He gained nothing from reliving the past. He would make amends. He would offer all he knew about Project Nirvana. But not to these maniacs, he would outsmart them. He would help others pick up where Himmelmann left off. Perhaps Leo’s teacher had been right. Perhaps they would eventually succeed. The world would then see and be in awe, even if the knowledge and responsibility would be a heavy burden. However mankind must know the truth and then decide what to do with the knowledge. The responsibility was no longer his alone.
Suddenly, the vehicle started to move. Leo was jerked back into the darkness. It was almost time.
Chapter 22
Walter was on his way out of his office when David Lilja appeared in the doorway. “SÄPO have the registration number from one of the vehicles in Södertälje,” he said. “The van that the witness saw belongs to one Hans Flyght.”
“Excellent news,” said Walter. “Is he in custody?”
“No, he lives in Luleå. Unfortunately, his van also was in Luleå at the time of the incident.”
Walter massaged his tired eyes. “Duplicate number plates,” he sighed.
“Yes,” Lilja said.
“No news from SKL about the corpse in the car or from the NBI about the bank account?”
“The bank account belongs to a homeless person whose last known address is in Manchester, England. They’re attempting to locate the person in question, but it will be difficult. He’s not been seen for eleven months.”
“The motion-detection cameras outside the building didn’t give us anything either,” Walter added. “As expected, there were lots of pre-paid SIM card numbers found there, but it hasn’t helped, not even after we triangulated the locations.”
“At least SÄPO have finally admitted that the building was an old safe house,” Lilja said. “Not in use, but it was one of their own assets. The question is: how did Borg find a building that SÄPO themselves hardly knew existed?”
“There are others within SÄPO who, like Borg, belong to the same anti-Islamic organization,” Walter said.
“Anti-Islamists?”
Walter told him about the theory he was developing. Lilja studied Walter.
“It’s actually quite feasible,” he said finally. “Have you told SÄPO?”
“I don’t need to,” Walter said. “They already know. They’ve known about it all along.”
Lilja nodded. “For once, I’m inclined to agree with you,” he said.
Walter sat down in his chair. “We’re making no progress on any of our leads,” Walter began. “With regard to . . .”
Walter was interrupted by his mobile phone. He studied the display and saw it was Thomas Kokk. After a brief conversation with him, he hung up, looking concerned. He glanced at Lilja, but said nothing.
“What is it?” asked Lilja at last.
“The corpse in the car was Martin Borg.”
Only thirty minutes before the reading room closed, Jörgen Blad was eagerly flipping through Örebro City Council’s archives. A kind registrar had helped him find some yellowing, obsolete documents, as well as served him two cups of coffee.
The whole time, Jörgen had had a feeling that there was something fishy. When he had found any file related to the area, important details were missing. There was a survey for the road and documents from the public electricity company. Plans for the telephone lines had not been registered and other mandatory documents, such as planning permission for the house, were missing. The closest he came to proof that electricity had been supplied to the house was an invoice, addressed to an official at the National Properties Board. There was no address, just the words “Not applicable”.
For some reason, the official’s personal identity number was written on the invoice. Given the date, he was either deceased or a vegetable in an old-aged care home.
Eilert Palmryd had been a civil servant at the National Properties Board, which implied that the building was government property. But why would his personal identity number be on the electricity bill to a state authority? The discrepancies increased as he searched through the old file binders. The property was on government-owned land, so it was not under the jurisdiction of the City Council – he would be unable to get any more from the City Council archives. Jörgen rang Tina, one of the newspaper’s top researchers, on his mobile phone. She had an inquiring mind, as sharp as a shark’s bite, and he needed that now.
“Check out an Eilert Palmryd straightaway,” Jörgen began. “He worked at the National Properties Board, but he’s probably dead.”
“So why do a background check?” asked Tina, chewing something.
“He was registered as the primary contact on an electricity bill for a property outside Örebro. There’s no paperwork on the house and the council say they can’t help me because the property is owned by the government.”
“I don’t have time,” Tina said. “In two days, I’m . . .”
“Listen to me,” Jörgen snapped. “I need to find out why there’s so much secrecy about this property. I’m in the middle of a huge story. If you help me, I’ll let you be part of it.”
Silence.
“What type of story?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Are you in or out?”
“You’ll have to tell me the story first.”
“It involves a scandal inside the police force. I don’t know more than that,” Jörgen said.
“Sounds like a helluva scoop,” sighed Tina sarcastically.
“OK, I can always ask someone else to help,” Jörgen replied.
Tina paused again. The only audible sound was her jaw chewing away. “I’ll want full credit if this turns into a story,” she said, after a moment’s thought.
“Goes without saying,” Jörgen said, remembering that he had already promised Miguel the same deal.
