Ultimatum

by Anders de la Motte

  For the third time in just a few minutes, Stenberg realized he was smiling. He quickly rearranged his features, then glanced at Karolina, who was sitting beside him in the backseat of a car that was slowly cruising through the flow of guests arriving at the church.

  But if his wife had noticed anything, she wasn’t showing it. Karolina looked fantastic. A black two-piece and a little pillbox hat, the veil of which stopped just above her perfectly straight nose. She was wearing suitably subdued pink lipstick instead of the usual red. Her heels were just the right height. As always, she radiated elegance. Her clothes, her posture, the way she spoke. That little thing she did with her chin when a topic of conversation seemed to interest her particularly.

  Karolina seemed to feel him looking at her, because she turned to him and gave him a cool little smile. “How does it feel, Jesper?”

  “Good,” he said. “Well, obviously it’s all very sad.” He gestured toward the black-clad figures outside the car.

  “John was your mentor,” Karolina said slowly. “One of the most important figures behind your success. He meant a great deal to you.”

  Stenberg nodded. Mentor, important figure, meant a great deal. The words led him into the correct emotional register and at last he managed to adopt an appropriate expression. Sad, concerned, empathetic.

  “A terrible tragedy,” he murmured. And heard, to his satisfaction, how genuine it sounded.

  The car pulled up in front of the church and Becker jumped out. Stenberg saw him nod to the suited bodyguard who was already waiting on the steps. Then he noticed the two dark Security Police vehicles parked in front of them. The prime minister was present, naturally. And the entire party entourage with him. Carina LeMoine and presumably her puppet, his very own recently appointed national police chief. All the supporting troops, everyone who—now that his problem had shuffled off this mortal coil—would propel him onward and upward. All the way to the top.

  Becker opened the door for him, and Gustavsson, the bodyguard who had driven the car, did the same for Karolina. Subdued organ music curled out of the open doors of the large church.

  Showtime, a little voice in his head said, and Stenberg had to make a real effort to keep his smile from breaking out again.

  • • •

  Stenberg had methodically worked his way through the front three rows. He signed the book of condolences in front of the lit candle and the photograph of John, conveyed his sincere condolences to John’s widow and sons. Then he shook his boss’s big paw and his father-in-law’s somewhat cooler one, and air-kissed Carina LeMoine. He hesitated momentarily in front of Eva Swensk. Did you air-kiss the most senior police officer in the country when she also happened to be in full uniform with sparkling new epaulettes? There couldn’t have been many people before him who’d had to ask themselves that question. He decided that the answer was no, and held his hand out for a firm shake. In her eyes he could see the expression of gratitude and respect that he had every right to expect.

  “Good to see you again,” she said. “Even if the circumstances are naturally very sad.”

  While Karolina made small talk with Eva Swensk, Stenberg caught sight of Oscar Wallin, who was lurking in the shadows toward the back of the church. Wallin’s presence surprised Stenberg somewhat. Was Wallin actually rather masochistic? Did he wear a hair shirt under those impeccably ironed tailor-made shirts that in all likelihood came from the same Östermalm tailor as his own?

  On an impulse he left Karolina and went over to him. Wallin raised his eyebrows slightly but made no attempt to retreat.

  “I didn’t know you and John were so close, Oscar.”

  Wallin pulled an inscrutable grimace. “I wanted to show my respects. Someone has to, after all.”

  Stenberg clenched his teeth. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe it would be a good idea if you moved back to Police Headquarters at once. To give you a chance to work your way back into the organization again.”

  Wallin didn’t answer. Instead he looked over at the group Stenberg had just left. “It’s odd.”

  “What?”

  “The way people you trust and respect can suddenly appear in a very different light. Almost from one day to the next.”

  Wallin smiled, a cold, reptilian smile that Stenberg had never seen before. He looked over at the other group again.

  “He looks happy, your father-in-law. Extremely happy, given that he’s attending a memorial service for a dead man. Things are going well for Karl-Erik now. And you, of course.”

