by Lars Kepler
The room is furnished with no thought to anything but security and function. All it contains is a bed fixed to the wall, a plastic chair, a plastic table, and a toilet, with no seat or lid.
“Turn around, but stay on the cross.”
She does as she’s told and sees that the little hatch in the door is open.
“Come slowly over here and hold out your hands.”
Saga walks over to the door, clasps her hands tightly together, and puts them through the narrow opening. The cuffs are removed, and she backs away from the door again.
She sits down on the bed while the guard informs her of the unit’s rules and routines.
“You can watch television and socialize with the other patients in the dayroom between one o’clock and four o’clock,” he concludes, then looks at her for a few moments before closing and bolting the hatch.
Saga remains seated. She knows that she is in position now, that her mission has started. The seriousness of the moment makes her stomach tingle, and the feeling spreads through her arms and legs. She’s a closely guarded patient in the secure unit, and she knows that the serial killer Jurek Walter is very close.
She curls up on her side, then rolls onto her back and stares up at the CCTV camera in the ceiling. It’s hemispherical in shape, as black and shiny as a cow’s eye.
It’s been a long time since she swallowed the microphone, and she doesn’t dare leave it any longer. She can’t let the microphone slip too far down her digestive tract. When she goes over to the tap and drinks some water her stomachache kicks in again.
Breathing slowly, Saga kneels down by the drain in the floor, turns away from the camera, and sticks two fingers down her throat. She vomits the water back up. She sticks her fingers in deeper and regurgitates the little capsule containing the microphone, and quickly hides it in her hand.
83
The secret investigative team, Athena Promachos, has been listening to the sounds of Saga Bauer’s stomach for two hours since she arrived at Löwenströmska.
“If anyone walked in now, they’d think we were some sort of New Age sect,” Corinne says with a smile.
“It’s actually quite beautiful,” Johan Jönson says.
“Relaxing.” Pollock grins.
The whole team are sitting with their eyes half closed, listening to the gently bubbling, fizzing sounds.
Suddenly there’s a roar that almost blows out the loudspeakers as Saga vomits up the microphone. Johan Jönson knocks over his can of Coca-Cola, and Nathan Pollock jumps out of his seat.
“Well, at least we’re awake now.” Corinne laughs and her jade bracelets jangle pleasantly as she runs an index finger over one eyebrow.
“I’ll call Joona,” Nathan says.
“Good.”
Corinne Meilleroux opens her laptop and notes the time in the logbook. Corinne is fifty-four years old, with a French-Caribbean background. She wears her gray-streaked black hair tied in an updo held with a clasp at the back of her neck.
* * *
—
Joona is standing in Mikael Kohler-Frost’s hospital room. Reidar is sitting on a chair, holding his son’s hand. The three of them have been talking for four hours, trying to identify any fresh details that could help pinpoint the place where Mikael was held captive with his sister. But the young man’s memories are fractured and often incoherent. His thirteen years of confinement have left him deeply scarred.
Nothing new has emerged, and Mikael looks very tired.
“You need to get some sleep,” Joona tells him.
“No,” Mikael says.
“Just for a while.” The detective smiles as he switches off the recording. He pulls a newspaper out of his coat pocket and sets it down in front of Reidar.
“I know you asked me not to,” Reidar says, meeting his gaze without wavering. “But how could I live with myself if I don’t do absolutely everything I can?”
“I understand,” Joona says. “But it could cause problems, and you have to be prepared for that.”
One whole page of the paper displays a digital image of how Felicia might look today. A young woman bearing a strong resemblance to Mikael, with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Her black hair is shown hanging loose around her pale, serious face. Large lettering announces that Reidar is offering a reward of twenty million kronor to anyone who can provide information that leads to Felicia’s rescue.
“We’ve already been flooded with e-mails and calls,” Joona explains. “We’re trying to follow up with all of them, but…I’m sure most of them mean well. They believe they’ve seen something. But there are still plenty just hoping to get rich.”
Reidar slowly folds the newspaper.
“Joona, I’m doing whatever I can. I…my daughter’s been held captive for so long, and she might die without ever—”
His voice cracks, and he looks away for a moment.
“Do you have children?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
Before Joona has time to lie, his phone rings in his jacket. He apologizes, answers it, and hears Pollock’s voice informing him that Athena Promachos’s audio is live.
84
Saga lies down on the bed with her back to the camera and carefully peels the silicon covering off the microphone. Barely moving at all, she slips the microphone into the cuff of her pants.
Suddenly there’s an electronic buzz from the door to the dayroom. The lock clicks. It’s open. Saga sits up, her heart beating hard.
The microphone needs to be installed in an advantageous position right away. She might only get one chance. She can’t miss it. She’ll be discovered if she gets searched.
She doesn’t know what the dayroom looks like, if the other patients are in there, or if there are cameras or guards.
Maybe the room is nothing but a trap where Jurek Walter is waiting for her.
No, there’s no way he could possibly know about her mission.
Saga throws the pieces of silicon in the toilet and flushes them away. She goes over to the door, opens it a crack, and hears a rhythmic throbbing sound, cheerful voices from the television.
