by Eva Hudson
He was murmuring something.
“What was that?” She lurched forward. Either she was getting tired or he was getting heavier. “Jens? Who is Lise? Tell me.”
“Frau. My wife. She works with Björn.”
Ingrid pulled on Jens’s arms to prevent him from slumping. “Don’t let go. Come on.” She was trying to work out why kidnappers would target the relatives of three lawyers. Osberg and Nyquist was the name of Björn’s firm. She had seen it on Facebook. A grudge? No, they’d just set fire to the place. Representation? Then why kidnap a judge’s son too?
Her arms were starting to burn with the exertion. “Why are they holding us?”
His weight suddenly pressed down on her, forcing her to stagger. He mumbled something.
“What was that?”
He inhaled deeply. “Abdullah Saladdin.” His voice was tremulous but belligerent, like a drunk’s.
“Jens?”
He had suddenly become a dead weight. Ingrid felt herself about to collapse under the pressure. “Jens? Who is Abdullah Saladdin?”
Jens slumped, pulling Ingrid to the floor with him. Ingrid wrestled herself from his heavy embrace and looked over at him. He had passed out.
25
Ingrid thumped hard on the dividing wall.
“Get in here,” she yelled. “Now!”
All she could hear was the kid’s voice. It sounded like he was mimicking her. The kidnappers were silent.
“Get in here. We need help.”
She didn’t have the strength to shout louder.
“Can you hear me? Get in here!”
Ingrid knelt down, the beam of light from the other side hitting her in the chest, and took Jens’s wrist in her hand, her index and middle fingers pressing hard against his radial artery. The pulse was weak and slow. Too slow. It wouldn’t be long before it was undetectable, before there was no blood left in his extremities at all. His lips were blue.
“Come on,” she shouted. “Now! He’s fucking dying in here.”
There were sounds of movement from the other side of the wall. Footsteps, chatter, the opening and closing of cupboards, the boy’s voice—she couldn’t tell if he was talking to her or the kidnappers—followed by the sound of something metallic being dragged across the floor.
The floor.
Ingrid looked at the loosened floorboards. The jimmied ends were an inch or two proud. If the kidnappers saw them, her chance to escape would dissolve like sugar in boiling water. She looked down at Jens, then back at the loosened boards. The best thing she could do for him was preserve her means of escape. She pushed herself to standing, took three steps over to the floorboards and stood on them, pressing the wrenched nails back into the joists below. She consoled herself with the knowledge that they’d be easier to loosen the next time.
The first bolt was scraped open, then the second. Ingrid returned to Jens, kneeling beside him.
“Hey, Jens, hang in there. I’m going to get you help.”
He was unresponsive, his jaw falling slack as his head lolled to one side.
The door was pushed open and Ingrid flinched when a fierce wind knifed its way inside. She turned to see Mohammed and the short man, who was holding a semi-automatic carbine in front of his chest.
“What have you done to him?” Mohammed said.
“Shut the damned door. You have a heater next door, right?”
Both men looked confused. She repeated herself, slowly. “A heater?” She mimed rubbing her hands together.
The two men glanced at each other, clearly suspicious.
“Look at him!” she shouted. “He will die. You need to take him next door.”
“Die?” Mohammed said.
Ingrid got to her feet and marched toward the door. The short man aimed the carbine at her chest.
“Then you close the damn door!” She knelt back down beside Jens and started to rub his arms. “You need to get him warm. He has hypothermia. Do you know what that is?”
The short man shook his head.
“Come here.”
Neither of them moved.
“Come here!”
They shuffled over, the short man still keeping both hands on his weapon, and peered down at Jens.
“See his lips?” Ingrid asked. “They’re blue.” She wasn’t sure if they understood everything she was saying. “You need to pick him up, take him next door. Get him warm.” She forced her bound hands under Jens’s right shoulder. “Help me!”
The men exchanged a look, both apparently seeking reassurance from the other that it was OK to do as she said.
“Mohammed! Help me.”
Mohammed lumbered toward her and got down on his haunches.
