But he didn’t have time to explain, not right now at least.
Qiang was welcome to think he’d been called upstairs for a warning and that was why he was spending all his time on incoming calls now. And he was taking calls. But only as a cover for what he was really up to: the assignment Dunja had given him. He’d seen the light at the end of the tunnel the moment he realized what it was all about. During that meeting he’d wanted to fly out of his chair and cry out his happiness so loud the sound would travel through the wall to the Seascape Room and on to Gentle Breezes, or whatever the other conference rooms were called, all the way up to management. He finally had something to sink his teeth into, something to make the air worth breathing again.
But Fareed had remained calmer than a Zen Buddhist. He even pushed back, saying that it wouldn’t work, that it was an impossible mission. He wasn’t about to screw himself over like he had the last time. This would be his ticket out of the hell-bunker; this would be his path to freedom. Dunja had threatened him, pressured him, just as he’d expected, and in the end he’d agreed to give it a try.
On one condition.
That she made sure he got out of here.
She asked how that would work, and he threw her own words back at her: she was quite the star student and could surely come up with something. Then they went their separate ways and he returned to the bunker to get started on his impossible task.
Linking an IP address to the owner of an unregistered prepaid SIM card was basically as difficult as hiding in the corner of a round room. But given that the light at the end of the tunnel would wink out if he didn’t succeed, he tested one farfetched idea after the next.
As expected, none of them worked. He accepted another customer service call. This time it was an older woman who claimed that she had added three hundred kroner to her prepaid account, but the system wasn’t registering it. She had in all certainty entered the twelve-digit code incorrectly, and normally he wouldn’t have been able to help her without the receipt, which, naturally, she had thrown away. But this wasn’t a normal case, so he added five hundred kroner to her account and wished her a good day.
The reason for his kindness was that the woman had unwittingly given him a fresh idea, and within one intense hour he finally had a fingerhold in the otherwise smooth cliff face of his problem. Fareed knew that the two police officers had discovered the IP address on YouTube. It belonged to an anonymous user who had uploaded a number of videos that depicted violent assaults of innocent people. What he hadn’t considered were the various times the videos had been uploaded. Those times would actually say quite a bit more than an anonymous IP.
Using timestamps, Fareed was able to put a filter on archived payments — an archive he’d hacked three years ago — and after another thirty minutes of messing with the filters he managed to track down a number of his company’s prepaid cards that had been topped up around the time the videos were uploaded to YouTube. Then he accessed logs that showed the exact times the phones with those numbers had been on or off, and he managed to narrow it down to a single number. And if that weren’t enough, he even located the store in Helsingør where the top-up had been purchased.
Fareed called Dunja to share his progress, expecting applause and the promise of a new job. Instead, all he got was a “great.” No more, no less. Great? What the hell was he supposed to do with that? All that time and energy he’d put in. Who the hell did she think she was?
He ended the call in a fury, selected Temporarily Unavailable, and for the first time in several months brought up the Trojan he’d named DrappelFed after his favourite band. The last shreds of hesitation were gone, and with his right index finger resting on the mouse, he was just one click away from infecting the entire TDC network with an incurable illness.
But his thoughts were interrupted by a few pixels on the far right of the screen. Pixels that, together, formed a red dot that had just turned green.
A green dot after the number he’d just unearthed meant that he suddenly had something major to contribute. Something for which he could demand much more than an offhand “great.”
The anonymous phone had just been turned on again.
54
“I repeat: Mattias Ryborn is dead. The target has taken Tuvesson hostage — he is heading further into the bank,” said Lilja’s shaken voice in Fabian’s headset.
“This is the police!” Fabian displayed his badge to the customers in the bank. “We have an armed and extremely dangerous man inside, and he has taken hostages. I want you to leave the bank as quickly as possible!”
The three customers nodded and rushed out of the building.
“All units: an ambulance is outside, waiting for the green light to come in,” came Molander’s voice. “Can I get an update on the target’s position?”
“They just went through a door,” Lilja responded. “According to the staff it leads to a stairwell, and from there he’ll have access to the west staff entrance.”
“Okay, ambulance unit, you can go in,” said Molander. “Teams One and Two outside the entrances: put on your vests and stay ready.”
Despite all their preparations, he had taken them by surprise. If they did nothing, he would soon be gone. And this time, it would be for good.
“Irene here. We are through the door. The target is not headed for either side exit; he is going up the stairwell. I repeat: the target and Tuvesson are on their way up through the building.”
Going to the roof, for what? Fabian hurried out the main entrance, where Cliff was holding the door for the paramedics, who were on their way in with a stretcher and bags of equipment. “Keep watching the entrance,” he said, running toward Stallgatan.
“Where are you going?” Cliff called after him. Fabian had no concrete answer; he headed around the corner, and past the three park workers who were now wearing bulletproof vests and guarding the staff entrance with automatic weapons raised.
