Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “OK, I guess,” answered Tor quickly, studying the woman. She looked quite decent. If the entire Stockholm police force weren’t camped outside, he would’ve done her there and then.

  “I can remove the titanium plate that is sticking out and bandage the wound to stop the bleeding,” she said, with concern. “But you need several operations to save the hand and they have to be done at hospital. The nerves are starting to die.”

  Tor glared suspiciously at the doctor. She couldn’t be more than forty. How much knowledge of nerves could she possibly have? Was it just a trick to get Tor to hospital? He had to choose between losing a hand or at least twenty years in the nick. But if he escaped, then the psycho cop had promised to help him out of the country and to a hospital abroad.

  Tor watched the doctor while she was treating his hand. Until now, he had not thought about his own value. What was Tor Hedman actually worth to the psycho cop? Was he afraid that Tor would grass on him in return for what had happened in Gnesta?

  Probably. That was why he was so willing to help Tor. But he probably also saw Tor as a liability, because of what he knew. A ticking timebomb that could go off at any time. Tor actually had a lot of dirt on the cop. Tor would have to outsmart that psychopath if he didn’t want to end up as fish food.

  Tor gazed aimlessly around the kitchen. The doctor was busy with his hand and Tor could feel his nerves coming to life. A working right hand was definitely worth having. He decided he wanted both freedom and medical attention.

  “There you are.” said the doctor, after working on Tor’s hand for a long time. “I can’t do any more now. The local anaesthetic will wear off after an hour and then you’ll start to feel some pain.”

  The bandaging around his hand looked good. He had a similar one around his leg. His fingertips tingled. An indication that his sense of touch was returning.

  Tor watched the doctor attending the silver-haired old woman. She cleaned her wound and then bandaged the old woman’s head. The smell from the old woman’s vomit forced Tor to open a window. The old couple were becoming more of a burden than a benefit. It would be enough to keep the doctor as leverage. Actually, it would make life easier.

  “You two can go,” he said, motioning at the old couple, “and you’re staying with me.” He pointed at the doctor. She was unfazed.

  “No!” the old man exclaimed. “Keep me, but let the women go.”

  Tor raised his gun towards the old man. “Shut your mouth!”

  “At least, let the girl go,” the old man pleaded.

  “If you don’t shut it, she’ll be the only one still breathing,” Tor snarled.

  “Put your gun down,” said the doctor, in a steady voice, and stood in front of Tor. “Let them go. I’ll stay.”

  Tor smiled. Miss Smarty Pants stood with straight shoulders and a cold stare. He was amused that she thought she could threaten him. Other than spitting in his face, what could she do?

  “You and I will have a good time by ourselves,” Tor said and touched her blonde hair.

  She pulled her head away.

  Tor had forgotten for a moment that he and the doctor were not alone. At the corner of his eye, he saw something flying towards his head.

  Chapter 12

  “It’s been almost two hours now,” Walter said impatiently. Jonna watched Walter pacing incessantly. It was the first time she had seen him being nervous. He had finished off a whole box of cough drops and had asked the other police officers for some.

  Walter’s phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “We have the lists from the mobile-phone operators that you asked for,” Dennis Carlinder from Surveillance said.

  Walter took his eyes off the house. “And?”

  “We’re pretty sure which number is Tor Hedman’s because his movements in Dalarö and south Stockholm match up. As you may know, the triangulation data gives an accuracy of ten metres, using bearings from three base stations.”

  “Go on,” urged Walter. He hated long, technical explanations that he still didn’t understand.

  “On one of the calls, there was data only from two base stations, so that leaves a radius of more than a hundred metres for the phone’s position.”

  “I understand, but who has he been talking to?”

  “Not many calls this week. But virtually all the numbers that have been connected to his mobile are on brand-new, pre-paid SIM cards. So we can’t find any data, except the location where the call started. There’s no historical data to retrieve. One of these SIM cards logged into a base station which covers the area that you are currently searching. The owner has made a few calls to some numbers that are also on new SIM cards and then logged off the base station, which means that the phone has been switched off.”

  Walter remained silent.

  “Hedman’s mobile received a call less than thirty minutes before the raid. Given the time of the call, one might assume he was tipped off.”

  “Where did the call originate from?”

  “Somewhere near the Olympic Stadium in Östermalm.”

  Walter thought for a moment. “The Armed Forces HQ?” he thought out loud.

  “Could be. But we’re not . . .”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Walter, ending the call.

  “How much time does it take to get from the Olympic Stadium to Sigtuna?” he asked, turning to Jonna.

  “You already know the answer,” she said, “but about thirty minutes depending on traffic.” Jonna looked at her boss, confused. She wasn’t the only one suffering from fatigue.

  “How can we find out Martin Borg’s home address?” Walter asked.

  “Martin Borg?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Security Service never use their real names. Not even between colleagues,” Jonna said. “But you know that too.” She looked at Walter suspiciously.

  “Only the Agency Director and a few others know any agent’s real identity,” Walter said.

  Jonna wondered why he kept asking her questions to which he already knew the answers. “Why do you need Borg’s home address?”

