She was sodden, whiter than snow, and I had nothing to warm her up with. I was freezing too, but there was no time to lose. I was determined to fight to the bitter end, desperate to live. There was no way I was giving up.
I wrapped her in the sail like a cocoon and tied it up with the life line. I dragged her over the ice on the sail, but I was slow and my heart was pounding, my whole body drained. I walked like a zombie, drifting in and out of consciousness. I had visions of myself pulling Eva at the bottom of a dark ocean, walking on a sea floor covered in ice, under it yet another sea, layer after layer of ice floors and ceilings... A ship passed above, breaking the ice ceiling, but the ice closed up immediately behind it. I tried to call, reach out to the ship, but I was paralysed, frozen. The only way to move was to break ice. I pulled Eva and tried to follow the ship, but everything thickened to ice. I couldn’t move. I was iced in like a mammoth, an ice fossil. Behind me on the sail, Eva was frozen too. I fought and picked away at the ice to reach her but my efforts barely scratched the ice. It was too hard. I kept hacking, but the ice only seemed to spread, to grow, to take hold.
71
They’d wasted his time. Magnus and Eva had spoilt the build-up to his greatest moment. Although it was unlikely they would make the crossing, he wasn’t taking any chances. He’d already lost too many men. And worse – a helicopter.
He’d sent Andri, assisted by a local who knew the archipelago inside out. Andri knew what was at stake. He was confident Andri would complete the job if Eva and Magnus did make it to Sweden. Enough time had been lost on them. He needed to focus on his finale. He was about to take the first step in the march towards change.
72
Suddenly we’d come through the storm and reached snow-free ice. Everything was completely still. All I could hear was my heart beating and the ice cracking. First I thought it was someone coming and I turned to check in all directions, but the ice was empty as far as I could see. It wasn’t reassuring, but it was just the sound of the ice settling.
No, there was something else, something strange, another sound creeping up on us. There were several, but were they real or in my head – caused by exhaustion? I didn’t know. I simply lay down on the ice to listen. Once I’d tuned in, I could hear electronic hissing and squeaking. It sounded like sonar signals or experimental music. Later I was told it was seals. They sounded like synthesisers stuck in a time warp, a mix of Pink Floyd and Jean-Michel Jarre. At the time, I thought I was going mad. Could I really be hearing this? The longer I listened, the more it overwhelmed me. It had beat and melody. It was relaxing, even beautiful, but I had to keep moving and not settle into any illusions of comfort. I looked at the lifeless Eva on the sail, wiped the snow off her and pushed on.
I finally spotted land in the distance. Reaching it took at least another hour and it was only an island, but there were houses and maybe someone could help. I knocked at several snowed-in summer cottages without anyone opening the door. This was winter, which meant that the holidaymakers were safe and warm on the mainland.
I smashed a window, climbed into a house and dragged Eva through the door after opening it from the inside. There was a small fire place, a kitchenette with a disconnected fridge containing a couple of Pripps beers, some stale Swedish crackers and a can of meatballs. I covered up the broken window with cardboard, before undressing Eva and examining her wound. She’d stopped bleeding. Was it because of the cold? Would it start again once she warmed up? The only dry piece of clothing I could find was a boiler suit. I knew now that ‘cotton kills’, but it would have to do for the night. I pushed the bed to the fire place and tucked her in it with as many blankets as I could find. There was a box of matches and I lit the fire, but the cooker didn’t work and there was no power. The tap didn’t work either. The pipes were probably frozen, or maybe the water was simply turned off at the mains over the winter. It was impossible to tell. I couldn’t locate the stopcock.
I considered checking the other cottages to see if they were any better but didn’t have any time to lose. The priority was to raise Eva’s temperature. I gave her some lukewarm beer heated over the fire and tried opening the can of meatballs by pricking holes with a knife. It was blunt and I cut myself when it slipped. I put the can on the fire too. Everything was a struggle, every little movement required a superhuman effort and I was completely exhausted. I tried to feed Eva, but she was motionless, non-responsive and couldn’t eat. Her body was shutting down and I didn’t know what to do.
Worrying about Eva, I’d forgotten to take off my soaking clothes. I was numb with cold and hung everything in front of the fire. Hopefully they would dry overnight. The thumping pain in my foot came in waves. The hardest part was taking off my shoe. The sock on the injured foot was drenched in blood. I couldn’t pull it off. It was glued to the foot. After soaking the sock in beer, I managed to pull it off, re-opening the wound in the process. The blood was gushing out and I had to improvise a bandage with a piece of tablecloth. The wound was bad, but it was nothing compared to Eva’s condition. I huddled up against her on the bed, two freezing bodies unable to generate any heat.
I couldn’t believe we’d made it to a house. Had I really read the ice? I’d heard about Inuits reading the waves, but the ice? I doubted it. Maybe I’d just been lucky. It would all depend on whether I could save Eva, otherwise it would all have been in vain anyway.
‘Leave me.’
She must have warmed up a bit, because she had a momentary recovery.
‘Forget it.’
‘You have to get help.’
‘I can’t.’
‘We’ll both die if you don’t.’
‘I’m staying with you.
