by Lars Kepler
“I was sure I’d get here before you,” Joona says.
“Too slow, Joona, you’re too slow.”
“Yes, I am.” He grins as he replies.
The policewoman in the blanket looks at Joona and says hello.
“This is Mira Carlsson from Span,” Saga says. “She was one of the first into the Saluhall and she thinks she hit our man.”
“But you didn’t see his face,” Joona states.
“No, I didn’t,” Mira confirms.
Joona looks at the entrance to the Saluhall and then turns to Saga.
“They assured me that all the buildings nearby were secure,” he mutters bitterly.
“They assumed these were too far away—”
“They assumed wrong,” Joona says.
“Yes,” Saga agrees, and gestures at the building. “He was behind the fence of this entrance and he was able to fire a shot through Penelope’s window.”
“So I heard. She was lucky,” Joona says softly.
Barriers were up in the area around Östermalms Saluhall and small numbered signs marked the first findings: a shoe print and an empty cartridge from a full metal jacket American-made precision bullet.
Farther inside the open doors, Joona can see some tomatoes scattered across the floor along with a battered-looking magazine from a Swedish AK-5.
“Stewe Billgren, our colleague from Span,” Saga continues, “followed the suspect to Diplomat City and reports that he walked into the German embassy through the front door.”
“Any possibility he could be mistaken?”
“Maybe … we’re in contact with the embassy and … wait”—she quotes from her notebook—“they say that they have not ‘registered any unusual activity within the embassy grounds.’?”
“Have you talked to Billgren yourself?”
“Yes.” Saga looks at Joona seriously. “His hearing was damaged when the suspect blew up the stolen car. He can hardly hear a thing. However, he’s absolutely certain what he saw. He clearly saw the suspect enter the German embassy.”
“And perhaps he went on through and back out on the other side.”
“Well, we have our people surrounding it now and a helicopter in the air. We just need permission to enter the building.”
Joona takes a quick look at the Saluhall. “That can take a while.” He takes out his mobile phone and says, almost to himself, “I’m going to have a chat with Klara Olofsdotter.”
Klara Olofsdotter, the main prosecutor for the International Prosecutor’s Office, picks up the phone on the second ring.
“I know it’s you, Joona,” she says without a greeting. “And I know what’s going on.”
“Then you also know we must get inside that embassy.”
“That’s not so easy. This is always a damned sensitive area, excuse my language. I’ve talked with the ambassador’s secretary by phone,” Klara Olofsdotter explains. “She insists that everything is absolutely normal at the embassy.”
“We know the suspect is inside,” Joona says.
“How could he have got in?”
“He might be a German citizen demanding his right for help from the embassy. They’ve just opened. He could also be a Swedish part-time employee or he has the pass code or … some kind of diplomatic status. Maybe he has immunity or he’s being protected by someone. We just don’t know. He might even be a close relative of the defence attaché or the ambassador, Joachim Rücker, himself.”
“But you don’t even know what he looks like,” she says. “How could we identify him even if they let us inside?”
“I’ll get a witness,” Joona says.
There’s a moment of silence. Joona can hear Klara Olofsdotter breathing on the other end of the line.
“All right. Then I’ll find a way to get you in,” she says at last.
82
the face
Joona Linna and Saga Bauer are in Penelope’s protected apartment. No lamps are lit. The morning sun shines through the broken window. Penelope Fernandez sits on the floor with her back against the innermost wall and she’s pointing at the window.
“Yes, that’s where the bullet came through,” Saga corroborates.
“The lamp saved my life,” Penelope says as she lowers her hand.
They’re looking at the remains of the window lamp, its hanging cord and its broken plastic socket.
“I turned it off to see out a little better. Something was going on down on the square,” Penelope says. “The lamp started to sway then and he thought it was me, right? He thought it was me moving and the heat was from my body.”
Joona turns to Saga. “Did he have an electro-optic scope?”
Saga nods and says, “According to Jenny Göransson, he did.”
“What’s that?” Penelope asks.
“It seeks heat—you’re right, the lamp saved your life,” Joona answers.
“Good God in heaven,” Penelope whispers.
Joona looks at her calmly and his grey eyes glitter.
“Penelope,” he says slowly. “Actually, you have seen his face, right? Not this time, but before. You said you didn’t, but … now I want you to nod if you believe you can describe him.”
Penelope wipes her cheeks quickly and looks up at the tall detective. She shakes her head.
“Any description at all?” Saga asks gently.
Penelope listens to the detective inspector’s voice and his mild Finnish accent and wonders how he can be so sure that she’s seen the man’s face. She had seen him, but she’s not sure she can describe him. Everything had happened so quickly. She had only a glimpse of him. Rain was on his face. It was just seconds after he’d killed Björn and Ossian.
She wishes she could erase every memory.
But the man’s tired, almost concerned face is lit up again and again by the white flashes of lightning.
Saga Bauer walks over to Joona, who is near the window, reading a long text message he’s just received.
