“When you take a life, a part of your soul disappears and it shows in your eyes. They become dead too. Look at mine.”
Tor looked at the man’s eyes. All he saw was a tangled web of bloodshot veins behind a misty membrane.
“I can tell that you have killed,” the man went on. “But I can still see some good left in you. Not every killer has that.”
“Have you done time?” Tor asked.
“No, I killed someone and was given a medal for it.”
“How did you get that?”
“I was a UN soldier in the Congo during the sixties. I was young and we were fighting for peace. Now I am almost eighty years’ old and instead spend my days fighting off the pains of age.”
“Well, I’m fighting for a way out from here,” Tor said. “You and the old woman are my ammo.” Tor thought it was a witty metaphor.
“My name is Einar,” the old man said, extending his hand. “My wife is Ingegärd.”
Tor stared suspiciously at his outstretched claw. It was sinewy and was trembling. “I know your game,” Tor said. “You’re trying to make friends with me. Like that fucking Stockholm syndrome, only the other way round.”
“Think twice, son. It’s not too late.”
“I’m not your fucking son and it’s way too late for me,” said Tor. “I have just this one chance and I intend to take it. Do you hear me?”
The man looked at Tor sadly. “It’s never too late.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Tor yelled. “Keep sawing.”
The old man went back to the shotgun. His eyes turned to his wife on the floor. Her eyes were clouded and she uttered low moans. He tried to establish eye contact with her.
The telephone on the wall rang. Tor jumped at the sudden sound. “Yes?” he growled.
“We have a doctor,” the policeman’s voice said. “Shall we send her in?”
Tor glanced at the shotgun. The old man had barely sawn halfway through the barrels.
“Send her over in ten minutes,” Tor said and hung up.
He went over to one of the windows and opened the blinds slightly. Police were positioned all around the house. Perhaps they were preparing for a surprise attack. Perhaps not. After all, Tor had both the old guy and his wife. The police would never risk storming the building. The old folks’ tickers would stop after the first stun grenade; the fuzz would know that. So Tor had to keep them both alive and kicking. He looked at the kitchen clock. Five minutes had gone by already. Suddenly, he heard a thud on the floor. Tor turned around and saw both barrels lying on the kitchen floor.
“Do you have a wood saw?” he asked the man.
The old man was out of breath and pale from his exertions. He nodded.
“Go and get it and then shorten the stock,” Tor ordered him. “You have four minutes.”
The man staggered down into the cellar and came back up shortly afterwards with a wood saw in his hand. The teeth on the saw were large.
“Here,” Tor pointed. “Saw off the stock here.”
The man’s arm was shaking with exhaustion. He jammed the saw several times and had to pull the saw blade free and start again.
“Two minutes left,” Tor said, standing by the window. He saw someone who looked like a doctor getting ready. She had two big bags.
The telephone rang.
“The doctor is on her way now,” the voice said.
“No fucking tricks, or I’ll shoot,” said Tor, throwing down the telephone. The old guy had only made it halfway through the stock and the doctor was on her way. Tor grabbed the gun by the barrels. He slammed the stock against the table as hard as he could. A big piece of the wood flew off. Tor now had something resembling a double-barrelled handgun.
There was a knock on the door.
Tor quickly loaded two cartridges and cocked the gun.
“Come on in. The door’s open,” he yelled, and hid himself behind a corner. He had a clear view of the front door, but was still protected by the wall. He first heard a knock on the door, then heard it open. A blonde woman walked through the door.
Mjasník had returned to the youth hostel. He could not understand how he had managed to miss the woman. She must have gone to work very early. Yet another day gone to waste. Time was now against him.
He laid down on his bed and turned on the TV in an attempt to kill a few hours. He zapped aimlessly between the Swedish channels, although he didn’t understand a word. One of the channels seemed to be the morning news.
Pictures of the American president were being shown and Mjasník realized that it was a story about the USA. Shortly afterwards, he watched a reporter, who was surrounded by woods and policemen. He seemed to be reporting live. Perhaps it was a traffic accident. Suddenly, he saw a face he recognized. The old detective inspector. Mjasník sat up and turned up the volume just as the man disappeared from the screen.
The detective inspector who was leading the hunt for Leo Brageler was being interviewed in a live report. The camera swept over the scene. Helicopters hovered over the area and dogs were barking. Mjasník flew off his bed and went down to the reception desk. He pointed at the TV in the foyer and asked the receptionist to translate what was being said. The young woman raised a startled eyebrow, but turned up the volume. She explained that the police had cordoned off a house where a wanted criminal had taken hostages. Mjasník asked the name of the criminal. The woman listened and gave Mjasník a name he had never heard before. He asked her to show him the location of the unfolding drama on a map. Five minutes later, he was in his hire car.
The Mentor had contacted Tor Hedman and given him new instructions. Martin was also informed of his plan and was, as usual, impressed by the old man’s creativity and decisiveness. Statistically speaking, Hedman’s odds were practically zero. Few managed to make good an escape in a similar situation.
