by Peter Mohlin
“I know,” said Mona. “But I don’t want to get more people mixed up in this than is necessary. I’d prefer to do this with my team in Stockholm. We’ll arrest him when he parks his car at the airport.”
While she woke up her personnel at National Crime and dispatched them to Arlanda, John tried to keep pace with Primer. The blue Nissan SUV had overtaken the truck and was about two hundred meters ahead of him. Initially there weren’t many cars, but once they had passed Örebro, the morning traffic began to pick up, forcing their suspect to slow down.
Mona connected her phone to the built-in Bluetooth system so that the next time it rang it was on speaker through the car’s audio system.
“Morning, Einarsson,” she said. “Are you in position?”
“Absolutely. We’re at Arlanda and fresh as a daisy,” said a thick voice. It seemed to belong to a man of advanced years who sounded anything other than fresh. “Bergting and I just had some coffee. Where are you?”
“On the E18 at Enköping.”
“You’ve made good time.”
“We should be with you in about forty-five minutes. Is it just the two of you?”
“Vladimir is here too. I’ve just sent him to the Radisson Blu hotel. He’s waiting in a car there and will pick up your tail when you pass.”
“Good,” said Mona. “I want to arrest him as soon as he arrives. Nice and calm.”
“Understood. Do we know where he’s going to park?”
“Probably in one of the long-term areas.”
“Do you want me and Bergting there too?”
“No, you go to the gate. Plan B is to arrest him there if anything gets screwed up.”
“Sounds good. What about comms?”
“I’ll dial us in to a group call when we’re approaching.”
“Great. Speak to you then.”
Mona hung up and called her colleague waiting at the hotel. Vladimir said he had a good view of Route 273—the road that Primer would most likely choose. Mona gave him the information he needed and then leaned back in her seat and shut her eyes.
John said nothing, letting her recharge her batteries for a while. As they got closer to Stockholm, Primer drove more slowly. The traffic was heavier, making it easier to follow Primer. John only had two cars between him and the target. After a while, the Nissan SUV’s right turn signal began—surprisingly—to flash.
“He’s turning off,” said John, and Mona looked up.
She pulled up the map on her phone and zoomed to get an idea of where Primer was going. Then she made a group call to her colleagues.
“The suspect turned off at Bålsta and is probably going to make his way to Arlanda on Route 263, going through Sigtuna and Märsta. It shouldn’t change anything for you, should it, Vladimir?”
“Nope—he still needs to cross the E4 and join route 273 to get to the airport. So my position should be okay.”
“Good. I couldn’t remember exactly where the hotel was, but we’ll just stick to the plan.”
“Do we think he’s armed?” asked the third police officer, who hadn’t spoken much before. From what John understood, that was Bergting and he was inside the airport at the gate with Einarsson.
“He may have his service weapon with him,” Mona replied. “But he’ll probably leave it in the car.”
Once Primer was on the smaller roads, he sped up again. John had to speed up, but he also had to make sure he didn’t get too close. There were no other cars to hide behind out here and it was a straight road. They rushed through several small villages and after twenty minutes of challenging driving Mona spoke again.
“We’re getting close. He’s on Route 273 and about to drive under the E4. What car are you in, Vladimir?”
“A black V70. Registration Kilo, Echo, Papa—three, nine, two.”
“Roger,” she said, pointing out of the window.
John glimpsed the blue-and-white Radisson sign above the treetops up on the hill. On the left, he could see the light from the runways. The speakers crackled and Vladimir’s voice spoke again.
“I can see him. A blue Nissan SUV … and I can see you … and I’m on your six.”
“Roger,” Mona said again.
John could see the Volvo a few cars behind them in the rearview mirror. Primer slowed down, turned left at an exit, and continued toward the airport. He passed several long-term parking lots without stopping.
“I’m guessing the parking garage,” Mona said, nodding at the round building close to the Departures area.
Primer slowed down and signaled right.
“Suspect is turning right,” said Mona. “He’s not going to the garage. We’re heading for a smaller parking lot. If he goes there we’ll swoop in.”
Her voice had taken on a new sharpness and she was leaning forward in her seat. John eased his foot off the accelerator.
“He’s passing that one too,” she said, checking the map on her phone. “And he’s turning onto Driftvägen instead.”
“There aren’t any parking areas there—not so far as I know,” said Vladimir on the speakers. “Has he spotted us or what?”
It wasn’t out of the question, John thought to himself. Primer might be turning onto a small, quiet road as a test to see what the cars behind him did.
“Drop back, Vladimir—and stand by,” Mona said.
The Volvo carried on straight ahead while John continued to follow the Nissan SUV.
“There aren’t any other turnoffs,” she said in confusion. “Where’s he going?”
John slowed right down and drifted along the dimly lit road while waiting for Primer to make his next move.
“The suspect is pulling up at a guard’s hut,” said Mona, before reading aloud from the black-and-white sign on the fence. “Staff parking—how the hell does he have access to that?”
