Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  "There's nothing there at all. I just wonder why the icons were left on the desktop."

  They searched the room, in the hope of finding some diskettes, but had no luck. Wallander was intuitively convinced that getting to the bottom of the use of the computer on October 9 was a key to unlocking the case. Someone had cleaned out the computer, and the only question was if it was Landahl or someone else.

  Finally, they gave up looking and went downstairs. Wallander asked Nyberg to go through the house with a fine-tooth comb after he had finished with the car. Looking in every nook and cranny for diskettes would be his highest priority.

  Höglund was on her mobile with Martinsson when he came back into the kitchen. She handed him the phone.

  "How is it going over there?"

  "Robert has a lot of energy, I'll give him that much," Martinsson said. "He took a lunch break and had a strange kind of quiche, but he was ready to get back to work before I had even had my coffee."

  "Any developments?"

  "He keeps insisting that the number 20 is significant. It's cropped up in several different contexts. But he's not over the wall yet."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That's his own terminology. He hasn't cracked the code, though he's sure now it consists of two words. Or possibly a number and a word, though I'm not sure how he knows that."

  Wallander told him briefly what they were doing. When the conversation was over, he asked Höglund to go back to the neighbour and confirm the date of Jonas Landahl's departure. He also wanted her to ask if he had seen anyone else on the 9th.

  She left and Wallander sat on the sofa to think. But he had not come up with anything when she came back.

  "It's pretty disturbing, really," she said. "He keeps a record of everything he sees. Is that all one has to look forward to in retirement? In any case he's absolutely sure the boy left on Wednesday."

  "What about the 9th?"

  "He didn't see anyone. But of course he can't spend every waking moment at the kitchen window."

  "So that doesn't tell us anything," Wallander said. "It could as easily have been the boy as anyone else."

  It was 5 p.m. Höglund left to pick up her children. She offered to come back later that night, but Wallander told her to stay at home. He would call her if anything else came up.

  He returned to the boy's room for a third time, kneeling to peer under the bed. Höglund had already checked it, but he wanted to see with his own eyes if there was anything there.

  Then he lay down on the bed.

  Suppose he's hidden something important in this room, Wallander thought. Something he wants to be able to check on when he first wakes up in the morning and when he's going to bed at night. Wallander let his gaze travel along the walls of the room. Nothing. He was about to sit up when he saw that one of the bookcases next to the wardrobe leaned slightly in towards the wall. It was clearly visible from the bed. He sat up, and the angle was no longer apparent. He bent down at the bookcase. Someone had placed a small washer under each side creating a sliver of space beneath. He peered underneath and could just see something there. Using his pencil as a tool, he coaxed the object out and knew what it was before he had a chance to look at it. A diskette. He had his mobile out and was dialling a number even before he made it to the desk. Martinsson answered immediately. Wallander explained where he was and what he had found. Martinsson made a note of the address and said he was on his way. Modin would have to be left unsupervised for a short while.

  Martinsson was there within 15 minutes. He started the computer and inserted the diskette. Wallander leaned forward to read the label on the diskette. "Jacob's Marsh". It reminded him of something Höglund had said about the games and he felt a rush of disappointment. Martinsson double-clicked on it. There was only one file on the diskette and it had last been opened on September 29. Martinsson double-clicked on the file.

  They were both startled by the text that came up on the screen. "Release the minks."

  "What does that mean?" Martinsson asked.

  "I don't know," Wallander said. "But we have another connection: Landahl and Falk."

  Martinsson stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  "Don't you remember? Falk was involved in that animal rights business a while back."

  Martinsson remembered.

  "I wonder if Landahl was involved. He might have been one of the ones that got away."

  Martinsson was still confused. "So this is all about minks?"

  "No," Wallander said. "I don't think so. But I think we need to find Landahl very rapidly indeed."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was early dawn on October 14 and Carter had just been forced to make an important decision. He had woken in the dark and listened to the noise of the air-conditioning unit. He heard that it was almost time to clean out the mechanism. There was a low hum in the monotone gush of cold air from the machine that shouldn't be there. He had stood up, shaken out his slippers since there could be insects hiding inside, put on his dressing gown and gone down to the kitchen. Carter helped himself to a bottle of the previously boiled water that had spent the night in the refrigerator. Slowly, he drank one large glass and then a second. Then he went upstairs to his study and sat in front of the computer. It was never turned off. It was connected to a large reserve battery in case of a blackout and it was also hooked up to a surge protector that managed the constant ebbs and flows of power from the electrical outlet.

