“I’m not sure that I want to,” Forsell said, sounding cross.
“You promised,” Rebecka said.
“I did. But I’ll be extremely upset if Nima is made to take the blame for this. He had more than his fair share of pain.”
“There you are, Rebecka. Johannes is a good man, don’t let anyone tell you anything different. He’ll always stand up for the weak,” Kowalski said.
“So your relationship with Nima was really as good as it seemed?” she said.
She could hear how apprehensive she sounded.
“Maybe even too good when it came to the crunch,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Let me explain,” Forsell said, and he fell silent.
“Well, tell us then.”
“I will,” he said, “and you know most of it already. Maybe I ought to begin by saying that Viktor’s and my relationship had deteriorated by the time we set off for the summit, and I’m pretty sure it had to do with Stan Engelman. I think Viktor was afraid that, by some roundabout route, the connection between us would be leaked to the G.R.U. and Zvezda Bratva. His days would then be numbered for sure, so I kept myself to myself. The last thing I wanted was to worry anybody. We were to be a safe haven, nothing else, and, as you know, Becka, we all set out from Camp IV just after midnight on May 13. The conditions looked perfect.”
“But you were slowed down.”
“Yes, Klara began to struggle and so did Mads Larsen, and maybe Viktor was not a hundred per cent either. But that wasn’t really on my mind then. I noticed that Svante was irritable and was pushing me. He wanted us to make for the summit on our own. Otherwise we’d miss our chance, he said, and in the end Viktor let us do it. Maybe he was thankful to be rid of me. We set off, so were unaware of the catastrophe that engulfed our expedition. We simply tramped on and made the summit in good time. But on the climb down from the Hillary Step I began to have trouble. The sky was still clear then, and there was not too much of a wind. We had plenty of oxygen and fluid. But time was ticking by, and—”
“And suddenly you heard a rumble, a bang.”
“We heard thunder out of a clear blue sky. Then the storm hit us from the north, like a tsunami. We lost visibility in an instant. The temperature plummeted. It was unbearably cold and we staggered along. Several times I sank to my knees, and often Svante came over, reached out a hand and helped me to my feet. But our progress became slower and slower and the hours raced by. It was late afternoon and then evening, and we worried about darkness falling, and I remember collapsing again and thinking it was all over. But just then I saw … something blue and red in front of me, indistinct shapes, and I prayed that it would be the tents in Camp IV, or at least some other climbers who could help us. That gave me hope, and as I got to my feet I saw that it wasn’t anything good, quite the contrary. It was two bodies lying close together in the snow, one smaller than the other.”
“You never told me this.”
“No, Becka, I haven’t, and this is where the nightmare begins. I still find it hard to describe. I was so exhausted. I simply could not go on. I just wanted to lie down and die and that’s why I had the feeling I was staring at my own fate. But my own fear was more real than what I saw before me, and it never crossed my mind that they might be people I knew, I just assumed they were some of those hundreds of dead lying up there. I stood up, tore off my oxygen mask and said that we had to hurry down, get away, and I started walking, or at least I took a step. But then I was overcome by a strange feeling.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was hundreds of things in a way. We had picked up information on the radio about an emergency in our expedition and perhaps my mind was on that. Then I must have recognised the clothes and other details. But above all, there was something eerie about the smaller of the bodies. I remember bending down and looking into the face, and there wasn’t much you could see. The hood was pulled over the hat and forehead. The sunglasses were still in place. The cheeks, nose and mouth were coated in ice. The whole face was buried under a layer of snow. And yet I knew.”
“It was Klara, right?”
“It was Klara and Viktor. She was half turned on her side, with her arm around his waist, and there was no doubt in my mind that I would be leaving them like that. But that uncanny feeling would not go away. She seemed to be frozen through and through. And yet I thought I detected something about her which was not altogether lifeless, so I pushed her away from Viktor and tried to get the snow off her face. I couldn’t do it. It was too frozen, too hard, and I had no strength in my hands, so in the end I got out my ice axe. It must have looked absurd. I lifted off her sunglasses and hacked at her face. The ice chips went flying and Svante yelled at me to stop and get on down the mountain. But I kept at it manically, and I did try to be careful. But my fingers were frostbitten and I didn’t have proper control. I injured her. I opened up a gash in her lip and chin, and there was a twitch in her face which I took to be movement caused by my hacking, but no sign of life. Still, I took my oxygen mask and put it on her and held it in place for a long time, even though I myself was fighting for breath and not at all hopeful. But suddenly there was an intake of breath. I could see it from the tube and the mask, and I stood up and started yelling at Svante. But he only shook his head and he was right, of course. It didn’t matter that she was breathing. She was as close to death as one can be, and we were at eight thousand metres. There was no hope. She was beyond rescue. We would never be able to get her down and our own lives were at risk too.”
“But you were shouting for help.”
