by Kepler, Lars
Joona shakes his head. ‘Jurek isn’t scared of pain.’
‘So we just give up?’
‘No,’ Joona says, leaning back and making his seat creak.
‘So what do you think we should do?’ Verner asks.
‘If we go in and talk to Jurek, the only thing we can be sure of is that he’ll be lying. He’ll steer the conversation and once he’s found out what we want with him, he’ll get us to start bargaining, and we’ll end up giving him something we’ll only regret.’
Carlos looks down and scratches his knee irritably.
‘So what does that leave us with?’ Verner asks quietly.
‘I don’t know if it’s even possible,’ Joona says. ‘But if you could place an agent as a patient in the same secure psychiatric unit as—’
‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ Carlos interrupts.
‘It would have to be someone so convincing that Jurek would want to talk to them,’ Joona goes on.
‘Bloody hell,’ Verner mutters.
‘A patient,’ Carlos whispers.
‘Because it would be enough to have someone who might be useful to him, someone he could exploit,’ Joona says.
‘What are you saying?’
‘We need to find an agent who’s so exceptional that they can make Jurek Walter curious.’
54
The punchbag lets out a sigh and the chain rattles. Saga Bauer moves nimbly to one side, follows the movement of the bag with her body and strikes again. Two blows, then an echo that rumbles off the walls of the empty boxing gym.
She’s practising a combination of two quick left hooks, one high, one low, followed by a hard right hook.
The black punchbag sways, and the hook creaks. Its shadow crosses Saga’s face and she punches again. Three rapid blows. She rolls her shoulders, moves backwards, glides round the punchbag and strikes once more.
Her long blonde hair flies out with the rapid movement of her hips, flicking across her face.
Saga loses track of time when she’s training, and all thoughts vanish from her head. She’s been on her own in the gym for the past two hours. The last of the others left while she was doing her skipping. The lamps above the boxing ring are switched off, but the bright glow from the drinks machine is shining through the doorway. There’s snow swirling outside the windows, around the dry cleaners’ sign and along the pavement.
From the corner of her eye Saga sees a car stop in the street outside the boxing club, but she carries on with the same combination of blows, trying to increase their power the whole time. Drops of sweat hit the floor next to a smaller punchbag that has come off its support.
Stefan walks in. He stamps the snow from his feet, then stands quietly for a moment. His coat is undone, showing the pale suit and white shirt beneath.
She goes on punching as she sees him take off his shoes and come closer.
The only sounds are the thump of the bag and the rattle of the chain.
Saga wants to go on training, she’s not ready to break her concentration yet. She lowers her brow and attacks the bag with a rapid series of punches even though Stefan is standing right behind it.
‘Harder,’ he says, holding the bag in place.
She throws a straight right, so hard that he has to take a step back. She can’t help laughing, and before he’s managed to regain his balance she punches again.
‘Give me some resistance,’ she says, with a hint of impatience in her voice.
‘We need to leave.’
Her face is closed and hot as she fires off another salvo of punches. She finds it so easy to succumb to desperate rage. Rage makes her feel weak, but it’s also what makes her keep fighting, long after others have given up.
The heavy blows make the punchbag tremble and the chain rattle. She slows herself down, even though she could carry on for ages yet.
Panting, she takes a couple of easy steps backwards. The bag continues to swing. A light shower of concrete dust falls from the catch in the ceiling.
‘OK, I’m happy now.’ She smiles at him, pulling off her boxing gloves with her teeth.
He follows her into the women’s changing room and helps her remove the strapping from her hands.
‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ he whispers.
‘No problem,’ she says, looking at her hand.
Her washed-out gym clothes are wet with sweat. Her nipples are showing through her damp bra, and her muscles are swollen and pumped with blood.
Saga Bauer is an inspector with the Security Police, and she’s worked with Joona Linna of the National Criminal Investigation Department on two big cases. She’s not just an elite-level boxer, but a very good sniper, and has been specially trained in advanced interrogation techniques.
She’s twenty-seven years old, her eyes are blue as a summer sky, she has colourful ribbons plaited into her long, blonde hair, and is almost improbably beautiful. Most people who see her are filled with a strange, helpless sense of longing. Just seeing her is enough to make people fall helplessly in love.
The hot shower creates steam that mists up the mirrors. Saga stands solidly with her legs apart and her arms hanging by her sides as the water washes over her. A large bruise is forming on one thigh, and the knuckles of her right hand are bleeding.
She looks up, wipes the water from her face and sees Stefan standing there watching her with a perfectly neutral expression.
‘What are you thinking?’ Saga asks.
‘That it was raining the first time we had sex,’ he says quietly.
She remembers that afternoon very well. They had been to a matinee at the cinema, and when they emerged onto Medborgarplatsen it was pouring with rain. They ran down Sankt Paulsgatan to his studio, but still got drenched. Stefan has often talked about the unembarrassed way she got undressed and hung her clothes over the radiator, then stood there picking out notes on his piano. He said he knew he shouldn’t stare, but that she lit up the room like a ball of molten glass in a dark hut.
‘Get in the shower,’ Saga says.