  “I want to know if he lives close to the Armed Forces HQ opposite the Stadium,” said Walter. “It seems that Hedman received a call from that area thirty minutes before the raid.”

  “So Hedman was warned?”

  “Most likely.”

  “By whom? Martin Borg?”

  “Also very likely.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. We need to put a tail on him,” Walter said. “We have to find out where he lives, and if he was working at the time the call was made, or if he was off duty. My money is on the latter.”

  “How could he know when we were going to start the raid?”

  “I informed SÄPO of our plans. In hindsight, that wasn’t such a good idea, considering the circus that Hedman brought to town. But I needed evidence for my theory about Borg. Perhaps the price was a little high.”

  “So, now we follow Borg?”

  “Yes, sooner or later he has to go home. Hopefully, he lives near the Stadium.”

  Jonna looked at Walter worriedly. She had promised herself not to engage in any activity which could expose her to the risk of an Internal Affairs investigation again. The one on the Leo Brageler case had been quite enough for her. Spying on Security Service agents was definitely an activity that belonged in that category. Walter could ask anyone he wanted to do it, but this time it would not be Jonna who volunteered.

  “Besides,” she said, “who else was the mobile phone used to call? Was it just Hedman?”

  Walter looked at her. Then he called Dennis Carlinder again. “I forgot to ask you something. Was the pre-paid SIM card that was used to call Hedman used for any other calls?”

  “J
ust a minute,” Carlinder replied.

  Walter impatiently drummed his fingers on his iPhone as the seconds ticked by. He needed coffee. Litres of it.

  “Let’s see,” said Carlinder. “Two calls. One to a phone close to the Högdalen shopping centre and the second call went to a phone near the Stadium again.”

  “Hell,” Walter said, after hanging up. “That means it wasn’t Borg who warned Hedman. He would hardly have called himself at home in Östermalm.”

  “Ask the mobile-phone companies to find out which shops sold the pre-paid SIM cards,” Jonna said eagerly. “They can trace how the pre-paid cards were shipped. If we’re lucky, they were purchased with a credit card. If not, then the shop might still have a CCTV video.”

  Walter decided to do as his trainee detective requested, even if he thought it sounded like a long shot. Credit-card purchases and getting caught on CCTV were mistakes that only amateurs made. These people were professionals.

  Mjasník parked the car a short distance from the police cordon. Getting to the area was easy using the car’s sat-nav. He synchronized his wristwatch down to the second with his laptop’s clock. He started the scanner program and pushed the computer under the seat so that it could not be seen. Then he took a notepad and walked up to the cordon. He had to squeeze into a huddle of journalists and curious bystanders. Everyone was speaking Swedish. A tall woman with a camera on her belly asked him something, so he nodded and mumbled incomprehensibly. She seemed satisfied with his response and smiled back.

  Less than one hundred metres away, the police had formed a command centre. Several police buses were parked and Mjasník spotted the individuals he was looking for. The detective inspector was standing next to one of the cars and talking to a woman, who was not Jonna de Brugge. The woman carried two medical bags and had blonde hair.

  The detective inspector seemed to be giving the woman instructions. Behind another van, he saw Jonna de Brugge. He took out some small binoculars. He watched patiently as they conversed. After a while, Mjasník saw what he’d been hoping for. The detective inspector took out his mobile phone and made a call. Mjasník noted down the time the call was made. The woman police officer took out her mobile phone shortly afterwards. He noted the time and then hurried back to the car. It had taken less time than he had hoped. The advanced scanner program had scanned the entire GSM frequency bandwidth and registered 283 mobile phones within a radius of three kilometres. He scrolled down the list until he found the time he had written in his notepad. Within two seconds of the time, he found a match. Walter Gröhn’s mobile number was no longer secret and he could see who he had called. Mjasník repeated the procedure for Jonna de Brugge and was just about to close his laptop when there was a tap on the car window.

  Mjasník looked up quickly. It was a police officer, who had come from a blind spot behind the car. He quickly closed his laptop and lowered the window. “Yes?” he said.

  The police officer studied Mjasník. “You cannot be parking here,” he said in poor Swenglish.

  “OK,” replied Mjasník and started his car.

  “Are you reporter?” the policeman continued, signalling to Mjasník to turn off the engine.

  What was a police officer doing this far from the cordon? Mjasník had to think quickly. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m a journalist.”

  “Your identity documents, please,” the officer asked.

  Mjasník rummaged in his inside pocket for his passport. Meanwhile, the officer walked around the car and made a note of the registration number. Just as Mjasník was about to give him the passport, the police officer’s face froze. He stood still and listened to his police radio. A moment later, he walked away from Mjasník.

  “Bloody hell!” Tor yelled and threw up his gun. By the smallest of margins, he managed to avoid being struck on the head with a steel thermos flask. The gun went off during the sudden movement and his face changed to that of a predator. The smell of gunpowder stung his nostrils and his ears were ringing after the discharge. The doctor lay face down on the floor. Tor aimed the gun at the old man, whose eyes were now black as coal.

