by Lars Kepler
The thin man passes beneath the last security camera mounted in the ceiling and enters the gym, then stops in front of Joona.
One of the prison guards outside the Plexiglas turns, and the baton hanging by his hip swings against the glass.
A few of the inmates have turned their backs on Joona and Marko.
The atmosphere becomes tense, everyone moves with a new wariness.
The only sound is a high-frequency hum from the ventilation.
Joona stands underneath the pull-up bar again, jumps, and pulls himself up.
Marko stands behind him with his sinuous tattooed arms hanging by his sides.
The veins in Joona’s temples throb as he pulls himself up again and again, raising his chin above the bar.
‘Are you the cop?’ the man with the thin face asks.
Small motes of dust drift gently through the still air. The guard on the other side of the Plexiglas exchanges a few words with an inmate, then starts to walk back towards the control room.
Joona pulls himself up again.
‘Thirty more,’ Marko says.
The man with the thin face is staring at Joona. Sweat glistens on his top lip, and is dripping down his cheeks.
‘I’m going to get you, you bastard,’ he says with a strained smile.
‘Nyt pelkään,’ Joona replies calmly in Finnish, and pulls himself up again.
‘Understand?’ the man grins. ‘Do you understand what the fuck I’m saying?’
Joona notices that the new arrival is clutching a dagger by his hip, a homemade weapon made from a long, thin shard of glass bound with duct-tape.
He’ll aim low, Joona thinks. He’ll try to get below my ribs. It’s almost impossible to stab someone with glass, but if it’s held by splints under the tape it can still penetrate the body before it snaps off.
A few other inmates have gathered on the other side of the Plexiglas, looking into the gym with curiosity. Their body language betrays a restrained eagerness. They just happen to stand in the way of the cameras.
‘You’re a cop,’ the man hisses, then looks at the others. ‘You know he’s a cop?’
‘Is that true?’ one of the onlookers says with a smile, then takes a swig from a plastic bottle.
A crucifix swings on a chain around the neck of a man with haggard features. The scars on the insides of his arms are frayed from the ascorbic acid he’s used to dissolve the heroin.
‘It is, I fucking swear,’ the prisoner with the thin face goes on. ‘He’s from National Crime, he’s a fucking pig, a dirty cop.’
‘That probably explains why everyone calls him “the Cop”,’ the man with the plastic bottle says sarcastically, and chuckles silently to himself.
Joona keeps doing pull-ups.
Reiner Kronlid is sitting on the exercise bike with a blank look on his face. His eyes are perfectly still, like a reptile’s, as he watches the scene play out.
One of the men from Malmö comes in and starts to run on the treadmill. The thud of his feet and the whine of the belt fill the cramped room.
Joona lets go of the bar, lands softly on his feet and looks at the man with the weapon.
‘Can I give you something to think about?’ Joona says in his Finnish-accented Swedish. ‘Feigned ignorance is born of confidence, illusory weakness is born of—’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ the man interrupts.
After his time in the Paratroop Unit Joona received enhanced training in unconventional close combat and innovative weaponry in the Netherlands.
Lieutenant Rinus Advocaat trained him for situations very similar to this. Joona knows exactly how to deflect the man’s arm, how to crush his throat and windpipe with repeated blows, how to twist the glass knife from his grasp, how to jam it into his neck and break off its point.
‘Stab the cop,’ a member of the Brotherhood snarls, then laughs. ‘You don’t have the nerve …’
‘Shut up,’ a younger man says.
‘Stab him,’ the other man laughs.
The prisoner with the thin face squeezes the makeshift knife and Joona looks him in the eye as he comes closer.
If Joona is attacked now, he knows he’s going to have to stop himself from following through with the sequence of movements that are imprinted in his body.
During his almost two years in prison he’s managed to steer clear of serious fights. His only aim has been to serve his time and start a new life.
He just needs to deflect the arm, twist the weapon from the man’s hand and knock him to the floor.
Joona turns his back on the newcomer with the knife. As he exchanges a few words with Marko, he can see the man’s reflection in the window looking onto the yard.
‘I could have killed the cop,’ the man says, breathing hard through his thin nose.
‘No, you couldn’t,’ Marko replies over Joona’s shoulder.
15
Twenty-three months have passed since Joona was found guilty of using violence to help a convicted felon escape custody. He was taken away to the risk assessment unit at Kumla Prison.
The prison service transportation unit took his few possessions, custody documents and ID. Joona was led into the reception centre, where he was stripped, made to give a urine sample for a drug test, and given new clothes, sheets and a toothbrush.
After five weeks of evaluation he was placed in Unit T instead of the secure unit in Saltvik where convicted police officers are usually sent. He would spend the next few years in a cell measuring six square metres, with a plastic floor, a sink and a small, barred Plexiglas window.
For the first eight months Joona worked in the laundry with the rest of the inmates. He got to know a lot of the men on the second floor, and told each of them about his work with the National Police and his conviction. He knew it would be impossible to keep his past a secret. Whenever a new prisoner arrives in the unit, the others are quick to ask a relative on the outside to find out what they were sentenced for.