John accelerated to get closer and saw Primer stick his arm out of the window. He held a card to the reader and the barrier lifted.
“He’s driving in,” Mona said.
The barrier closed behind Primer and they were forced to watch his taillights vanish into the underground parking garage beneath the terminal building.
“Einarsson here.”
The gruff voice filled the car.
“I’ve asked around and staff parking is under Terminal Five. There are two ways in. Elevator or stairs. The problem is they come out in different places.”
“I want you to watch both exits,” said Mona.
“Then we have to split up and leave the gate.”
John saw her stop to think.
“It’s okay. Vladimir can take the gate instead. Hurry.”
Three voices rapidly acknowledged that they had understood their orders. John drove up to the guard’s hut. When Mona saw it was unmanned, she pounded the dashboard.
“Damn it—we can’t get any farther,” she said, opening the car door. “I want to be there when they arrest him,” she called out. “You stay here in case he decides to leave again. Call me and I’ll add you to the call with the others.”
As she ran toward the terminal building, John put his headset on and joined the group call.
One by one, the breathless voices reported that they had taken up their positions, but that so far they hadn’t seen Primer. Hopefully, he was still in the parking garage. The alternative—that he was on the move around the terminal unobserved—wasn’t one John even wanted to contemplate. He could feel what had initially been irritation growing into pure, red rage. If he’d been in charge they would have arrested Primer that morning at the house, avoiding this circus.
He muted the microphone on his cell so that no one could hear him. Then he reversed about fifty meters from the barrier and stopped. He put the car in drive and floored the accelerator.
The red-and-white barrier gave way more easily than he expected. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw pieces of hard plastic and metal on the road behind him, while a dazzling yellow light on the guard’s hut began to flash.
&nbs
p; He entered the underground garage, slowing down to avoid scraping the side-view mirrors as the concrete walls closed in. A few seconds later, he reached the half-full parking area. Cars were sparsely spaced out between the pillars and the level of lighting was low. He glanced around looking for the blue SUV and spotted it two rows over.
If Primer had been quick, he may have had time to park and get into the terminal with his suitcases before Mona’s colleagues managed to take up their positions by the two exits. The distance from the car to the elevator and to the stairs was about the same, so it was hard to guess which way Primer went.
John parked the Passat in an empty space behind a minibus. Then he turned off the engine, unmuted his phone, and got out.
“I think we’ve missed him,” he said into his headset. “I’m in the garage and can see his car. He probably made it up into the terminal before we got into position.”
“You’re in the garage?”
Mona’s voice sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
“How did you get in?”
“I found a way,” John replied as he slowly approached Primer’s Nissan.
“How?”
“Hang on.”
He suddenly fell silent and stepped behind a concrete pillar. When he stuck his head out again, he saw that the movement in the car wasn’t something he imagined. Primer was still in the driver’s seat.
“The suspect’s still in the garage,” he whispered.
“Can you see him?” said Mona.
“Yes.”
“Has he seen you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Just sitting there at the wheel. It looks like he’s waiting for something.”
There was a sound from Primer’s corner of the garage. John stuck his head out again and saw that the driver’s door was open. The shirt tucked into his jeans was taut across his stomach as he got out of the car.
“What was that noise?” said Mona, who had clearly heard the sound on the phone.
“He just got out of the car,” said John.
“Then we’ll get him as soon as he gets up here. Let us know which way he comes—stairs or elevator.”
“Will do.”
John checked that his service weapon was where it should be in his shoulder holster without losing sight of the target. He saw Primer get the suitcases out of the trunk, pull on his jacket, and start walking.
“He’s taking the elevator,” John reported.
“We’re ready for him.”
When the lift doors had closed behind Primer, John hurried up to the SUV and peered through the window. He was just wondering to himself whether Primer’s service weapon might be in the glove compartment when someone shouted in his ear.
“Shit!”
“What’s going on, Bergting?” Mona called out.
There was a scraping sound in his earpiece, as if someone was running again.
“I think he spotted me and realized I was police. He went back into the elevator and pressed the Down button. I couldn’t get there in time. Too many damn people everywhere!”
“Okay, did you catch that, John? He’s coming back down to the garage.”
John heard Mona’s voice, but it sounded different. It took a second before he realized that there wasn’t something wrong with the phone, it was him. He could feel what was about to happen. Contorted sounds and a pulsing pain at the back of his neck. The dizziness came out of nowhere and forced him to slump against a pillar.
It couldn’t be happening. He was having one his attacks in the middle of an operation—and in a situation where everything depended on him. John tried to reason with himself through the tangle of thoughts. The man in the elevator was most certainly unarmed. This morning, he’d felt no qualms about arresting him outside his house and there was no reason to feel differently now. Primer was an obese cop in his late middle age, while John was a well-trained FBI agent who had the advantage of being armed. This was just stupid. He would never be able to look Mona in the eye again if he went to pieces now.
“Can you hear me? Are you there?”
