by Lars Kepler
The chair hits the window and falls back into the room. The inner pane shatters and crashes to the floor, scattering splinters of glass everywhere. Larger pieces slide down and are left leaning against the intact outer glass.
The burglar alarm starts howling at an ear-splitting volume.
Sofia grabs the chair again, ignoring the fact that the splinters are cutting her feet, and is just about to swing it against the window when she sees the man coming towards her.
She lets go of the chair and walks straight into the big kitchen, her eyes darting across the white floorboards and stainless steel countertops.
He follows with measured steps.
She remembers being chased as part of a game when she was little: the feeling of impotence when she realised her pursuer was so close that there was no chance of escape.
Sofia leans against the countertop for support and manages to knock a pair of glasses and an unusual-looking bracelet to the floor.
She doesn’t know what to do. She looks over at the closed patio doors, then goes over to the island unit which has two sparkling saucepans standing on top of it, and yanks the drawers open with shaking hands, panting hard. She finds herself staring at a row of knives.
The man comes into the kitchen and she picks up one of the knives and turns to face him, backing away slowly. He stares at her, clutching a soot-stained poker from the fireplace in both hands.
She holds the broad-bladed kitchen knife up at him, but realises immediately that she doesn’t stand a chance.
He could easily kill her. His weapon is much heavier.
The alarm is still shrieking. The soles of her feet are stinging from where she’s cut them, and her injured hand feels numb.
‘Please, stop,’ she gasps, backing into the island unit. ‘Let’s go back to bed, I promise, I won’t give you any trouble.’
She shows him the knife, then puts it down on the stainless steel countertop and tries to smile at him.
‘I’m still going to hit you,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ she pleads. She feels like she’s losing control of her face.
‘I’m going to hurt you badly,’ he says, raising the improvised weapon above his head.
‘Please, I give up, I—’
‘You only have yourself to blame,’ he interrupts, then unexpectedly lets go of the poker.
It falls heavily to the floor with a clatter, then lies still. Ash flies up from the prongs.
The man smiles in surprise, then looks down at the circle of blood spreading out from his chest.
‘What the hell?’ he whispers. He fumbles for support with one hand, but misses the countertop and staggers.
Another bloodstain appears in the middle of his white shirt. The red wounds on his body blossom like stigmata.
The man presses one hand to his chest and starts to stumble towards the dining room, but stops and turns his blood-smeared palm over. He looks like a frightened child. He tries to say something before sinking to his knees.
Blood squirts out onto the floor in front of him.
The alarm is still blaring.
Sofia sees a man with a very oddly-shaped head over by the pale curtains.
He is standing with his feet wide apart, and he’s holding a pistol with both hands.
His face is completely covered by a black balaclava apart for his mouth and eyes. What look like strands of hair or stiff scraps of fabric hang down one cheek.
Wille presses his hand to his chest again, but the blood seeps through his fingers and down his arm.
Sofia turns unsteadily and looks straight at the man with the gun. Without taking his eyes from Wille, he takes one hand off the pistol and quickly snatches up the two spent shells from the floor.
He runs forward, passing her as if she doesn’t exist. He kicks the poker away with his military boot, grabs Wille by the hair, yanks his head back, and presses the barrel of the pistol against his right eye.
This is an execution, Sofia thinks, and walks towards the living room as if in a dream. She hits her hip against the edge of the counter, and slides her hand along it. As she passes the two men, a shiver runs down her spine and she starts to run but slips in the blood. Her feet slide away from her, and she falls back and hits her head hard on the floor.
Her vision blurs and goes black for a moment, then she opens her eyes again.
She sees that he hasn’t pulled the trigger yet, the barrel is still pressing softly against Wille’s closed eyelid.
The back of Sofia’s head is burning and throbbing.
Her vision is unfocused, everything is spinning. What she had thought were rough leather strips hanging down the man’s cheek now look more like wet feathers or matted hair.
She shuts her eyes as dizziness clutches at her, then hears voices above the loud wail of the alarm.
‘Wait, wait,’ Wille pleads, breathing fast. ‘You think you know what’s going on, but you don’t.’
‘I know that Ratjen opened the door and now …’
‘Who’s Ratjen?’ Wille gasps.
‘And now hell is going to devour you all,’ the masked man concludes.
They stop talking and Sofia opens her eyes again. A peculiar slow motion seems to have taken hold of the house. The masked man looks at his watch, then whispers something to Wille.
He doesn’t answer, but looks like he understands. Blood is welling from his stomach, pouring down to his crotch. It forms a puddle on the floor.
Sofia sees that his glasses are lying beside her on the floor, next to the object she initially thought was a bracelet.
Now she realises that it’s a personal alarm.
A small steel gadget with two buttons, attached to a watch-strap.
The masked man is standing perfectly still, looking at his victim.
Sofia carefully moves her hand sideways towards the alarm, tucks it against her body and presses the buttons several times.
Nothing happens.
