by Jon Stenhugg
So this was where some of the Shkvals and their warheads were manufactured. It made sense. Hurtree had heard of the military school at Paldiski, set up to train engineers to run nuclear-powered submarines. Before it closed, the school had two live reactors which manufactured plutonium as a byproduct, so the fuel to make a nuclear warhead was easy to come by. Now all that remained of that activity in Paldiski was radioactive waste and some dandelion plants with leaves that seemed way too large.
Hurtree tried to get more detail from the man across the table, asking him if he knew of a man called Spimler.
“Njet,” said his drinking companion. “Kein Spimler hier.”
“He’s a Swede.” Hurtree motioned to a bottle of Absolut vodka. “Spimler. Stockholm.”
“No Spimler.” The man began to adjust to English. “No many Swedes. Only Swede vodka.” And he laughed, displaying his toothless gums.
Hurtree filled his companion’s glass from his bottle of Swedish firewater and provided another name. “Schneller? Ever heard of a man named Schneller?”
His drinking companion looked deep into his glass and an answer seemed close to bubbling forth, but he clammed up when the café owner appeared behind the counter. It was time to leave anyway. Hurtree thanked his new drinking buddy for the company in at least three languages and narrowly managed to escape a Russian drunken hug as he left the café.
*
He got onto the train just as the doors closed, three minutes ahead of schedule, and sat down on one of the green plastic seats next to a window, alone except for the driver and the conductor. The floor of the car was grey-speckled plastic, the walls were made of blue plastic and the ceiling was yet another green colour, also in plastic. The entire train was vandal-proof and washable with a fire hose, making it easy to clean; the McDonald’s of trains.
The sun’s rays slanted in from the west as the train left Paldiski, and it would soon be dark. As the train passed the Paldiski Oil Terminal, minutes after departure, Hurtree saw surprise on the faces of a group of passengers waiting on the platform as the train failed to stop.
A few minutes later, the train pulled into Keila station, and a man whose face was nearly covered by a pair of sunglasses entered the train, being led by a large black dog on a leash. He sat down across from Hurtree and commanded his dog to sit. “Kerber, Sidetz.”
The dog sat on his haunches in the space between the other empty seats and the two men, blocking Hurtree’s exit to the aisle. The dog Kerber looked first at his master, then stared at Hurtree as he sniffed the air.
Hurtree found it uncomfortable to return the man’s blind stare, and the dog made him even more uncomfortable, so he looked out the window instead, even though there was little to look at. A multitude of birch trees flashed by, then a small, sluggish stream with water the colour of ink, then more birch trees soaking their roots in black, swampy water.
Hurtree returned his gaze to the man dressed in a blue windbreaker and a pair of dark trousers. The few grey hairs he had left had been swept forward to cover a bald spot which grew from his forehead. He smiled at Hurtree from under the sunglasses, revealing three stainless steel teeth at the front of his mouth.
“You American?” asked the blind man suddenly, and Hurtree turned away, surprised and uneasy.
“You Russian?” replied Hurtree, and he watched as the stainless steel smile widened before the response.
“Yes, I Russian,” said the man. “You like Paldiski?”
Hurtree didn’t reply at first. He examined the man in front of him, then focussed on the dog, still blocking his only route of escape.
“Not blind?” asked Hurtree.
“Oh yes, I blind. Only see what want see. Kerber, dog, has many eyes, he see all. You like Paldiski?”
“No,” said Hurtree, “but they have good vodka.”
“Russian vodka very good,” said the man. “You go Paldiski drink vodka?”
“Paldiski vodka very cheap,” said Hurtree, chopping up his grammar to match the situation.
The man smiled again. “Yes, I see. Like Paldiski torpedz,” he said. “Very cheap.”
The statement caught Hurtree by surprise, and he lurched back against the vinyl seat. “You sell torpedoes?” He scanned the train for other passengers, but they were still alone. The train flew through the next station without stopping.
