Firewall

by Mankell Henning

  "But how could it have ended up there?"

  "We don't know that yet, but I'm calling because I'm hoping you'll be able to help me with something else."

  "Are you planning to come over?"

  "The phone is fine."

  "Don't you ever sleep, by the way?"

  "Things get a little hectic at times. Now, the question I have to ask you will seem a little odd."

  "That's no surprise. I think everything about you is a little odd, if you don't mind my being completely honest while we're talking like this in the middle of the night."

  Her comment threw him. "I don't understand."

  She laughed. "Don't take it to heart. I didn't mean it so seriously. It's just that I find it funny when people who are obviously thirsty decline a drink, and people who are dying of hunger won't accept any food. That's all."

  "I wasn't thirsty or hungry. If you're referring to me, that is."

  "Who do you think?"

  Wallander wondered why he couldn't tell her the truth. What was he afraid of? He didn't think she believed him.

  "Have I offended you?"

  "Not at all," he said. "Can I ask you my question?"

  "Of course."

  "Could you tell me how Falk used a computer keyboard?"

  "That was your question?"

  "Yes."

  "He used a keyboard the way anyone would."

  "But people often type in different ways. The stereotype of a policeman, for example, is someone pecking away at an old typewriter with two index fingers."

  "I see what you're getting at."

  "Did he use all his fingers when he was typing?"

  "I don't think many people do."

  "So he used a couple of fingers?"

  "Yes."

  Wallander held his breath. He was about to find out if his hunch had been correct.

  "Which fingers did he use?"

  "I have to think about it. To make sure I'm right."

  Wallander waited with excitement. She was fully awake now and he knew she was trying her best to help him.

  "I'd like to call you back," she said. "There's something I'm not sure about. It'll be easier if I sit down at the computer. That will jog my memory."

  Wallander gave her his home phone number. Then he waited at the kitchen table. His head ached. Tomorrow I have to try to get an early night, he thought. Whatever happens. He wondered how Nyberg was doing. If he was sleeping or tossing restlessly.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. He wondered nervously if it could be another journalist but decided it was too early for that. He picked up the receiver. She launched directly into what she had to say.

  "It was the second finger on the right hand and the fourth finger on the left hand."

  Wallander felt a stir of excitement. "Are you positive?"

  "Yes. It's a pretty unusual way of typing, but that's what he did."

  "Good," Wallander said. "That confirms something for us."

  "You will understand that you've made me very curious."

  Wallander considered telling her about the missing fingers, but decided to hold off.

  "Unfortunately I can't tell you more at this point. Perhaps at a later date. Don't forget to fax me the list of clients tomorrow. Good night, and thank you."

  "Good night."

  Wallander got up and walked to the window. The temperature had risen to about 7°C. The wind was still strong and there was a light rain. It was 2.56 a.m. Wallander went back to bed, but the missing fingers danced in front of his eyes for a long time before he managed to sleep.

  The man in the shadows in Runnerströms Torg was counting his breaths. He had learned to do this as a child. Breathing and patience were connected. A person had to know when it was best to wait. Listening to his own breathing was also a way to keep his anxiety in check. There had been too many unanticipated happenings. It wasn't possible to have total control over a situation, he knew, but Tynnes Falk's death had been a huge blow. They were busy reorganising and control would soon be established, which was just as well since time was running out. If there was no more interference, they would be able to stay on track with their original schedule.

  He thought about the man who lived far away in tropical darkness. He held everything in his hand. A man he had never met, yet one he both feared and respected. There could be no mistakes. Mistakes would not be tolerated. But there were no grounds for his anxiety. Who would be able to break into the computer that functioned at the heart of the operation? It was simply a failure of confidence. If there was any mistake so far it was that he had not managed to kill the policeman in Falk's flat. But even so they were safe. The policeman probably didn't know anything.

  Falk himself had often said: nothing and no-one is ever completely safe. And he had been right. Now he was dead. No-one could ever be totally safe.

  They had to take care. The man who now stood alone at the helm had told him to hold off and see what happened next. If the policeman was attacked a second time it would only attract unnecessary attention.

