Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  His employer had emphasized that this was a humanitarian mission, not a military one. A clash on board would create a scandal and greater unrest in already uneasy international relations. For this reason, no weapons had been allowed on board.

  Presumably the Russian observer had been sent along to ensure rules such as that one were complied with? Presumably that was why Goga Golubkin had been permitted a place on board? If it was Goga Golubkin. Max Anger wasn’t often wrong about such things.

  He turned away from the bridge when the door behind him opened after a brief knocking. In the doorway stood his helmsman.

  “Charlie Knutsson is not in his cabin. Do I have your permission to search all spaces on board, including the other passengers’ cabins, with or without approval from the other passengers?”

  Hein Espen nodded and turned to look out at the horizon.

  86

  The well-built Russian with the strange yellowish-brown face and the bleached hair was friendly and looking for company. Charlie had accepted the invitation to come over to his cabin for a drink. It was good manners to accept such invitations. This was a peace-promoting mission, and it was important to set a good example.

  The man was in his fifties and knew his vodka. He had served ice-cold Imperial, and Charlie had once again experienced the beverage’s magical ability to enhance his broken Russian. They had mixed together Russian and English and had spoken not just of what was awaiting them when they reached the Barents Sea but of all kinds of things.

  They had sat across from each other on the respective edges of the beds in the double cabin. Goga had been wearing a Russian navy uniform and a thin scarf around his neck.

  After four shots, Goga had told Charlie that he’d asked the crew to turn on the sauna and that he’d reserved a place for himself during the first time slot. He’d asked if Charlie would like to join him.

  Charlie had said yes and was now in the little changing room outside the sauna. A door opened onto a balcony with two chaise longues above the vessel’s deck.

  The heat from the other side of the sauna door was intense; the crew had turned the temperature up high. Charlie took off his underwear and hung it up on a hook next to his corduroy trousers, his shirt, and his tweed blazer and picked up one of the folded towels and wrapped it around himself. He was about to open the door to the sauna when he remembered what Goga had given him to take with him into the changing room. A plastic bag containing a precooled traditional Russian sauna cap. Russians know how to enjoy a sauna, he thought.

  He took a little cold water from the copper kettle on the floor, threw it on the wall, and sat down on the top bench and leaned back. He looked at the thermometer and noted that the temperature was already up to ninety degrees. Soon drops of sweat began pushing out of his pores, and the bare areas on his scalp started to sting from the heat. He took the damp cap out of the bag. The cap had a sharp smell and stung him where one of his fingernails was torn. It was made of gray wool and looked like something people would have worn in the Middle Ages. He put it on.

  He immediately felt as though his whole brain were on fire. He drew a hasty breath and got fumes in his lungs. First he thought he was going to throw up; then it became difficult to breathe at all. He made an effort to take off the cap but was suddenly unable to move his arms.

  The sauna door opened. Goga entered and stood in front of him. Bare chested.

  What is this?

  Goga was covered with tattoos, strange symbols. He was carrying a hammer and two wedges. Before Charlie could react, Goga had hammered the wedges into the wall of the sauna behind him. Goga attached two rings to the wedges. Charlie tried to move, tried to resist, but the corrosive acid on his scalp had robbed him of his strength. Soon he began to lose consciousness.

  The next thing he knew, pain woke him up. His nostrils were filled with the smell of burnt flesh. He tried to move, but his wrists were trapped in red-hot rings of iron. Goga was leaning his full weight against what looked like a branding iron, burning a mark into Charlie’s chest.

  The agony spread through Charlie’s body, and he came close to losing consciousness again. Goga held the branding iron against the stones on the sauna heater. His back was covered by a cross. In each of its corners was a smaller symbol. Charlie swallowed hard; his stomach was moving like an accordion. He looked down at his chest. At the deep, bright-red brand, a downward-pointing arrowhead. At the blood trickling toward his navel.

  The man standing with his back to him spoke words in a language Charlie did not understand.

  Goga turned around again and held the branding iron against Charlie’s forehead, leaning all of his weight into it again.

  87

  Max looked at his diving watch. Seventeen minutes had passed since the helicopter had left Trondheim.

  Kristian Loen, who was sitting next to the pilot, spoke to Max via his headset.

  “We now have the Seaway Eagle in sight. The vessel has shut down its engines. Things are relatively calm. We expect to land within five minutes.”

  Max looked out the window to the left, across the sea. He could glimpse the Seaway Eagle’s yellow hull, the red paint below the waterline, and the white superstructure. Still no word from Charlie.

  He took his headset off and gestured to Sofia that she should take hers off, too. He shouted to make himself heard over the earsplitting noise of the helicopter’s rotor blades.

  “When we land, we’ll seek out the ship’s captain and try to get an overview of the situation on board.”

  Sofia nodded and pulled out her pistol.