She remembers Joona’s advice and forces herself to go back to her bed and sit down.
Never show any urgency, she thinks. Never do anything unless you have a valid reason for doing it, a justification.
Through the crack in the door, she can hear music from the television, the drone of the treadmill, and heavy footsteps.
A man with a sharp, stressed voice speaks occasionally, but never gets a response.
Both patients are out there.
Saga knows she has to go in and install the microphone.
She walks to the door again and stands there, trying to control her breath.
The smell of aftershave hits her.
She grasps the door handle, takes a deep breath, looks down at the floor, and throws open the door. She can hear the rhythmic thuds more clearly as she steps into the dayroom, her head still lowered. She doesn’t know if she’s being watched, but decides to let them get used to the sight of her before looking up.
A man with a bandaged hand is sitting on the sofa in front of the television, and another is marching on the treadmill. The man on the treadmill is facing away from her, but she’s sure it’s Jurek.
The man on the sofa belches and swallows several times. He wipes the sweat from his cheeks and nervously bounces his leg. He’s overweight and in his forties, with thin hair, a blond mustache, and glasses.
“Obrahiim,” he mutters, staring at the television.
He suddenly points at the screen.
“There he is,” he says loudly. “I’d turn him into my slave, my skeleton slave. Fucking hell…Look at those lips…I’d—”
He falls silent abruptly as Saga walks across the room, stops in one corner, and turns toward the television. It’s a repeat of the European Figure Skating Championship in Sheffield. The sound and image are degraded by the reinforced glass. Though she can feel the man on the sofa looking at he
r, she doesn’t meet his gaze.
“I’d whip him first,” he goes on, still facing Saga. “I’d make him really scared, like a whore….I mean, fucking hell…”
He coughs, leans back, closes his eyes and grimaces as if waiting for pain to pass, gropes his neck with his hand, then lies there panting.
Jurek is still striding along on the treadmill. He looks bigger and stronger than she imagined. There’s an artificial palm in a pot next to the machine. Its dusty leaves sway as he walks.
Saga looks around for somewhere to hide the microphone—preferably away from the television, to minimize background noise. The back of the sofa would make sense, but she can’t really imagine Jurek as the sort to sit and watch television.
The man on the sofa tries to get up and looks as if he’s about to throw up from the effort. He cups his hand over his mouth and swallows a few times before sinking back into his seat.
“Start with the legs,” he says. “Cut everything off, peel the skin away, muscles, sinew….He can keep his feet, so he can walk quietly….”
85
Jurek turns off the treadmill and leaves the room without giving either of them so much as a glance. The other patient slowly gets up.
“Zyprexa makes you feel like shit…and Stemetil doesn’t work on me. It just fucks my insides up.”
Saga stays where she is, facing the television, watching as the figure skater accelerates, and listening to the sound of metal blades cutting across the ice. She can feel the other patient’s eyes as he lumbers toward her.
“My name’s Bernie Larsson,” he says conspiratorially. “They don’t think I can fuck, with all the bastard Suprefact in my system, but they don’t know a fucking thing.”
He jabs his finger in her face, but she stands her ground, her heart pounding.
“They don’t know a fucking thing,” he repeats. “They’re so fucking brain-damaged.”
He staggers aside and burps loudly. Saga is weighing the risks of placing the microphone on the artificial palm next to the treadmill.
“What’s your name?” Bernie asks, breathing heavily.
She doesn’t answer, just stands there with her eyes lowered, looking toward the television. Her time is running out. Bernie moves behind her, sticks his hand around, and pinches her hard on the nipple. She pushes his hand away. Anger starts to bubble up inside her.
“Little Snow White.” His sweaty face is close to hers. “What’s the matter with you? Can I feel your head? It looks so fucking soft. Like a shaved cunt.”
From the little she’s seen of Jurek, the treadmill is what he’s most interested in inside the dayroom. He was on it for at least an hour and then went straight back into his room.
Saga walks over to the treadmill and steps onto it. Bernie follows her, biting a fingernail and pulling off a sharp fragment.
“Do you shave your cunt? You have to do that, yeah?”
Saga turns and stares at him intently. His eyelids are heavy, and his eyes have a drugged look about them. His blond mustache hides the scar left by a cleft palate.
“Never touch me again,” she says.
“I can kill you,” he says, scratching her neck with his sharpened nail.
She feels the wound sting as a voice is broadcast from the loudspeaker: “Bernie Larsson, step back.”
He tries to touch her between the legs. The doors open, and a guard with a baton comes in. Bernie moves away from Saga and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“No touching,” the guard says sternly.
“Okay, I know, fucking hell.”
Bernie feels his way wearily over to the armrest of the sofa and sits down heavily. He shuts his eyes and belches.
Saga gets off the treadmill and turns to the guard.
“I want to see a legal ombudsman,” she says.
“Stay where you are,” the guard says, glancing at her.
“Can you pass on the message?”