“You understand what is happening?” Ingrid asked.
He shook his head.
“This man has hypothermia.”
Mohammed’s expression told her he did not know what she meant.
“He will die because he is cold. You will not get a ransom for a dead hostage, will you?”
Mohammed shook his head.
“He needs to be somewhere warmer. Next door. Hold his legs.” She nodded at Jens’s ankles, indicating that they needed to be lifted.
“You,” she said to the short man. “I can’t carry him.” She showed him her bound hands. “You need to come here and pick him up.”
He crouched down beside her, looked at Jens’s face, then back up at her. He looked scared. Scared it was a trap? Scared Jens would die? Scared he’d suffer the consequences from whoever had ordered the kidnappings? Ingrid stared into his dark, undulating features: “He will die.”
The man nodded. While maintaining eye contact with Ingrid, he laid down the carbine and reached inside his pocket. Ingrid stared at the weapon. Given how organized her kidnapping had been, there was little chance it wasn’t loaded. The door was closed but not locked. She could grab the carbine, whack the man in the face with the butt, turn it round, aim at Mohammed…
Her head started to shake. With her hands tied, she wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. And even if she succeeded in knocking out the short guy, Mohammed was likely armed. Besides, she told herself, if she made an escape bid now Jens would almost certainly die. Air that had been trapped for many moments inside her mouth slowly escaped.
The short man pulled his fist out of his pocket, a Swiss army knife inside his curled fingers. He released a blade and thrust it toward Ingrid, making her flinch.
“Hands,” he said. “You carry.”
This wasn’t what she wanted. She needed them to take Jens next door so she could lift the floorboards and make her escape. Reluctantly, Ingrid held out her wrists pulling them apart to make the tape taut. He sliced through it with one swipe and her arms instantly felt lighter.
The man snatched up the carbine, swiftly positioning his finger over the trigger as he stood up.
“Pick him up,” he barked.
Ingrid nodded at him without making eye contact. “You got his legs?” she asked Mohammed.
“Yes, yes.”
Ingrid tucked her feet under her knees and crouched beside Jens. She slipped her arms under his shoulders. “One. Two. Three.”
Jens didn’t make a sound as they lifted him up. Not a moan. Not even an involuntary gasp of air. He had slipped into a coma.
“You got him?” she asked.
He nodded.
They carried him toward the door, the short guy keeping the semi-automatic aimed at Ingrid the whole time, dropping the muzzle only briefly to open the door.
“You try to escape,” he said, “I shoot you.”
Ingrid ignored his threat, concentrating on not dropping Jens. Her arms were numb from being bound and she could barely feel her hands. She looked behind her at the floorboards, at her escape route, and let out a soft gasp.
Outside, the snow was falling thickly, tumbling out of the black sky like sugar from a sifter. The short man knocked on the door of the main cabin. Ingrid kept watch on Jens’s face, hoping the b
reeze or the snowflakes would produce a neurological response.
A voice called out from inside. A man’s voice. So there was a third kidnapper.
“Yes,” the short man said.
There was the sound of a lock being turned, then a bolt being opened. The door opened slowly. Standing inside the illuminated cabin was a tall man. He had one hand over the boy’s mouth. The other held the Beretta to the kid’s temple.
Transcript from Riksdag Committee Hearing 23
December 15 2015
BILUNGS: Can I just check that you were offered a translator for this afternoon’s proceedings?
LUHRMANN: I was. Thank you. But I believe my Swedish is almost fluent.
BILUNGS: It certainly seems that way. Now, this morning, you told this committee how you were abducted. This afternoon, I would like to talk to you about your captivity, if that’s all right?
LUHRMANN: Sure.
BILUNGS: I appreciate that this is a difficult subject for you to discuss, so please take your time with your replies.
LUHRMANN: Sure.
BILUNGS: You have described being moved from Husby to the cabin near Järlåsa—
LUHRMANN: Though I did not know where it was then. I didn’t find that out for a few days.
BILUNGS: Of course. Do you know what time you arrived at the cabin?
