‘What are you thinking about?’ Spencer asked.
‘The last time I was drunk.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Okay . . .’
‘Have we got old and boring?’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever be boring, but I’m afraid we’re never going to be younger either.’
Fredrika burst out laughing.
‘You’re a wise man, Spencer.’
‘Indeed I am.’
He reached out and pulled her close, hugging her tightly.
I will love you forever.
Fredrika found his hand, kissed his fingers. Her lips brushed against the ring he had received when he gained his doctorate; he wore it next to his wedding ring. She had been unable to hold back the tears when they got married. During all the years they had been lovers, she had never once thought that they would be a proper couple. Not once. And now he was both the father of her children and her husband. The only issue that remained was their surname. Fredrika flatly refused to take the name Lagergren, and of course the conservative Spencer didn’t want to be called Bergman.
‘What does it matter what you’re called?’ Spencer had said. ‘Can’t you just drop your maiden name?’
‘Darling Spencer, you could just as easily drop your name!’
At that point the discussion usually came to an end, and they decided it didn’t matter what they were called.
After all, we share everything else.
Fredrika stroked Spencer’s wedding ring, and suddenly realised she was thinking about Eden Lundell. For some reason she had been surprised to discover that Eden was married. It didn’t fit in with her persona, which was hard and uncompromising. Almost as if she ate small children for breakfast, as the Secretary of State had said when they were leaving the conference room.
‘You don’t fuck with Swedish democracy,’ Eden had said. That was no doubt true, but was that really what Zakaria Khelifi had been doing? There was no better way of fucking with democracy than by making people afraid, Fredrika knew that much. It frightened her that following various terror attacks, people were starting to become less critical of laws that went against the principle of integrity. It was almost as if integrity was a luxury that could be afforded only under certain circumstances.
No doubt, Eden had a high level of integrity. Eden, who had honey-coloured hair and smelled of cigarette smoke. Eden, who had the longest legs Fredrika had ever seen, and who looked as if she had just been to war, in spite of the fact that she was wearing a skirt suit.
Some crimes could not be expiated. And it would be both stupid and dangerous to take unnecessary risks when both Säpo and the government had a legal obligation to protect the country’s security. The decision on the case of Zakaria Khelifi had been formally approved at six o’clock, and a few hours later, Säpo would have picked him up. By now he would be sitting in a custody cell.
Fredrika had never dealt with so-called security issues before, nor had she come across the term when she was working for the police. Eden Lundell had given her their cards when they left, but Fredrika didn’t feel comfortable calling any of them. Particularly Eden.
When Spencer had fallen asleep, Fredrika picked up a handout on security issues that a colleague had put together. It confirmed what she had already read on Säpo’s website:
It was Säpo’s job to ensure that Sweden didn’t become a refuge for individuals who could constitute a danger to the country’s security. It was their role to look at the background, contacts and activities of a foreign national – in Sweden or overseas – and to determine if the individual in question could pose a security risk. The most common grounds for suspicion were linked to terrorism, but they could also involve espionage on the part of refugees. The organisation looked to the future; they were concerned not only with who did or did not constitute a threat, but also who might possibly constitute a threat. However they were supposed to know that . . .
Fredrika couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease. Just a few hours ago, inner-city Stockholm had been paralysed by false bomb threats delivered over the phone. Threats that coincided with the major immigration debate in parliament. Which in turn coincided with the conviction of two young men for preparing to commit an act of terrorism, with severe sentences being handed down.
There is absolutely no way that this has all happened by chance, Fredrika thought.
Every fibre of her being was telling her that something was wrong.
The bomb threats were a smokescreen. Anything else was out of the question. But what could they expect instead?
9
21:35
It was nine thirty by the time Eden Lundell smoked her last cigarette of the day. She had just got home from work and had a quick puff, hidden behind the garage wall. If the neighbours saw her, they would think she’d started drinking in secret, not that she couldn’t stand Mikael going on about how upset he was that she was still smoking.
Just before she left the office she had had a call from Alex Recht, who had heard from one of his subordinates: he had found out where the bomb threats had been made from.
‘All the phones were linked to masts close to Arlanda. The last call was definitely made from inside the airport complex itself.’
Eden walked towards the house. Now they had a location, which meant that the answer to the questions who? and why? couldn’t be far away.
The windows at the front of the house were in darkness when Eden put her key in the lock. She glanced around instinctively before she closed the door behind her, double-locked it and set the alarm. She just couldn’t understand people who didn’t take care of their own home, their own safety.
She heard Mikael’s footsteps coming down the stairs as she was taking off her coat. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Shit. She quickly walked towards him, wanting to get away from the treacherous aroma.
She held her breath as he kissed her cheek, but it didn’t quite work. Her hair smelled of smoke as well.
‘Have you been smoking?’
‘Yes.’
No point in lying. Next time she would sit on the step instead of hiding behind the garage. Easier all round.
