Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  “I was actually ordered to avenge Ahmed’s death and was sent to Sweden to kill the people who’d murdered him, but of course, as a police officer, I couldn’t. I was going to tell Joumari and Harrak that I’d become too sick to do it, and was heading back, when I learned the traffickers had been killed. It was easy to take credit for it. From my point of view, it was a stroke of luck that gave me increased credibility, even though Harrak still disliked me.”

  “Karim wasn’t the only hidden operative,” said Barrada. “Girgis Akhrif has been arrested. He was working for Harrak and told him where you were and what you looked like. We’d been watching him for some time because his bank account had become suspiciously bloated over the last year.”

  “I’m afraid rescuing us has ruined your plan to get hold of the auction buyers,” Ekman said.

  “Not at all. We’ve just altered our plans. The buyers are due to arrive in two days. When they show up at the warehouse, they’ll be greeted by our friend here,” Barrada said, turning to Serhane. “Once they’re seated in the auction room, my men will close in. After we arrest the other members of Joumari’s family, it will be a clean sweep.”

  “Will you need to keep the women as witnesses?” asked Granholm, obviously concerned for them.

  “No,” Barrada replied. “With the information we have and what we’ll learn from Harrak’s files, we’ll have more than enough to convict all the traffickers, and the buyers. The women will be free to leave. I’ll arrange for the necessary travel documents for them, and for transportation for all of you to Sweden, and wherever else the women choose to go.”

  Ekman stood up and looked at Barrada. “On behalf of all of us,” he said formally, “we owe you our profound thanks, and Valdis and I owe you and Inspector Serhane everything. We’ll never forget you.”

  Coming around the table, the usually reserved Ekman went over to Barrada and Serhane, who’d both gotten up and, to their astonishment, he wrapped each of them in a bear hug.

  95

  WITNESSES

  Saturday, February 25, 8:30 a.m. Valdis Granholm listened intently to the white-coated woman doctor, grey-haired and stocky, who had completed examining the five rescued women.

  “So there’s nothing wrong with them?” Granholm asked. They were speaking in English, their only common language.

  “I didn’t say that,” the doctor replied. “Their physical injuries will heal with time and rest. But their mental state is something else. They’re very fragile after having been held captive and sexually abused. They’ve gone through a horrible ordeal and will probably bear the psychic scars for the rest of their lives.”

  “But they’re well enough to travel?”

  “Yes, they can leave whenever they want.”

  Granholm had led the five women to a conference room. They were wearing the new, Moroccan-style robes and slippers she’d brought for them and sat regarding her anxiously.

  “The doctor has told me you’re ready to be released from the hospital,” Granholm said. “Air reservations and temporary travel document arrangements will be made today, and you’ll be able to go wherever you wish.

  “I know you’ve all suffered terribly, and want nothing more than to go home. But I have to ask a great favor of you.

  “The men who raped you have been arrested in Sweden and will be brought to trial. Your testimony is certain to have a tremendous impact on the court and ensure their conviction. Are you willing to return to Sweden as the guests of the government and testify?”

  There was silence, broken when Ilinca spoke.

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “I want to do anything I can to put those bastards behind bars.” She looked around the table at the others. “What about it? Don’t you want to make sure they’re punished?”

  No one else spoke until the Hungarian woman, Gizela, sitting next to Ilinca, said, “I’ll testify too,” and put her hand on Ilinca’s.

  “Is there anyone else?” asked Granholm. Two witnesses would be helpful, but it would be better if they all agreed to do it. She was intensely sympathetic to those who declined and understood very well why they were reluctant to relive what they’d gone through.

  “Yes, include me,” said a blonde Ukrainian woman named Ionna.

  Granholm didn’t attempt to persuade the other two women, both from Slovakia, who’d remained silent. They’d been through more than they could bear.