‘There isn’t time.’
She looks at him with a little frown between her eyebrows.
‘Am I alone?’ she suddenly asks.
He smiles uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Am I alone?’
Stefan holds out a towel and says calmly:
‘Come on, now.’
55
It’s snowing as they get out of the taxi at the Glenn Miller Café. Saga turns her face towards the sky, shuts her eyes and feels the snow fall on her warm skin.
The cramped premises are already full, but they’re in luck and find a free table. Candles flicker in frosted lanterns and the snow slides wetly down the windows facing Brunnsgatan.
Stefan hangs his coat on the back of a chair and goes over to the bar to order.
Saga’s hair is still wet and she shivers as she takes off her green parka, its back dark with damp. The people nearby keep looking round and she’s worried they’ve taken someone’s seats.
Stefan puts two vodka martinis and a bowl of pistachio nuts on the table. They sit opposite each other and drink a silent toast. Saga is about to say how hungry she is when a thin man in glasses comes over.
‘Jacky,’ Stefan says, surprised.
‘I thought I could smell cat-piss.’ Jacky grins.
‘This is my girl,’ Stefan says.
Jacky glances at Saga but doesn’t bother to say hello, just whispers something to Stefan instead and laughs.
‘No, seriously, you’ve got to play with us,’ he says. ‘Mini’s here as well.’
He points to a thickset man who’s making his way towards the corner where an almost black contrabass and a half-acoustic Gibson guitar stand ready.
Saga can’t hear what they’re saying; they’re talking about some legendary gig, a contract that’s the best so far, and a cleverly put-together quartet. She lets her eyes roam round the bar as she waits. Stefan says something to her as Jacky starts pulling him to his feet.
> ‘Are you going to play?’ Saga asks.
‘Just one song,’ Stefan calls with a smile.
She waves him off. The noise in the bar subsides as Jacky takes the microphone and introduces his guest. Stefan sits down at the piano.
‘ “April in Paris”,’ he says simply, and starts to play.
56
Saga watches Stefan half-close his eyes and her skin breaks out in goosebumps as the music takes over and shrinks the room, making the subdued lighting soft and shimmering.
Jacky starts to play gently ornate harmonies, and then the bass joins in.
Saga knows that Stefan loves this, but at the same time she can’t forget the fact that they’d arranged to sit and talk, just for once.
She’s been looking forward to this all week.
Slowly she eats the pistachio nuts, gathering a heap of empty shells and waiting.
A peculiar angst at his walking away from her like that makes her feel suddenly chill; she has no idea where the feeling has come from. She knows that she’s being irrational, and keeps telling herself not to be childish.
When her drink is finished she moves on to Stefan’s. It’s no longer cold, but she drinks it anyway.
She looks over at the door just as a red-cheeked man takes a picture of her with his phone. She’s tired, and is considering going home to sleep, but she’d really like to talk to Stefan first.
Saga has lost track of how many numbers they’ve played. John Scofield, Mike Stern, Charles Mingus, Dave Holland, Lars Gullin, and a long version of a song she doesn’t know the name of, from that record with Bill Evans and Monica Zetterlund.
Saga looks at the heap of pale nutshells, the toothpicks in the martini glasses and the empty chair opposite her. She goes over to the bar and gets a bottle of Grolsch, and when she’s finished it she heads to the bathroom.
Some women are adjusting their make-up in front of the mirror, the toilets are all occupied and she has to queue for a while. When one of the cubicles is finally free she goes in, locks the door, sits down and just stares at the white door.
An old memory makes her feel suddenly impotent. She remembers her mother lying in bed, her face marked by sickness, staring at the white door. Saga was only seven years old and was trying to comfort her, trying to say everything would soon be all right, but her mum didn’t want to hold her hand.
‘Stop it,’ Saga whispers to herself as she sits on the toilet, but the memory won’t let go.
Her mum got worse and Saga had to find her medication, help her take her tablets and hold the glass of water.
Saga sat on the floor beside her mother’s bed looking up at her, fetching a blanket when she was cold, trying to call her dad each time her mum asked her to.
When her mum finally fell asleep Saga can remember switching off the little lamp, curling up on top of the bed and wrapping her mother’s arms round her.
She doesn’t usually think of it. She usually manages to keep her distance from the memory, but this time it was just there, and her heart is beating hard in her chest as she leaves the toilet.
Their table is still empty, the empty glasses are still there, and Stefan is still playing. He’s maintaining eye contact with Jacky, and they’re responding playfully to each other’s improvisations.
Maybe it’s the drink or her memories affecting her judgment. She forces her way through to the musicians. Stefan is in the middle of a long, meandering improvisation when she puts a hand on his shoulder.
He starts, looks at her, then shakes his head irritably. She grabs his arm and tries to get him to stop playing.
‘Come, now,’ she says.
‘Get your girl under control,’ Jacky hisses.
‘I’m playing,’ Stefan says through gritted teeth.
‘But the two of us … We’d agreed …’ she tries, feeling to her own surprise that tears are rising to her eyes.
‘Get lost,’ she hears Jacky snarl at her.