“We’ve found Tuvesson! He left Tuvesson behind!” Lilja said in the headset.
“Is she alive?” Cliff asked.
“She’s down, bleeding…from her forehead…shit…not moving…get the paramedics in here! We need paramedics up here immediately!”
Not her too, Fabian thought. Not Tuvesson. He stopped at Rådhustorget and looked up at the roof of the bank. But he was too close to see over the wall.
“She’s alive!” Lilja exclaimed. “Two-fer is alive! She’s just unconscious!”
Fabian exhaled and backed away from the building, toward a huge flower planter that filled the middle of the square. But he couldn’t see far enough over the edge of the roof from that point either.
“The target. Is he there too?” asked Cliff.
“No, it seems he made it to the roof. Do we have any cameras there?”
“Negative,” said Molander.
The ensuing silence was telling. Once again, they had underestimated the man and he had left them in the dust, helpless to act, unable to do anything but wait for him to go up in smoke.
Fabian roused himself from his paralysis and thought of the day before, when the perpetrator had stood at the corner of Norra Strandgatan and Kolmätaregränden and gazed toward Kullagatan.
“Task force here: the door is locked and the card reader has been destroyed.”
Had that been his planned escape route? If so, it meant that he would need to get from the roof of Handelsbanken to the neighbouring building. From there, he could exit through one of the stores on the ground level.
Three quick shots rang out in his headset, and Fabian hurried into the alley to the spot where the perpetrator had stopped the day before.
“We forced the door and are now on the roof.”
There were people everywhere, a crowd surrounding him in the narrow alley.
“He’s not here.”
“Keep looking. He has to be there somewh
ere,” came Molander’s voice.
Though he was still ten meteres away, Fabian immediately recognized the woman in jogging clothes. Carrying a large bag and pushing the three-wheeled stroller, she was coming out of a shop called Gömstället, which sold children’s clothing and toys. But he wasn’t interested in her — his eyes were on the man right behind her.
He wasn’t wearing sunglasses and he didn’t have long hair. There was no studded belt or burgundy velvet jacket in sight either. And something about his face was different — whether it was a smaller nose or something else was impossible to say from this distance. But it was him; it had to be. That roving gaze that was trying to play calm, but deep down just wanted to start running. To flee.
“Risk to all units: the target is currently on Kolmätaregatan heading toward Kullagatan. He’s traded the wig and jacket for a blue cap, brown sneakers, beige chinos, and a dark grey jacket.”
“Okay, Team One will continue northeast on Hästmöllegränd and block off northbound Kullagatan,” said Molander.
“Roger.”
Fabian followed the suspect as fast as he could without breaking into a run. As long as he didn’t lose sight of him, he should be able to catch up by the time they reached Kullagatan, and there he could overpower him from behind, put him in an armlock, and apprehend him in a reasonably controlled fashion.
“Team Two,” Molander went on. “Go in from Stortorget, all the way past Strömgränden, so he can’t get out that way.”
“We’re on it.”
The suspect started running. He pushed through the crowd as if he had eyes in the back of his head and had realized he was being followed.
“I think he saw me,” said Fabian, who had no choice but to speed up, plowing through the crowd. “He’s taking a left on Kullagatan. I repeat: the target is heading north on Kullagatan.”
“Team One has reached Hästmöllegränd, prepared to take him.”
“Good. Team Two, go up Strömgränden instead, and then north along Norra Storgatan.”
“Roger.”
The man zig-zagged his way through the pedestrians, almost dancing. Just as a group of Japanese tourists came out of one of the stores and blocked Fabian’s path, the man vanished from sight.
“He just disappeared,” Fabian said, looking around. “Team One, do you see him?”
“No, not yet.”
Fabian pushed his way through the tourists. “How about now?”
“Negative.”
They should have seen him ages ago, and the seconds were piling up. He must have gone another way. But there wasn’t another way. Except for…Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “He must have gone into Åhléns,” he called into his headset as he rushed to the entrance. Once inside the department store, he spun in a circle and tried to register each face in the throngs of people. “I’m inside now, but I don’t see him.”
“Maybe he has a getaway car parked up in the roof lot,” said Molander.
“I’ll go take a look.” Fabian forced his way to the spiral staircase across the floor. “And by the way, Team Two,” he said on his way up the stairs, “have you reached Norra Storgatan?”
“Yes, we’re right behind Åhléns.”
“Good. You take the back entrance and the parking garage exit. Team One, you take the two front doors.” Now they had every exit under surveillance. If he was in the building, it would only be a matter of time before they found him.
“Cliff and I should be there in thirty seconds,” Lilja said, with Cliff panting in the background.
“Good,” said Molander. “You search the store. Take the escalator and start with the sports section on the top floor. That’s where I would hide, and if I’m not mistaken there’s also a way up to the roof lot from there.”
“Okay, I’m on my way up right now,” said Lilja. “Cliff will take the lower floor.”
