by Lars Kepler
“Shortly thereafter, just a few minutes later, Palmcrona’s housekeeper uses Palmcrona’s name to call for a taxi from Taxi Stockholm. It is to arrive at two o’clock for a trip to Arlanda Airport. Exactly one hour and fifteen minutes after the Bordeaux conversation, the telephone rings. Palmcrona has already put on his overcoat and his good shoes, but still answers the phone. The phone call comes from Bordeaux and from the same number. This conversation lasts two minutes. Palmcrona sends one last e-mail to his blackmailer warning him it is now too late. They both will die. He gives his housekeeper permission to leave for the day, pays the waiting taxi for his trouble, goes into his apartment, and doesn’t even bother to take off his coat. He walks into the small salon, stands his briefcase on edge, climbs up, and hangs himself.”
Everyone at the table is quiet.
“But the story doesn’t end there,” Joona says slowly. “Palmcrona’s call has set things in motion. An international hit man is engaged. A professional killer is sent here to erase everything and get the photograph.”
“How often … I mean in Sweden … do we have to deal with professional killers?” Carlos says with scepticism. “There would have to be a great deal of money involved here.”
Joona looks at him without expression. “Correct.”
“Palmcrona must have been frightened and just rattled off the contents of the blackmail letter including the bank account number Björn had given him,” Saga says.
“With a bank account number, it’s not difficult to find anyone,” Verner mutters.
“At about the same time that Palmcrona is kicking away his briefcase, Björn Almskog is at the Dreambow Internet Café,” Joona says. “He goes into his anonymous account and sees that he’s got two messages from Palmcrona.”
“Of course he’s hoping that Palmcrona will come across with a million crowns,” Saga says.
“Instead, he is greeted by Palmcrona’s warning and then the short message that they’re both going to die, adds Joona.”
“And now they are both dead,” Pollock sighs.
“We almost can’t imagine how frightened Björn must have been,” Saga says. “He’s no professional blackmailer. He just took a chance at money when he saw it.”
“What does he do then?” Petter watches them with his mouth slightly open. Carlos pours some water for him.
“Björn regrets what he’s done and decides to send the photograph to Palmcrona and wash his hands of it,” Saga says.
“But Palmcrona is already dead when Björn writes that he’s giving up and sending the photograph to him,” Joona says.
“And there’s another problem. He doesn’t actually have it. The photograph is in Penelope’s apartment, taped to the glass door,” Saga says. “And Penelope knows nothing about the blackmail attempt.”
“He has to get the photograph without telling her anything,” Tommy Kofoed says, nodding.
“We have no idea how he’d try to explain it,” Saga says with a wry smile. “He probably panicked, just wanted to put a stop to the whole thing, and hoped it would all blow over while they were hiding out on the boat in the archipelago.”
Joona gets up and looks out the window. A woman carrying a child in her arms is pushing a pushchair filled with grocery bags down on the pavement.
“The next morning, Penelope gets a taxi to the television studio for a debate,” Saga continues. “As soon as she’s left, Björn enters her apartment, tears down the photograph, runs to the underground station at Slussen, takes a train to the Central Station, buys an envelope and some stamps at the Pressbyrån kiosk, and sends the photograph to Palmcrona. Then he runs to the internet café and writes a note to Palmcrona to tell him that the photo has been sent. Björn then goes to his apartment and picks up his own and Penelope’s luggage for the trip, and goes to his boat, which is docked at the motorboat club harbour at Långholmen. When Penelope has finished, she takes the underground from Karlaplan and apparently goes directly to Hornstull to walk the last stretch to Långholmen.”
“By now, the hit man has already ransacked Björn’s apartment and started a fire that has destroyed the entire floor.”
“But I’ve looked at that report,” Petter objects. “The fire inspectors said it was caused by an iron that was left on in the neighbouring apartment.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly how it happened,” Joona says.