‘Can’t we go home soon?’ she asks, patting the back of Stefan’s neck.
‘For God’s sake,’ he whispers sharply.
Saga backs away and manages to knock over a glass of beer on top of one of the amplifiers, and it falls to the floor and shatters.
Beers splashes up onto Stefan’s clothes.
She stands still, but his eyes are focused solely on the keys of the piano, and the hands racing across them as sweat runs down his cheeks.
She waits a moment, then returns to their table. Some men have sat down in their chairs. Her green parka is lying on the floor. She picks it up with trembling hands, and hurries out into the heavy snow.
57
Saga Bauer spends the whole of the following morning in one of the Security Police’s generously proportioned meeting rooms with four other agents, three analysts and two people from admin. Most of them have laptops or tablets in front of them, and a grey screen is currently showing a diagram illustrating the extent of non-wireless communication traffic across the country’s borders during the past week.
Under discussion are the analytical database of the Signals Intelligence Unit, new search methods and the apparently rapid radicalisation of thirty or so Islamists who are in favour of violence.
‘Mind you, even if al-Shabaab have made extensive use of the al-Qimmah network,’ Saga is saying, brushing her long hair back over her shoulders, ‘I don’t think it will give us much. Obviously we need to carry on, but I still say we should be trying to infiltrate the group of women on their periphery … as I mentioned before, and—’
The door opens and the head of the Security Police, Verner Zandén, comes in, raising his hand apologetically.
‘I really don’t want to interrupt,’ he says in his rumbling voice as he catches Saga’s eye. ‘But I was just thinking of going for a little stroll, and would very much appreciate your company.’
She nods and logs out, but leaves her laptop on the table as she exits the meeting room with Verner.
Shimmering snow is falling from the sky as they emerge onto Polhemsgatan. It’s extremely cold and the tiny crystals in the air are lit up by the hazy sunlight. Verner walks with long strides and Saga hurries along beside him like a child.
They pass Fleminggatan in silence, walk through the gate to the health centre, across the circular park surrounding the chapel and down the steps towards the ice of Barnhusviken.
The situation is feeling more and more peculiar, but Saga refrains from asking any questions.
Verner makes a little gesture with his hands and turns left onto a cycle path.
Some small rabbits scamper for cover under the bushes as they approach. The snow-covered park benches are soft shapes in the white landscape.
After walking a bit further they turn in between two of the tall buildings lining Kungsholms Strand and go up to a door. Verner taps in a code, opens the door and leads her into the lift.
In the scratched mirror Saga can see snowflakes covering her hair. They’re melting, forming glistening drops of water.
When the creaking lift stops, Verner takes out a key with a plastic card attached, unlocks a door that bears the telltale signs of attempted burglaries, then nods to her to follow him inside.
They walk into an entirely empty flat. Someone has recently moved out. The walls are full of holes where pictures and shelves have been removed. There are large dustballs on the floor and a forgotten Ikea Allen key.
The toilet flushes and Carlos Eliasson, chief of the National Criminal Investigation Department, comes out. He wipes his hands on his trousers and then shakes hands with Saga and Verner.
‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ Carlos says. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’
He gets out a pack of plastic cups and fills them with tap-water, then offers them to Saga and Verner.
‘Perhaps you were expecting lunch?’ Carlos says as he sees the mystified look on her face.
‘No, but …’
‘I’ve got some throat sweets,’ he says quickly, pulling out a little
box of Läkerol.
Saga shakes her head, but Verner takes the box from Carlos, taps out a couple of pastilles and pops them in his mouth.
‘Quite a party.’
‘Saga, as you’ve no doubt realised, this is an extremely unofficial meeting,’ Carlos says, then clears his throat.
‘What’s happened?’ Saga asks.
‘Have you heard of Jurek Walter?’
‘No.’
‘Not many people have … and that’s just as well,’ Verner says.
58
A ray of sunlight is twinkling on the dirty kitchen window as Carlos Eliasson hands Saga Bauer a dossier. She opens the folder and finds herself staring directly into Jurek Walter’s pale eyes. She moves the photograph and starts to read the thirteen-year-old report. Her face turns white and she sits down on the floor with her back against the radiator, still reading, looking at the pictures, glancing through post-mortem reports and reading about his sentence and where it was being served.
When she closes the file Carlos tells her how Mikael Kohler-Frost was found wandering across the Igelsta Bridge after being missing for thirteen years.
Verner gets out his mobile and plays the recording of the young man describing his captivity and escape. Saga listens to his anguished voice, and when she hears him talk about his sister her face goes red and her heart starts beating hard. She looks at the photograph in the folder. The little girl is standing with her loose plait and riding hat, smiling as if she were planning something naughty.
When Mikael’s voice falls silent she stands up and paces the empty kitchen before stopping in front of the window.
‘National Crime have got nothing more to go on than they had thirteen years ago,’ Verner says.
‘We don’t know anything … but Jurek Walter knows, he knows where Felicia is, and he knows who his accomplice is …’
Verner explains that it’s impossible to get the truth out of Jurek Walter in a conventional interrogation, or by using psychologists or priests.