  The helicopter rapidly closed in on the rocking vessel. Max looked at the big yellow crane and the special cargo on the vessel’s afterdeck. He recognized what was sometimes described as an underwater helicopter, the Royal Navy’s LR5 mini-submarine. It was known for being easy to maneuver; it moved around almost weightlessly and with great precision both vertically and laterally. Rough weather was no problem for the LR5. A big mother ship like the Seaway Eagle provided sufficient wind shadow to submerge the mini-submarine. The LR5 had powerful equipment in its nose that could cut open the hull of a submarine, as well as sophisticated lamps and cameras suitable for dark water with poor visibility. It could dock onto a larger submarine. Normally, rescue divers would take oxygen and medical equipment with them and be able to evacuate as many as sixteen people at a time.

  In this case, they would be evacuating sixteen dead bodies.

  Britons, thought Max. Hein Espen’s diving company was working in cooperation with the Royal Navy. Is this your project, Charlie? Did you turn to contacts in London after the failed attempt with Berga and the Swedish authorities?

  Damn it, you could have told us about that, couldn’t you?

  A secret room where documents related to the Kursk had lain on the desk. Correspondence in English with people who worked for NATO in one way or another. What other secrets were in that room? Were there also documents related to Charlie’s father, the slave driver? From the years when he’d had refugees from Kurland working on his property under inhumane conditions?

  Had it been everything Charlie had seen in his childhood that had driven him to become politically involved, to try to make things right again?

  The helicopter made a long pass over the vessel. In front of the forward windows of the bridge was the helicopter landing platform, marked with a large H. Max waited until the helicopter was standing steady on the platform to get out. He and Sofia bent over to avoid the downdraft from the rotor blades. In the doorway leading to the vessel’s interior stood Hein Espen. He greeted them and quickly closed the door behind them. Kristian Loen and his pilot waited out on the platform in the helicopter.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” said Hein Espen, slapping Max on the back. “If only it had been under different circumstances. I’ve ordered the ship locked down. All guests and members of the British rescue team have temporarily been confined to their cabins.”

  “And the two we’re lookin
g for?”

  “They’re missing.”

  “How in the hell can they be missing?”

  “My divers are searching all of the spaces on the ship. There are a few we haven’t yet been in, but we’re working on it.”

  “Which spaces haven’t you gotten to yet?”

  “The cargo holds at the bottom of the ship and maintenance areas in the engine room near the oil and diesel tanks that are difficult to access. And then there are the changing rooms, the gym, and the sauna. They’re behind a fire door whose lock has either malfunctioned or been locked from the inside. Which is ominous.”

  “The sauna,” said Max, turning to Sofia. “Do you remember the illustration? The symbol of fate? Traditionally, sacrifices to Laima were carried out in saunas.”

  Sofia nodded.

  “Where is the sauna?” asked Max.

  “On the starboard side of the upper deck.”

  “Are there any ways to get in or out without opening the fire door?” asked Sofia.

  “There’s a little balcony outside.”

  “We’ll split up. You continue on the inside. Max, you and I will take the outside.”

  88

  Kandinsky took a step. The slave driver’s son had completely lost consciousness. The acid that had eaten through the pores of his scalp had seeped through his skull and into his brain. The combination of the acid and the pain from the three downward-pointing arrows that now decorated his forehead, chest, and abdomen had caused his body and mind to shut down. All that remained in the hundred-degree sauna, the only aspect of the victim that was still keeping him company, was his shadow, velis. It would take its time separating from the body to descend to the realm of the dead. There Lietuvens would receive the soul and welcome Charlie Knutsson into the ranks of those who wandered eternally in the valley of death without rest, without peace.

  He dropped the branding iron and pulled the knife from the waistband of his trousers. Now all that was left was to carve a number. Then he would be done.

  He heard a hard pounding on the door of the sauna. He opened the inner door that led to the little changing room and heard voices on the other side; people were struggling to open the heavy steel door. He could also hear the low rumbling of a motor. He pulled open the door to the little balcony over the deck and leaned out over the railing. Looked toward the foredeck, where a green military helicopter stood parked. The rotor blades had slowed almost to a stop.

  What was this?

  The pounding on the door was replaced by a high, shrill cutting sound. A cutting torch?

  I must finish marking him. I must number him.

  It would be only a matter of seconds before they managed to force the door open. If there were military personnel on the other side of the door, he would have no chance in a fight.

  He slipped the knife back into his waistband, pulled his shirt and uniform jacket over his sweaty torso, and stepped out onto the balcony.

  89

  On the deck of the Seaway Eagle, Max and Sofia ran along the railing. When they got to the place Hein Espen had described, Max saw a rope hanging down from a railing on the upper deck. He hurried to it, but no one was there. He saw the balcony and the open door above him.

  He heard a rattling of chains toward the stern. He looked toward it.

  “Sofia, he’s by the lifeboats!”

  Kandinsky took a firm grip on the lifeboat’s grab rail and sent it crashing down toward the surface of the rolling sea.

  He held on while the boat fell through the air. It struck the surface with a hard slap that snapped his head backward. When the boat steadied on the sea, he put a hand to his sore neck. Someone shouted above him, and Kandinsky looked up.

  A woman stood at the railing.

  She was pointing a pistol at him.

  The man Sofia was aiming toward wasn’t at all reminiscent of the man in the Identi-Kit picture. He was thoroughly disguised.