Jörgen gave Tina the information he had on Eilert Palmryd and left the Örebro City Council archive. He tried to call Jonna a few times, but did not get an answer. Then he tried calling and withholding his number, but she still didn’t answer. For a moment, Jörgen considered calling Walter, but immediately rejected the idea. He knew that he would get the silent treatment or – if he was lucky – one or two insults. Instead, he called Sebastian, who wondered if Jörgen was interested in sharing his company over the dinner table. They had not done much of that this week and Jörgen immediately felt a twinge of guilt. He vowed to make it up to Sebastian and suggested a late dinner at a restaurant. Sebastian swallowed the bribe and Jörgen avoided a potential lover’s tiff.
As he approached Bålsta, Tina rang him. Jörgen quickly took her call since he knew she would call only if she had some news.
“Listen to this,” she began.
“I’m all ears,” Jörgen replied impatiently.
“As you guessed, Eilert Palmryd is deceased. He died three years ago. I got hold of his son, who was not very chatty.”
“That’s a pity.”
“I did, however, run Palmryd through another government database.”
“Which one?” Jörgen asked curiously. “It’s after office hours and he’s been dead for three years. Even the public offices . . .”
“Remember where my brother works?”
Jörgen thought for a bit. “At the Social Services data centre, if I remember correctly,” he replied.
“Do you want to hear what we found, or not?”
“Yes, of course. Go ahead.”
“Eilert Palmryd was not an employee of the National Properties Board.”
“No? Then who did he work for?”
“His pension was paid by the Fortifications Authority.”
“The Fortifications Authority?”
“Yes, that’s the authority which maintains and operates the military and police properties. Any building with strategic or
military significance is administered by it.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Yes, go on.”
“The Fortifications Authority was formed in 1994, which was after he became a pensioner. So he must have been employed by the Fortifications Agency, which was its predecessor.”
“All right,” Jörgen said, “so that means that the house belongs to either the police or the military?”
“Probably,” agreed Tina.
“Why would he write down his name and personal ID? On other documents in the archives, the governmental body was listed as the owner.”
“Well,” Tina said, “the National Properties Board usually has an official assigned to each property that they own and, in accordance with the council bylaws, property owners must be registered, with their name and personal identity number.”
“Not so smart to use names if you want to conceal the real ownership,” Jörgen said.
“No, perhaps not. But it’s only remarkable if there is a reason to suspect that Palmryd didn’t work for the National Properties Board. Who would bother searching other databases to verify Palmryd’s employer?”
“Obviously, you would.”
“There must have been individuals at both the Fortifications Authority and the National Properties Board who knew about this,” added Tina.
“Why go to such lengths to disguise the real owner of the building?”
“To keep it a secret?”
“Exactly,” agreed Jörgen. “Either the police or the military want to keep the property a secret.”
“When are you going to let me in on the story? Who is this Palmryd?”
“As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know,” Jörgen said.
“Why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me everything?” she grumbled, putting something in her mouth.
If only she knew, Jörgen thought, turning off the motorway.
“Will you be coming to the newsroom? I’m working late.”
“Yes, but not straightaway,” Jörgen said. “I have a date with Sebastian this evening – if we can find a restaurant that’s still open.”
“Don’t you want me to tag along and keep you company?”
“Sounds tempting but . . .”
“Only teasing,” Tina joked. “Besides, you two only go to stuck-up, fancy restaurants.”
“You’re right,” Jörgen said. “They all have a dress code.”
“Are you saying my Bohemian indie style won’t get me in?”
“Possibly to a Pakistani takeaway in Bandhagen.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
Jörgen knew exactly what had to be done. First, he needed to convince the duty news-desk reporter and editor, both of whom were Jörgen’s enemies. Despite his exclusive last year, his success had been quickly forgotten. Around-the-clock news broadcasts made each story’s shelf life shorter. The general public was more interested in celebrity gossip than in stories that had social impact. There was much more public interest in discussing why the Minister for Education had a girlfriend twenty-five years younger than himself than in debating how to improve substandard school lunches. Stories had to be sensational to cut through the white noise of the media. Jörgen was determined to plough a deep furrow through the topsoil of bland news coverage.
“We’re going to publish some dramatic photographs of a police raid, on a house that’s owned either by themselves or the military, and expose Palmryd as a suspected spy,” he replied. “Either for a foreign power or some other Swedish agency.”
“The police raiding a top-secret facility should be on the front page,” said Tina, swallowing whatever was in her mouth in her excitement.
“I think so,” Jörgen said, also excited.
“I’ll ask for a comment from the Fortifications Authority tomorrow,” she said. “There is something fishy about Palmryd and the whole scam. I have a feeling this will turn into a really big story.”
Jörgen ended the conversation, satisfied with Tina’s contribution. She would also get a bit of the credit, just like Miguel. But just a bit.