“Klara Olofsdotter has been speaking with the chief justice who has, in turn, spoken with the German ambassador,” Joona says. “Three people will be allowed into the embassy for one hour. This hour will begin in forty-five minutes.”
“We’d better hurry over there right now,” Saga says.
“No reason to hurry,” Joona says as he leisurely looks out over the square.
Journalists swarm around the barricades protecting the Saluhall.
“Did you tell the prosecutor that we have to go in armed?” asks Saga.
“We have to coordinate everything with the German security force,” Joona replies.
“Who’s going in?”
Joona turns to her. “Maybe … who tracked him down?”
“Stewe Billgren,” she says.
“Yes, Stewe Billgren,” Joona says. “Can he identify him?”
“Stewe didn’t see his face. No one has seen his face,” Saga replies. She turns back to go and sit down again next to Penelope.
They sit together quietly for a long while, leaning back against the wall. Saga calms her breath and speaks slowly as she asks the first question.
“What does he want from you? That guy who’s after you—do you know why all this is happening?”
“No,” Penelope says slowly.
“He’s after the photograph you taped to your door,” Joona says, though his back is to Penelope.
Penelope lowers her head and nods.
“Do you know why he wants that photograph?” Saga asks.
“No,” Penelope answers, and begins to cry quietly.
Saga waits another moment and then says, “Björn tried to blackmail Palmcrona—”
“I didn’t know anything about that.” Penelope interrupts her. “I didn’t agree to any of that.”
“We’ve realised that,” Joona says.
Saga takes Penelope’s hand gently in hers.
“Did you take that photo?” she asks.
“Me? No, not me … the picture came to the Swedish Peace … you
know, I’m the chairwoman and …”
Penelope falls silent.
“Did it come in the post?” asks Joona.
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know,” she says quickly.
“Was there a letter with it?” Joona asks.
“No, not that I know of.”
“Just an envelope with a photograph.”
She nods.
“Do you still have the envelope?”
“No.”
“How was it addressed?”
“Just my name and the Swedish Peace … well, not the post office box, just my name.”
“So it was addressed to Penelope Fernandez care of the Swedish Peace and Reconciliation Society,” Saga says.
“And then you opened the envelope and took out the photograph,” Joona says. “What did you think at that moment? What did the photograph mean to you?”
“Mean to me?”
“What did you see when you looked at it? Did you recognise the people involved?”
“Yes … three of them, but …”
She falls silent.
“Tell us what went through your mind when you first looked at the photo.”
“Someone had seen me on TV,” she says, and she collects her thoughts for a second before she continues. “I thought that this picture is just so typical. Palmcrona is supposed to be neutral, but here he is, he goes to the opera and sits and drinks champagne with the head of Silencia Defense and a weapons dealer who sells arms throughout Africa and the Middle East. It’s totally scandalous.”
“What did you plan to do with this picture?”
“Nothing,” she answers. “There’s nothing I could do. It’s just a photograph, but at the same time, I remember I thought, at least now I know where he stands.”
“I see.”
“It reminded me of the idiots at the Immigration Office. They’d just deported a helpless family seeking asylum. Yes, they celebrated with champagne and patted themselves on the back for booting out people who sought refuge in Sweden, a family with a sick child …”
Penelope falls silent again.
“Do you know who the fourth person is? The woman in the picture?”
Penelope shakes her head.
“It’s Agathe al-Haji,” Saga says.
“Really?” Penelope grimaces.
“Yes.”
“Why is she …”
Penelope falls silent and her dark eyes stare at Saga.
“Do you know when the picture was taken?” Saga asks.
“No, but of course the arrest order against al-Bashir was issued in March 2009, and …” Penelope stops abruptly and her face flushes scarlet.
“What is it?” asks Saga.
“The picture was taken after that,” Penelope states, her voice shaking. “Right? The picture was taken after the arrest warrant.”
“What makes you say that?” asks Saga.
“That’s what makes it so important …” Penelope muses and the colour fades again from her face.
“It’s the deal with Kenya,” she says with trembling lips. “That’s what the photo is all about, isn’t it? It’s the Kenya contract, and Palmcrona’s just agreed to it. The selling of ammunition to Kenya—I always knew there was something wrong there.”
“Keep going,” Joona says.
“Kenya has ongoing business with Great Britain. Delivery of ammunition will go to Kenya all right, but it’ll end up in Sudan and Darfur!”
“Yes,” Saga says. “That’s what we believe is happening, too.”
“But it’s forbidden! This is terrible … it’s treason, it’s against international law … Beyond that, it’s a crime against humanity …”
Penelope thinks a moment, her face in her hands.
“So that’s why all this has happened,” she says quietly. “Not because Björn attempted blackmail.”
“That was the catalyst. It alerted these people to the fact that this photograph existed.”
“I had assumed the picture might have been an embarrassment,” Penelope says. “Embarrassing, yes, but not much more than that.”