“Just as a gas explosion would be the official cause for the attempted fire in Penelope’s apartment,” Saga comments.
“The hit man’s plan was to obliterate any trace,” Joona continues. “When he did not find the photograph in Björn’s apartment, he burns everything and heads next to Björn’s boat.”
“He’s still searching for it,” Saga adds. “He plans to kill them both and disguise the murders in a boating ‘accident’.”
“What the hit man doesn’t know is that there has been a change in plan. Penelope’s sister, Viola, is also on the boat.”
Joona falls silent and thinks about the dead woman in the morgue. Her young, vulnerable face. The red mark across her chest.
Joona continues. “I believe the young people anchor at one of the islands around Jungfrufjärden close to Dalarö. Before the hit man arrives, Penelope and Björn have gone ashore for one reason or another. When the hit man climbs aboard, he mistakes Viola for her sister. He drowns her in a tub and puts her in the bed of the main cabin. He has to wait for Björn, and while he does that, he must have searched for the photograph. Since it’s not there, he occupies himself by completing the arrangement to make the boat explode. You have Erixson’s report on that. We are not sure what happens next, but somehow Björn and Penelope escape.”
“And the boat with Viola Fernandez on board is set adrift.”
“We don’t know how or where they run, but by Monday they’re on Kymmendö.”
Benny smiles. “At Ossian Wallenberg’s place? He was a good television MC, but I always had the feeling he wasn’t a good fit for this country.”
Carlos clears his throat and pours more coffee.
“When the hit man realises he’s lost them, he goes to Penelope’s apartment to continue the search for the photograph,” Joona continues. “Erixson and I show up and foil his plan. Only when I’m facing him do I realise that we have a grob, an international hit man.”
“We’ve decided he’s able to tap into our police communications,” Saga says.
“Is that how he found Björn and Penelope on Kymmendö?” asks Petter.
“We’re not sure,” Joona answers.
“He’s very quick,” Saga says. “Apparently he went to Dalarö to search for Björn and Penelope soon after he escaped from Penelope’s apartment.”
“Why do you assume this hit man is working alone?” asks Carlos.
“At this level, that’s just how they do it,” says Joona.
“So what happens next?”
“We’re still reconstructing it,” Petter says. “Somehow he managed to hijack the police launch and kill Lennart Johansson and Göran Sjödin. Then he drives the boat to Kymmendö, where Björn Almskog and Ossian Wallenberg are murdered. He blows up the launch. He follows Penelope and shoots down the Rescue Service helicopter.”
“And disappears,” Carlos sighs.
“But Petter Näslund acted so quickly that Penelope Fernandez was saved in the end,” Joona says. He watches Pollock turn to Petter with interest.
“Of course, we’ve got to go through everything again in more detail,” Petter says grimly. Nevertheless, there is an undernote of pleasure at having his actions recognised.
“Well, what about this photograph? There’s got to be something there!” Carlos exclaims.
“It’s just a fucking photograph,” Petter says with a sigh.
“Seven people died because of it,” Joona says gravely. “And more are going to die if we don’t …”
Joona falls silent as he still looks out through the window.
“Maybe the photograph is a lock and we must
hunt for the key,” he says.
“What key?” asks Petter.
“The photographer,” says Saga.
“Isn’t Penelope Fernandez the photographer?” says Pollock.
“Perhaps,” says Saga, drawing out the word.
“But?” asks Carlos.
“Where’s any evidence for someone else?” Benny demands.
“Joona doesn’t believe Penelope took that picture,” Saga says.
“What the fuck!” Petter almost screams.
Carlos shuts his mouth firmly. He looks at the table and is smart enough to keep quiet.
“Penelope is still in a state of shock and we do not yet know her role in this,” Saga says.
Nathan Pollock clears his throat and distributes copies of Carl Palmcrona’s will across the table.
“Palmcrona has a bank account on the island of Jersey,” he says.