Fabian stepped out onto the parking deck on the roof. To his left was the ramp down to the exit, and in front of him the cars were parked along the edge. Every space was full. But he didn’t see any people. It was surprisingly quiet considering that he was right downtown, with the crowds of Kullagatan just a few metres below him.
Fabian took out his weapon and began to check the cars. First under and between them, and then to see whether anyone was behind the wheel or hiding in the back seat. He ticked them off one by one as he listened to Lilja and Cliff reporting on their searches. He didn’t give any updates, for fear of revealing himself.
He heard an engine roar to life. He stood up to look for it, but when he couldn’t tell which car it was, he hurried back to the ramp and stood in the middle of the lane. One of the cars furthest off backed out of its spot and headed toward him.
The light reflected off the windshield, making it impossible to see who was in the driver’s seat. But he didn’t need to see: the car revved up and sped at him.
“Fabian here: the target is in a car on the parking deck. It’s a white Škoda, KFL 231.”
“Team Two, are you ready at the exit?” said Molander.
“Affirmative.”
Fabian planted his legs wide in the centre of the lane, his gun aimed at the car, and for the first time in a long while he heard his colleagues’ screaming voices inside his head. But they weren’t very loud, and his hands still held the gun although they were shaking. If he didn’t manage to press the trigger soon, the car would run him over.
The three shots were the first he’d ever fired outside of a shooting range. And, as though time were conforming to the sequence of events, he watched the bullets strike the front left tire, then threw himself to the side to avoid being hit by the car as it accelerated down the ramp, which curved sharply to the left as it approached ground level. The Škoda, however, continued straight into the concrete wall, where it came to a stop with smoke pouring out from under the hood.
Fabian was soon on his feet. He rushed to the car and yanked open the driver’s door. And there he was, wedged in by the airbag and with a terrified smile on his face.
“Team Two, come up here. The rest of you can stop searching. I have him.”
“Yes!” Lilja shouted, followed by cheering from Molander, Cliff, and some of the task force.
“Well done, everyone,” said Tuvesson, who had apparently regained consciousness in time to follow the unfolding events.
Fabian stepped aside to make room for the task force as they arrived; they dragged the man from the car. He allowed himself to relax only after they had him in handcuffs.
Forging signatures was not all the perpetrator had done. He had also executed the banker before Tuvesson’s very eyes, which meant Stina Högsell had everything she needed for a life sentence. Fingerprints, DNA, circumstantial evidence. None of that mattered anymore.
And yet the perpetrator was smiling as if this had nothing to do with him.
55
Dread pounded in Theodor’s head. It felt like someone was in there playing with a sledgehammer. With every successive blow his nausea grew worse. If it went on like this, he would throw up. Again. He hated being sick. It was the worst.
Maybe it would be best just to stick two fingers down his throat and get it over with. But not just yet. Best to wait until he had worked up the strength. Shit…it was that last fucking drink. He had been downing them like juice.
At first he’d thought the ferry was rocking. But after a couple more drinks, the nausea hit him and he’d had to leave the table and run for the bathroom. Luckily, one of the three stalls had been free and he emptied his stomach straight into the toilet. And now he had to puke again. Oh God…
He rose from the toilet and bent forward over it, opening his mouth and sticking his index and middle fingers all the way in. His whole body convulsed and his stomach pushed its acidic juices up his throat. He repeated the procedure until he was emptied of bile and his throat stung.
He flushed twice, and realized he was freezing despite how sweaty he was. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. All he knew was that every second he was away from Alexandra was a second too long. But he felt a little better now. He felt weak, like he hadn’t eaten in years, but at least he didn’t feel nauseous anymore.
After washing his hands and rinsing his mouth more times than he could count, Theodor went back to the restaurant, only to find that their table was empty. He sat down in his chair and swept his eyes around the room, but he couldn’t see Alexandra anywhere. Maybe she was just in the bathroom too, he thought, trying to convince himself that everything was fine.
56
“Can you turn left?” Fareed’s voice said from the phone in Dunja’s hand.
“Left?” Dunja squinted out the windshield, trying to see in the dark. “Yes, but it’s just a private drive. You didn’t mean go right?”
“Not right. Left.”
Dunja met Magnus’s curious gaze and nodded, so he took a left onto the narrow gravel driveway just after Mørdrup train station.
Almost three hours had passed since Fareed called to say that the anonymous account had recently been activated, and he was already underway getting into the system through a backdoor, trying to triangulate a position.
Dunja and Magnus had just sat down at Laura’s Bakery on Blågårdsgade, after waiting for half an hour. They ordered two pizzas and beer. By the time the call came in, Dunja had already downed more than half her beer, and it took some convincing to get her into the passenger seat when Magnus insisted on driving.
As they buckled their seatbelts and pulled out of their excellent parking spot on Baggesensgade, Fareed informed them of his demands, which they would have to meet if they wanted to know where the phone was located.
Eighteen Below Page 23