The hostages he had taken were not usually an advantage, because free passage was seldom given to dangerous criminals. Except when there was a helping hand from the other side. The plan was simple and the only possible one.
One or two of the hostages would leave together with the kidnapper under a blanket, with holes cut out to make it possible to get to the getaway vehicle. The police would not be able to identify the individuals under the blanket. The kidnapper would have a gun pointed at the hostage’s head.
There were however a few critical seconds: the transition into the vehicle. The police knew that and would be waiting to make their move then. It would be best if Hedman was killed on the spot by a head shot. The backwards explosion from the sniper’s dumdum bullet would have Forensics wiping up the remains of Hedman’s brain with a dishcloth.
Hedman still had some misgivings about obeying his new master. Martin felt a mounting sense of frustration. Instead of looking for the supplier of the truth serum on Omar’s hard drive, in order to get Leo Brageler to talk, he was forced to take care of the Hedman problem. It was diverting time and resources from more important issues. Martin had made some mistakes lately, but had always managed to sort them out.
Yet a feeling returned to haunt him – that he was living on borrowed time. The war against Islam must go on and he was impatient to start the final battle. Or to do something that would start to turn the tide. The Mentor continued to urge caution and to wait for the right moment. To never take risks and to work in the background. The rewards so far had been insignificant and Martin was becoming more impatient. Brageler and the compound that he had developed could provide the turning point they so badly needed. It would soon be time to take action himself.
Alice McDaniel boarded the London flight to Stockholm. Despite the fact that the airport was enveloped in a light fog, the departure screens showed few delays. She had a seat in Business Class and there was no passenger sitting next to her. She still felt cramped. In her handbag, she had the padded envelope that h
er client had asked her to deliver personally to the Grand Hotel.
The envelope was sealed securely and had an unusual, plastic seal that made it impossible to open without detection. By squeezing the envelope, she had already guessed that it contained a CD, together with a number of papers. She had often wondered about the things clients asked her firm to keep for them. Secret bank account numbers or compromising information on other people, perhaps? Perhaps the drawings for an atomic bomb.
Mostly, they were perfectly innocent documents, such as wills and testaments, and it was not her job to be judgmental. As long as she didn’t know what was being stored, her firm was not committing any crime, regardless of whether it was stolen money or plans for a terrorist cell. But this was the first time that she had received such an unusual request.
There were two things that made her feel ill at ease. The first was the disclosure of her ex-directory telephone number. A number that no one, except a few family members, knew. The other was the determination and resolve, even desperation, that her client had displayed when he asked her to come. Certainly, this client was never the chatty type, but his voice had seemed both cowed and commanding at the same time.
She was not at liberty to ask him why he could not fetch the package himself. With clients, discretion was a requirement and, at her firm, it was a matter of honour. Even so, she had decided she would ask the question when they met.
She reclined her seat and closed her eyes. One hour’s sleep would be very welcome. After all, she had been woken very early. According to the captain, the plane had reached its cruising altitude and she would be in Stockholm in a little less than two hours. It was a city she had never set foot in.
For the first time since his capture, Leo Brageler felt that there was a point to his situation. Events and people were slowly beginning to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. He would follow the plan he had devised and redeem his previous bad deeds. His sense of purpose gave him the strength that he so sorely needed.
He must have slept for a long time, because the light through the door crack was bright. He assumed that it was midday. He had seen nothing but damp stone walls for several months. Life on the outside felt distant, but he wanted to be part of it again. His vengeance and hatred towards those he considered guilty no longer fuelled the burning fire that gave his life meaning. Instead, his memories of the happy times meant the most to him. They gave him the will to endure. They could never take them from him. Everything he did now was for their sakes. And for all of those whom he had sent to an early death.
Perhaps Cecilia would then speak to him again. With her soft voice, full of forgiveness.
He stood up cautiously. It hurt less, although the morphine was no longer having any effect. He carefully took a few steps to the sink and drank a little of the foul-tasting water. He splashed water on his face, wiping his hand from his eyes down to his tangled beard. On the floor by his mattress, there was a tray with something resembling porridge in a bowl. He sat down and cautiously tasted it. It was rice pudding and was sweet. He rested for a few moments and then ate a few mouthfuls. He continued with this procedure until the bowl was empty. It had taken him perhaps an hour. Time was an abstract concept in this place. Even so, he wished he had a clock or something to keep himself synchronized beyond night and day. He lay down on the damp mattress and closed his eyes.
The food had made him weary. Time was running out and they would soon be back. With the documents and the CD. He might be able to delay matters for a few days, but no longer. He had to regain his strength if he was to escape his captors. He was determined to succeed.
Walter looked at the red cabin from a distance of about three hundred metres. The blinds were drawn and there was a police car parked outside, doors open and windscreen full of holes.
