by Eva Hudson
Ingrid picked up the lantern and examined the hole she had made, hoping to see a glint of a screw shaft even though she knew they’d all be rusted dull. The hole looked even smaller than it had felt and her heart sank so fast and so hard that she almost heard it thud on the floor.
It’s still a good plan, she told herself, it just might take a little longer.
“You’ll find a way.”
Ingrid looked up expecting to see someone, but she was completely alone in the sauna. She was talking to herself. She’d read about it in lots of hostage memoirs. It’s normal, she told herself, just a survival mechanism. A way of keeping your spirits up.
Kneeling on the floor meant that the middle hinge was now at eye level and the lamp illuminated the area that needed to be scraped away. She gripped the screwdriver between her palms, and jammed it into the timber next to the hinge. The tip of the shaft did not sink into the rot. Ingrid tried again, putting a bit more force behind the movement. But the timber was solid. There was no rot. Ingrid tried a centimeter above, a centimeter below, but no matter where she prodded the screwdriver, there wasn’t any rotten wood anywhere near the middle hinge.
She prodded again, just to make sure, but she already knew that her plan wasn’t going to work. Perhaps if she had days to escape, she could do a little every day, but that was not a timescale she was willing to entertain. Not with the deadline to get to Stortorget. Ingrid dropped the screwdriver onto the floor and let her arms rest on her knees. A blade of freezing air forced its way under the door, knifing its way into her shins. She couldn’t stay where she was. She scrambled to her feet, and pushed the screwdriver back into her sock. When she picked up the lantern, she noticed the confetti of rotten wood on the floor.
A naked flame. Wood shavings. A new plan started to emerge.
How long, she wondered, would it take to dry out the rotten wood splinters? Chipping out the rot was easy. Within five minutes she would have a handful of the stuff. She imagined shoving the splinters into a sock, drying them out over a lantern, then pushing the lantern over, letting the citron-scented oil engulf the splinters. Her brain flitted from thought to thought like a wasp in a jar. She could add the maxi pads…
Her mind pictured the fire she could start. She imagined it burning a hole in the side of the sauna and her jumping through the flames like a performing dog at a circus, and then laughed at herself. Hostages who maintain a sense of humor and proportion tend to survive their ordeals with fewer psychological scars…
Even if she was able to start a fire, the only means she had of controlling it was the slowly melting bucket of snow. She might as well tie a noose around her neck.
“You’ll find a way. You always do.”
Ingrid turned. “Who said that?”
The voice was familiar. American accent. She had to be talking to herself. She didn’t know how long she’d been on her own for but she was losing it already. Textbook. All these years she’d been reading about hostage situations and here she was, following the template and going crazy. She hadn’t known it could happen so quickly. Had the same thing happened to Megan, she wondered?
The TV reports of the house where Megan’s remains had been found suddenly played in Ingrid’s head. The shaky footage of the steps down into the basement. The ‘House of Horrors’ caption in a red band across the bottom of the screen. A whiff of cotton candy sneaked up inside Ingrid’s nose and plunged into her brain.
Ingrid sat down on the bench and stared at the lantern, letting herself become mesmerized by the flame as her thoughts retraced their steps between Megan’s abduction and her own. The more she stared at the lantern, the more she gradually became aware that it had started to flicker. Was it her imagination? Or was it running out of oil? She glanced over at the second lantern, then back to the first.
Then it occurred to her: she didn’t need two lanterns. All she was doing was burning twice as much fuel as necessary. Fuel she could use when she’d worked out how to use fire as a weapon. She was acting like the lone survivor of a jungle expedition eating all the available food on the first day. She needed to ration her resources. She needed to be smarter.
Ingrid leaned over and blew out one of the lanterns and the sauna instantly darkened.
She sat back against the dividing wall, letting her ears tune in to the noises coming from the other side. Instinctively, she flicked something off her arm. But it was still there. Ingrid looked down at the sleeve of her jacket to see what it was.