“When Palmcrona called them about the blackmail attempt, they went on alert,” Saga explains. “Until then, they knew nothing about any photograph. Now they were worried. They did not know how much or how little it revealed. All they knew was that it was not good. We’re not sure exactly what they reasoned … perhaps that either you or Björn was the photographer.”
“But—”
“They couldn’t know how much you both could prove. But they wanted to take no chances.”
“I understand,” Penelope says. “And that’s still the same situation now, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Penelope nods.
“They think I might be the only witness to the deal,” she says.
“They’ve invested a great deal of money,” Saga says.
“They can’t get away with this,” Penelope says softly.
“What did you say?”
Penelope looks directly into Saga’s eyes and says clearly, “They can’t pump ammunition into Darfur, they just can’t do it! I’ve seen what happens. I’ve been there twice—”
“They don’t really care. It’s only about the money,” Saga says.
“It’s not! It’s about … it’s about … so much more,” Penelope says and turns her face to the wall. “It’s about …”
She falls silent remembering the crunch as a clay figure is broken underneath the hoof of a goat. A small woman made of sun-baked clay crumbled into dust. A tiny child laughing and crying out, “That was Nufi’s ugly mother! All the Fur are going to die! They’re all going to die!” All the other children smiling and taking up the chant.
“What are you trying to say?” Saga asks.
Penelope looks at her, looks into her eyes, but does not answer. Her mind has gone back to Darfur.
After a long, hot car ride, she’d arrived at the refugee camp in Kubbum, southwest of Nyala in Janub Darfur, West Sudan. She’d barely arrived before she and Jane and Grey had to get down to work trying to save the lives of people caught up in the Janjaweed raids.
During the night, Penelope had woken when she heard three teenage boys shouting in Arabic that they were going to kill slaves. They belonged to the militia. They walked down the middle of the street and one of them had a gun. Penelope had peeked out the window. They were bragging about how they’d walked up to an old man selling sweet potatoes and shot him in the head point-blank.
The boys kept walking down the street shouting and then had pointed at the house where Penelope and Jane were staying. Penelope held her breath. She heard their stomping feet on the veranda and their excited voices.
Suddenly, they kicked in the door of the barracks and started down the hallway. Penelope dived under the bed to hide. Completely still, she had recited the Lord’s Prayer silently. Furniture was knocked over and stomped on. Then she heard the boys walk back out into the street. One of them laughed and yelled that slaves were going to die. Penelope crept back to the window again. The boys had Jane by the hair, pulling her, until they threw her down into the middle of the street. The door to the other barracks across the street was flung open and Grey came out swinging a machete. The thin boy went to meet him, although Grey was about two feet taller than the boy and much more muscular.
“What do you want here?” Grey demanded.
His serious face was slick with sweat.
The thin boy said nothing but simply raised the pistol and shot Grey in the stomach. The bang echoed between the buildings. Grey stumbled and fell down backwards. He tried to get back up, but then kept still with his hand pressed to his stomach.
“One dead Fur!” yelled one of the other boys gleefully. He still had Jane by the hair.
The second boy forced Jane’s legs apart. She struggled but still talked to them in a calm, hard voice. Grey yelled something at the boys. The thin boy went back over, yelled something at Grey, pr
essed the gun to his temple and fired. It clicked and he tried six more times. The pistol was empty. The group of boys suddenly began to look doubtful. Other doors in other barracks opened and African women started to pour out. The teenagers let go of Jane and began to scuttle away. Penelope saw five women chasing them. Penelope grabbed her blanket from the bed, unlocked the door, and rushed out into the street. She ran over to Jane to wrap the blanket around her and help her up.
“Go back inside, all of you!” Jane yelled. “They might be back with more ammunition! You shouldn’t be outside if they come back!”
All that night and the next morning, Jane stood working at the operating table. Not until ten in the morning was she able to go to her bed convinced Grey’s life was saved. That evening, she worked her usual schedule and by the next day, the routine in the hospital tent had returned to normal. The small boys helped her, but they were more guarded and sometimes they pretended not to hear her when they thought she was too demanding.
“No,” Penelope whispers.
“What did you say?” asks Saga.
Penelope thinks that these people must not be allowed to export ammunition to Sudan.
“They can’t get away with it,” she says, and then is quiet.
“You were safer in the underground room,” Saga says.
“Safe? No one can keep me safe,” Penelope replies.
“We know where he is. He’s inside the German embassy and we’ve surrounded the building—”
“But you haven’t got him yet,” Penelope says louder.
“He’s probably been wounded. Shot in the arm. We’re going to go in and—”
“I want to go with you,” says Penelope.
“What?”
“Because I have seen his face,” she replies.
Both Saga and Joona start and Penelope looks directly at Joona.
“You were right,” she says. “I have seen his face.”
“We don’t have much time. Perhaps you can just give us a sketch of the suspect,” Saga says anxiously.