Mona’s voice bounced around inside his head. The more she talked, the louder it got. He could no longer make out the individual words. All he heard was a buzzing feedback loop that was going to blow his brain to bits if it didn’t stop.
He pulled the headset off. His body wasn’t listening to him. His feet and legs were going numb and soon he wouldn’t be able to move. John looked over at the elevator. His vision was blurry, but he could see the illuminated arrow showing that Primer was on the way down. To him.
He pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster in a final attempt to take command of the situation. He realized too late that it was adding fuel to the fire of frying synapses in his brain. The sight of the weapon in his hand accelerated the inevitable, bringing memories of the container in Baltimore to the surface.
The pain in his neck exploded. Somewhere, far away, he heard the chime from the elevator. He turned toward the sound and at the same moment the weapon slipped out of his hand. He saw the doors open and then saw Primer come running toward his car. John tried to make his legs take a few steps forward, but he couldn’t. It was as if he were frozen to the pillar in the darkness.
Primer unlocked his car remotely, threw the bags onto the back seat and got behind the wheel. John desperately tried to shout something at him, but his mouth wouldn’t work. The only sound he could get past his lips was a faint groan as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.
“What the hell is going on down there?”
The voices in his headset dangling on his chest were drowned out by the sound of the engine as Primer turned on the ignition and reversed out of his spot. The last thing John noticed before the headlights obliterated his vision was Mona emerging from the stairs with her weapon raised.
Then he lost consciousness.
“What happened?” Mona asked, while overtaking several cars at once.
John was in the passenger seat of the Passat with his forehead leaning against the cold window. Pine forests rushed by outside. He looked down at his right hand, which was resting heavily against his thigh, and carefully tried to flex his fingers. Ten minutes ago they hadn’t even been able to hold his service weapon, but the messages from his brain seemed to be getting through again.
“I have migraine attacks sometimes,” he said, clenching his fist experimentally.
Mona glanced at him doubtfully.
“Migraine?”
“Yes. I’ve had this shit since I was little.”
The police radio crackled.
“He’s come off the E4 and is heading east on Route 77 toward Husby-Långhundra,” said a male voice.
Mona put the microphone to her mouth and pressed the button.
“Roger.”
When Primer had escaped from the garage, Mona had been forced to contact the Stockholm Police. Roadblocks were in the process of being deployed at key strategic locations north of Stockholm. What should have been a calm arrest had turned into a full-out police operation guaranteed to draw attention. Mona accelerated to 160 kmh but still sounded composed when she spoke.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop lying to me and tell me what this is really about.”
“It’s not about anything other than that,” John mumbled.
“No?”
“No.”
He ran his hand over his face and felt that his cheeks were wet. He didn’t remember crying. His eyes stung and there was snot in his nose. He was ashamed of what had happened in the garage. He’d regained consciousness when she had pulled him from the concrete floor and then tried to escape her grasp, convinced that she was Ganiru, about to drag him into the sunlight to shoot him.
“I’ve no idea what you’ve been through and I don’t need to know. But you’ve just screamed at me not to kill you and then had a tear-filled panic attack in front of half the National Crime team. I’m not sure a headac
he pill is the solution.”
“It won’t happen again,” said John, beginning to feel sick.
He turned around to see whether the McDonald’s bag was still in the back seat. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to throw up the self-contempt and be rid of it forever.
“How can you be sure?” said Mona.
John heard himself mumble something inaudible in reply. Then he sat in silence hoping she’d stop asking questions. At that moment, a voice on the police radio reported that Primer had just passed Husby-Långhundra and was still on Route 77 toward Rimbo and Finsta. Three roadblocks had been deployed and all junctions onto the E18 highway were blocked.
“Where’s he going?” John asked, in an attempt to change the subject.
“Nowhere, probably. Just away from us.”
“Have we got anyone in the air?”
“A chopper’s taking off from Arlanda shortly. The pilots were asleep,” said Mona, pulling off the highway.
She drove through a red light to make it onto Route 77 and avoid getting stuck behind two buses. There was a loud honking as one of the drivers hit their horn.
Dawn was breaking, but there wasn’t much traffic on the small road. The yellow streetlights in the small villages were still on and people inside the houses were getting ready for another day at work.
“I didn’t leave my apartment for five months after an armed raid went to shit,” said Mona, out of nowhere.
“Okay,” John said hesitantly, unsure where the conversation was going.
“One young lad died. I thought it was my fault and I took on all the guilt. It made no difference that Internal Affairs decided I’d followed the rulebook, I knew that boy would have made it if I’d acted differently.”
The police radio demanded their attention once again. A new report stated that Primer had turned off at Norrtälje and was heading along Route 76 toward Hallstavik and Östhammar. The roadblocks on the E18 could be removed and shifted to other positions. There was talk of a pincer movement to cut off the suspect’s escape routes. The helicopter had also joined the hunt and the pilots reported visual contact with the target.
Mona glanced at John again while passing. A farmer was taking up a large part of the road in his tractor and refusing to budge.