  “All right, I understand,” she said to the women who wouldn’t be returning with them to Sweden. “Let me know where you want to go, and I’ll arrange tickets, and travel documents and money for you. All of you spend the rest of the day recuperating. I’ll be back tomorrow morning and we’ll go to the airport.”

  That night, Ekman called Ingbritt at Carla’s to tell her he was coming home.

  “I should get in tomorrow afternoon,” he said.

  “I’ll be there. I can hardly wait. It seems much longer than five days.”

  “Longer than you can imagine. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, my love.”

  96

  HOME AGAIN

  Sunday, February 26, 9 a.m. Barrada was saying a final good-bye to his Swedish visitors in the Marrakech airport’s huge modern lobby. The three women who were traveling with them stood a little way apart. The other two already had left on a connecting flight to Bratislava.

  “Please come back to Morocco for a vacation, as my guests,” Barrada said to them. “It’s a wonderful country and it will be my pleasure to show it to you under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “We’d be delighted,” said Ekman as they shook hands all around. But it would be awhile before what they’d gone through faded enough for him to consider accepting the offer.

  With Barrada’s help, the six of them passed quickly through customs and immigration, and only had a short wait at their gate before boarding the flight to Stockholm.

  “It will be good to get home,” said Rystrom as they settled in the business-class seats Barrada had obtained for them. “It’s been quite a trip.”

  “More exciting than I ever expected,” exclaimed Granholm, sitting next to him.

  From just across the aisle, Ekman added, “If it were any more exciting I’d have had a heart attack.” They all laughed, but he was only half joking.

  Ekman had phoned ahead yesterday to Edvardsson, who’d contacted the necessary Swedish officials to explain the unusual circumstances. The officers, and the three women with them, were able to pass through immigration and customs without problems.

  Two police cars were waiting for them as they came out of Arlanda’s terminal for the drive to Weltenborg. Granholm sat next to the driver of one car, while the three women sat together in the back. They’d come to depend on her. She wanted to reassure them that she would look after them as long as they were in Sweden.

  After Rystrom, Granholm, and the women were dropped off at the Thon Hotel, Ekman was driven home.

  When he came through the front door, Ingbritt was waiting in the hall. He dropped his bag and took her in his arms. They kissed and held each other for a long time.

  “How I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “No more than I’ve missed you,” she replied. “Take off your things and come into the kitchen.”

  Seated at the kitchen table with a glass of Dugges ale in his hand and slices of cheese and ham on a plate in front of him, Ekman heaved a deep sigh of relief. He had a hard time believing that just two days ago he’d been moments away from death.

  “Now, tell me all about your trip,” said Ingbritt.

  “Well, we rescued the women we’d gone to find and three of the five have come back with us to testify against their rapists.” And then he decided to tell her everything.

  When he’d finished, she’d turned pale and reached across the table to hold his hand. All her pervasive fears for his safety had nearly become reality.

  “If I’d even suspected that something like that could happen, that you’d be in such terrible danger, I’d ne
ver have let you go.”

  “I’ll tell you honestly, if I’d had the same suspicion, I wouldn’t have gone,” a laughing Ekman said. He could laugh now, but wondered what he’d actually have done if he’d had an inkling of the extreme risk he’d face in Morocco.

  97

  BRIEFINGS

  Monday, February 27, 8 a.m. When Ekman, Rystrom, and Granholm came into the conference room from his office, they found the team members standing around drinking coffee and sampling the pastries he’d had sent up from the cafeteria.

  Ekman went over to get a cup and a sweet roll before sitting down in his usual place at the head of the table.

  He looked around and smiled at everyone, while Rystrom and Granholm took seats next to Rapp, who was facing him.

  “It’s good to see all of you,” he said, and meant it, remembering how close he’d come to never seeing them again. Then he introduced Granholm to those who hadn’t met her.

  “I know you’re anxious to hear what happened to us in Morocco and I won’t keep you in suspense.” He told them everything in more detail than he’d described to Ingbritt.

  “My God, Chief, that was a close call,” said Rapp. “If it hadn’t been for that Inspector Serhane …” he let the words trail off.

