Hostage

by Kristina Ohlsson

  Unless they could get Alex’s son Erik to intervene. It was only a question of time before they had to decide whether that was how they were going to save the plane. If Karim Sassi was involved, then Fredrika was more convinced than ever that there was no bomb on board. It had no obvious function if the captain was part of the plot.

  She sat down at the computer to read through some of the newspaper articles. The PM’s press conference had turned into a fiasco. The journalists refused to accept that he had no answers to their questions, but Fredrika thought he had at least managed to convey the most important point: the Swedish government did not negotiate with terrorists. They would not be reviewing the decision to revoke Zakaria Khelifi’s residence permit. If the hijackers wanted to have a discussion about this, they were welcome to get in touch, but so far no one had claimed responsibility for the threat.

  Fredrika moved on to the American press to check out their angle on the story. It was certainly just as big on the other side of the pond, no doubt about it. Of the four hundred and thirty-seven passengers on board the plane, one hundred and fifty-one were apparently US citizens. This was news to Fredrika; the US authorities must have leaked the figure. Twenty-two of these belonged to a junior football team who had travelled to Sweden to play a friendly against Bromma boys’ team.

  The US citizens came from no less than ten states. The issue would occupy many members of Congress during the day. Fredrika could well imagine the political pressure that was rapidly building up in Washington, which would inevitably lead to loud demands for someone to do something. A favourite expression in the US. If someone died, if kids were getting too fat, if gas became too expensive, the cry went up: do something. Anything. At any price. The ability to take action had a strange intrinsic value in the USA.

  On the other hand, that same ability had an equally strange lack of value in Sweden. Fredrika had never made any secret of the fact that she loved the USA and the American success ethic, the belief that anything was possible. She often found it difficult to swallow the European and Swedish smugness, the blind faith in their own social model. The year she had spent in New York hadn’t diminished her enthusiasm; the Americans had a fire within them, and it created energy.

  There were certain dates that people would always remember. Fredrika’s parents and their friends knew exactly where they were and what they were doing on the day they heard that President Kennedy had been shot, and the same applied to the day they found out that Olof Palme had been assassinated.

  And then of course there was 9/11. Fredrika knew exactly where she had been on that day: on holiday with Spencer. They had spent the whole afternoon in the hotel, unable to tear themselves away from the TV. The images of the Twin Towers collapsing were etched on her memory and could never be erased. Those majestic buildings came down at a speed that was reminiscent of a Hollywood film, with the proviso that Hollywood probably wouldn’t have made quite such a good job of it.

  The fear Fredrika had felt afterwards had little to do with the terrorists behind the attack, and a great deal to do with the fact that the US President at the time was so ill-equipped to lead a country, in every possible respect. Who knew what he might do, what crazy ideas might pass through that man’s mind?

  The answer to that question came almost immediately. First, Afghanistan. Then, Iraq. And so many outrages in the hunt for the terrorists along the way that it was no longer possible to count them. It was a war that could not be won, and millions of people all over the world paid the price for the insanity of it all.

  Fredrika called her boss and passed on the latest developments in the investigation. She was careful to play down the possibility of Karim’s involvement; it would be better to tell him when they knew exactly what the situation was. She hoped that Alex and his colleagues would be discreet when they went into Karim’s house; if the news that the police were searching Karim Sassi’s house spread around the neighbourhood, it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew the police suspected that the captain was involved, which would make everything much more difficult. On a positive note, the press hadn’t been told which specific flight was under threat, even if they had worked out that there weren’t very many to choose from.

  The hijacking was like nothing else Fredrika had ever worked on. It had been staged in a way which worried her and made her think. There were so many coincidences. For example, Karim Sassi just happened to be flying to New York the day after Säpo brought in Zakaria Khelifi. Was that by chance, or had he requested that particular flight?

  She went over to Eden to ask whether they had checked with Karim’s employer.

  ‘According to SAS, the flight to New York was part of Karim’s normal schedule; he’s known about it for at least two months,’ Eden said.

  ‘So he hasn’t swapped flights or shifts with anyone?’

  ‘Apparently not. I’m starting to wonder whether the esteemed Mr Karim Sassi has been planning this for a long time.’

  ‘But that doesn’t seem likely,’ Fredrika said. ‘The government only made a decision on Zakaria Khelifi yesterday.’

  ‘That’s true. However, the date of the court hearing has been known since the beginning of August, which means it wasn’t difficult to work out roughly when the verdict would be delivered. Perhaps whoever was so committed to Khelifi’s case would have taken similar action if he had been convicted. The fact that it’s happened as a result of the government’s decision instead might not matter to whoever is behind this.’

  Fredrika thought for a moment. On the one hand, everything to do with the hijack seemed very carefully planned, while on the other, there was something impulsive about it.

  ‘How are things looking in the mass media?’ Eden asked.

  ‘Terrible. We need to confirm which flight is involved very soon.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Fredrika sighed.