“Torpedz very dangerous,” said the man. “Best not buy.” The black Labrador fixed his reddish eyes on Hurtree, panting and occasionally baring his teeth. Small drops of dog saliva began to spatter the train’s linoleum floor.
“I heard about someone who bought one, “said Hurtree, staring back at the dog, “but he lost it. Very expensive.”
“Should drink vodka before you pay,” the man said, “then you never lose. You ask man in café about Schneller. You know Schneller?”
“Yeah,” said Hurtree, suddenly aware of what was happening, “I know someone named Schneller.”
“Schneller in prison,” said the blind man. “You visit him?”
“No,” said Hurtree, “I don’t think they’d let me in to visit.”
“Hmmm,” said the man. “But you know Schneller.”
“Yeah, a long time ago.”
Stop after stop was missed, and the train remained empty except for Hurtree, the blind man and his dog.
“Dangerous, Schneller,” said the blind man. “Dangerous, Paldiski. You must be very old man, Mr American.”
“You got that right,” said Hurtree.
“You CIA man?”
“No.” Hurtree stared at the man’s dark glasses, trying to make out something he could use later in an identification.
“You talk Schneller,” said the blind man. The train slowed down and he rose to get off at the next station. “Tell him do his job or he die. My dog no like you, Mr American.”
“Tell your dog I don’t much like him either,” said Hurtree, and he watched as the man walked through the open doors of the car ahead of his dog. The dog backed his way off the train, guarding against any attack.
When the train arrived in Tallinn, the taxi that bore Hurtree to the ferry terminal fought its way through the evening rush hour. He asked the driver to stop at the café just across the street from the terminal. Hurtree looked inside to see if the Retro Café lived up to its name and the description that Captain Peters had given him. It was painted in orange and brown, colours which reminded him of the 70s in Germany. The place was empty, and he glanced at his watch. He had no time to order, so he ran across the street to the terminal. He tried to call Sara Markham but got only a busy signal. He was the last person to board and he showed his boarding pass to the guard, went through the non-existent customs and then down to his cabin in the bowels of the ferry. The party had already begun on both sides of his cabin.
It’s going to be another long night.
Sara tried to return Hurtree’s call, but the ship’s metal hull shielded his cell phone from her.
The previous day Sara had left her flat while Hurtree was still eating breakfast. She had rushed to Police Headquarters on Kungsholmen, and met Sven in the lift. He said he was just returning from a meeting with Ekman, and she followed him into his room.
“Like I said when you called, I was there when they got Lemko,” Sara said as Sven sat behind his desk, leaving her standing in front of him like some child on report to the school principal. “I’d like to explain what I saw, what I did, and let you decide if what I did was as serious as Ekman has said.”
“OK.” Sven opened a notepad and took up a pen. “So tell me.”
Sara gave him a complete description of the trip, including picking up Hurtree. She told him of their miserable, freezing stakeout, Hurtree’s observations about Schneller, his use of tunnels, disguises and his escape, including her honking the horn to attract the attention of the SWAT team and the chase that led to the ferry terminal.
Sara continued, “And then Hurtree sees something and he tells me he thinks Schneller, uh, Lemko,
is in the women’s toilet, and so I go in, and then, uh, I see that he’s dressed like a woman and I tell him to stop and he tries to get away, so I—”
“Wait,” Sven interrupted, “stop a minute. Did you say you caught Lemko in the women’s toilet? I heard you were just talking to him in the customs search room.”
“Yeah, that’s where we were sitting when Ekman came in. I never got a chance to tell anyone about what happened before, until now.” Sara began to relax.
“And Hurtree was there the whole time?” asked Sven.
“Not during my questioning of Lemko. He was outside during that. I think he went down to the car to talk to a traffic warden.”
“So Hurtree could back up your story about you catching Lemko?” asked Sven.
“Back up? Wait a minute, am I the one being investigated here? I don’t think I understand.”