“We’d been calling out so many times that we’d lost all hope. I just remember putting my oxygen mask back on and then we carried on downhill. We struggled along and slowly I began to lose my grip on reality. I had hallucinations. I saw my father in a bathtub, and my mother in the sauna in Åre. I had all sorts of visions, I’ve told you that, Becka.”
“Yes,” she said.
“But I never told you, did I, how I saw monks too, the same Buddhist monks as in Tengboche, and then another figure who reminded me of them but was somehow completely different. He was walking up the mountain instead of downhill and, unlike the monks, he really existed. It was Nima Rita trudging towards us through the snow.”
Blomkvist was running late and regretted having lured Catrin to Hotel Lydmar. He should have picked another day. But it was not always easy to be rational, especially with women like her, and now he was walking along Drottninggatan in the rain, heading for the hotel on Blasieholmen. He was on the point of sending a text saying “There in ten” when two things happened.
Someone texted him, but he didn’t have time to read it before his telephone rang. He had been trying to get hold of so many people that day – even Svante Lindberg – and he hoped every minute that someone would get back to him. But no such luck; the voice at the other end of the line was that of an elderly man who did not even introduce himself. Blomkvist considered simply hanging up. But it was a friendly voice, speaking Swedish with an English accent.
“Could you repeat that?” he said.
“I’m sitting in my apartment, having tea with a married couple who are in the middle of telling me the most shocking story. They would very much like to share it with you. Preferably as early as tomorrow morning.”
“Do I know this couple?” Blomkvist said.
“You’ve done them a huge favour.”
“Recently?”
“Very recently, out at sea.”
He looked up at the sky and at the rain coming down.
“I’d love to meet them,” he said. “Where?”
“Let’s run through the details on another telephone, if you don’t mind, a mobile that’s not connected to you and has the appropriate facilities.”
Blomkvist thought it over. It would have to be Catrin’s mobile and her Signal app.
“I can send you a different number on an encrypted link,” he said. “But first I need c
onfirmation that this couple really are at your place and that they’re doing well.”
“I wouldn’t say they’re well,” the man said. “But they’re here, and of their own free will. You can have a word with the husband.”
Blomkvist closed his eyes and stopped. He was standing on the slope of Lejonbacken, right next to Slottet, the Royal Palace, looking across the water to the Grand Hôtel and the Nationalmuseum. He probably waited for no more than twenty or thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity.
“Mikael,” a voice eventually said. “I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”
“How are you?” he said.
“Better than back then.”
“Back when?”
“When I was about to drown.”
It was Forsell.
“You want to talk?” Blomkvist said.
“Not really,”
“You don’t?”
“But my wife, Rebecka, who will soon have heard it all, insists that I do. So I don’t see how I can get out of it.”
“I understand,” Blomkvist said.
“I’m not sure that you do. But dare I ask if I can read what you write before you publish?”
Blomkvist set off towards the bridge across to Kungsträdgården, turning the words over in his mind.
“You can alter your quotes until you feel comfortable with them, and you can check my facts. You’re even welcome to try and persuade me that I should be writing my article differently. But I don’t promise to do as you say.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Good.”
“We’ll stand by, then.”
“Right you are.”
Forsell thanked him again and handed the telephone back to the other man. He and Blomkvist agreed what to do next. Then Blomkvist sent over Catrin Lindås’ number and quickened his pace. His heart was pounding. His thoughts were racing. What was going on? He should have asked more questions. Why was Forsell no longer at the Karolinska? Surely it was unwise of him to leave the hospital so soon, seeing that he had been in such a bad way – and who was the Englishman who had called?
Blomkvist knew nothing except that it was probably all to do with Nima Rita and Everest, but he was certain there were other cards in the game that he had no idea about, maybe a Russian trail – the whole of Forsell’s life suggested Russia – or connections to Engelman in Manhattan?
Time would tell. He would no doubt find out soon and he felt a tremendous excitement. This is big, he thought, really big. But in truth he was not even sure about that. He needed to keep a cool head. He took out his mobile to send Catrin a message via Signal:
Then he remembered the message that had come in just before the telephone call. He read it and thought, this is odd. It was almost like an answer to his questions, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the conversation he had just ended or if, on the contrary, it might be something from the other side, if indeed there were sides in this affair.
There are no official sources, but with your experience I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding out that his C.V. is a fake, no more than a facade. I happen to be in Stockholm right now, staying at the Grand Hôtel. I’d be happy to meet you and tell you what I know, I have documentary evidence.
I stay up late, a bad habit of mine, I’m afraid. Plus jet lag.
Charles>
Charles? Who the hell was Charles? This smacked of U.S. intelligence. But equally it could be something wildly different, a trap even. It was troubling that the man should be staying at the Grand Hôtel, just across the water from where he was standing, and very close to the Lydmar. Then again, nearly all rich or important foreigners stay at the Grand – Ed the Ned from the N.S.A. was a case in point, so perhaps there was nothing suspicious about that coincidence.