  ‘It’s not that the reports are lacking in detail. Whoever leaked the story seems to have kept nothing back apart from the flight number and departure time. Everything else is out there – the demands, the fact that the note was taped to the wall in one of the toilets . . .’

  Eden stopped what she was doing.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I just said the media reports were very detailed.’

  ‘No, you said the note that was found in the toilet was taped to the wall.’

  Fredrika nodded.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Eden said. ‘I haven’t heard anyone mention that the note was taped to the wall. Have you?’

  Fredrika thought about it, and slowly realised what she had just said.

  ‘No.’

  Eden leapt to her feet and ran past Fredrika.

  ‘Come on.’ She shot through the open-plan office at lightning speed.

  ‘Where did you see it?’

  ‘It’s in several papers.’

  Eden found Sebastian and told him what Fredrika had read. He had no idea that the note had allegedly been taped to the toilet wall.

  ‘Which newspaper had the story first?’ Eden asked.

  ‘None of them. I think TT carried the news before anyone else.’

  ‘I’ll call SAS and see if they knew about this.’

  Eden took out her mobile and disappeared, leaving Fredrika with Sebastian as he clicked through various newspapers on his computer.

  ‘Same everywhere,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t make sense.’

  Eden came back; Fredrika could tell that she had received worrying news.

  ‘SAS were just as surprised as we were. They called the plane and received confirmation that the story is true; the stewardess found the note taped to the toilet wall. But at no point in their communication with the control tower has the crew said anything beyond the fact that it was found in the toilet.’

  She fell silent as the import of what she was saying sank in: the only person who knew that the note had been taped to the wall was on board the plane.

  ‘Which means we know that the
person who leaked the story to the media did not work for the police, the government or the airport authority,’ Eden concluded.

  ‘Are we saying that someone called from the plane and tipped off TT? That can’t be right,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘I agree, but let’s check it out,’ Eden said. ‘Because if it wasn’t someone on the plane, then it was someone on the ground. Which in turn means that that person is alarmingly well informed about details they couldn’t possibly know unless they had been in contact with a member of the crew, or were actually involved in putting the note in place.’

  28

  14:45

  There were so many rules that suddenly seemed unimportant. Speed limits, for example. Alex Recht couldn’t ever remember driving as fast as he did on the way to Solna.

  Could this be his hundredth house search? Or more? He wasn’t sure, but one thing he did know was that it was never pleasant, walking into the house of a person he didn’t know and turning the place upside down. With as little fuss as possible, he went round to see the neighbour he had spoken to earlier and borrowed the key. Later, he would call Karim’s wife and tell her what they had done so that she wouldn’t think they’d had burglars.

  Alex and four officers from Säpo quickly went through the house, carefully and methodically. Wardrobes and chests of drawers, desk and kitchen. All the computers in the house were removed and would be sent to Kungsholmen, where the technicians were waiting for them. With practised hands Alex worked his way through one room after another. He didn’t know what he was looking for, just that when he saw it he would know immediately if it felt right.

  He was alone in Karim Sassi’s bedroom. He looked under the bed and inside the wardrobes. Nothing. He yanked back the duvet and felt all over the sheets and mattress. Nothing.

  ‘Have you found anything?’ one of the Säpo officers shouted from downstairs.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  He sat down on the bed. Looked around the room. It was cosy. Not smart or modern, just cosy. Soft colours for the curtains and cushions, toning in with the pale yellow walls. Almost like a summer cottage. A small number of pictures adorned the walls, and there were several family photos on a shelf.

  Alex stood up to take a closer look. He recognised both Karim and his wife. The children were younger than he had thought. He picked up one of the framed photographs and held it for a moment. Several years ago, he and Fredrika had gone out to a deserted summer house on the island of Ekerö, searching for clues in a case that had proved to be one of the most complex they had ever faced. Framed family photographs had been a major element in solving the mystery.

  Karim Sassi was also a mystery. Alex was becoming more and more convinced that he was a part of the problem rather than the solution, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand what could have motivated Karim to do what he was doing now.

  Alex ran his fingers around the frame. Removed the back and took out the photograph. Nothing; no clues. He grabbed another photograph and repeated the same procedure. No joy. There was no stopping him now, he had to check every single one. But his efforts were in vain. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he put the photographs back on the shelf where he had found them and went downstairs.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked one of his colleagues. A police officer was a police officer and always a colleague. Even if he did work for Säpo.

  ‘We’ve found fuck all.’

  Alex glanced over the floor and walls of the living room, his expression grim. There was nothing for them here. Feeling frustrated he went into the hallway, through the kitchen, and ended up back in the living room.

  The family seemed to enjoy reading. Large bookcases ran from floor to ceiling, covering two entire walls. Two officers were busy going through them, checking to see if there was anything useful behind the long rows of books.

  ‘No secret compartment?’ Alex joked.