  “We’re so glad to see you and Superintendent Granholm back, safe and sound,” said Gerdi Vinter, as Holm nodded agreement.

  “That goes for us too, Chief,” said Rosengren for himself and Alenius.

  “Alrik, why don’t you bring us up to date on what’s been happening here while we were away,” Ekman said.

  “The drug distribution network is still being rolled up,” Rapp said. “It will probably be a month or so before trials start, but we’re sure to get a slew of convictions here, and elsewhere in Scandinavia.”

  “Where do we stand with the search for Ostlund?”

  “There’s been no trace of him in Sweden or anywhere else. He’s just vanished.”

  “Then we’ve still got six murders on our plate and no solutions. Ostlund looks good as a candidate for some of the three farmhouse killings, if we can lay our hands on him, but with Serhane out of the picture, we’re still left hunting for the other killer we think was involved.

  “Do we have anything more on Grundström?” For sometime now, Ekman had felt he was the most likely person to be Haake’s murderer, since he had multiple reasons to kill him and no alibi for the time.

  “Unfortunately not, Chief,” Rapp replied.

  With no tangible evidence, they couldn’t charge him, let alone hope for a conviction. At least they’d be able to convict him of rape and the other charges, which should put him away for a long time.

  “It’s likely that one of the people who died at the farmhouse, or Ostlund, killed Chafik, because he was a risk, and then Jakobsson, to silence him. Assuming that’s so, we don’t need to find who murdered them,” said Holm. “But there’s still an unknown, farmhouse killer out there.”

  “You’re exactly right, Enar. And if Grundström didn’t kill Haake, then it may also have been Ostlund, or one of the others who died,” said Ekman.

  “The only way I see to discover what actually happened in all these deaths, is to find Ostlund and get him to talk,” said Rystrom.

  “You’re right, Garth, that’s where we need to focus our efforts. Valdis, can you try to get Europol and Interpol to make the search a priority?” Ekman asked.

  “I’ll contact them again today and emphasize how important this is,” she said.

  “Thanks, Valdis,” Ekman said. He had noticed an unusually large diamond engagement ring glittering on her right hand. He guessed it was the special gift Rystrom had bought in Marrakech. Rystrom was also now wearing a plain gold men’s engagement band. Ekman looked around the table as he got up. “I’m very glad to be back and with all of you again, but now I’d better see the commissioner and explain how I got this tan when I was supposed to be working.” Everyone laughed as he headed for the door.

  Elias Norlander, Olav Malmer, and Malin Edvardsson were waiting for Ekman when he came into the commissioner’s office at nine o’clock.

  They all stood.

  “We’re happy to see you back, Walther,” Norlander said. “Now sit down over here and tell us all about your trip.”

  For the second time that morning, Ekman described what had happened in Morocco.

  There was a long moment’s silence when he finished. Then Edvardsson came over and took his hand in both of hers. “Walther, I think God was looking out for you.”

  Norlander said, “I don’t know how we’d have managed if we lost you.”

  “You were damn lucky,” said Malmer.

  “Yes, thank you all. You’re right, Olav, I was lucky,” Ekman replied. “And so was Valdis Granholm. I hated to see her in such danger. The threat of death would have been easier to bear if she hadn’t been there too.”

  “So where do we stand now?” asked Norlander.

  “Valdis was able to persuade three of the women to return with us. Their testimony should ensure that the rapists are convicted.”

  “I’ll want to start taking their testimony tomorrow,” said Edvardsson. “Do you think they’re well enough for me to do that?”

  “They seem like strong individuals,” Ekman said. “And they’re determined to see these men punished. They should be fine.”

  “Good,” Edvardsson said. “Their testimony will make a critical difference. I’ll ask the judge to continue the men’s detention and set a trial date. It should take place in about a month to give their attorneys time to prepare, although I can’t imagine what sort of defense they can come up with. I’m going to try to get the maximum penalty possible, fourteen years. I wish it could be even more.”