The man lets go of Wille’s hair but continues to press the barrel of the pistol to his right eye. He waits a few seconds, then squeezes the trigger.
There’s a loud click as the bolt hits home. Wille’s head is thrown back and blood cascades from his skull. Fragments of bone and grey matter spray across the kitchen floor, all the way to the dining room.
Sofia feels warm drops spatter her lips as she sees the empty cartridge fall and bounce across the floor.
A cloud of grey powder hangs in the air, and the dead body falls like a sack of wet clothes to the floor and lies there motionless.
The masked man bends over to pick up the shell and his watch slips down towards the back of his hand.
He stands with his legs on either side of the dead body, leans forward and presses the barrel of the pistol to the corpse’s other eye. Then he flicks his head to shake what looks like matted hair away from his face before squeezing the trigger again.
6
Her work phone’s ringtone becomes part of a dream about a stream running through dense vegetation. A moment later Saga Bauer is wrenched from sleep and gets out of bed so fast that she drags the covers onto the floor.
She hurries over to the gun-cabinet in her underwear as she dials the number she knows by heart. The glow of the streetlights filters through the slats of the blind, illuminating her sinuous legs and naked back.
She quickly unlocks the heavy steel door and listens to the instructions on the phone as she pulls out a black bag, and tucks a holstered Glock 21, along with five spare magazines, into it.
Saga Bauer works as an operative with the Security Police, specialising in counter-terrorism.
The ringtone that woke her means that a Code Platinum has been declared.
She runs to the hall as she listens to the final instructions, then drops the phone in her bag.
There’s no time to lose.
She pulls her black leather bodysuit over her naked body, feeling the cool fabric against her back and breasts, then pushes her bare fee
t into her boots and grabs her helmet, heavy bulletproof vest and gloves from the rack.
Without wasting time locking the door she leaves her flat, tugging her zipper up to her chin. She pulls her helmet on, tucking in a few stray strands of blonde hair.
There’s a filthy Triumph motorcycle out on Tavast Street. It has a shoddy muffler, frame sliders that have been repaired a number of times, and a broken transmission. She runs over to it, and lets the lock fall to the tarmac with its heavy chain.
She straddles the motorcycle, kicks the engine into gear and sets off as fast as she can.
Ignoring traffic lights and stop signs, she accelerates to pass a taxi.
The engine vibrates against the inside of her knees and thighs, and the noise in her helmet sounds like a creature bellowing underwater.
Officer Saga Bauer is five foot six, with muscles like a ballet dancer. She was once one of the best boxers in northern Europe, but stopped fighting competitively a couple of years ago.
She’s twenty-nine years old, and still breathtakingly beautiful with her pale skin, slender neck and clear blue eyes.
She doesn’t think about her appearance much, and never notices that people tend to smile and blush in her presence.
A plastic bag swirls into the air in front of the motorcycle and she is dragged from her thoughts.
When she reaches Söder Mälarstrand she turns sharply left. The pedal scrapes the road but she manages to hold the line as she passes beneath the Central Bridge and up the access ramp.
This is the first time she’s been involved with a Code Platinum. It’s the alert reserved for the highest threats to national security.
She feels like she’s flying as she passes the spires and narrow alleyways of Gamla stan and Riddarholmen.
Saga has trained for scenarios like this. She is expected to act independently and not be swayed by anything, even the law.
She can see the gloomy brick buildings of Karolinska Hospital ahead, and pulls onto the E4, pushing the three-cylinder, 900cc engine to its limits and hitting two hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. She passes Roslagstull and turns left towards the university.
The cold air helps her stay calm as she thinks through the information she has been given and formulates an initial operational strategy.
Saga gets off the highway and speeds along Vendevägen towards Djursholm with its lush greenery and sprawling villas. The turquoise glow of swimming pools shimmers between fruit trees and bushes.
She pulls onto a roundabout too quickly, and takes the first exit to the right. Before her brain has time to notice the parked car her muscles instinctively react and the bike swerves sharply. She almost falls, but manages to counteract the momentum using her bodyweight. The rear wheel slides across the road. There’s a muffled thud as she hits a large plastic dustbin before she regains control of the bike and accelerates hard.
Her heart is pumping.
Fortunately, her motorcycle has a low centre of gravity and extremely responsive steering.
That’s probably what saved her.
Saga sees big yachts out on the water as she follows the wide curve of the road through the imposing houses. She’s already leaning hard to her left, but accelerates further as she reaches the shore.
7
Saga slows down as she approaches the address she was given.
She lets the bike fall sideways onto the grass beside the road, drops her helmet and pulls on her bulletproof vest and holster.
Thirteen minutes have passed since her phone woke her up.
The alarm is shrieking inside the house.
For a moment, she wishes Detective Joona Linna was there. She has worked alongside him in all her biggest cases so far. He’s the best police officer she’s ever met.
She let him down once, but will never do it again.
They lost touch after he received his prison sentence. She would have liked to visit him, but she knows he needs to construct a new life for himself. It’s going to take a lot to win the trust of the other prisoners.