  ‘No.’

  He went over to a section that the others hadn’t got around to yet. He pulled out a few of the books, peered behind them, put them back. He carried on systematically searching the rest of the shelf in the same way.

  Suddenly he noticed a book that was lying on top of a row. It could be no more than a coincidence, but Alex no longer believed in that kind of thing. He picked it up and read the small gold lettering:

  ‘King Arthur – Idylls of the King by Alfred Lord Tennyson.’

  The book weighed next to nothing, and he could feel his hands trembling.

  Tennyson.

  No way was this a coincidence.

  Cautiously, he opened it and flicked through the first few pages. And discovered that someone had cut out a square hole inside the book. The most classic secret compartment of all. Alex looked with curiosity at what someone had hidden.

  A photograph. It was obviously several years old, but Alex recognised both men. One was Karim Sassi, and he was with a man whose picture Alex had seen in the papers.

  Zakaria Khelifi.

  A small part of Eden Lundell was dubious as she headed back to the custody block to see Zakaria Khelifi, this time with a copy of the photograph that Alex had sent her from his phone. However, she was mostly sure she was doing the right thing. The fact that Flight 573 was speeding towards destruction simplified a decision that would otherwise have been difficult to make.

  Zakaria was sitting on his bed reading when Eden walked in. She had the photograph in her hand, and no cigarettes this time. She didn’t bother pulling up a chair, but simply placed the picture on Zakaria’s knee.

  ‘I can see that the man on the left is you,’ she said. ‘Who’s the other guy?’

  Zakaria picked it up and examined it carefully.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  He sounded bewildered, as if he couldn’t work out what he was looking at.

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ Eden said. ‘Answer the question. Who is the man on the right?’

  She knew it was Karim Sassi, but she wanted to hear Zakaria say it.

  ‘It was such a long time ago,’ he said.

  He spoke quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture.

  ‘When was it taken?’

  ‘It must have been 2002. I was here that summer.’

  Eden couldn’t remember hearing that Zakaria had been in Sweden before he entered the country seeking asylum.

  ‘You were here in 2002?’

  Zakaria would have been barely twenty back then.

  He nodded.

  ‘I was granted a visa to visit my uncle. He was working at an Ericsson factory in Kista.’

  That could be checked, but Eden had no reason to disbelieve what Zakaria said.

  ‘How long were you here?’

  ‘Eight weeks. My parents wanted me to have a different kind of summer holiday that year.’

  He passed the picture back to Eden as if he wanted to get rid of it.

  ‘Who is he?’ she said.

  Zakaria picked up the book he had put aside when Eden came in.

  ‘His name is Karim.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Sassi, I think.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘His mother worked at the Ericsson factory too.’

  Eden decided to sit down after all.

  ‘Have you had any contact with this man while you’ve been living in Sweden?’

  Zakaria realised that Eden was going nowhere, and closed his book.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him since 2002.’

  ‘And you’re sure of that?’

  Zakaria looked annoyed, and opened the book again.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘You don’t know what this Karim Sassi is doing nowadays?’

  ‘No idea. When we met that summer he used to say he wanted to be a pilot, but that’s just the kind of thing you say, isn’t it? I mean, who hasn’t wanted to be a pilot at some stage?’

  Me, Eden thought. I wanted to run a circus.

  Mind you, she had been ten years old at the time,
not twenty. She was going to become the manager of an enormous circus and take it all over Europe. Her heart suddenly felt hollow. The life she lived was a long way from the circus.

  She handed the picture back to Zakaria.

  ‘This is really, really important. Zakaria, I have to know: are you absolutely certain that you haven’t seen Karim Sassi since you moved to Sweden?’

  She wanted him to say no, to change his mind and start talking. She wanted a breakthrough, and she wanted it now. But Zakaria refused to deliver. He wouldn’t even look at her.

  ‘I know who I see and who I don’t see. I haven’t seen Karim Sassi since that summer all those years ago.’

  A summer when Zakaria had stayed with his uncle, who knew Karim’s mother. That was something they would have to look into, but Eden was worried that it wouldn’t be enough. Time was passing so quickly, and she could feel the ground trembling beneath her feet. They couldn’t just carry on digging, they had to start taking action. Somehow.

  She left Zakaria and went back to the counter-terrorism unit. Karim knew Zakaria. They didn’t really need to know any more. Karim Sassi, the caption of Flight 573, was implicated in the hijacking.

  The worst possible scenario.

  But there was more to come. Dennis caught up with her.

  ‘We’ve found Karim Sassi’s fingerprints on one of the phones,’ he said.

  There. They didn’t need any more on Sassi. The fact that he had been involved in the previous day’s bomb threats was now beyond all reasonable doubt. If he had been on the ground, Eden would have had him brought in for questioning.

  But that wasn’t an option.

  ‘Call the CIA,’ she said. ‘I want to know how far they’ve got.’