LUHRMANN: The blindfold wasn’t completely successful, so I caught sight of the clock in the car, just above the gear stick, when I was lying on the back seat. It read 1:23, which I obviously knew was wrong as they had taken me from Östermalm around two thirty—
BILUNGS: [Refers to notes] There is something from the forensics team here… When the vehicle was recovered, it was estimated that the onboard clock was four hours and eight minutes behind CET. So that would make it, what, just after half past five when you saw the clock?
LUHRMANN: That sounds right. Probably I was in the car for another ten minutes after that, then the walk to the cabin… another fifteen minutes. So I would guess I got there a little before six in the evening.
BILUNGS: Did they tell you where they were taking you?
LUHRMANN: No, as I said this morning, they were… What is the word… In German we would say unruhig, unsettled, perhaps, spooked, maybe by the activity near the apartment in Husby, so they took me somewhere else.
BILUNGS: It hadn’t been their intention to move you?
LUHRMANN: No, I don’t think so. Nasim, one of the men who had taken me from the bank, I think he was panicking, sure he was about to get caught. The men at the cabin were much calmer, much more… how can I say this… intimidating.
BILUNGS: And there were three men?
LUHRMANN: Yes. And of course the boy was there, the judge’s son. Not that I knew that at first. At first they put me in a room with the woman. It was dark in there. Just an oil lamp. But I recognized her straight away even though her face was cut. Bruised. I’d heard the radio reports earlier in the day. I’d seen Twitter. I felt like I was with a celebrity or something but, you know, obviously it wasn’t her.
BILUNGS: Can you describe your fellow hostage?
LUHRMANN: If you can picture Anna Skyberg with blood running down her face, in casual clothes rather than a suit. You have to remember, I thought it was Anna Skyberg. I wasn’t looking for, how you say… discrepancies.
BILUNGS: When did you discover that the other hostage was not the minister?
LUHRMANN: She told me, I think. But you know my memories from the cabin are not good. I wouldn’t want you to rely on them.
BILUNGS: This is not a court, Mr Luhrmann, we only wish to reach a better understanding of what happened last year. What did she tell you about herself?
LUHRMANN: Well. Um. I think she said her name was also Anna, but that sounds like too much of a coincidence, so it is possible I am making that up. Not deliberately, you understand.
BILUNGS: Go on.
LUHRMANN: She spoke English with an accent. I would guess that she was Latvian, or Estonian. Some sort of Baltic—
BILUNGS: I thought you told the police you thought she was English? Have I got that wrong?
LUHRMANN: Um, I think… I think, no I don’t think I ever said that but maybe, maybe you refer to something I believe—I’m not sure you understand, the hypothermia… by this stage, the doctors are surprised I remember anything at all—I think I remember something about her pronunciation of ‘Skyberg’. I can’t see why I would make it up, but she did say it the American way. Or the English way. Skye-berg, not Skoo-berg. The other things I remember the police were most interested in after… you know, when they came to interview me in hospital… it would have been the next day, maybe the day after that… they wanted to know about her injuries. There was a cut in her eyebrow, quite a lot of blood, but she was far more bothered about the blood on my face—
BILUNGS: It has been suggested that she had medical training?
LUHRMANN: Yes, I think Mohammed, Mohammed Al-Ghedi, the kidnapper, has spoken about this. He says she almost certainly saved my life. Apparently, she insisted that I was taken into the warmth. I have often wondered if she did what she did next to try and get me help. It was a big risk, but I think, or rather it is my suspicion, that her actions were altruistic, that she was attempting to make sure I got medical assistance. And, of course, the other thing about her was that she was strong.
BILUNGS: Your background, Mr Luhrmann, is in the military, is it not?
LUHRMANN: Yes, I served for twelve years with the 1st Panzer Division.
BILUNGS: And is it your opinion that the woman who was being held hostage was also from the military?
LUHRMANN: Yes. I would put money on it. How else do you explain how she was able to do what she did next?
