Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “It’s happened to me too,” he said, returning his weapon to its holster. “I nearly shot a colleague in a domestic violence incident a few years ago. It took me months to get over it. Even longer for the other guy.”

  Jonna was not listening. Her arm was shaking as she put her Sig Sauer back in its holster. She loosened her bulletproof vest so that she could breathe. Despite being in the middle of a forest in the fresh air, she felt suffocated.

  In a doorway, a few of the SWAT team were waiting with guns lowered. Jonna went through the door and found herself in a long corridor. On her right, she saw what looked like a hallway, with one room containing an old table and chairs in the middle of the room. A stale smell met her nostrils, making her feel uneasy.

  At the end of the hallway, police officers lined up along the walls. A large, grey-painted, iron door towered in front of them. It was rusty and hung on strong hinges. Above the sturdy lock, there was a note that warned of rat poison. Jonna was reminded of the doors of the emergency shelters under the police headquarters. The framed paper label was dated 1972.

  “What’s this building used for?” she asked and studied the iron door.

  “That’s a question for you guys at CID to answer,” one of the team replied.

  “It’s all very peculiar,” said Wilhelmsson. “There shouldn’t be a house here. According to records, there should just be forest in this area. But the local electricity company was right. This must be the house that uses the electricity.”

  “Check with MUST,” one of the officers said.

  “The National Military Intelligence Agency?” Wilhelmsson said.

  “MUST and our colleagues at SÄPO got up to some things during the Cold War. This looks like something they would have had, or possibly it was a centre for weekend warriors. Or an old operations room, in case of war.”

  Jonna took out her mobile phone and pressed Walter’s number. The noise from the hydraulic jack forced her to leave the building.

  Walter’s phone was busy and he didn’t seem interested in taking her call. Then her phone died again. She looked at the blank display and restarted the phone. Since she had been prompted to upgrade her software, it had happened three times.

  A functioning mobile phone was essential these days, considering the glitches with the Swedish radio communication system, RAKEL. When her phone started up, she speed-dialled the operator and was transferred to Customer Services. After a short while, a young woman answered.

  “What type of software upgrade?”

  “How would I know,” Jonna began. “I just need to know if this is a new routine? Anyway, the phone is not working properly after that upgrade.”

  “We don’t send firmware upgrades to mobile phones via web links. Upgrades are downloaded only from the telephone manufacturer’s website.”

  “But I received an MMS from you.”

  “Impossible,” the woman replied. “It must have been from someone else.”

  “It’s your sender ID.”

  “If you take the phone to one of our service centres, then I’m sure they will help you out,” the woman said, eager to end the conversation.

  Jonna thanked her for the information. She scrutinized her phone as if it belonged to somebody else. As soon as she was back at police headquarters, she would give it to the IT department.

  A metallic scraping was audible inside the building and someone shouted out. The police officers quickly got into position again. Jonna ran into the house as the stubborn iron door finally caved in at one side. The hinges had been broken off by the force of the jack. The SWAT team had raised their MP5s and slowly moved through the doorway. Jonna released the safety catch on her Sig Sauer and aimed it at the concrete floor just in front of her. Both hands tightly squeezed the pistol grip. As usual, her heart was pounding inside her bulletproof vest and, at the corner of her eye, she could see Wilhelmsson covering her from the opposite wall. The air was dank and clouds of condensation appeared from her mouth as she breathed with prolonged gasps.

  In front of them was a staircase up to the first floor. Two doors on each side of the short hallway had to be passed first.

  Some of the team took up their positions on either side of the doors as others continued up the stairs. Jonna followed the last of the SWAT team. Suddenly, the team leader stopped in the middle of the stairs. He squatted down and motioned that there could be activity ahead. They had to decide quickly whether to continue or turn back. The team leader charged up the stairs and took up a position next to the doorway.

  He cocked his gun and tossed a stun grenade into the room as Jonna and the others ran up the stairs. The loud explosion made Jonna stumble. She managed to grab hold of the handrail, but hit her knee on the edge of a step. She ripped a hole in her jeans, but strangely she felt no pain. Adrenaline was coursing through her body; she could probably break a leg and not notice it. She quickly followed the others and found herself in a new hallway. The light through the grimy windows cast ghostly shadows along the walls.

  There were three doors ahead of them. Behind Jonna, more SWAT police were filling the hallway. The ground floor was secured. Jonna stood next to one of the doors, with her back to the wall. The pounding in her temples under her helmet was deafening. With her right hand, she gripped her lowered gun tightly; with the other hand, she gripped the door handle. She knew what to do next. An officer held up three fingers and counted down. Jonna turned the handle and two of the officers stormed in. The light from their torches lit up an empty, windowless room. Jonna looked at the cold room. Yet another room was confirmed as safe shortly afterwards. One door remained. They made themselves ready. Wilhelmsson pushed open the door. Three SWAT team members stormed in, screaming that they were police officers. A brief moment later, they emerged with weapons lowered.

  “Empty?” Jonna asked. She felt a sudden disappointment in the midst of her adrenaline high.