In the darkness, a tiny beam of light was now catching the edge of the fabric. There was a gap between the logs.
Ingrid crouched down, put her eye up against the hole in the wall and peered through.
Transcript from Riksdag Committee Hearing 23
December 15 2015
BILUNGS: Thank you for coming here this morning. For our records, would you please state clearly your name.
BERING: Katarina Bering.
BILUNGS: And you work for TV4?
BERING: I do. I am the editor of the Nyheterna bulletin.
BILUNGS: But last winter you worked on the early evening news, is that right?
BERING: That is correct.
BILUNGS: You have been invited here today to talk specifically about the reporting of the alleged kidnapping of Anna Skyberg. Can you start by telling us when you first heard of her… I shall say ‘disappearance’ because obviously we do know that she was not the victim.
BERING: But we did not know that, what, almost exactly a year ago?
BILUNGS: It was December 15th. If you would, tell us how you heard about the kidnapping.
BERING: One of our producers, Nils Luft. The lockdown at the National Museum meant most of the team were out on the streets, but Nils had seen something come up on Twitter I think. He came straight over to my desk and asked to take a team down to Republik. He was out of the building within minutes. He phoned from outside the café less than fifteen minutes later. These situations are usually chaotic, there was no proper police cordon at that point, but he was prevented from entering the café. I told him to interview as many eye witnesses as possible. He was live on our sister station by twelve fifteen—
BILUNGS: Forgive me for interrupting, but I think it may be useful to play a recording of his report at this point. Paul, do you have the tape to play?
TRESOR: It’s a file, not a tape. Right now?
BILUNGS: Please.
RECORDING:
[Luft] Thank you, Peter. I’m standing outside the Republik café on Skeppsbron in Gamla Stan, the scene of dramatic events here this morning. Three gunmen burst into the café a little over half an hour ago, held an estimated twenty people hostage for around twenty minutes, during which time one man was killed. After stealing the valuables of the hostages, the gunmen then left, taking a hostage with them. Peter, I have to tell you that the hostage has been named by witnesses as the Minister for Climate and the Environment, Anna Skyberg. [Presenter] Nils, what do we know about the gunmen? [Luft] There were three of them; they were armed with what one witness claimed was an AK-47 and a semi-automatic handgun. They have been described as being of African origin and they left the scene on foot. It is not known where they are now. [Presenter] Nils, what is the advice from the police at this time? [Luft] Peter, there is no official word, but if there is a chance that there are three gunmen at large, then I would imagine their advice would be to stay away from Gamla Stan. [Presenter] And any word on where Minister Skyberg has been taken to? [Luft] Peter, I don’t have that information. [Presenter] And do we know if this incident is linked to what is happening at the National Museum? [Luft] Well, Peter, we can see the museum from here, but it would be speculation at this point to link the two events. As I speak to you, the police presence around this café is increasing, the armed response unit has just arrived as is standard with a terrorist incident of this nature. [Presenter] Nils, thank you. We’re going to return now to our correspondent outside the National Museum—
BILUNGS: I think we can sto
p the tape now. Sorry, file. So, Miss Bering, when did you find out that the Minister for Climate and the Environment was not the victim of the kidnap?
BERING: I don’t think I found that out until I got home. So, around ten o’clock that night. A colleague called to tell me.
BILUNGS: Oh. I thought you knew that Miss Skyberg was not involved much earlier in the day… [Refers to notes] Before the one o’clock news aired.
BERING: Ah. No.
BILUNGS: So why didn’t you report the abduction of the minister on the lunchtime bulletin?
BERING: Um, well, we received a call from Tor Bronsen—
BILUNGS: The Statsminister’s chief of staff?
BERING: [Nods]—and he basically told us that if we ran the story we would never get another interview with any member of the cabinet ever again.
BILUNGS: Did he give you a reason?