‘Can’t you pack it in?’
‘No. Any food left?’
‘It’s on the draining board, it just needs heating up.’
She went into the kitchen with Mikael following behind. She avoided looking at him. She was late and she stank of smoke. He was going to tell her that he’d been worried, that she should have called, that she couldn’t keep working so late. That she ought to think of her daughters.
‘You could have called.’
‘I did.’
‘You said you’d be home by seven.’
‘But you knew I had to deal with the bomb threats.’
‘Of course I did. But you must call me, Eden. Keep me informed.’
Must I?
She took out a plate, cutlery and a glass. Mikael had made lasagne. The children’s favourite. And hers. He came and stood beside her, so close that she had to look up and meet his eyes.
‘You can’t carry on like this.’
‘Give me a break, Mikael. I’ve only just started a new job.’
‘You’ve been there for months. You were just the same when you worked for the National Bureau of Investigation.’
She didn’t answer.
‘The girls were asking about you earlier on. Saba was crying. She wants you to be at home sometimes, to say goodnight before they go to sleep. Like other mummies.’
Eden felt the colour rising in her cheeks.
‘Like other mummies? Would we even be having this discussion if I was a man?’
‘Too bloody right we would.’
How many times had she seen Mikael really angry? Not very many. Very few, in fact. And their relationship had even survived the move from Britain to Sweden, and the birth of twins.
But he was angry now. Furious. Almost more furious than the time when . . . Eden didn’t want to go there. She had sinned on
ce. A serious transgression. If Mikael hadn’t been a priest, she was sure he would have left her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. But there’s some really major stuff going on at work right now, which means I find it bloody hard to tell myself I have to go home early just because a child is crying.’
‘Not a child, Eden. Your child.’
‘Okay, but at the end of the day, from a wider perspective, it’s a very minor matter. The girls have to learn that they’re not the most important thing in the world for everyone.’
She heard Mikael take a deep breath.
‘I don’t think they want everyone’s attention. Yours would be enough.’
She wanted to protest, tell him that the world didn’t work that way, but she was too tired to argue and too hungry to waste any more time on bickering.
In silence she slid the plate of food into the microwave and waited for it to heat up.
‘And how was your day?’ she asked her husband.
‘Good. I had my first meeting with a group preparing for confirmation; they were like all the rest, I suppose. Not very interested on the surface, but deep down they’re very confused.’
A confirmation group. Eden liked hearing about that kind of thing. Mikael’s confirmation group formed a nice counterbalance to her terrorists. He carried on talking as she ate. She didn’t tell him anything about how she had spent her day. She had noticed that Mikael was following the trial on the news, but fortunately he hadn’t asked her any questions. Mikael was a priest; he wouldn’t understand why someone like Zakaria Khelifi had to be deported.
Eden sat at the table with her plate in front of her, chewing and swallowing. Everything had gone smoothly. Zakaria Khelifi had been taken into custody, and in just over a week he would be on his way home to Algeria, escorted by the Swedish police.
Everything was as it should be. Justice had been done.
The house was silent. Diana was asleep, and Alex Recht was alone in his office. The intensity of his working day had made it impossible to sleep; he felt wide awake. Diana’s lovely smile shone out at him from a photograph on his desk.
The children had accepted Diana right away. His daughter had wept when he finally managed to come out with the fact that he had met someone.
‘I’m really, really happy for you,’ she had said.
Alex got a lump in his throat when he remembered her words. And he still felt like crying when he thought about Lena, the mother of his children, the woman with whom he had thought he would spend the rest of his life. But we don’t always get what we want. Things don’t always turn out the way we expect. He knew that now, and he had to fight to stop himself from being destroyed by the fear of losing everything all over again. Lena was still with him. In a photograph with the children. Taken during the last summer of her life.
If you just glanced at the picture, you couldn’t see that anything was wrong. You didn’t notice Lena’s tired eyes, or how much weight she had lost. And you didn’t see the shadow of fear on the face of both his son and daughter. His daughter was smiling as usual, but Alex knew what she looked like when she was happy, and what she looked like when she wasn’t. In the photograph, she looked positively devastated.
And his son. With his hair standing on end as if he was a teenager, and an expression so angry that it made Alex shudder. They had never been able to communicate, not without falling out and starting to yell at one another. At one time, Alex had thought he would be closer to his son than his daughter, but it turned out he was wrong.
Alex focused on his job instead. None of the bomb threats had been genuine. No one had been hurt. And yet he still felt on edge.
Four bomb threats. Not one, not two, not three, but four. Aimed at different locations in inner-city Stockholm that took a huge amount of resources to evacuate and search. They had thought it might be an attempt to divert their attention from something much worse, but that hadn’t happened either. The whole thing had begun and ended with four bomb threats, made by someone in the vicinity of Arlanda, using voice distortion.
Arlanda. What the hell was the link between the bomb threats and the country’s biggest airport?