“You weren’t supposed to be there at all,” said Sven with a wide grin on his face, “but I’m glad you were. I’m glad Hurtree was there too, and I’m very pleased you got this case solved. I’ll take care of this with Ekman, don’t worry about it. You can talk to Cantsten and tell her she should be talking to Ekman from now on, and tell her Lemko confessed. You don’t have to give her any details about you being there, since you weren’t, officially. By the way, you should write some kind of report describing what you just told me, but give it a touristy twist, if you know what I mean.”
“What about Spimler? He’s still missing, and there was a clear connection to Hoffberg. What should we do about that?”
“Let Ekman take care of it,” said Sven, and he clapped his hands as his smile widened. “For us, case closed.”
*
When Sara got to the Hoffberg room, Robert was already clearing it up. Sara shook her head as she saw him putting the last of the files into a cardboard moving box.
“So where’s the joy in solving this case?” she asked. “It feels like cleaning up after a mess I made when I was a kid. I used to try, but cleaning it up only smeared it around more than before. When I was done, I had a half-dirty cleaning rag and a half-dirty floor.”
“Don’t worry,” said Robert. “There’re two of us, so I’ll get the other half. And anyway, you got the case solved, even if Ekman gets to take all the credit.”
“Only halfway,” said Sara. “We still didn’t find Spimler. And I have this feeling he’s important.”
“He might still be in the water,” said Robert. “You asked me to track back to where his boat drifted from. I did that, and I know where it is, at least within a close margin of error.”
“You do?” asked Sara, and she could hear her voice change. She knew that she shouldn’t, but she had to ask. “You don’t suppose you could tell me where that would be?”
“I already put a copy on your desk,” said Robert, and he seemed to rise two inches in stature. “I knew you’d want to see it as soon as you came in. Even before I heard about Lemko’s capture.” He grinned his twelve-year-old-kid grin, someone who just got to do something naughty. “And of course, I’ve included the original in the box that I’ll be sending to Ekman sometime this afternoon. Way down on the bottom of the pile.”
*
The coordinates which Robert had received from the weather service were marked as a dot on a map of Stockholm city, surrounded by an ellipse indicating the margin of error owing to possible changes in the wind and current on the day of Spimler’s disappearance. It was only ten o’clock in the morning and Sara knew the patrol officer she’d met out at Hoffberg’s house would be munching his daily doughnut right about then.
“Hi, Burger, it’s Sara Markham, from the Hoffberg case, remember?”
She was right. She could hear him swallowing a gulp of cop-fuel as he answered, and yeah, he’d be able to pick her up with his boat in less than an hour. He was nearby and he’d be happy to contribute to closing the case. He was already on the way to pick her up at the dock on the harbour side of City Hall.
Sara had to walk through a crowd of newlywed couples. Their friends and relatives had just helped them officiate a Swedish civil wedding, a simple signing of a register and the payment of a fee, the first in a coming story of insolent, penalising taxation of married couples. It was a memorable day to be married, their clothes flapping like sails in the brisk air, their happiness turning to grimaces as they tried to digitalise their freezing moment for eternity. One of the couples had hired a Scottish exchange student to play bagpipes and his knees were beginning to turn blue in the cold.
Sara made her way down to the steps leading to the water, and waited for the police boat approaching from the distance, blue light flashing and siren warning other vessels to heave to. She boarded with a little difficulty as the choppy waters tossed the boat up and down, then they departed. After a few minutes they were slowing down, and they both watched the GPS readout on the screen.
“It’s here,” said Burger into the wind. “Your coordinates indicate Spimler’s boat started drifting somewhere around here.”
“OK,” Sara shouted back. “Is there any chance we could get a look at the bottom? I’m looking for a body. And there might be a long object too, sort of like a piece of pipe about eight yards long.”
Burger smiled, blinked his eyes against the spray and began flipping some switches. Within a minute the screen in front of them changed its view, and the GPS map became a blue screen with occasional black objects flitting out of focus.