BERING: Only that it was a matter of national security. Obviously, we understand now that other kidnappings had taken place and they, the government, were clearly worried about panic spreading. But at the time he only mentioned national security and asked us to give him two hours before reporting the rumors.
BILUNGS: Rumors?
BERING: Possibly I use that word with hindsight. At the time we had every reason to think they were true. I told Bronsen that the story was already out, that Twitter was going bananas about it and that it was, you know, news and that we had a duty to our viewers to broadcast what we knew. It was at that point that the station’s lawyer came into the newsroom: he had received the notice to desist from the Statsminister’s office. Well, at that point we understood just how serious it was. I’ve been in the industry since university and I’d never received a notice to desist before. I was still on the phone to Bronsen and I said to him, “Now that you know I can’t run the story will you tell me what’s really going on?” And his answer was, “We may be at war.” I’m fairly sure I laughed.
BILUNGS: Laughed?
BERING: I suppose I can almost understand it now. The National Museum—a symbol of the country—was under siege, members of the cabinet were being abducted, the judiciary were being targeted… No, actually it was pretty far-fetched. The thing he said that did make sense, though, was that any media coverage of the Skyberg abduction could put the minister’s life in danger. Probably, the notice to desist was unnecessary; I’m sure the major news outlets would have been persuaded to hold off for a couple of hours on the basis that someone’s life was at risk. The trouble was that it was all over social media. Thankfully, the events at the National Museum meant we had plenty to report without the Skyberg story.
22
The gap in the log wall was long and thin like a scar. It was about three feet off the ground, making it awkward to peer through. Ingrid found the best vantage point on her knees, resting her forearms on the bench.
It was hard to make out much beyond the color of the pants the kidnappers were wearing. A tiny slice of blue denim jeans, a bead of red padded ski pants. No sign of a kid, just an old varnished table bearing two packs of Marlboro cigarettes, a packet of cookies and a five-liter bottle of water. A faint whiff of kerosene from their heater drifted through the gap.
The man in the ski pants was pacing methodically, like a surveyor measuring out yards with his stride. No one was talking and she could make out the tinny sounds of a game being played on a cell phone. She hoped it was a battery-draining app: a bored kid quickly starts to create problems.
The bugle call again.
“Uh-huh.” Not Mohammed’s voice. As he spoke his footsteps got faster and heavier and his voice grew louder. He wasn’t speaking English, or Swedish. Possibly Arabic, but she couldn’t be sure. “OK, OK.”
It didn’t sound OK at all.
“What did he say?” Definitely Mohammed speaking. In English.
“Problem. Big fucking problem.”
Ingrid’s heart began pounding harder. A problem for them was almost certainly a problem for her too. The furthest recesses of her brain noted that the kidnappers spoke to each other, and to her, in English.
Footsteps again, loud and echoey, followed by the noise of the door opening on the other side of the wall. The sound of winter boots thumping on the snowy ground followed by the rasp of bolts. A metallic fumbling as the padlock was unlocked. Ingrid braced herself. She staggered to her feet, aware of the pulse in her jaw pumping hard. The dread made her legs tremble. And then the door opened.
He was shorter than her, five six maybe, thickset and bulldog ugly. A sharp wind ruffled the fur trim of his hood. “What is your name?”
“I, er…” Ingrid couldn’t think what to say. She tried to remember her cover story. Should she try to pretend to be Russian? Use her undercover ID? No.
“Your name?” he repeated, stepping inside the sauna.
Panicked, Ingrid said the first Swedish name that came into her head. “Anna.”
“Anna what?”
She needed a quick lie. She didn’t even know if she should be pretending to be Swedish. Having said her name was Anna, the surname that popped into her head was her cousin’s married name, the one she used on Facebook. “Friese.”
The instant the syllables left her mouth she screwed up her face. It was a stupid move. How could I be so dumb? If they Googled Anna Friese they would find the only person in Sweden who could be linked to her. Her stomach muscles contracted painfully.