Walter knew then that he had made a mistake when he had ordered the dogs to be let loose. Perhaps they could have avoided this if they had followed Hedman from a distance. He blamed Rolf Meiton for the most part. If he had just listened to Walter and positioned the dog patrols on the outside of the perimeter fence, Hedman would now be in custody. Instead, they had a hostage situation on their hands.
“Who lives in the house?” Walter asked over the radio.
“Einar and Ingegärd Mattson,” the communications officer reported. “They’re both seventy-eight years old.”
“No others?”
“No, just these two are registered as living at this address.”
“Any children?”
“Yes, one daughter.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Yes, she has confirmed that her parents live alone.”
“Firearms licence?”
“Yes, for one shotgun, a Husqvarna 310,” the communications officer said.
“A Husqvarna 310?” repeated Walter. “That’s an old beast.”
“Most likely the weapon that Hedman used to shoot the patrol car,” the communications officer remarked.
“Yes, it seems so.”
Walter walked over to Jonna, who was talking to the woman doctor.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, gently taking the young woman by the arm. “Now that you’ve been informed of the risks, you are free to make that decision.”
“I haven’t changed my mind,” she said, and grasped both her medical bags.
Walter looked into her eyes and was met by determination.
“I’ve served in Afghanistan and I’m used to the sound of gunfire,” she said.
“I know,” Walter said. “That’s why you were the first name on our list.”
“If I survived a year over there without a scratch, then I should be able to manage thirty minutes in there.” She nodded towards the house.
Walter tapped her bulletproof vest. “Just do as we told you and everything will be fine. Hostages seldom get hurt in situations like this.”
She smiled through her gritted teeth and started to walk towards the cabin. Walter contemplated the woman as she approached the house. Heroes still existed. People who put the safety of others before their own. Unfortunately, they were in short supply.
The doctor entered the hallway cautiously. She made no sudden moves and walked across the floor as if it were made of ice. She didn’t look like a cop, but beneath the disguise could be all sorts of nasty surprises. She was wearing a bulletproof vest and one of the SWAT team’s helmets, which was too big for her.
Tor pointed his sawn-off shotgun at her. “Are you a cop?”
“No,” the woman answered nervously, looking at the gun that Tor was holding.
“Are you the doctor?”
“Yes,” she said.
“If you try any tricks, you’ll end up face down in a pool of blood. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Fix my hand first, then check my leg. After that you can play doctor with the old bag. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at the old woman.
“Open up your bags,” Tor ordered, motioning towards the doctor’s bags with his gun.
The doctor opened her bags and Tor rummaged among the bandages and surgical instruments with the sawn-off barrels.
“Take off your bulletproof vest,” he said, aiming his gun at her chest.
“Why?” she asked anxiously.
“Just do as I say.”
The woman took off her vest.
“Your helmet too,” said Tor.
The woman pulled off her helmet and put it down next to her vest on the floor.
Tor had a problem. With only one hand, which he needed to hold his gun, it would be impossible to frisk the woman for hidden weapons. She could have hidden a small revolver somewhere on her person. Tor waved to the old man. “See if she’s hiding a shooter.”
“What do you mean?”
>
“Do a body search,” Tor yelled at him. “Check for hidden weapons.”
“But I can’t . . .”
Tor put the gun barrels against the old man’s head. “Do you want me to pull the trigger?”
He shook his head.
“Then get moving.”
The man started frisking the woman’s body with trembling hands. He went through her pockets and patted under her arms. His hands moved over the outsides of her jeans, down to her shoes, and up her back to her neck. He had performed body searches on a daily basis in the Congo. He had never imagined that he would be doing it again fifty years later in his own kitchen.
“Check between her legs,” said Tor.
The old man stared at Tor.
“Push your hand up her crotch,” Tor repeated. “She could’ve stashed something in her knickers.”
The old man looked apologetically at the woman, who nodded at him. Einar touched the woman’s private parts with his trembling hand.
“Breasts too,” Tor ordered. “Check whether she has something between her tits.”
Einar touched her cleavage. He shook his head.
“Nothing there either,” he said.
Perhaps she was a doctor after all, Tor decided, and sat down. “Can you fix this?” Tor held out his right hand. His gun was aimed at the doctor.
Lina Vennerberg examined the man’s hand. She had been a doctor for seven years and was a surgeon, but she had never seen anything like this before. Of course, she had operated on a large number of war injuries during her tour of duty with the Swedish field hospital in Afghanistan, but this was unique. A titanium plate was protruding through the skin and the hand was bleeding from several, open wounds. A large part of the tissue was infected and the smell of the pus hit her like a slap in the face. The nerves were partially destroyed and had made the hand contract, making it look like a spaghetti ladle. It surprised her that the man didn’t feel more pain. She would need an operating theatre to save his hand.
“Don’t you feel any pain?” she asked.
“A bit. I have diabetes.”
“I see. How’s your sugar level?”
Project Nirvana Page 15