26
Ingrid smiled at the kid and looked round the cabin for the heater. It was old and reminded her of something her dad had used on the farm to keep orphaned piglets warm.
“Close the door,” she shouted to the short man. “Keep the heat in.”
He kicked it shut, then turned the lock and pocketed the key.
Mohammed and Ingrid laid Jens down on the floor in front of the heater, the smell of kerosene prickling the inside of her nose. The boy started to wriggle in the tall man’s grasp and was let go. He stared at Ingrid, raising his hand to his face, touching his eyebrow in just the place she was bleeding from.
“It doesn’t hurt,” she said, though probably the literal translation of her kindergarten Swedish was ‘it no hurt’. She smiled again as she slipped off Jens’s sodden shoes. There wasn’t time to talk to the kid, to make sure he was being treated reasonably. Ingrid glanced up at the three hostage takers: who the hell kidnaps a kid? Was he taken from the school gate? From outside his house? With his parents watching? She winced at the thought then turned her attention back to Jens.
“What’s wrong with him?” the boy asked. He was about ten, skinny, blond and oddly confident. There was something peculiar about him. Something she couldn’t put her finger on.
“He’s cold,” she said. “Very cold.” She needed to get Jens out of his wet clothes: she was never going to get him warm unless she could first get him dry. She started to unbuckle his belt.
“No!” the short man said. “Nej.”
“What?”
“No!”
“These are wet; we need to get him dry.”
“No, you cannot.”
“Why?” Ingrid moved on to the button of Jens’s pants.
He stared at her, his eyes wide with outrage. “You are woman.”
Ingrid exhaled in disbelief and let go of Jens’s waistband. “Then you do it.”
The short man placed the carbine on the floor then knelt between it and Jens. As he busied himself unzipping the pants, Ingrid plotted how many moves it would take her to pick up the weapon. One: get up. Two: step over Jens. Three: bend down. Four: get a blow to the head from Mohammed or the tall guy. No, she told herself, not worth the risk.
Ingrid looked round the cabin
for blankets. There was a reindeer skin on the wall, but it was as old as the cabin and was so brittle it’d crumble like a cookie if it was moved. There was nothing of comfort in the cabin at all. No mattresses. No cushions. Scanning the room, Ingrid’s gaze crept upwards: the entire ceiling was lined with foil-covered insulation boards. Before her brain could start to process the significance of the foil, she had to concentrate on Jens. She needed something warm. Anything.
“Your coat,” she said to the tall guy. “He needs your coat.”
He looked at her blankly and coughed.
She patted her own jacket. “Your coat,” she said firmly.
He shook his head.
Ingrid stood up. “Give me your damn coat!”
Still he shook his head. Behind her, the short man said something and instantly the tall guy shrugged, loosening his arms from the sleeves. He refused to hand the full-length sheepskin coat to her, instead pushing past her and taking it over to Jens. He laid it on top of him.
“No,” Ingrid said. “You need to wrap him in it. Like a sleeping bag.”
The short man understood and crouched down. He rolled Jens’s limp body over, expertly getting him on top of the coat, then covering him in it. He had to be ex-military. Or militia. Either that or a hospital orderly. Only someone with training, someone used to moving dead weights—or dead bodies—could roll an unresponsive patient so easily. She took it as a good indication that he would also know exactly how to use a semi-automatic weapon.
Mohammed started to move the kerosene heater closer to Jens.
“No,” Ingrid said. “Not too close.” Hypothermia patients needed to be warmed slowly, away from direct heat. As the lack of blood in their veins made them susceptible to burns. “Socks,” Ingrid said. “One of you needs to put your socks on him.”
Mohammed nodded and while he unlaced his boots, a cell phone vibrated on the table. The short man got to his feet, picked up the carbine and snatched up the phone. Ingrid watched his face closely as he scanned the message. A slight narrowing of the nostrils told her it wasn’t good news. He looked up from the screen and over to her then sucked his teeth. She imagined that the photos of her beaten face had failed to persuade her ‘husband’ to pay the ransom.