TUESDAY, 11 OCTOBER 2011
10
FLIGHT 573, 09:03
It had been a chaotic morning. For a while it had looked as if Erik was going to be late for work. first of all, the bus to the commuter train was late. Then the train to Central Station was late as well, which meant he missed the Arlanda Express he had been hoping to catch. When he eventually left on the next train, it had to travel at a reduced speed due to an earlier accident.
Erik tried not to feel stressed, but beads of sweat broke through along his hairline, and his palms were damp. He was going to have to run to the plane, which was hardly appropriate for a responsible co-pilot. Among other things – including a patch of dried baby rice on his uniform.
He had been delighted to get a job so quickly. Hard work and a natural aptitude for the profession went a long way, as it turned out. And the opportunity had been there. Very few of the other pilots were as young as Erik. He felt his stomach flip over with a sudden attack of nerves.
What if I don’t deliver? What if I’m not good enough?
His mobile rang when the train had almost reached the south platform at Arlanda.
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said.
And he was.
The train slowed down and Erik hit the ground running. Claudia called; she just wanted to hear his voice one last time before they parted. In an hour or so, she and their son would be on a plane to South America, heading off to visit Claudia’s parents. Erik was on the flight to New York, and he would then follow them for a much-needed holiday. They would eat late in the evening, drink wine and dance long into the night. Lie in bed in the morning. Claudia’s mother would take care of their little boy, give them a break. In Erik’s opinion, they were doing the child a favour. It was hard work being the parent of a toddler; sometimes it was so hard that Erik would have given his right arm just to sleep through one single night. Therefore, it had to be good for both the parent and child if they had a rest from one another occasionally.
That had to mean fewer arguments and a stronger bond.
The security checks had increased and grown far more stringent in recent years. Erik couldn’t help thinking some of them were unnecessary. As long as people were allowed to carry several litres of alcohol on board, there was little point in X-raying their hand luggage and asking them to remove items such as nail scissors.
Erik was allowed to go to the front of the queue for the X-ray machines. The security guard gave him a nod of recognition.
‘Running late?’
‘Too bloody right.’
They did their best to speed up the process. It was only a question of minutes, then he would be on his way. Erik placed his bag on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector. Picked up his bag and ran.
He could see his colleague in the distance. Karim Sassi, a man Claudia had once referred to as ‘the most handsome man she had ever seen’. With a certain amount of reluctance, Erik had to admit that Karim looked good. He was six foot four, dark and charismatic. The main thing that made Karim Sassi so attractive was his cheerful expression and the energy radiating from his brown eyes. ‘Eyes you could drown in,’ Claudia had commented, before Erik stated firmly that he didn’t want to hear any more about how fantastic his colleague was.
But to tell the truth, Erik really liked Karim. They had worked together for several months, and knew each other well by this stage. They had even started spending some time together outside work; Erik hoped their friendship would deepen, because he enjoyed Karim’s company.
Karim was facing the window, but Erik could see his profile. Tense jaw line, eyes half closed. Always equally focused before a flight. He would never dream of having a couple of drinks and falling asleep, like certain other pilots.
Erik covered the last few yards at speed.
&nbs
p; ‘I thought I was going to have to fly without a co-pilot today,’ Karim said.
‘The bus was late so I missed the commuter train. And then the Arlanda Express was delayed as well.’
Karim looked annoyed, but made no further comment on Erik’s timekeeping.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Erik couldn’t stop himself. He wasn’t that bloody late!
‘Has something happened?’
Karim ran a hand through his unruly black hair.
‘No, I just like everything to be in order. And I’ve had a report that a severe storm is due to come in over the east coast of the US during the day.’
‘Damn. Could that cause us problems with landing?’
‘It looks that way. But I’ve asked for additional fuel so that we can stay in the air for a few hours if necessary. Or divert elsewhere.’
‘How many extra hours did you request?’
‘Five.’
Karim turned away from Erik and headed towards the aircraft.
They took off at nine thirty, exactly as planned.
The sky was different above the clouds. Clearer. An endless space where there were no problems. Erik knew why he had become a pilot. To be a part of all this. Something bigger than himself. The very idea made his head spin. Just knowing that he was thirty thousand feet above the surface of the earth right now got the adrenalin pumping.
I will never get tired of this.
The cockpit doorbell rang. Karim glanced at the monitor to see who wanted to come in. It was Fatima, one of the stewardesses. She rang again. Karim pressed the button to release the lock; Fatima came in and closed the door behind her.
Her face was ashen. Erik had never liked that expression, but now he realised that was because he had never before seen anyone whose face had lost all its colour. Her lips were so pale they looked bloodless.
‘I found this in the toilet,’ she said, handing Karim a folded piece of paper.
Karim opened it and began to read.
‘What does it say?’ Erik asked.
‘They’re threatening to blow up the plane,’ Fatima said.
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