  She was aware that she was standing on a Norwegian vessel, in Norwegian waters, pointing her weapon at a Russian uniform. At a man who might be Goga Golubkin or the man the anti-terror police in Riga called Kandinsky. The broader context that surrounded all this was a humanitarian mission being carried out during an international crisis.

  Should she fire?

  The man turned around and lifted a cover to a compartment within the orange plastic lining the edge of the lifeboat.

  He’s starting a motor.

  “What do I do now?” asked Sofia.

  Max had no time to answer before a sound came from above. A door opened and a man staggered out, put his hands on the railing, and vomited. She heard Hein Espen’s voice call out.

  “Run to the helicopter! Charlie has to get to a hospital right now!”

  “We want to take him home with us,” Max said. “You can’t hit his leg. Shoot him in the shoulder.”

  Sofia braced herself against the railing and wrapped her hands around her Sig Sauer. The man sat leaning forward, trying to start the motor. His shoulder was partially hidden by the lifeboat’s high gunwale. It wasn’t an easy shot.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Max climbing over the railing and jumping into the water as she squeezed the trigger.

  90

  Max kicked and worked with his arms to surface quickly. He pushed away thoughts of what Hein Espen might have seen in the sauna and concentrated on the sliver of hope he’d felt when he’d heard him shout from above.

  He has to get to a hospital right now.

  Max swam a few quick strokes toward the orange plastic boat, whose engine hadn’t yet started. If the man sitting in the boat really was a Russian agent, he would be prepared for situations like this. Trained and equipped to end his own life in hopeless situations. His decision would depend on whether Sofia had hit him.

  The lifeboat’s railing was high above the surface of the water, and he had to kick his legs to get his waist and upper body up. When his fingers closed on the edge, a hand grasped his wrist. In the next second, Max saw the man’s face; he saw the man’s other arm fly toward him in a wide arc. A long knife flashed.

  A second shot was fired from the ship’s deck. The man jerked. His knife-thrust cut a flesh wound into the outer part of Max’s arm.

  Max squeezed the man’s armpit as hard as he could. The man’s grip loosened, and with a firm grip on the thick uniform, Max was able to pull himself over the railing and into the boat.

  They fell on each other on the floor of the boat. The man crawled backward, away from Max. He was bleeding from a wound just above his right breast. Blood was pumping out between the fingers of a hand he was pressing against the wound. Crouching, Max took a few quick steps toward the man.

  Max kicked the knife away. Then he kicked the man’s chin, making his teeth snap together and sending him flying toward the boat’s motor. His head hung backward and to the side, revealing a wreath of tattoos around his neck.

  The helicopter lifted off from the helicopter platform in the bow.

  Another of the Seaway Eagle’s orange lifeboats was being lowered to the water’s surface. In it sat Hein Espen and his team of Norwegian attack divers.

  91

  On the ship’s bridge, Sofia bandaged Max’s injured left arm. He had taken off his wet clothes and was sitting bare chested in a pair of workout pants one of the Norwegian divers had lent him. A blanket was draped over his other shoulder.

  Hein Espen stood in front of him wearing a headset and listening to a voice coming from the other end. He had resumed cruising speed. Following a brief disruption, the Seaway Eagle was once again on her way to her destination in the Barents Sea.

  “Okay. Understood,” he said and took off the headset. He turned to Max and Sofia. “They don’t want you to stay in Norway. Kristian Loen has gotten a green light to fly you to Swedish territory. He’s going to take you and the prisoner directly to Kungsholmen in Stockholm. Charlie Knutsson was transferred to a medevac helicopter at Trondheim Airport. It’s now on its way to the intensi
ve care unit at Karolinska University Hospital. It’s too early to say whether he’ll survive or not.”

  92

  “Are you going home now?” asked Sofia.

  When their helicopter had landed outside the National Bureau of Investigation on Kungsholmen, representatives of the Swedish Security Service had been there to meet them, quickly and discreetly moving Kandinsky to a place where he could be securely held. Max had thought Sofia would protest having the case taken away from her, at least temporarily, but she had been smart enough to realize that Kandinsky wasn’t just suspected of being a serial killer. He was also suspected of being a Russian agent, and as long as that couldn’t be ruled out, it wasn’t her case.

  Charlie Knutsson was in critical condition, and they had been informed that no one could visit him yet. Max was nevertheless considering going to Karolinska University Hospital and sitting in some corridor there. Not because it would do any good, but because it felt like the right thing to do.

  He imagined Sofia’s reunion with her colleagues, the admiring looks and high-fives, the congratulations and words of praise from her boss, Per Carpelan. Max didn’t want to go with her. He was the external consultant. The invisible agent. For such people, there were no thanks.

  His chin fell forward. In the last twenty-four hours, he had been involved in two violent confrontations that had injured him and cost him sleep. But to go home? He thought of the reason he’d told Pashie to go and stay with a friend. Was she still there, at the Marklunds’ place? He thought of the package the bicycle messenger had left for him. Of the photographs that showed her sitting there looking pretty with another man. She hadn’t just looked pretty. She’d looked happy.

  “Not much more we can do here tonight,” he said, looking up at the bureau headquarters from the street where they stood.