Without replying, the guard goes over to the security door and is let out. It’s as if she hadn’t said anything, as if her words had stopped in midair before reaching him.
Saga turns away and walks toward the artificial palm. She sits down on the edge of the treadmill, right next to it, and looks at one of its lower leaves. The underside isn’t too dirty and the glue on the microphone should be able to firm up in four seconds.
Bernie is staring up at the ceiling, licking his lips. Saga watches him as she slides a finger into the cuff of her pants and retrieves the microphone. She pulls off one of her shoes and leans forward to adjust its tongue, shielding her palm from the camera. She shifts slightly, and is just reaching out to the leaf to attach the microphone when the sofa creaks.
“I’ve got my eye on you, Snow White,” Bernie says.
She calmly withdraws her hand, puts her foot back in her shoe, and sees Bernie watching her as she sticks the Velcro down.
86
Saga gets on the treadmill, thinking that she’ll have to wait for him to return to his room before she plants the microphone. Bernie takes a couple of steps toward her and reaches out to steady himself against the wall.
“I come from Säter,” he mumbles with a smile.
She doesn’t look at him but is aware that he’s coming closer.
“Where were you before you came here?” he asks.
He pauses, then punches the wall hard before looking at her again.
“Karsudden,” he says in a squeaky voice. “I was at Karsudden, but I moved here because I wanted to be with Bernie….”
Saga catches a shadow crossing the third doorway as someone pulls back from it. She realizes that Jurek Walter is standing there listening to them.
“You must have met Yekaterina Ståhl at Karsudden,” Bernie says in his normal voice.
She shakes her head. She can’t remember anyone with that name. She doesn’t know if he’s talking about a patient or a guard.
“No,” she responds. It’s an honest answer.
“Because she was at Sankt Sigfrids.” He grins, and spits on the floor. “So who did you meet?”
“No one.”
He mutters something about skeleton slaves, then stands in front of the treadmill and watches her.
“All right, but I get to touch your cunt if you’re lying,” he says, scratching his mustache. “Deal?”
She stops the treadmill, stands there for a moment, and considers her strategy of sticking to the truth. She was actually at Karsudden.
“What about Micke Lund, then? You must have seen Micke Lund if you were there,” he says, flashing a smile. “Tall fellow. Scar across his forehead.”
She nods, unsure what to say. She could leave it at that, but instead says, “No.”
“Fucking weird.”
“I sat in my room watching TV.”
“There aren’t any TVs in the rooms there, you’re fucking lying, you’re a—”
“There are in isolation,” she interrupts.
She can’t tell whether he knew that. He’s breathing hard and staring at her. He licks his lips and comes closer.
“You’re my slave,” he spits out slowly. “Fucking hell, that’s brilliant. You lie there, sucking my toes….”
Saga gets off the treadmill and returns to her cell. She lies on her bunk and hears Bernie standing by her door for a while, calling for her.
“Shit,” she whispers.
She’ll have to be quick tomorrow. She’ll sit down on the edge of the treadmill, adjust her shoes, and attach the microphone. She’ll use the treadmill, she won’t look at anyone, and when Jurek comes in she’ll just get off the treadmill and leave the dayroom.
Saga visualizes the angle of the wall adjacent to the reinforced glass over the television. The camera’s view must be partially obscured by the protruding section. She’ll have to watch out for that blind spot. That’s where she was standing when Bernie pinched her nipple. That was why the staff didn’t react.
She’s been at Löwenströmska for just over five h
ours, and already she’s exhausted. The metal-encased room feels more claustrophobic now. She closes her eyes and reminds herself why she’s here. In her mind’s eye, she can see the girl in the photograph. All of this is for her sake, for Felicia.
87
The Athena group sit completely still and listen to the broadcast from the dayroom in real time. The sound quality is poor, muffled and distorted by loud scraping noises.
“Is it going to sound like this the whole time?” Pollock asks.
“She hasn’t positioned the microphone yet. It’s still on her,” Johan Jönson replies.
“As long as she doesn’t get searched…”
They listen to the recording again. They can hear the rasping of Saga’s clothes, her shallow breathing, the percussive steps on the treadmill, and the noise of the television. The members of Athena Promachos are being guided through the closed world of the secure unit with the help of audio alone.
“Obrahiim,” a slurred voice says.
The entire group is suddenly very focused. Johan Jönson raises the volume slightly and applies a filter to reduce the hissing.
“There he is,” the man continues. “I’d turn him into my slave, my skeleton slave.”
“I thought that was Jurek,” says Corinne.
“Fucking hell,” the voice goes on. “Look at those lips…I’d…”
They listen in silence to this patient’s aggressive torrent of words, and hear a guard come in and break up the confrontation. After the intervention, there’s a short period of silence. Then the patient starts to interrogate Saga about Karsudden with suspicion.
“She’s handling it well,” Pollock says through clenched teeth.
Eventually, they hear Saga leave the dayroom. She hasn’t managed to position the microphone.
She swears quietly to herself.
There’s silence until the electronic lock on the door clicks shut.
“Well, at least we know that the technology seems to work,” Pollock says.