  “Are you sure you can get convictions?” asked Malmer, with apparent skepticism, always adversarial where Edvardsson was concerned.

  “As sure of that as it’s possible to be,” replied Edvardsson. “The evidence is overwhelming, even without the women’s testimony. With their testimony, it seems certain.”

  “The reason Olav is concerned, Malin,” said Norlander, “is that he and I have been getting a lot of pressure in the form of calls and letters from very highly placed, politically influential individuals in support of these men, who are all prominent and well-connected.” He paused. “It still seems to me incredible that they could have committed these crimes.”

  “Blind arrogance convinces some people that laws don’t apply to them, Commissioner,” Ekman said.

  “Have you made any progress on those unsolved murders?” asked Norlander.

  “I was just saying to my team that maybe Chafik, Jakobsson, and Haake were killed by the traffickers who died, or by the fugitive, Ostlund. That would leave us with the three traffickers’ deaths to resolve.”

  “Do you have any answers yet?” Malmer asked.

  “No, not yet. We suspect Ostlund probably killed one or two of the other traffickers, but the different methods used suggest that there may have been another killer as well. Theoretically it could be one of the traffickers who was later killed, but we can’t dismiss the possibility that there’s still another, unknown killer somewhere out there.”

  “Do you have any idea who that person is?” asked Norlander.

  “We thought it might be Karim Serhane, but that turned out to be wrong. So no, at the moment, we don’t know who it could be. But when we find Ostlund, we think he can tell us.”

  98

  THE BALTIC

  Wednesday, February 15, 10:40 p.m. Thore Ostlund, wrapped in a heavy coat, a woollen watch cap pulled down tightly against the bitterly cold salt air, stared out across the Baltic Sea’s dark water. He could feel the vibration of the huge ferry’s engines six floors below where he stood leaning on the railing, alone on the deck. Sweden was far behind him.

  He’d parked his car yesterday in a space he’d already rented for three months in an underground garage four blocks from his apartment. By the time it was discov
ered he’d have been in Brazil for months with a different identity, and thanks to plastic surgery, a totally different appearance. The police will have a hell of a time trying to find me, he thought.

  After going to his apartment and grabbing the already packed emergency suitcase, he’d spent the night in an obscure hotel. In the morning, he’d taken a cab to his bank and closed out his accounts, in cash. Another taxi had dropped him that afternoon in front of an office building two kilometers from the ferry landing. He’d walked the rest of the way pulling his small suitcase.

  A forged Danish passport under a different name was in his breast pocket. He’d bought it for just this sort of situation right after the Dahlin woman escaped.

  An hour before departure, he’d boarded the Tallink Silja line’s five thirty p.m. ferry for the seventeen-hour voyage from Stockholm to Tallinn, Estonia. From there, he’d planned a route that would take him to three other countries over the next week before the nonstop TAP flight from Lisbon to São Paulo.

  God, he was glad to be out of that mess. Killing that maniac Gotz had been self-defense. He had no qualms about it. His thoughts lingered for a moment on the dozens of women he’d enjoyed as Tomas when he collected them. It had been a satisfying operation in every respect that also had made him very rich. Too bad it had come to such a disastrous end. Maybe he could replicate it in Brazil. The thought pleased him.

  He heard a soft footstep behind him and was about to turn when the killing wire noose slid over his head and was pulled tight around his neck. He raised his hands trying to get a grip on it to pull it away, but it cut into his throat, choking off his air. He couldn’t breathe as he thrashed about and a rough voice whispered something in his ear.

  Ostlund felt powerful arms lifting him up and over the railing as he plummeted down the side of the ship and into the heaving waves. He was dimly conscious as the icy waters closed over him.

  “Give me a double vodka,” the burly man in the navy pea coat said to the young woman working the ship’s bar, and slapped some bills on the counter. There were just a few late-night drinkers in the room as he sat down at a corner table.