“That wonderful tax haven.” Petter Näslund nods. He takes his snuff out from beneath his lip. He wipes his thumb on the table without noticing Carlos’s glance.
“Can we find out how much money he has in that account?” Verner asks.
“Officially, no,” Joona says. “However, according to this will, he estimates he has nine million euros.”
“His personal assets have taken a nosedive lately. It’s hard to understand how he managed to accumulate so much lawfully in such a short time,” Pollock states.
“Transparency International, the global agency fighting corruption, tells us they have nothing on Carl Palmcrona or anyone else in the ISP. Not even a rumour.
“Palmcrona’s fortune was willed to a sixteen-year-old boy by the name of Stefan Bergkvist. As it turns out, he is Palmcrona’s son. A son he’d never met in person—and a son who died in a freakish fire only three days after Palmcrona’s suicide.”
“The boy never knew who his father was,” Saga adds.
“According to the preliminary police report, it is an accidental death,” Carlos says.
“Of course. Accidental. But is there anyone in this room who believes it’s just a coincidence that Palmcrona’s son dies three days after Palmcrona’s suicide?”
“No, a coincidence it is not,” Carlos says.
“But that’s just sick,” Pollock exclaims. His cheeks flare red. “What motive would anyone have to murder a son Palmcrona never actually met?”
“What the hell is this all about?” Verner asks, rubbing his hands through his hair.
“Palmcrona keeps popping up again and again,” Joona says. He taps the photograph on the face of the smiling man. “He’s in the photograph. He’s been blackmailed. He’s found hanged. His son dies. He has nine million euros in the bank.”
“The money is interesting,” Saga says.
“We’ve looked at his life,” Pollock says. “He has no other family, no other interests, doesn’t invest in anything like stocks or—”
“So this accumulation of money in his bank account, it has to be connected in some way to his position as the general director of ISP,” Joona says.
“Maybe he was involved in insider trading using a dummy front,” Verner says.
“Or he took bribes,” Saga says.
“Follow the money,” Pollock whispers in English.
“Let’s have a chat with his successor, Axel Riessen,” Joona says, and gets ready to leave. “Anything odd or out of the way might be obvious to Riessen by now.”
68
something to celebrate
Joona Linna and Saga Bauer hear whistles shriek and the insistent beating of drums when they reach the Royal Institute of Technology. A demonstration is heading down Odengatan. It seems to be about seventy young people carrying antifascist symbols and signs protesting Säpo’s treatment of the Brigade’s members. “Säpo reeks of fascism, the state supports fascism!” they chant in their bright young voices.
But the angry sounds disappear as Joona and Saga walk along idyllic Bragevägen, a gentle curve heading up to Engelbrekt Church. They’d contacted ISP to find that the general director was working from home that morning.
On the left side of the street, they soon see the Riessens’ private palace. The façade is powerful with its dark, handcrafted brickwork, lead-lined windowpanes, carved woodwork, and the dull green of copper around the bay and chimney.
The outer door is equally imposing. A bronze plaque is affixed to the dark, shining wood to announce AXEL RIESSEN. Saga rings the doorbell. After a short time, a tall, tanned man opens the door. He has a friendly expression on his face.
Saga identifies herself as an inspector for the Security Service and explains their errand as briefly as possible while Axel Riessen examines her ID thoroughly. Then he looks up and says, “I doubt that I could be of much help to you, but—”
“It is always a pleasure to drop by,” Joona says with courteous formality.
Axel gives him a surprised look, then smiles at Joona’s pleasantry, appreciative of the joke. Dressed casually in dark blue trousers, a light blue shirt buttoned to the neck, and slippers, he shows them into the high-ceilinged hall. It is filled with light.
“I suggest that we sit in the orangery. It’s somewhat cooler in there.”
They find the apartment immense as they follow Axel past a mahogany staircase with dark wainscoting. They pass through two more large salons in a row to get to the orangery.