He has a relaxed relationship with most of the groups in the unit, but keeps his distance from the Brotherhood and its leader, Reiner Kronlid. The Brotherhood has links to extreme right-wing groups, and is involved in drug-trafficking and protection rackets in all the big prisons.
By the end of the summer Joona had encouraged nineteen prisoners to start studying, at various levels. They formed a support group, and so far only two of them have dropped out.
The monotonous routines make the whole establishment run very slowly. All the cell doors are opened at eight o’clock in the morning and locked at eight o’clock in the evening.
As soon as the automatic lock clicks open each morning, Joona leaves his cell to shower and have breakfast before the entire unit heads down into the ice-cold tunnels that link the different parts of the prison like a sewage system.
The men pass the junction where the commissary used to be before it was shut down. They wait for the doors to open, allowing them further along the tunnel.
The guys from Malmö run their fingertips superstitiously over the mural of Zlatan Ibrahimovic´ before heading to the powder-coating workshop.
The study group head for the library instead. Joona is halfway through a course in horticulture, and Marko has finally got his GCSEs. His chin trembled when he said he was thinking of studying science.
This could have been yet another identical day in prison. But it won’t be for Joona, because his life is about to take an unexpected turn.
Joona sets the table in the visitors’ room with coffee cups and saucers, smooths the tablecloth that he’s spread out, and switches on the coffee-maker in the little kitchen.
When he hears keys rattling outside the door he stands up and feels his heart beat faster.
Valeria is wearing a navy-blue blouse with white polka dots, and black jeans. Her dark-brown hair is tied back and hangs in soft coils.
She comes in, stops in front of him and looks up.
The door closes and the lock clicks.
They stand and look at each other for a long time before whispering hello.
‘It still feels so strange every time I see you,’ Valeria says shyly.
She looks at Joona with sparkling eyes, taking in the slippers with the prison service logo, the grey-blue T-shirt with sand-coloured sleeves, the worn knees of the baggy trousers.
‘I can’t offer much,’ he says. ‘Just sandwich biscuits and coffee.’
‘Sandwich biscuits,’ she nods, and pulls her trousers up slightly before sitting down on one of the chairs.
‘They’re not bad,’ he says, and smiles in a way that makes the dimples in his cheeks deepen.
‘How can anyone be so cute?’
‘It’s just these clothes,’ Joona jokes.
‘Of course,’ she laughs.
‘Thanks for your letter. I got it yesterday,’ he says, sitting down on the other side of the table.
‘Sorry if I was a bit forward,’ she mumbles, and blushes.
Joona smiles, and she does the same as she looks down, before raising her eyes again.
‘Speaking of which, it’s a shame they turned down your application for leave,’ Valeria says, suppressing another smile in a way that makes her chin wrinkle.
‘I’ll try again in three months … I can always apply for re-acclimatisation leave,’ Joona says.
‘It’ll be OK,’ she nods, feeling for his hand across the table.
‘I spoke to Lumi yesterday,’ he goes on. ‘She’d just finished reading Crime and Punishment in French … It was good, we just talked about books, and I forgot I was here … until the line went dead.’
‘I don’t remember you talking this much before.’
‘If you spread it out over two weeks, it’s only a couple of words an hour.’
A lock of hair falls across her cheek and she tosses her head to move it. Her skin is like brass, and she has deep laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes. The thin skin beneath her eyes is grey, and she has traces of dirt under her short nails.
‘You used to be able to order pastries from a bakery outside,’ Joona says, pouring coffee.
‘I need to start thinking about my figure for when you get out,’ she replies, with one hand on her stomach.
‘You’re more beautiful than ever,’ Joona says.
‘You should have seen me yesterday,’ she laughs, her long fingers touching an enamel daisy hanging from a chain around her neck. ‘I was out at the open-air pool in Saltsjöbaden, crawling around in the rain preparing the beds.’
‘Yoshino cherry trees, right?’
‘I picked a variety with white flowers, thousands of them. They’re amazing … every year in May it looks like a snowstorm has hit just those little trees.’
Joona looks at the cups and the pale blue napkins. The light from outside is falling in broad stripes across the table.
‘How are your studies going?’ she asks.
‘It’s exciting.’
‘Does it feel weird to be training for something new?’ she asks, folding her napkin.
‘Yes, but in a good way.’
‘You’re still sure you don’t want to go back to police work?’
He nods and looks over towards the window. The dirty glass is visible between the horizontal bars. His chair creaks as he leans back, disappearing into the memory of his last night in Nattavaara.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks in a serious voice.
‘Nothing,’ he replies quietly.
‘You’re thinking about Summa,’ she says simply.
‘No.’
‘Because of what I said about a snowstorm.’
He looks into her amber-coloured eyes and nods. She has the peculiar ability to almost read his mind.
‘There’s nothing as quiet as snow after the wind has dropped,’ he says. ‘You know … Lumi and I sat with her, holding her hands …’
Joona thinks back to the strange calmness that settled on his wife before she died, and the absolute silence that followed.