Now a Code Platinum has been declared, and Saga is on her own.
No one else from the Security Police has arrived yet.
She climbs over the gate and runs up to the main entrance of the villa. She inserts an opener into the lock, then the thin end of her lock-pick. She moves the pick slightly to the right inside the mechanism until the catch releases.
The lock opens with a dull click.
Dropping her tools on the ground she draws her Glock, releases the safety and opens the door. The sound of the howling alarm drowns out everything else.
Saga quickly checks the entrance and large hallway beyond it, then hurries back to the alarm control panel and taps in the code she memorised.
Silence sweeps through the house. It feels foreboding.
With her pistol raised and her finger on the trigger she goes through the hallway, past the staircase, and reaches a large living room. She checks behind the doors and along the wall to the right, then continues in a crouch.
One of the big windows at the back of the house has been broken. A chair is lying overturned on the floor, surrounded by sparkling fragments of glass.
Saga moves on, towards the door to the kitchen, and sees herself reflected in the glass surfaces.
Blood and fragments of skull are splattered across the floor, sofa and coffee table.
She sweeps the room with her pistol then keeps moving slowly as more and more of the kitchen comes into view. She sees white cupboards and stainless steel countertops.
She stops and listens.
She can hear a low ticking, as if someone is tapping a fingernail on a tabletop.
Aiming her gun at the door to the kitchen, Saga moves silently to one side of it, and sees a man lying on his back on the floor.
He’s been shot through his chest and both eyes.
The back of his head is gone.
A dark puddle has spread out beneath him.
His hands are lying by his sides, as if he’s sunbathing.
Saga raises her pistol again and checks the rest of the kitchen.
The curtains in front of the patio doors are swaying, billowing into the room. The rings on the curtain rod are tapping against each other.
Blood from the first shot to the man’s head has sprayed far across the floor, and been trodden about by bare feet.
The prints lead directly towards Saga.
She quickly turns and sweeps her pistol around the room before walking back towards the double doors leading to the living room.
Saga startles when, from the corner of her eye, she sees a person crawling out from their hiding place behind one of the sofas.
She spins around just as the person stands up. It’s a woman in a blue dress. Saga points her pistol between the woman’s breasts as she takes an unsteady step.
‘Hands behind your head!’ Saga calls out. ‘Get on your knees, get down on your knees!’
Keeping the pistol raised, Saga runs forward.
‘Please,’ the woman whispers, dropping the personal alarm on the floor.
She barely has time to show that her hands are empty before Saga kicks her from the side, just below her knee, so hard that both her legs are knocked out from under her and she falls to the floor with a thud, hip first, then her cheek and temple.
Saga is on her instantly. She punches her in her left kidney, then presses the pistol to the back of her head, holding her down with her right knee as she scans the room again.
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’
‘Only the gunman, he went into the kitchen,’ the woman replies, gasping for breath. ‘He fired and then went—’
‘Quiet!’ Saga interrupts.
Saga quickly rolls her onto her stomach and pulls her arms behind her. The woman submits to everything in a disconcertingly calm way. Saga handcuffs her with a zip tie, then gets to her feet and hurries into the kitchen, past the dead man.
The curtains are still billowing, blown by the
wind.
Aiming the pistol ahead of her, she steps over a soot-smeared poker, checks the left-hand side of the kitchen, then moves behind the island unit towards the sliding doors.
There’s a round hole in the glass, made by a diamond cutter, and the door is open. Saga goes out onto the deck, and sweeps the lawn and flowerbeds with her pistol.
The water is still, the night silent.
Someone who broke into a house and carried out such a clean execution would never stay at the scene of the crime.
Saga goes back inside to the woman. She ties her ankles with more zip ties, but keeps one knee on the small of her back.
‘I need some answers,’ she says quietly.
‘I have nothing to do with this, I just happened to be here, I didn’t see anything,’ the woman whispers.
Saga pulls the woman’s dress down to cover her bare backside before she gets up. Soon five SUVs will pull up outside and the Security Police will pour into the house.
‘How many gunmen?’
‘Just one, I only saw one.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘I don’t know. He had a mask over his face, I didn’t see anything, black clothes, gloves, it all happened so quickly. I thought he was going to kill me too, I thought—’
‘OK, just wait,’ Saga interrupts.
She goes over to the dead body. The man’s round face is intact enough that she has no trouble identifying him. She pulls out her phone, moves a short distance away and calls the head of the Security Police. It’s the middle of the night, but he’s been waiting for the call and answers immediately.
‘The Foreign Minister’s dead,’ she says.
8
Seven minutes later the house and grounds are swarming with members of the Security Police’s specialist unit.
For the past two years the Security Police has dramatically increased the level of protection for members of the government, with bodyguards and modern personal alarms. There are different levels of alert, but because the terrified woman managed to press both buttons on the alarm simultaneously for longer than three seconds, a Code Platinum was declared.