  “It is now,” one of the officers answered, pointing to the floor.

  Jonna saw a mattress. By the side, there was paper strewn over the damp floor. In one corner, there was a stainless-steel toilet and sink.

  “Looks as if somebody was living here.”

  “Or held captive,” Wilhelmsson said, and asked everyone to leave the room. “There’s no lock on the inside of the door. We have to get Forensics out here.”

  Jonna saw dark red stains on some of the papers. “This looks like blood,” she said.

  Wilhelmsson crouched down and carefully lifted up some of the documents with a pen. “Yes, it certainly does look like blood.”

  Jonna shone her torch on the bloody papers. The damp from the floor had made the text almost illegible.

  “We found a petrol generator in the cellar,” the team leader announced, appearing in the doorway. “It seems to be connected to the house’s electrical wiring. Someone has definitely been here recently, because the motor is still warm. They probably needed it for that,” he said, pointing to a builder’s spotlight next to a stool.

  “How warm was the motor?” asked Jonna.

  “Lukewarm,” he said.

  “If we’d been one hour earlier, we might have caught them,” Wilhelmsson said.

  “They won’t be attempting a jailbreak any time soon,” the team leader smiled.

  Neither Jonna nor Wilhelmsson said a word.

  He was lying in something that resembled a packing case made of chipboard, with air holes concealed by a double casing. It was chilly, but not as cold as the room had been. The road was poor and the potholes made the van rock violently. They reached a tarmac road and the van speeded up.

  Once again, Leo had dragged innocent bystanders into a battle that did not concern them. Breaking into the woman’s home was the simple part. To then steal her pass and the code to turn off the alarm was also a trivial task for men such as these. They also had
said that they could find out the schedule that the security company followed on their rounds. Leo was sceptical, but it seemed they had that capability.

  He was hoping that his former lab assistant still lived alone. That she still kept her pass in her wallet and the code on the back of her sister’s photograph. It was a long time since he had seen it, on the morning of her first day at work. As usual, it had been difficult to remember the randomly generated password. Leo had been standing behind her. She had flipped over the photograph and entered the digits in the entry keypad. He hadn’t made any comment, despite the security department strictly forbidding storing the code together with one’s pass. Perhaps he had intended to talk to Jeanette later. But it never happened. As with so many other things not related to his research, it had been forgotten.

  The first traffic light. He wondered how much farther they had left before they arrived. Where they would keep him for the next fifteen hours until it was time for the night-time visit to the lab assistant. They had left the building in great haste, as if they had been given a warning. Perhaps the police were on to them.

  He wondered how many there were and why they were so skilled at hiding in the shadows. How much power did they have and what would they do with the research results? They were foolish, yet very dangerous, men. There was no way to be sure of their promises. Their word was worth as little as Leo’s life.

  When they finally got inside the company building, every movement would be recorded. It would take five minutes to get in and less than thirty minutes to gather all the material. A further five minutes to leave BGR and then his opportunity would be gone. He had to act during those forty minutes.

  Physically, he was at a disadvantage. He had difficulty walking and no possibility of fighting his way free; he had no weapons and a very slim chance of setting off the silent alarm, which was his plan. But hope is the last thing to die. He had to try.

  The van stopped for a few minutes. Then it made a few sharp turns and continued on. After a while, he could hear gravel smacking against the wheel arches beneath. They were back on a gravel road. They were driving fast. He was thrown from one side of the packing case to the other and was unable to protect himself from the impact. His hands were tied behind his back. In his mouth was a rag, kept in place by thick tape.

  No one could hear his cries.

  Suddenly, the van stopped and the engine was switched off. Steps were audible outside. The door was opened and light filtered through the air holes. One brief moment and then he heard the sound of voices. A muffled scraping sound broke the silence. It sounded as if something was being dragged over the floor of the van. Then there was a dull thud and, once again, silence. The door opened once more and then was closed. Leo had a strange feeling of not being alone, yet he heard no sign of life.

  Walter left his meeting with Rolf Meiton to review the Sigtuna operation. He had been forced to take a back seat and let Meiton and the others take credit despite being furious about being followed – as well as the latest developments in the Hedman case. But he had to let it go. At this moment in time, he had more important things to take care of. There wasn’t much time and they were at a critical phase. It was like a surrealistic nightmare. He was certain of one thing at least. Their most important operation lay in front of them.

  He noticed the missed call from Jonna and called her back. Together with Walter and a few others, she now belonged to a select band.

  “The house seems to be an old command centre, according to some of our colleagues,” Jonna began. “Also, there are signs that somebody was held captive here. We have called in Forensics. They can test samples of what we think are bloodstains and see if we can secure DNA and fingerprints.”

  “I can tell you what kind of building you are in at the moment,” Walter said.

  “Really?” Jonna said, surprised.

  “It belonged to SÄPO and was what is known as a safe house, where valuable assets were kept.”

  “Assets?”