She looked me in the eye.
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘We’re in this together.’
‘Sentimental crap.’
‘It’s not.’
‘You can save us.’
Hearing Eva speak made me realise how serious the situation was. She was tough, but even she was cracking and she could see I was pondering her words.
‘Any regrets?’
I shook my head before returning the question.
‘Would you do it again?’
‘We did the right thing.’
‘Are you sure you don’t know anything about Boeck’s plan?’
She flinched from a sudden twinge of pain in her stomach and soon drifted off, losing consciousness again. I couldn’t sleep. Looking back, my insomnia might well have saved our lives, because in the middle of the night, I realised I was wasting time and that Eva was right – I wasn’t thinking clearly. Every minute counted, especially as she was critical. I got dressed in my wet clothes and went out looking for something better than the sail to drag her on. I found a kicksled. Back in the cottage, I lit a match and examined the map on the wall to locate our whereabouts. There was a larger island beyond the peninsula which would hopefully have permanent residents. I was dressing Eva to leave, when I heard a roaring sound in the night and rushed outside.
73
He’d found the perfect launch pad in the museum. The word museum meant ‘seat of the muses’ and as such they ought to be sources of inspiration and celebration. They’d lost their place in the amnesic and future-obsessed society of today. He believed they should be at the centre of social life and not just sit there collecting dust.
A historical museum was a gateway to the past, a laboratory for historical experiments. Controlling the traces of the past meant mastering the present. Google had understood and were copying artefacts like there’s no tomorrow. History was the future.
It had taken time, but he’d eventually landed the Mariehamn posting. Åland was ideal – a Swedish reserve, a micro culture protected from polluting multicultural and Marxist influences. Its population wanted to be Swedish, but their wish had been rejected by the League of Nations who had given the archipelago to Finland in 1921 out of misplaced guilt. There was no doubt Åland belonged to Sweden. The decision to
give it to Finland had made the Ålanders more Swedish than the Swedes. They were the last outpost of the great 17th century Sweden. Their Swedishness was a desire, a longing, even an ideal. It wasn’t as lazy and watered down as constitutional Sweden. It was alive. The island mentality preserved Swedish culture in a way that wasn’t possible on the mainland. Åland had the innocence and freshness of 1960s Sweden. And he’d met Riita here – the perfect woman: dedicated, traditional and with a daughter in the police force. Of course, he’d never told her about his extreme ideas, not until the business with Henrik. He’d been too weak. He’d hoped to be able to talk sense into Riita, but he couldn’t. He should have dealt with her immediately. He wouldn’t repeat the mistake.
His museum suggested a story told through carefully orchestrated artefacts, myths and documents. The museum showed how Åland was a victim of Finland, whereas Sweden was its faithfully supportive neighbour, its soul mate. Åland was Swedish at heart. It was quintessential Sweden. The Sweden he represented didn’t exist any more. It was an ideal Sweden and rebuilding it required sacrifices, which he was making. This was his calling and his cause went beyond national borders. It was an anti-communist crusade to stop the bastardisation of culture. Men all around the Baltic shared his ideas, men who were proud of their nations, but feared the dissolution of local communities and cultures.
A great admirer of Putin, he saw Russia as one of the last bastions of European manhood. That’s where he’d followed special forces training with former Spetsnaz officers now sharing their sabotage and assassination expertise with anyone willing to pay. He couldn’t have used his holiday time better. Not only did the intensive training hugely improve his assassination and covert operation skills, but the General running the business had adhered to his cause and generously delegated a couple of officers to Mariehamn. Without the men sent by his backer, Boeck would have had a hard time completing the project. They were discreet, efficient and knew how to deal with trouble makers. They did what they were told and had made sure his preparation was the best. The General was planning to extend his training activities to the West and Boeck’s operation would automatically lead to increased demand for cutting-edge security expertise. Like him, the General disapproved of the ongoing emasculation of the European man. Muslim extremists were slowly taking over the World thanks to Western tolerance and multiculturalism. This was deplorable and the Russian understood the fundamental incompatibility of multiculturalism and national greatness. Whatever means deemed necessary would justify the cause.
74
I looked down towards the ice. It was dark, but I recognised the roar of a snowmobile and saw its light beam. It must be someone local, because it couldn’t have crossed the ferry canal. Did this mean that Boeck had helpers on the Swedish side? The man stepped off the snowmobile and looked at the snow lit by the beam. He was clearly looking for something. It hadn’t occurred to me to erase my footprints. I’d simply been too exhausted to think straight and I never believed we’d be followed to the island.
The man must have known the island was deserted in winter, so if he spotted tracks, he knew they were likely to be ours. He looked up towards the house. He couldn’t see me in the dark, but it wouldn’t be long as Eva’s sail had left a wide trail. I needed a plan. The man made a quick call, before climbing back onto the snowmobile and driving through the trees towards the cottage. I grabbed a rusty spade and hid behind a tree. When he drove past, I whacked him with all my might, making him fall off the snowmobile, but he was still conscious and reached for his inside pocket. His gun went off, but too late, as I’d rushed onto him and crushed his face with the spade. I was furious, boiling with fear and anger. He was screaming in pain while holding his ravaged face.