But still he did not feel comfortable about it. No, Mr Charles would have to wait. What had happened was more than enough for him to deal with and he felt bad about Catrin, so he hurried past the Grand to the Lydmar and raced up the stairs.
CHAPTER 27
27. – 28.viii, Night
Rebecka Forsell had no idea what she had set in motion or what the consequences would be for her and the boys, but she saw no other way forward. It was no longer possible to remain silent, not about this.
Now she was sitting with a glass of wine in the brown armchair, deep in contemplation, aware of her husband and Kowalski whispering away in the kitchen. Was more that was crucial being kept from her? She was pretty sure it was, and she even doubted whether all that she had heard was true. But she did feel that she now understood what had happened on Everest. There was an irrefutable logic to the story and she thought about how little they had really known, not only then at Base Camp but also afterwards, when the witness statements were collected.
She knew that Nima Rita had climbed up twice to bring down Mads Larsen and Charlotte Richter, but not that he had gone up a third time, a fact which he never once mentioned during the interviews or the subsequent investigation. It did, however, explain why Susan Wedlock, the head of their group at Base Camp, was not able to get hold of him that evening.
According to Forsell’s account, it would by then have been past eight in the evening. Darkness was not far off and the cold, ferocious conditions were soon to deteriorate further. But Nima walked straight back into it, in a desperate attempt to bring down Klara Engelman. He was himself already in a bad way. The figure Forsell saw emerging from the fog and the snow was stumbling along with his head bent against the storm, as ever without an oxygen mask; all he had was a headlamp whose light darted about in the snow. His cheeks were frostbitten. He did not see Forsell and Lindberg until he was almost upon them. To them he was a godsend, once it dawned on them that it really was him in the flesh. Forsell could hardly stand upright. He was about to become the third victim on the mountain that evening. But Nima Rita paid no attention to that. “Must get Mamsahib,” is all he said. “Must get Mamsahib.” Lindberg shouted to him that it was pointless, that she was dead. But Nima would not listen, not even when Lindberg bellowed:
“Then you’ll be killing us. You’re saving a dead person instead of us – we’re alive!”
Nima just walked on, up the face. He vanished into the storm with his down jacket flapping, and that was what did it. Forsell collapsed and was unable to get up, either by himself or with Lindberg’s help. He had no idea what happened next or how long it took, only that darkness fell and he was freezing, and Lindberg was yelling:
“For Christ’s sake, Johannes, I don’t want to leave you. But I have to, I’m sorry, otherwise we’ll both die.”
Lindberg laid a hand on his head, and stood up. Forsell realised that he was going to be abandoned. He would freeze to death. But then he heard the shouts, those inhuman howls. As he told her this Rebecka thought, It’s not so bad after all. It was not pretty, but it was a human response and the usual rules did not apply up there. There were different standards on the mountain and Forsell had done nothing wrong, not then.
He had been too exhausted even to grasp what was going on, and that was why, regardless of what happened later, she wanted him to talk to a reporter like Blomkvist, someone who was capable of burrowing deep into the story, following all of its meandering paths and plumbing its psychological depths. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe there were things which she was not aware of yet, things which were even worse.
She could not rule it out, especially with Johannes wh
ispering so agitatedly in the kitchen and Kowalski shaking his head and throwing his arms out. Christ, what an idiot she had been. Perhaps they should try to bury the whole affair, keep their mouths shut – for the sake of the boys. For her sake. Oh, God help them, and she cursed her husband.
How could he have got them into this predicament?
How could he?
Blomkvist listened to Catrin muttering in her sleep. It was late and he was dead tired, but it was impossible to drift off. His head was filled with thoughts and his heart was pounding. What the hell’s the matter, he thought. I’m not exactly new to this game. And yet he was as excited as a trainee journalist working on his very first scoop. As he tossed and turned he thought back to what Catrin had said to him:
“Don’t you think Grankin was a soldier too?”
“Why do you say so?”
“He looked like one,” she said and, thinking back, that really did seem right.
There was something about the way he held himself that suggested a senior officer, and normally Blomkvist would not have given it a second thought. People can give an impression of being one thing and then turn out to be something quite different. But now he had received that message from the mysterious “Charles”, and it pointed in the same direction. Grankin would also seem to be one of the reasons for Forsell’s expulsion from Russia. He would need to follow up on that.
It was what Blomkvist had believed all along, and he had been planning to follow it up in the morning, before his meeting with the Forsells. But since he couldn’t sleep anyway, why not just get up? So long as he did not wake Catrin. He was already feeling guilty on that front. He got up slowly and carefully and tiptoed into the bathroom with his mobile. Grankin, he thought. Viktor Grankin.
He had been a fool not to run a more thorough check on him before now. But then it had never occurred to him that Grankin was anything other than an Everest guide, and that that was where his part in the story ended; just a poor bastard who had fallen in love with a married woman and taken some bad decisions on the mountain, and lost his life as a result. But yes indeed, the background information on him was a little too tidy and unspecific.
The Girl Who Lived Twice Page 24