  “Defectors from the Eastern bloc or detained spies who could not be seen in police cells or by the military intelligence agencies. All relics from the Cold War. Some of the buildings may also have been jointly run with CIA experts. We Swedes have a soft spot for any kind of co-operation with the world’s own self-appointed sheriff.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Jonna. She could hear her own breathing.

  “Effective immediately, you are part of a select team, including personnel from SÄPO, which is going to take down that damned gang of criminals.

  “You mean Martin Borg?”

  “We’re in the process of finding out his real name. But we have to be careful. We don’t know who belongs to this network or how widespread it is. What we do know is that SÄPO has been infiltrated and that there may be members on the outside as well.”

  “Where’s Borg now?”

  “Under surveillance,” Walter said. “He was given the job of bringing Hedman to SÄPO, in the hope that we could catch him red-handed. But he suddenly got cold feet. Either he was warned or we made a mistake.”

  “Who else is in this special team?” Jonna asked. She felt her heart pounding again and was beginning to feel the pressure.

  “They are all new recruits from different departments,” replied Walter. “Hopefully none of them have been tainted yet. Fresh blood, so to speak.”

  Jonna sat on the floor. She was having difficulty taking in what Walter had told her. Not far from her, Wilhelmsson was talking to some SWAT officers. With less than a year on the force, she was more trustworthy than Wilhelmsson. What if Walter was one of them? How much did she really know about her boss? Very little, she realized. Perhaps he was part of something that he didn’t understand. And now it was her turn. She actually wished she could trade places with Wilhelmsson. Sometimes, ignorance was bliss.

  The taxi stopped outside the entrance to Stockholm Syd station. Martin Borg paid his fare in cash and went up the steps to platform Two. In eight minutes, the intercity train to Gothenberg would be arriving. The platform was all but deserted. He knew that he had lost his tails. He had turned off his usual mobile phone and now had a new mobile with an equally unused pre-paid SIM card. The Mentor would join him in Södertälje. Martin was well aware of the old man’s powerful influence, but he doubted that it would be sufficient this time.

  He was just about to get on the train when he noticed the presence of a man farther down the platform. Martin stopped and watched as the man disappeared through one of the doors. Martin hesitated for a few seconds, trying to recall if he had seen the man before. He had come from nowhere and was now on the train.

  The conductor waved a signal and the doors started to shut with a hiss. Martin quickly jumped in.

  Twelve minutes later, the train slowed to a halt at Södertälje station. Martin got off and watched a few new passengers getting on the train. Soon he was alone on the platform. Four passengers had joined the train, but none had got off.

  He hurried down the steps and approached the sole taxi. He asked to be driven to the nearest petrol station with hire cars and paid the driver in cash. Thirty minutes later, he drove away from the petrol station in a blue Golf. He knew exactly where to go. They had met there on two previous occasions. It was the perfect meeting place, impossible to spy on without being seen.

  Martin parked the car among some bushes before getting out. He looked out over the lake, which was frozen. All that could be heard was the sound of a blackbird in the distance. Then he spotted two vehicles parked in a thicket a short distance away. One of the vehicles was a van.

  The outlines of two men could be seen in the saloon car. He guessed that one of them must be the Mentor. Instead, two unfamiliar men got out of the car; they were dressed in thin ski jackets with hoods pulled over their heads. They walked calmly towards him. They had been waiting for him.

  Jör
gen Blad immediately realized that he was the first on the scene. The easily identifiable SWAT vans were parked at the side of the road and he was stopped by a surprised police officer with an MP5 hanging over his shoulder. Jörgen lowered the window and showed his press pass.

  “That’s no good here,” the police officer said brusquely. “Drive back up to the road. We will be cordoning off this entire area soon.”

  Jörgen could see that it would not help to argue. He did as the officer requested and parked his car farther down the road.

  There would soon be hordes of reporters arriving and he probably didn’t have more than one hour’s head start. He began to walk at a tangent to the forest until he had managed to make his way past the police vehicles. The area was full of dense thickets and he found it difficult to navigate. He targeted a big oak tree to keep his bearings. Crouching low, he slipped through a hilly terrain with low bushes. He noticed a small clearing and changed direction.

  The bushes thinned and the visibility improved. Behind some massive tree trunks, a hundred metres to the right, he saw a dark, stone building. Most likely, this was the target of the police operation. He crept closer and noted that the building was surrounded by police. This was not a “live” situation any more. The operation must be over and it seemed as if the SWAT team was preparing to leave the area.

  Two officers made their way towards Jörgen and he threw himself on the ground. The moss was damp and he was immediately soaked. After a few metres, the policemen turned back and headed towards the building.

  Jörgen took out his mobile phone and dialled Jonna’s number. Naturally, she didn’t answer. Instead, he started to text until his mobile beeped. On the display, he saw it was a message from Jonna. He eagerly opened her message and read it. Either she was toying with him or he had been given an unexpected opportunity. He was willing to bet a thousand crowns on the latter, and followed her instructions. Jörgen replied with a short text message and returned to his car, going back the way he had come.