“Fish,” shouted Burger into the wind. “This is a fish-finder. We could get lucky and be able to find an object on the bottom. It’s sort of like radar, though: you can see something, but you don’t always know what it is.”
As he said that, Sara saw a long silhouette appear, with an outgrowth at one end, resembling a cherry stuck to a chopstick.
“There. What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a piece of pipe with something stuck to it,” said Burger. “Or maybe a shark with someone sticking out of its mouth. I suppose you want me to dive and check it out?”
Sara didn’t have to answer. Burger threw out an anchor and was putting on a wetsuit before could she turn away, and she caught a glimpse of his beer-belly as he took off his shirt.
“This is my built-in air bag,” he said, slapping the jelly blob. “I know what you’re thinking, and yeah, I should work out more, but I have some very strong habits. And most of them are bad for me.”
Burger dropped into the water beside the boat after throwing out a red and white diver’s flag. His head appeared on the surface after only a few minutes and he spluttered, waves filling his mouth between phrases “There’s a dead man, a diver pinned down by a long green thing down there. Never seen anything like it before – looks like a rocket. There’re some markings on it. Think it was some Cyrillic letters followed by 111, something like that. It’s pointed right at the Parliament Building.”
Sara used her left hand to call while her right hand was helping the officer into the boat.
Sven answered from the room where they always drank coffee in the afternoon. “Yeah, Sara, where are you?”
“I’m in a police patrol boat. Centre of the city, just east of Långholmen. I think I’ve found Spimler, and the torpedo. I’m looking straight at the Parliament Building.”
“Stay put,” replied Sven, and ended the call without another word.
They didn’t have to wait long for company. By the time the maritime officer had dried off and was clothed again there was a helicopter buzzing above them. Sara’s phone beeped with a message telling her she’d just missed a phone call from Hurtree, and she tried to call back but the call failed. She was shivering, and she didn’t know if it was from the cold, or the fear of what they’d just found.
Part 3
Chapter 19
The centre of Stockholm between the fungal end of autumn in September and the crisp smell of ice in January. October was a leafless month. The wind blew around bared branches and houses built of stone. It carried the memory of autumn
one day, and was bitterly cold on the next. Today the wind came off the North Pole, and brought the touch of a rasp which chafed Sara’s nose red as she and the officer sat in his patrol boat. They hunkered against the cold and spray, following their orders to stay put.
The blue and white police helicopter circling over their heads called attention to their position. Sara could see people on shore pointing to them as they bobbed on the windswept water.
Sara’s cell phone bleeped, and she answered Sven’s call.
“I need you back here. There’s another patrol boat on the way towards your position. When it gets there I want you to show them the location of the body and then I want you to have the officer take you to the landing at City Hall. Tell the patrol boat officer to get back to the crime scene after he’s let you off and have him set up a perimeter with the other boat. There’ll be a patrol car waiting for you outside City Hall. Get here before the blue lights have begun to flash.” He hung up before she could respond.
When Sara got back to the Police Building she barely had time to take off her jacket before Sven called her into his room.
“At it again, I see,” he said.
“Sorry, boss, I didn’t know I’d find a body out there, and certainly not some kind of torpedo.” It was already dark outside, and the single desk lamp Sven had turned on left most of his body unlit. She couldn’t see whether he was being ironic or serious. “Am I in trouble again?”
“No. At least not with me. You were supposed to be working on another case already, so I guess you’ll have to explain to me what the hell you were doing out there. But let’s leave that until later, when we have more time to make up a credible story. Right now I want to be informed firsthand about what you saw.”
“I didn’t see anything myself. It was the patrol boat officer that dove. He found the body of a diver trapped under a long green cylinder, marked with Russian lettering and 111. From what we’ve learned about Spimler and what I could see from the manual found in his house I put two and two together and, well, that’s about it. Boss, it’s kind of scary. That thing out there might be something dangerous.”