Valeria leans across the table and puts her hand to his cheek without saying anything. He can see the tattoo on her right shoulder through the thin fabric of her blouse.
‘We’re going to get through this – aren’t we?’ she asks quietly.
‘We’re going to get through this,’ he nods.
‘You’re not going to break my heart, are you, Joona?’
‘No.’
16
Joona feels a lingering joy after Valeria has left. It’s as if she brings him a small portion of life every time she visits.
He has almost no space in his cell, but if he stands between the desk and the sink he has just enough room to do some shadow-boxing and hone his military fighting techniques. He moves slowly and systematically, thinking of the endless flatlands in the Netherlands where he received his training.
Joona doesn’t know how long he’s been practising, but the sky is so dark that the yellow wall that encloses the prison is no longer visible through the barred window when the lock clicks and the cell door opens.
Two guards he hasn’t seen before are standing in the doorway, looking at him rather anxiously.
He thinks it must be a search. Something’s happened, maybe an attempted escape that they suspect he’s involved in.
‘You’re going to see a defence lawyer,’ one of the guards says.
‘What for?’
Without answering they cuff his hands and lead him out of the cell.
‘I haven’t requested a meeting,’ Joona says.
They walk down the stairs together and on down the long hallway. A prison guard passes them silently and disappears.
Joona wonders if they’ve realised that Valeria has been using her sister’s ID when she visits him. She has a criminal record of her own, and wouldn’t be allowed to see him if she used her own name.
The colour and style of the pictures along the walls change. The harsh lighting shows up the shabbiness of the concrete floor.
The guards lead Joona through security doors and airlocks. They have to show the warrant authorising the transfer several times. More locks whirr, and they head deeper into a section Joona isn’t familiar with. At the far end of the hallway two men are standing guard outside a door.
Joona immediately recognises that they’re Security Police officers. Without looking at him they open the door.
The dimly lit room is completely bare apart from two plastic chairs. Someone is sitting in one of them.
Joona stops in the middle of the floor.
The light from the low-hanging ceiling lamp doesn’t reach the man’s face. It stops at the pressed creases of his trousers and the black shoes, wet mud visible beneath their soles.
Something is glinting in his right hand.
When the door closes behind Joona the man stands up, takes a step forward into the light and tucks his reading glasses in his breast pocket.
Only then does Joona see his face.
It’s Sweden’s Prime Minister.
His eyes are cast in darkness, and the shadow of his sharp nose lies like a stroke of black ink across his mouth.
‘This meeting has never taken place,’ the Prime Minister says in his characteristic hoarse voice. ‘I haven’t met you, and you haven’t met me. No matter what happens you’ll tell people you had a meeting with your defence lawyer.’
‘Your driver doesn’t smoke,’ Joona says.
‘No,’ he replies in surprise.
The Prime Minister’s right hand moves aimlessly towards the knot of his tie before he continues.
‘Last night my government’s Foreign Minister was murdered in his home. The official story is that he died after a short illness, but we’re actually dealing with an act of terrorism.’
The Prime Minister’s nose is shiny with sweat, and the bags under his eyes are dark. The leather bracelet carrying the emergency alarm slips down his wrist as he pulls the other plastic chair forward for Joona.
‘Joona Linna,’ he says. ‘I’m going to mak
e you a highly unorthodox offer, an offer that is only valid here and now.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘An inmate from Hall Prison is going to be transferred and placed in your unit. His name is Salim Ratjen. He was convicted of drug offences, but found not guilty of murder … The evidence suggests that he occupies a central position in a terrorist organisation, and that he may even be directing whoever carried out the murder of the Foreign Minister.’
‘Background information?’
‘Here,’ the Prime Minister replies, handing over a thin folder.
Joona sits down on the chair and takes the file with his cuffed hands. The plastic creaks as he leans back. As he reads he notices that the Prime Minister keeps checking his phone.
Joona skims the report from the crime scene, the lab results and the interview with the female witness in which she says she heard the killer say that Ratjen had opened the door to hell. The report concludes with graphs of telecom traffic and Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz’s command that western leaders should be tracked down and their faces blown off.
‘There are plenty of holes,’ Joona says, handing the folder back.
‘This is just a preliminary report. A lot of test results are still missing, and—’
‘Holes that were left on purpose,’ Joona interrupts.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the Prime Minister says, slipping his phone back in the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Have there been any other victims?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything to suggest that more attacks are planned?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why the Foreign Minister?’ Joona asks.
‘He was pushing for coordinated European action against terrorism.’
‘What do they achieve by killing him?’
‘This is a clear attack against the very heart of democracy,’ the Prime Minister goes on. ‘And I want the heads of these terrorists on a fucking plate, if you’ll pardon the expression. This is about justice, about putting our foot down. They cannot and will not frighten us. That’s why I’m here, to ask if you’re prepared to infiltrate Salim Ratjen’s organisation from inside prison.’
‘I assumed that. I appreciate your faith in me, but you have to understand that I’ve built up a life in here. It wasn’t easy, because people are aware of my background, but over time they’ve learned that they can trust me.’