It is a glass room between the house and the garden. The high hedge right outside creates green shadows and a wall of flickering leaves. Scented herbs and scentless orchids fill copper pots lined up on benches and tiled surfaces.
“Please, make yourselves at home,” Axel says, and gestures towards chairs around a table. “I was just about to take tea and crumpets and it would be pleasant to have some company.”
“I haven’t had crumpets since I was an exchange student in Edinburgh.” Saga smiles.
“Well, then,” Axel says contentedly, and leaves the room.
A few minutes later, he returns with a tray. He places the teapot, the napkins, the lemon wedges, and the sugar bowl in the middle of the table. The warm crumpets are covered by a linen cloth with a generous amount of butter nearby in a butter dish. Axel takes his time setting the table for them with care. He places teacups and saucers in front of them along with a linen napkin. Then he pours the tea.
They can hear soft violin music filtering through doors and walls.
“So tell me, what can I do for you?” Axel asks.
Saga carefully sets her cup and saucer down, clears her throat. “We have to ask you a few questions about ISP and we hope you’ll be able to help us.”
“Absolutely, but I must clear this first with a phone call,” he says as he picks up his mobile phone.
“Of course,” Saga says.
“Please excuse me, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Saga Bauer.”
“May I please see your ID again, Saga Bauer?”
Saga hands it to him and he stands up and leaves the room. They can hear him speak for a few seconds, and then he returns, thanks them, and hands Saga her ID.
Saga starts her questions. “Last year, ISP issued export authorisation for South Africa, Namibia, Tanzania, Algeria, and Tunisia. Ammunition for heavy machine guns, portable antitank guns, antitank rockets, grenade launchers—”
“And the JAS Gripen plane, of course,” Axel adds. “Sweden has had a long working relationship with many of those countries.”
“But never with Sudan?”
Axel meets her gaze with the hint of a smile. “Not to my knowledge.”
“I mean before the arrest warrant was issued for President al-Bashir,” she explains.
“I understand,” he says strongly. “Otherwise it would be totally unthinkable. What we would call an absolute block, where there’s nothing to discuss.”
“You may have already had a chance to review many of your predecessor’s—Carl Palmcrona’s—decisions,” Saga says.
“I have,” Axel replies.
�
�Did you note anything odd?”
“What do you mean by ‘odd’?”
“Decisions that appear strange to you,” Saga says. She sips her tea again.
“Any reason for this question?” he asks.
“That’s what we’re asking you.” She smiles.
“Then I’d say no.”
“How far back in time have you been able to go?”
Joona listens to Saga’s continuing questions regarding classification, preliminary permission, and export authorisation of war matériel while he observes Axel Riessen’s calm, attentive face. He hears the violin music again. It’s now coming from outside, from the window open to the garden. It’s a mazurka with high, sad notes. Then the violin stops, goes back to the beginning, and replays the piece.
Joona is listening to the music and thinking about the four people sitting in the private box. He touches his briefcase absentmindedly where he has the copy of the picture.
He thinks about Palmcrona and how he hung from the ceiling with a laundry line around his throat, about Palmcrona’s will and Palmcrona’s son.
Joona sees that Saga nods at something Axel is saying. A green shade passes over Axel’s face, perhaps a reflection from the copper tray on the table.
Palmcrona understood the gravity of the situation immediately, Joona thinks. All Björn Almskog had to mention in his blackmail letter was that Palmcrona was photographed in a private box with the arms dealer Raphael Guidi. Carl Palmcrona did not doubt the authenticity of the photograph for a moment.
Maybe he already knew about its existence.
Or else Björn’s knowledge made real a photograph he’d known nothing about.
Axel pours more tea for Saga. She is wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth.
Something is not right here, Joona thinks.
Pontus Salman gave a definite date for the meeting. He did not find the photo troublesome.
So how did Palmcrona know the picture meant trouble?
Joona listens as Axel and Saga discuss how the initial situation of security policies will change when an embargo is imposed or lifted.