  He had a message from Fu Cheng. He read it. For a while he sat motionless in his chair.

  The news was not good, not good at all. Cheng had done what he had told him to do, but the police were apparently still trying to break into Falk's computer. Carter was more or less certain that they would never be able to break the codes, and even if they did they wouldn't understand what they were looking at. But there was something in the report that worried him – it was the fact that the police had brought in a young man to help them.

  Carter had a healthy respect for young men with glasses who spent a great deal of time in front of their computers. He and Falk had often spoken about these modern-day geniuses. They could break into secure networks, read through and even interpret the most complicated electronic programs.

  Cheng had written that he believed this Modin to be one of this breed of young men. Swedish hackers, he said, had broken into the defence systems of other countries. He might be one of the dangerous ones, Carter thought. A modern-day heretic. Someone who won't leave our systems and our secrets alone. In an earlier age a person like Modin would have been burned at the stake.

  Carter didn't like it, any more than he had liked any of the developments since Falk's death. Falk had really left him in the lurch. Now Carter was forced to clean up around him and he didn't have time to weigh each decision with due care. Haste had led to mistakes, such as removing Falk's body. Maybe it hadn't been necessary to kill that young woman? But she could have talked. And the police didn't seem to be losing interest.

  Carter had seen this kind of behaviour before, just like a person determined to follow a set of tracks leading to the wounded animal hiding in the bush. After a few days he had realised it was the policeman called Wallander who was tracking them. Cheng's analysis had been very clear on the matter. That's why they had tried to take him out. But they had failed, and the man was still tenaciously following their tracks.

  Carter got up and walked to the window. No signs of life yet in the city. The African night was full of scents. Cheng was dependable. He was capable of a fanatical loyalty that Carter and Falk had once decided might be useful. The only question now was whether that was enough.

  He settled at the computer. It took him a little less than half an hour to list all the possible alternatives. Then he swept his mind clear of any emotion that would distract him from the best possible course of action.

  He arrived at his decision in only a few minutes. Carter had identified Wallander's weakness, one that opened a possibility of getting to him.
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br />   Every person has his secret, Carter thought. So even this Wallander. Secrets and weaknesses.

  He started typing again and heard banging and clattering from the kitchen before he had finished. He read his message three times before he was satisfied and sent it off.

  Carter went down to the dining room and ate his breakfast. Every morning he tried to see if he could tell if Celine was pregnant again. He had decided to fire her the next time it happened. He handed her the shopping list he had made the night before. He gave her the money, then unlocked the two front doors. There were 16 different locks to unlock every morning.

  Celine left the house. The city had begun to stir. But this house that was built by a Portuguese doctor had thick walls. When Carter returned to his study he had the feeling that he was surrounded by silence, the silence that always existed in the middle of the African din. There was a blinking light on his computer. He had an e-mail.

  It was only a week before the electronic tidal wave would wash over the world.

  At 7 p.m. on Monday it was as if someone had let the air out of Martinsson and Wallander. That was after they had left the house in Snappehanegatan and returned to the police station.

  They had tried to understand what had happened. Did Landahl return to erase all the files on his computer? In that case, why had he left the diskette behind? Was the content on the diskette unimportant? But why then had it been hidden with such care? There were many questions, but no good answers. Martinsson suggested, tentatively, that the perplexing message – "Release the minks" – was an attempt to lead them astray. But what direction was that? Wallander wondered. There seemed to be no direction that was any better than the rest.

  They discussed whether or not they should put out an alert for Landahl. Wallander hesitated since they had no real reason to bring him in, at least not until Nyberg had been able to examine the house. Martinsson did not agree with him, and it was at about this time that they were both overtaken by exhaustion. Wallander felt guilty that he couldn't steer the investigation in the right direction. He suspected that Martinsson silently agreed with him on this point.

  Modin had been sent home, though he had been willing to work all night. Martinsson started checking the police records for Jonas Landahl. He had focused on descriptions of animal rights activists, but had found nothing. He had turned off his computer and joined Wallander, who was sitting in front of a cup of cold coffee in the canteen.

  They had agreed to call it a day. Wallander remained in the canteen for a while, too tired to think, too tired to go home. The last thing he did was try to get in touch with Hansson. Someone finally told him that Hansson had gone to Växjö in the afternoon. Wallander called Nyberg, but he had nothing new to report. The technicians were still working on the car.