  “Bloody bastard,” the man shouted, with the thermos flask still in his raised hand. “Leave the girl alone.”

  Tor lost his temper. He rushed forwards and kicked the man to the floor. The geezer was off his fucking rocker. He must have a death wish.

  “I’ll fucking kill you,” he yelled, putting his foot on the man’s head. He started to lean on it and then stopped himself.

  Think first, Jerry used to say. If he bumped off the old geezer, there’d be nobody to deal with the tape. Tor lifted his foot, despite the fact that he was shaking with rage. Under different circumstances, he would have stomped on the old man’s skull until it caved in.

  The telephone on the wall rang and Tor grabbed the handset.

  “Yes?” he snarled.

  “What happened?” a voice asked. “We heard something that sounded like gunfire.”

  “It was nothing. Just a warning shot. Stay away or I’ll kill all three of them.”

  “Is anyone injured?”

  “I’m sending out the bloke and his old bag. The doctor stays with me. No fucking tricks or she’s a goner.”

  “This is Detective Inspector Walter Gröhn,” the voice said. “Give it up, Tor. You gain nothing by continuing with this.”

  Tor knew very well who Walter Gröhn was. He had arrested Tor a few times, mostly for minor offences. Except for one occasion when he had almost sent Tor down for a fatal shooting during a burglary. Fortunately, there had been no evidence and Tor had been able to walk out of the Kronoberg detention centre a free man a few weeks later.

  “I want some rolls of duct tape,” Tor said.

  “Duct tape?”

  “Just get me some.”

  Tor was losing his patience.

  “I’ll bring the tape myself,” Walter answered. “I’m unarmed. You have my word.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about your word. Just get the tape,” Tor said and slammed down the phone.

  Walter waved over Rolf Meiton. “Don’t start anything,” he said.

  Rolf Meiton looked doubtful.

  “He wants duct tape and I’m going in with it. Unarmed.”

  Meiton eyes narrowed, but he could see that Walter was determined and realized it was pointless to argue. Walter was given two rolls of duct tape. He then walked towards the house. He kept his hands visible the whole time. He banged on the door and was answered by a loud voice inside the house. It was Hedman.

  “I’m opening the door,” shouted Walter. “I’m coming inside!”

  “No tricks,” Tor called from the kitchen.

  Walter walked cautiously through the hallway. He moved with slow, deliberate movements. Towards the back of the kitchen, he saw the doctor standing with a sawn-off shotgun held against her head. She was scared, but still looked resolute. Tor was hiding behind the corner.

  A sour stench of vomit met Walter’s nose as he entered the kitchen. On the floor next to the kitchen table, he saw the old couple lying on the floor. The man was breathing heavily and he held his chest. He signalled that he and his wife were all right. Walter nodded back. “I have the tape,” said Walter, carefully putting the rolls on the kitchen table.

  “You can get lost now,” Tor said.

  “What are you going to do with Lina?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Tor growled. “Take the other two and get out.”

  “What’s your plan?” Walter asked in a milder voice. “You do have a plan to get out of this mess, right?

  “You’ll find that out soon enough,” Tor smiled.

  Walter anxiously looked over at the woman doctor. “Take me instead,” he said. “A cop is worth more than a civilian.”

  Walter’s words gave Tor some foo
d for thought. He shifted his position and started to think the situation through. Having a cop at the end of a dead man’s switch was better than a doctor. Cops don’t shoot cops.

  Civilians might easily be considered collateral damage by the trigger-happy boys in blue. Doctors included. But there were risks too. Walter was after all a cop. Although he was not very big nor very intimidating.

  “You can relax,” continued Walter, noticing Tor’s apprehension. “I have a slipped disk and do not intend to go twelve rounds with you. All I want is that we are all still breathing when this is over. Even you, Tor.”

  Tor glared at Walter, not knowing what to believe. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Jerry would’ve liked the plan.

  Walter could see the cogs revolving at top speed in Tor’s head and hoped he would come to the right conclusion.

  “You’re going to tape a dead man’s switch against the cop’s head,” Tor said abruptly, pushing the doctor towards Walter. “But first, you have to search him for weapons.”

  Relieved, Walter held up his arms and nodded to the woman to start the search. “I would like to keep my house keys in my pocket,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m clean.”

  The doctor searched Walter. At the corner of her eye, she saw the maniac shifting his feet, with his gun permanently trained on her. She was scared but, at the same time, angry. If she had a weapon at hand, she would hit him with everything she had. It was people like him who destroyed the lives of others, who made it necessary to lock her doors and windows and to look over her shoulder every time she went out at night.

  A slight sensation of nausea hit Walter as Tor put the gun against his neck and instructed the doctor on how to apply the duct tape. First, she wrapped the tape around Tor’s hand and the gun so that it became an extension of his arm. Then she continued it around Walter’s neck, under his chin and finally around his head. When it was done, Walter looked as if he was wearing a silver beret with a chin strap. Tor and Walter were attached to each other, to the death.

  The doctor looked at her work with horror. Walter gave her a weak smile and asked her, through gritted teeth, to help the old couple from the house.