“What did you say?”
He hadn’t heard her properly. Her breaths were sharp and shallow as she tried not to gasp. Had she got away with it?
“What is your name?” He moved toward her, his hands remaining firmly in his pockets. The angle of his right wrist suggested he was gripping a handgun.
“I said it’s none of your business.”
“Tell me your name.” The man was standing inches from her, looking up into her face. “Tell me.”
Ingrid held his gaze and suppressed the urge to spit in his face. “No.” She resisted the compulsion to look at the open door behind him in case it betrayed what she was planning. A swift uppercut with both fists, knock him out, and slip out into the forest. She felt heat in her cheeks. She knew she may never get a better chance. She feared what not taking the opportunity would do to her.
Ingrid tipped her head back an increment then snapped it forward, smashing her forehead into the man’s skull, a flash of black obscuring her vision before she lifted her head. She clasped her hands together and raised them sharply, sending the components sliding down to her elbows, and smashed her fists into his jaw.
He staggered backward but did not fall. She took a step toward him, raising her arms above her head, ready to shove her weight down on his temple, but he sidestepped. She fell forward and her hands plowed through the air.
Ingrid turned to face him. He was clutching a Beretta. An M9. She glanced over him at the open door. Unless she got the gun off him it might as well be secured by deadbolts.
Her padded jacket made a scratching noise as her chest rose and fell with the exertion. Maybe fighting would garner her some respect. She tried to read his face, but in the lamplight his features—and intentions—were obscured. She focused on the gun. His hand wasn’t trembling. A damn good sign he had no intention of using it.
“Your name,” he said again. “Tell me your name.”
Ingrid chose her silence carefully. There was no point in giving him a false identity. It wouldn’t take long before he’d know she was lying. She shook her head. “Anna.”
He raised the Beretta to shoulder height and placed his left hand over his right. A steadying stance. An assassin’s stance. Of course the other reason people don’t shake when aiming a gun, Ingrid said to herself, is because they’re habituated killers.
“No name, no live,” he said. “You give me your fucking name or I blow your brains out.”
Ingrid swallowed hard, her gaze darting from the muzzle of the gun to his face. He took a step closer, bringing the Beretta to within a foot of her face. She co
uld see his features more clearly now and she held eye contact with him. His mouth puckered in disgust at her defiance. A nostril flared. His head began to nod, incremental movements, each a visual clue to his thinking. Ingrid stood firm and maintained her stare.
“Anna.”
He blinked, then turned his head sharply. He shoved the gun in his right-hand pocket and pulled an iPhone out of his left.
“Sit!” He pushed her backward onto the bench. He pressed the home button, swiped upwards then held it in front of her face.
The flash blinded her. As she pulled her face away, he took several more photos. Ingrid blinked and blinked, her retinas tortured by the LED assault. She heard a whoosh sound as he sent the photos. Email or text, she wasn’t sure.
An image of a meeting room popped into her head. A case review session a few months down the line. A junior cop relaying the cell phone records for the vicinity to the senior investigator. What she didn’t know was whether they were reviewing a case of kidnapping, or murder.
23
Ingrid sat with her legs apart and her elbows on her knees and tried to piece together what she’d just learnt.
The short, ugly guy almost certainly was not a killer.
It was not his intention to become one.
Her kidnappers didn’t have a clue who she was.
Ingrid pulled off the beanie, her head suddenly hot, and rubbed her hair with her bound hands, noticing for the first time that her act of defiance had resulted in a bruise on her left thumb. Better than a gunshot, she told herself. She shook her head, disbelieving she had pushed it so far with a man holding a gun to her head. It was just the way he had started to nod, those micro-movements he wouldn’t even have known he was making. She had read it as acceptance and acknowledgment that he wasn’t going to follow through. She snorted at her stupidity: they could just as easily have been indications of a declaration, an affirmation that he was making peace with taking her life.