  On his way home, Wallander stopped at the grocer's. When he was in line to pay he realised he had left his wallet on his desk at work. The checkout girl recognised him and let him take his food on credit. The first thing Wallander did when he got home was write a note to himself in capital letters reminding him to pay his bill the following day. He put the note on the doormat so he wouldn't miss it in the morning. Then he made a spaghetti dinner that he ate in front of the television. For once, the food was quite good. He flipped through the channels and opted for a film, but it was halfway through when he started and he never got into it. That reminded him that there was another film he needed to see. The one with Al Pacino.

  He went to bed at 11 p.m. and unplugged the phone. There was no wind and the street lamp outside the window was still. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

  On Tuesday, he woke up shortly before 6 a.m., feeling well rested. He had dreamed of his father. And about Widén. They had been in a strange landscape filled with rocks. In the dream Wallander had been afraid he was about to lose sight of them. Even I can interpret this dream, he thought. I'm still as afraid of abandonment as I was as a child.

  His mobile rang. It was Nyberg. As usual he got straight to the point. He always assumed the person he was calling was fully awake, regardless of what time it was, which never stopped him from complaining about other people calling him at all hours.

  "I've just finished work on the garage at Snappehanegatan," he said. "I found something in the back seat of the car that I missed the first time."

  "What was it?"

  "A stick of gum. It says 'spearmint'."

  "Was it stuck to the back seat?"

  "It was in its packet. If it had been a piece of chewed gum I would have found it much earlier."

  Wallander was already out of bed and halfway across the cold floor to the bathroom.

  "Good," he said. "I'll be in touch."

  Half an hour later he had showered, dressed and was on his way to the station. His morning coffee would have to wait until he got to the office. He had planned to walk to work, but changed his mind at the last minute and took the car. He tried to quell his guilty conscience. The first person he looked for when he arrived was Irene. But she wasn't in yet. If Ebba was still working she would already be here, Wallander thought. Even though she didn't officially start until 7 a.m. But she would have known intuitively that I needed to speak to her. He realised he was being unfair to Irene. No-one could compare to Ebba. He went to get a cup of coffee in the meantime. He spoke to some of the traffic officers who were complaining about speeding drivers and the rising incidence of driving under the influence. There was going to be a big crackdown today. Wallander listened absently, reflecting that policemen had a tendency to whine. He walked back to the reception area just as Irene was taking off her coat and scarf.

  "Do you remember me borrowing some gum from you the other day?"

  "I don't think 'borrow' is the right word in that context. I gave it to you, or rather, to that girl."

  "What kind was it?"

  "A normal brand. Spearmint, I think."

  Wallander nodded.

  "Was that it?" Irene asked, surprised.

  Wallander returned to his office, walking so quickly he almost spilled his coffee. He was in a hurry to confirm this train of thought. He called Höglund at home and heard a child wail in the background when she answered.

  "I want you to do me a favour," he said. "I want you to ask Persson what kind of gum she chews. I also want you to ask her if she gave any to Hökberg."

  "Why is this so important?"

  "I'll explain when you get here."

  She called him back after 10 minutes. There was still a lot of noise in the background.

  "I talked to her mother. She said Eva chews different kinds of gum. I can't imagine she would lie about something like this."

  "So she keeps an eye on what kind of gum her daughter chews?"

  "Mothers know a lot about their daughters," she said.

  "Or they think they do."

  "In some cases."

  "What about Hökberg?"

  "I think we can assume that the girls would share their gum."

  Wallander smacked his lips.

  "Why in God's name is this so important?"

  "I'll tell you when you get here."

  "Everything is such a mess over here," she sighed. "For some reason, Tuesday mornings are the worst."

  Wallander hung up. Every morning is the worst, he thought. Without fail. At least all those mornings that you wake up at 5 a.m. and can't get back to sleep.

  He walked over to Martinsson's office. No-one there. He was probably with Modin over at Runnerströms Torg. Hansson wasn't in either. Maybe he wasn't back yet from what was probably a completely wasted trip to Växjö.

  Wallander sat at his desk and tried to go through the latest findings on his own. They were now almost sure that the blue car over at Snappehanegatan was the vehicle that had taken Hökberg to the power substation. Landahl had probably been the driver, letting her off to be killed, then preparing to take the ferry to Poland.