  Stenberg reached out a hand and patted Wallin on the shoulder.

  “I’ll make sure the national police chief takes good care of you. Get you a good job, like I promised. Something that suits your abilities and ambitions.”

  Wallin turned his head and Stenberg couldn’t see the expression on his face. But that didn’t matter. This match was over. He had won, and no one could change that.

  “Do you know what else is odd?” Wallin’s voice was still surprisingly calm.

  “No, what?”

  “The way all the obstacles are disappearing, one way or another. John here, for instance”—Wallin gestured toward the table holding the photograph and book of condolences—“who happened to die after that article. Just before campaigning enters its final phase and he could do any real damage. Very practical for you, wouldn’t you say? If one were inclined toward conspiracy theories, one might almost say that John’s death is in many ways reminiscent of his daughter’s.”

  Stenberg felt a vein start to throb next to his right eyebrow. “What are you trying to say, Oscar?”

  “Only that it seems to be very dangerous to get in the way of your career. Lethal, in fact.”

  • • •

  The Royal Guard, who had been lined up along the walls during the priest’s eulogy and the obligatory speeches from John’s lawyer friends, walked out slowly to the notes of the final piece of music. Family and friends followed along slowly behind them.

  “Shall we go, Jesper?” Karolina leaned toward him to make herself heard above the organ. Rousing him from his thoughts.

  “Of course.” He stood up and gently ushered her out of the pew and toward the exit, where there was already quite a crowd. Becker appeared in front of them out of nowhere to clear a path for them.

  The ceremony had been admirably short. Evidently both the speakers and the priest had recognized that the congregation was made up of important people who had appointments to keep and decisions to make. But Stenberg had only been half listening. Wallin’s insinuations had unsettled him. Both Sophie and John Thorning were dead, and they had both threatened his position in some way. But Sophie had been unstable and prone to suicidal thoughts. The fact that she had finally carried out her threat wasn’t really that much of a surprise. And John had just turned sixty-nine. He was already on his cardiologist’s danger list after a warning murmur a couple of years ago. A long working life full of late nights, too much whiskey, and unhealthy meals had finally taken its toll. Considering his daughter’s tragic suicide and the stress of being general secretary of the Bar Association, as well as running one of the country’s most prestigious legal practices, it was almost astonishing that John’s heart hadn’t given out sooner. Even so, Stenberg couldn’t drop the thought. What if someone had cleared John Thorning out of the way? Someone who thought he constituted a serious threat to the party . . .

  Becker led them on purposefully. His colleague Gustavsson fell in behind them, sealing them off from the crowd. They emerged into the fresh air and Stenberg took the opportunity to take a couple of deep breaths and tug at his shirt to stop it from sticking to his back. He looked around for Wallin but could see no sign of him. Just as well. Once again Wallin had planted a thought in his head, one he was going to have to work to get rid of. Idle nonsense from an embittered man.

  Karl-Erik had somehow managed to get out before them
. He and Nisse Boman were talking to a uniformed man with a somber, stony face. As they approached he exchanged a quick handshake with the man, who walked away.

  “Well, then,” his father-in-law said. “That’s done. Sad business. The Thorning family really has had its fair share of tragedies.” He smiled in a way that was probably supposed to look sad. Stenberg found himself staring at his father-in-law, but the gray eyes behind his glasses weren’t giving anything away.

  “Who was that you were talking to?” Karolina asked.

  “Oh, just an old acquaintance I haven’t seen for a while. Erik Ohlén, remember him? He, Nisse, and I all did our paratrooper training together. Erik’s in charge of the Military Intelligence and Security Service. I’ll introduce you sometime.”

  Karolina said something that Stenberg didn’t catch. Karl-Erik seemed just as calm and relaxed as he usually was. Even so, there was something that made Stenberg react. A dissonant note in his father-in-law’s voice.