  He had kept watch outside the building on Apelbergsgatan, and when the policeman made his way to Runnerströms Torg he had followed him. He had been expecting this, that they would find the secret office. A little later another policeman had arrived, carrying bags. The first policeman had then left the flat only to return about an hour later. Then they had both left Falk's office before midnight.

  He had continued to wait, all the while counting his breaths. Now it was 3 a.m. and the square was deserted. He was cold. He decided it was very unlikely that anyone would come at this time. Finally, he slid out of the shadows and walked across the street. He unlocked the front door and ran soundlessly up the stairs. He had his gloves on when he unlocked the door to the flat. He walked in, turned on his flashlight and looked around. They had found the door to the inner room, but he had expected that. Without really knowing why, he had developed a kind of respect for the policeman he had tried to kill. His reflexes had been very quick, despite the fact that he was no longer a young man. He must have learned this early in life. It was always a mistake to underestimate an opponent.

  He trained the flashlight on the computer and started it up. The monitor came on and after a while he was able to search out the file that showed him when the computer was last booted up. Six days ago. The policemen had not touched it.

  It was too soon to feel safe, however. It might simply be a question of time. They could be planning to use a specialist and that caused him a twinge of anxiety, but the bottom line was that no matter who they used they would not be able to break the codes. Not in a thousand years. Someone with an extreme and heightened intuition might have some luck, but how likely was it when they didn't know what they were looking for? They couldn't imagine what this computer was set up to do, not in their wildest dreams.

  He left the flat as silently as he had come and melted back into the night.

  When Wallander woke the next morning, he felt as if he had overslept. But when he looked at the clock it was only 6.05 a.m. He had slept for 3 hours. He fell back against the pillows. His head was pounding from lack of sleep. I need to more minutes, he thought. Make that 7. I can't get up right now. But he forced himself up and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. His eyes were bloodshot. He stepped into the warm spray of the shower and leaned against the wall like a horse. Slowly he came back to life.

  At 6.55 a.m., he was in the station car park. It was still raining. Hansson was unusually early. He was in the reception area flipping through a newspaper. He was also wearing a suit and tie. His normal outfit consisted of wrinkled corduroy trousers and shirts that hadn't been ironed.

  "Is it your birthday?" Wallander said.

  Hansson shook his head. "I happened to see myself in the mirror the other day. Not a pretty picture. I thought I should try to make more of an effort. Anyway, it's Saturday. We'll see how long it lasts."

  They walked to the canteen together and had the obligatory cup of coffee. Wallander told
him what had happened during the night.

  "That's crazy," Hansson said. "What kind of a sicko dumps a corpse on the street?"

  "That's what we're paid to find out," Wallander said. "By the way, you're in charge of looking out for dogs tonight."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It's Martinsson's idea. He says someone walking a dog might have noticed something unusual along Missunnavägen last night. We thought you could be posted there to stop them as they walk by."

  "Why me?"

  "You like dogs, don't you?"

  "I have plans tonight. It's Saturday, remember?"

  "You'll be able to do both. It's fine if you get there shortly before 11 p.m."

  Hansson nodded. Wallander had never liked him much, but he had to commend him for his willingness to put in the time when needed.

  "I'll see you at 8 a.m. in the conference room," Wallander said. "We need to review and discuss the developments."

  "It doesn't seem as if we do anything else. And where does it get us?"

  Wallander sat at his desk, looked over his notes and let himself sink deeply into thought. Nothing in all of this makes any sense, he thought. I can't find a beginning or an end. I have no idea why these people have died. But there has to be a motive in here somewhere.

  He got up and walked to the window, coffee cup in hand.

  What would Rydberg do? he thought Would he have had any advice in this situation? Or would he feel as lost as I do?

  Rydberg remained silent.

  It was 7.30 a.m. Wallander sat down again. He had to prepare for their meeting. After all, he was the one who had to lead the work. He backtracked to try to gain a new perspective. Which events lay at the core of all this? What were the connections? It was charting a solar system where the planets circled not a sun, but a black hole.

  There's a main figure in all this, he thought. There's always a protagonist. Not everyone is of equal importance. Not all the people who have died are major players. But who is who, and how am I supposed to tell them apart? What story is being enacted?

  He was back where he started. The only thing he felt sure of was that the taxi driver's murder was neither a likely centre nor a catalyst for the events that followed.

