukka Heinonen’s office.

  CHAPTER 61

  Aram sat down at the computer. He wanted to check out Peter Moore, the personal assistant Thomas had mentioned. He would have liked to accompany Thomas and Margit to Uppsala to meet New Sweden’s leader, but at least he could make good use of his time at the station.

  Thomas had given him a brief rundown on the guy over the phone. Pauline Palmér’s assistant sounded a little too good to be true, in spite of the professionally pleasant façade Thomas had described.

  Then again, Americans are good at that kind of superficial stuff, Aram thought. Mixing and socializing was in their blood.

  A couple of clicks with the mouse brought up a picture of Peter Moore on his screen. He was tan, wearing a team uniform, and holding a reddish-brown basketball with black letters and lines. The photograph didn
’t look recent; Moore’s hairstyle suggested it had been taken some time in the early 2000s.

  The logo on his jersey revealed the name of the basketball team, one of the best known in Sweden.

  Aram read through various homepages. Apparently Moore had been recruited to the team in 1998, when he was twenty-two years old and had just finished college in Minnesota, where he grew up. His family consisted of two older sisters, a father who was a teacher, and a mother who was a housewife. He had played basketball in Sweden for just over four years, and toward the end of his career he had begun studying for a master’s degree in political science at the University of Uppsala.

  Aram kept looking.

  Moore seemed to have come into contact with New Sweden in Uppsala. Alongside his studies, he worked as a doorman and runner for the organization. Eventually he came to Pauline Palmér’s attention, and he had been employed as her personal assistant for the past three years.

  Aram clasped his hands behind his head. It was amazing how much could be found out this way. The combination of the police databases and information available on the Internet was unbeatable. It was possible to map out an entire life in half an hour, if you knew how and where to look.

  As far as Aram could see, Moore had all his papers in order. He had a permanent residence permit, and his registered address was on Karlbergsvägen in the Vasastan district of Stockholm. It didn’t look as if he had a partner; no one else was registered at the same address.

  There was nothing untoward in Moore’s background.

  Aram twisted his head from side to side a few times in order to improve the circulation in his neck and shoulders before turning to the database of those suspected of crimes. He entered his name and ID number and waited for a few seconds; nothing there either. Peter Moore was clean. There were no skeletons in the closet.

  What about the two databases known as RAR and DUR? They contained all kinds of information: complaints that had been set aside for various reasons, notes about individuals who had come up in different investigations. This time Aram found something interesting; he leaned forward and began to read.