  It’s odd, the way people you trust and respect can suddenly appear in a very different light. Almost from one day to the next, Wallin whispered softly inside his head.

  Stenberg felt himself drifting off and forced himself back to the present. From the corner of his eye he saw Nisse Boman watching him.

  “I thought I might skip coffee,” Karl-Erik said. “I’ve never really liked that sort of occasion. I’ve booked a private table at the Grand, if you’d care to join me? Two members of the Law Council will be coming as well. It could be a very interesting discussion.”

  Stenberg opened his mouth to decline the offer, but Karolina was quicker.

  “Of course we’d like to. Wouldn’t we, Jesper?”

  Stenberg forced a smile. “Of course.”

  “How are you feeling?” Karl-Erik said. “You look a little pale. Perhaps there’s been a bit too much death for your taste as well?”

  • • •

  The food at the Grand Hôtel was exquisite. Arctic char with dill potatoes, a dry white wine that Stenberg could have identified without listening to the sommelier. Karl-Erik’s choices were predictable. No surprises. No risks.

  But instead of enjoying the bouquet, Stenberg quickly emptied his glass. The wine blended with the aperitif that was already sloshing about in his stomach. He could feel Karolina looking at him. Ordinarily he would have looked up and nodded to her to show that he was going to take it easy. But nothing was the same as usual today.

  They were in a private dining room, just as his father-in-law had promised. Heavy curtains, thick carpet, oil paintings on the walls. The serving staff in their white uniforms slipped in and out of the room. Fast, discreet.

  He glanced at his father-in-law. Karl-Erik and Karolina were engaged in an intense discussion with the members of the Law Council. In some regards, the three men were almost comically similar. All around sixty, all in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties. But Karl-Erik had fewer double chins than the others, and no visible signs of encroaching baldness. Karl-Erik’s posture was like a steel spring, the eyes behind his dark-framed glasses alert and engaged. Stenberg had always regarded his father-in-law as something of an auditor. Slightly dull and prone to admonishing people. That was a view that many in the party seemed to share. Karl-Erik was no leader, not like the prime minister, who was the sort of man who used his whole hand to point things out and wasn’t afraid of flattening people, whether or not it was necessary. There were plenty of people who disliked, perhaps even hated, the prime minister. And who were waiting for a suitable opportunity to exact payback for past injustices. No one had strong views of that sort about Karl-Erik Cedergren. Karl-Erik kept on good terms with everyone, challenged no one, and sought consensus as far as possible.

  He was the person who stepped in once the dust had settled. The person who smoothed things over, soothed hurt feelings, bolstered battered egos, and helped everyone move on. Over the years he must have built up an immense store of reputational capital, both within the party and the apparatus of the state, especially if he used Boman to clean away troublesome mistakes and blunders discreetly.

  Karl-Erik wasn’t regarded as a threat. But perhaps that was actually a huge underestimation. In an age when everything was about rapid decision making, Twitter storms and revelations, and deals being revealed and concluded in less than a week, Karl-Erik was still working long-term. A cunning old spider who was slowly and methodically weaving a web that was large enough to catch not just one fly but all of them.

  Soon the prime minister would be forced to step aside, and the party would enter a new phase. A phase that Karl-Erik had spent his entire professional life preparing for and had even dragged his own daughter into. Because the final little detail that was required for Karl-Erik’s spider’s web to be finished was a crown prince. Someone who would be granted power, no matter what the cost.

  Stenberg realized he was staring at his father-in-law. Karl-Erik looked up and met his gaze for a moment. Gave him a slightly wry smile. A smile that was neither triumphant nor even irritating.

  John Thorning had realized that Karl-Erik was the man behind Stenberg’s cometlike career. Judging by the newspaper article, John would rather see him fall, would rather sink his own protégé, than let himself be outmaneuvered and sidelined by Karl-Erik. John Thorning had seen through Karl-Erik. Had challenged him. And now John was dead.