  That left Falk. There had to be a connection between him and Hökberg, indicated by the relay and the power substation blueprint. That's what they had to concentrate on. The connection was so far inexplicable, but it was there. He pushed away his notes, and sat there for a few more minutes. I can't see anything in what I've written, he thought. He heard Höglund laugh in the corridor. That didn't happen every day. He gathered up his papers and headed to the conference room.

  They made a thorough review of the case material. It took almost 3 hours. The tired and despondent mood in the room slowly lifted.

  Nyberg had appeared at 8.30 a.m. He sat at the far end of the table without saying a word. Wallander looked at him, but Nyberg shook his head. He had nothing crucial to tell them.

  "Could someone be laying out false tracks deliberately?" Höglund wondered while they were taking a break to stretch their legs. "Maybe this is all very simple when it comes down to it. Maybe all we need is a motive."

  "And what would that be?" Martinsson said. "A person who steals from a taxi driver has a very different motive from someone who burns a young woman to death, and causes blackouts in much of Skåne. And bear in mind that we don't know for sure whether Falk was murdered. My inclination is still to chalk it up to a natural death, or just possibly to an accident."

  "It would be easier if he was murdered," Wallander said. "Then we could be sure that we were dealing with a related series of crimes."

  They closed the windows and sat back down at the table.

  "It seems to me that the most serious event so far is that someone tried to shoot you," Höglund said. "It's very rare that a burglar is ready to shoot dead someone who happens to cross his path."

  "I don't know that I would call it more serious than anything else here," Wallander said. "But it does say something about the degree of ruthlessness in the people behind all this. Whatever it is they're trying to do."

  They continued analysing the various crimes, turning each in as many directions as possible. Wallander didn't say much, but he listened attentively to all the others. During difficult investigations it had sometimes happened that a casual phrase or even a rephrasing of something had caused the case to break open. They were looking for openings now, and a centre.

  During the final hour each person went through the tasks they had completed and read out what was still to be done. Shortly before 11 a.m. Wallander decided that they could go no further.

  "This will take time," he said. "It is also possible that we're going to need help. I'll talk to Holgersson. I don't think there's any use staying here any longer, though that doesn't mean we can take the weekend off. We need to keep going."

  Hansson left to speak to a prosecutor who had demanded to be kept up to date. Martinsson went to his office to call home. Wallander had asked him earlier to accompany him to the office on Runnerströms Torg when the meeting was over. Nyberg sat at the table for a while longer pulling at his thin wisps of hair. Then he got up and left without saying a word. Höglund was the only one left. Wallander realised she wanted to talk to him about something, so he closed the door.

  "I've been thinking," she said. "That man who shot at you.

  "Yes?"

  "He saw you. And he didn't hesitate to shoot, not for a second."

  "I'd rather not think too much about that."

  "But maybe you should."

  Wallander looked at her closely. "What are you getting at?"

  "I just think that you should be extra careful. He may have been taken by surprise, but I don't believe we can rule out that he thinks you know something. And for that reason he may try again."

  It frightened him that he hadn't considered this himself.

  "I don't want to scare you," she said. "But I had to say it."

  "I'll think about it. The question is: what could he think I know?"

  "Maybe he's right and you do know something that's dangerous to him. But you're just not aware of what you know."

  Another thought came to Wallander. "Maybe we should post some officers at Apelsbergsgatan and Runnerströms Torg. No patrol cars, nothing too noticeable. Just in case."

  She agreed and left to arrange it. Wallander was left with his fear. He thought about Linda. Then he shook out his arms and shoulders and walked out to the reception area to wait for Martinsson.

  They arrived at the flat at Runnerströms Torg shortly before noon. Although Martinsson was mainly interested in the computer, Wallander wanted to show him Falk's secret room and altar first.

  "Too much time in cyberspace makes people a little strange," Martinsson said. "This whole flat gives me the creeps."

  Wallander was thinking about Martinsson's choice of words. Cyberspace. C-space. The same word Falk had written in his diary.

  "C-space is quiet." No messages from his friends.

  What message was he waiting for? Wallander thought. I'd give an awful lot to know that right now.

  Martinsson took off his coat and sat at the computer. Wallander stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.