Jonna turned on her TV just as the late news was starting. For once, she departed from her usual custom and put a sugar lump in her tea as she watched the flat screen. Air traffic out of Sweden was severely disrupted, because of freak blizzards over Germany and the Baltic. She was restless and turned off the TV. Instead, her eyes wandered to the world outside the window. It was the first time since leaving Alexander’s flat that she had thought of him. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have anything else to do. It would get worse. The first thing on her agenda tomorrow was to write up a report of her performance at Sigtuna and Märsta. Then there was a meeting with Internal Affairs.
Surely, he could have called her back? Even if she couldn’t answer, just to know that he was interested was important. If he didn’t call, that was fine too. Had she really misinterpreted his signals? He had told her that he had feelings for her and she had been quite certain that . . .
Jonna picked up the phone and dialled the number to Arlanda airport again. Busy.
She was probably not the only person wondering if the planes had taken off. She scrolled to Alexander’s mobile number and stared at the number. One pressed button to find out if he was still on the ground. She stroked her thumb over the green button a few times. Finally, she threw the mobile phone on the sofa and turned on her laptop, prodding the power button angrily. She browsed aimlessly for a while through the online newspaper editions and then logged into her email. Her inbox was full of advertising and other spam. Sandra had sent two emails with the subject “Any news?” Jonna guessed what she wanted to know, but didn’t have the energy to open the emails. Thirty minutes later, she turned off her bedside light.
Just as she was closing her eyes, a signal beeped from the sofa. She jumped out of bed. Five people were linked to that text-message signal. Alexander was one of them. She retrieved the phone from the sofa and looked at the display. It showed an alert about a missed call.
Irritatedly, she opened the missed-call listing, which probably contained Jörgen Blad’s phone number. But she saw Alexander’s number. She noted the time stamp, which said eleven minutes past twelve noon. At that time, she had been in the police garage, which did not have any reception. That had to be some sort of record for a delayed message alert, she thought, and swore silently to herself.
After three rings, she heard Alexander’s voice.
“I’m still on the ground,” he said dejectedly. “My flight was cancelled this morning because of the blizzards.”
“I just got my missed-call alert,” Jonna said, her mouth dry. “Are you still at Arlanda?”
“Not any more. I’ve booked a replacement flight in three days’ time.”
“How sad,” Jonna said, smiling to herself.
“Well, it was a lot of unnecessary hassle.”
“Why didn’t you wake me before you left?” It was just as well to get straight to the point.
“You looked awfully tired. In fact, you were totally unconscious on the sofa. I thought it best to let you sleep. I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.”
The wrong way? Jonna thought. “I think that’s my line,” she answered.
Alexander laughed. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
Jonna thought for a second. She had a gym session booked in the evening. And she was picking up her car from the garage directly after work. Then she had planned to clean her flat. The vacuuming was at the top of her “to-do” list.
“Nothing at all,” she answered.
“Great. Perhaps I can make dinner for you at my place?”
“No,” Jonna said straightaway. “You may not. If we’re going to eat dinner at home, then we’ll do it at my place.”
“Fine with me.”
She was just about to suggest a menu when her phone beeped. On the display, she saw Walter’s phone number. Jonna apologized, putting Alexander on hold.
“Yes?” she responded.
“You’re going to like this.”
A little later, Jonna was on her way out of the main entrance.
The van stopped again. Leo heard the sliding door open. There were the same voices as earlier. In another moment, some new voices. Speaking in English. Then it was quiet. Leo had not heard the old man’s voice since they had left the building. He wondered if they had arrived at their destination and expected the lid of the packing crate, which increasingly seemed like a coffin, to open. But the van began to move again. This time, someone else was driving. It was a bumpy ride and the vehicle rocked from side to side as if the driver was not used to driving vans.
Leo’s stomach was on fire. The pain spread up his lower back to the rest of his body. He coughed and felt beads of sweat forming on his brow. In each new attack, pain shot through his body. He had to find the strength to follow his plan to completion. If his resolve failed him now, he would never escape. With long, deep breaths, he tried to block out the pain. He closed his eyes and thought of Cecilia. Allowed himself to be comforted by the memory of her small, soft hands and her ever-so-curious eyes. With the same hunger for knowledge and absolute determination that he had once possessed. He had finally forgiven Anna. His recriminations were spent and her loss was greater than his physical pain. He was doing this for them. They would give him the strength he now so badly needed.
He gritted his teeth and felt adrenaline slowly dampening the worst of his pain. Finally, the van slowed down. He heard muted voices in agitated discussion. Something had happened, something his kidnappers had not planned for. A beautiful sound penetrated the packing crate’s walls and Leo felt hope once again.
Viktor Spjuth and Johan Ärenmark, both with barely a year on the force, were sitting in their unmarked police car, watching the motorway traffic on the E18 at Jakobsberg. They had no idea that they would be receiving a citation from the Minister for Justice in two months’ time.
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