  Stenberg raised his wineglass to his mouth, but all that was left was a little drop at the bottom that wasn’t going to come close to quenching his thirst. He looked at the waiter and saw that the man was already on his way over to him. Karolina’s eyes were burning into the back of his neck, but he chose not to look in her direction. Instead he carried on observing his father-in-law. Studied the man’s restrained body language, trying to work out what thoughts were going through his head. For almost twenty years he and Karl-Erik had socialized and spent time together. But just then, at that moment, Stenberg doubted he knew the other man at all.

  Thirty-Three

  Atif got off the subway at Farsta strand. He kept his eyes on the platform, not giving in to the temptation to look up at any of the security cameras on the roof. His cap and sunglasses weren’t a foolproof disguise, and it would be stupid to tempt fate now that they were so close.

  Freedom was just a few hours away. They had four tickets booked on the evening flight to Zürich. As soon as the banks opened the next morning he would empty Gilsén’s anonymous numbered account. Then it was just a matter of working through the checklist:

  1.Pay Natalie, thank her for her help, and say good-bye.

  2.Transfer payment for the large house in Abu Dhabi for which he had submitted a bid.

  3.Transfer money to his aunt’s account so she and his mother could get there.

  4.Buy tickets for himself, Cassandra, and Tindra. Business-class, with Etihad.

  5.Leave Europe for good.

  Once he had passed the barriers and emerged into freedom, he checked the time. Ten minutes until Natalie put her part of the plan into practice. He ought to be there with her instead of running a simple errand, but Natalie had forbidden that. She said that under no circumstances was he—regardless of whether or not he was in disguise—to show himself in the vicinity of the apartment on Grimstagatan. She said his presence would make the entire operation ten times more risky than if she did it all herself, and she was right, of course.

  Even so, that morning he had hesitated again. Wondered if Natalie was planning to trick him somehow. She was smart, much smarter than he was or anyone he knew. Considering that she’d made a living from lies and deception, it seemed reasonable to question her motives. But he didn’t really have any choice. He glanced as his watch. Three minutes, then his, Cassandra, and Tindra’s futures were entirely in Natalie Aden’s hands. And all he could do was mutter a quiet prayer that nothing would go wrong.

  • • •

  Natalie looked at the time
. Two minutes to go. She ran her ChapStick over her lips, tried to get her hands to stop shaking. Nerves, she thought. Nerves were her biggest enemy right now. They could force her to make a mistake, to make ill-considered decisions. She had to calm down. Follow the plan.

  On the seat beside her lay four cell phones, all pay-as-you-go, impossible to trace. The car was ready: Atif had stolen the new license plates the night before from an extended-stay parking lot. She took a quick look at the rearview mirror and concluded that her horn-rimmed glasses and combed-back hair made her look completely different. What with the green paramedic’s outfit she had ordered online, the person in the mirror was practically a stranger, or at least a very distant acquaintance.

  One minute: time to focus.

  She quickly went through her checklist again. Cassandra had received the parcel, a box covered with the Ellos home-shopping logo that not even the most suspicious cop could object to. Natalie had checked on the courier’s website and had seen that Cassandra had signed for it in capital letters, the way she was supposed to if everything was okay.

  Natalie looked at her watch again. Thirty seconds to go. She picked up one of the phones. One, one, two, so easy to do . . .

  “SOS one one two, what’s the nature of the emergency?” the operator said.

  “There’s a fire!” she shouted at the phone, trying to sound shrill and hysterical. “A really bad fire. Please hurry!”

  “Try to calm down,” the operator said. “A fire, you say. What address?”

  “Grimstagatan, number 161. Come quickly—please!” Natalie cut the call off. Then she picked up the next phone.

  Same number, different operator.

  “SOS one one two, what’s the nature of the emergency?”

  “Hello,” she said, in as low and nasal a voice as she could manage. “I just thought I should let you know that there’s smoke coming out of the building on the other side of the road. I live at Grimstagatan . . .”

  • • •