What gave these people the right to kill and to turn me into a killer? He reached for his gun again. He wasn’t giving up and I forced myself to smash him on the head with the spade again. I was disgusted with myself, but this was a question of survival. He was still alive but agonising.
Trying not to think, I snatched the gun and shot him in the chest. I kept shooting until he stopped groaning and then chucked the gun down the well. I was shaking. This wasn’t me. I couldn’t believe this was happening, but I had to keep going. I took the spade and tried to dig a hole away from the path. It was impossible in the frozen ground and I worked myself into a frenzy, hacking away in vain. I couldn’t do it, but kept going anyway, numb and in shock after killing yet another man. Was it possible to take lives and remain unchanged, unaffected? I’d killed again and this didn’t feel any better than the previous time. If anything, the disgust was magnified. I couldn’t breathe, because of the asthma which was triggered by extreme stress. I had to calm down, try not to think about what I’d done. I must breathe, be methodical. I quickly checked on Eva before fleeing back into the physicality of the digging, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. It was a dead end and I had to find another solution. I dragged the body away and dumped it in a shed behind the cottage. He didn’t deserve a proper burial.
He would be found, but that was the last of my worries. I’d killed in self-defence, hadn’t I? I couldn’t have spared his life. I’d had no choice. If someone had told me a week earlier that I’d be killing people within a few days, I would have laughed it off. I wasn’t now. I blocked out all feelings. I wasn’t the killer type, or so I’d believed, but had it been a self-delusion? Wouldn’t everyone kill if they had to? I didn’t have the answer. All I knew was that driven by instinct, I’d done what I had to do. I fetched Eva once I was done with the man.
75
The welfare system had made the Swedes untrustworthy and disloyal. They were independent in the worst possible sense. They never had to commit to anything or take any risks. They were devoid of any form of family structure, be it professional or private, which meant that they also lacked any sense of honour, respect or responsibility. They’d ceased to be men. They didn’t need friends or neighbours, or so they thought.
He was convinced that the total lack of moral principles and solidarity induced by social-democracy was one of the main reasons of the contemporary decline. Swedes thought they acted in the interest of well-being, but individual well-being required community and commitment, attachment, not detachment, interdependence, not independence. He was about to reignite the sense of community by stirring up people’s emotions.
76
Eva was too weak to hold on to me, so I carried her out of the house, put her in front on the snowmobile and held my arms around her to steer. Before driving off, I listened out for other vehicles, but couldn’t hear anything. Eva kept telling me to leave her. I acted mechanically, ignoring her and shutting down any emotions that hadn’t yet been deep-frozen. Eva was still cold and lifeless as we drove off, but at least she had dry clothes on now. She was blocking my view on the snowmobile, so that I constantly had to lean sideways to see ahead.
The peninsula was longer than it had seemed on the map and I thought it would never end. When we finally rounded it, a larger island appeared. The sun was rising and in the distance I could distinguish a small harbour with a dozen houses. By the time we reached it, Eva had stopped responding. There were boats in the wharf, but the place was dead silent. What if it was the snowmobile driver’s village? I’d been too busy trying to escape to think of searching his pockets.
If this was his village, I should probably be careful about talking to locals, but this was no time for dithering. Eva wouldn’t last another night if she didn’t receive treatment soon. I knocked at all the doors and peered in, but there was no sign of life. I started again, knocking harder this time – there must be someone. The houses were low wooden buildings with lace curtains in the windows. The paintwork was immaculate as was the iconic red paint with white corners. Without maintenance, houses would never last in this climate, nor would their inhabitants. Eventually, an old woman opened her door. She came over as strong and weather-beaten. She was probably 10 years younger than she looked. I asked her for a doctor.
‘We don’t have one.’
I nodded towards Eva, who was slumped over the snowmobile handlebars.
‘She went through the ice.’
The woman followed me to the snowmobile. When she saw Eva’s state, she got her mobile out immediately and dialled. I grabbed Eva under her arms.
‘Leave her!’
I jumped. She’d shouted, and she explained why:
‘When you have hypothermia, the slightest change in the bloodstream can be fatal. The last thing you want is cold blood going to the heart. It’s essential to rise the core temperature slowly to avoid temperature shock.’
‘Core temperature’, ‘temperature shock’? Rattling off the explanation like that, she certainly sounded like a doctor to me. She talked on the phone, while looking at Eva’s apathetic eyes
‘It’s Margit on Norrsten. We need a chopper. A young woman… she’s gone through the ice. Semi-conscious.’
There was a moment of silence. The person at the other end of the line was obviously giving Margit instructions. She was trying to find Eva’s pulse.
‘Feeble.’
She paused to listen.
‘I’ll do my best.’
She hung up and carefully laid Eva on her back on the snowmobile, then rushed back into the house. I’d never been so frightened in my whole life. Did she really know what she was doing? Eva’s life depended on a BBC accountant and an old lady lost in an unforgiving icescape. There was no way Eva could survive without professional help. Margit returned with two tent mats, a sleeping bag and a couple of blankets. She put the mats on the ground with the blankets and sleeping bags on top.
The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy) Page 16