Ten Swedes Must Die

by Martin Österdahl

  One of the police officers slid the divider back so he could talk to the driver. He held his weapon so it was ready to use. He pointed at something in front of them and continued his discussion with the driver in Swedish. He closed the divider, turned to his colleagues, and indicated with a hand gesture that they should stay where they were.

  Holding his weapon across his chest, he opened the sliding door and got out. He shouted at someone on the road ahead of them. Kandinsky leaned forward but could only see the man’s back and energetic gestures. It appeared that he was trying to get something moved out of the way.

  Suddenly it got quiet. Kandinsky could sense the unease spreading among the police officers in the van. The looks exchanged. The fingers gripping weapons.

  The man came back, but something had changed. His weapon was gone. Behind him stood a man wearing neon-yellow reflective overalls and a white helmet. A black balaclava covered his face. He pressed a pistol Kandinsky recognized as a Makarov against the back of the policeman’s neck.

  Their organization was small. How had they managed to mobilize this kind of resistance? Kandinsky thought of the man with whom he’d created the plan. Could it really be that he’d come to Kandinsky’s rescue? Hope gave him new strength. The man was simply a genius. A legend.

  “Release him,” the road worker said in English, nodding at Kandinsky.

  The policeman nodded at his colleagues.

  A smile spread across Kandinsky’s lips. When he was free, he took hold of the policeman who’d unlocked his handcuffs, pushed him up against the van’s interior wall, and put his hands around his throat. His laughter echoed in the confined space.

  “No,” said the man in the balaclava.

  Kandinsky spit in the policeman’s face and let go. He pushed past the men in the door opening and put his feet down on pitch-black newly laid asphalt. Around the police convoy stood cones and various temporary road signs. A big yellow road roller had been placed across the road diagonally, blocking it. The whole area was surrounded by masked workers in overalls who were pointing automatic weapons at Kandinsky.

  “Ruki vverkh.”

  Surprised, Kandinsky obeyed the Russian command, raising his hands above his head.

  105

  A relatively short distance from National Road 51, in an area of dense forest not far from the Kvismaren nature reserve and equidistant from Kumla and Örebro, Papanov was sitting in a hunting cabin. The cabin was registered in the name of a woman, a false identity. It was large and had hooks in the ceiling, winches that still worked and were strong enough to take the weight of a whole elk. Below these were floor drains.

  His men had intercepted the transport just as he’d wished.

  He had offered the Swedes his help, and they had declined.

  The man they’d been looking for since the Centrs explosion in Riga was now tied to a spindle-backed wooden chair screwed to the floor. His hands and feet had been secured under the chair with handcuffs. To make him comfortable, the men had lit a fire and placed him near it. At this point it was generally known in the Swedish, Latvian, and Russian intelligence services that the man liked fire. As an extra hospitable gesture, they had taken off his Swedish clothes and tossed them in the fire. He was now sitting here naked, watching his own reincarnation, his transformation from an orphaned piece of trash and murderer to a man with grandiose visions of a fantasy land inspired by sagas set forth in old verses. A life story that would soon come to an end. The saga of a country that would never exist.

  “According to the Swedes, you haven’t been particularly interested in talking, Kandinsky,” said Papanov. “Perhaps they didn’t try Russian? Both of us know you spoke Russian during most of your time in Soviet prisons.”

  Kandinsky said nothing.

  “I understand your disappointment. My men told me how surprised you looked when they picked you up. Maybe you thought someone had come to save you? But who would that have been? Who are your comrades, exactly?”

  Papanov did not wait for an answer but opened a bottle of liquid sitting on a table next to him. He picked up a long syringe and pulled liquid out of the ampoule. Then returned to Kandinsky. Laid the syringe on the floor at his feet.

  Kandinsky looked down at the syringe.

  “I know you don’t like needles. I also know that as a young prisoner you didn’t like it that the bigger prisoners raped you and tattooed two eyes on your buttocks to indicate that you were fair game. I know what Raimonds Cilpa and his sick colleagues at the Jesuit children’s home in Riga subjected you to when you were a child, and—to be honest—the revenge you took on him is all you have succeeded with in your pathetic life. I know why you are the way you are, Kandinsky. But I promise you something. Nothing you have experienced has prepared you for what I will subject you to if you do not tell me everything I want to know.”

  Papanov noted a change in Kandinsky. He was growing afraid, but he was still saying nothing.

  Papanov returned to the table and picked up a gas mask. He placed it on Kandinsky’s head. Papanov covered the end of the mouthpiece with his hand. He’d made sure that the tube was tightly attached and that no air could get in.

  It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Kandinsky’s hands to start jerking under the chair. He pulled against the handcuffs as hard as he could. After another second or two his body started shaking. The wooden floor planks creaked against the screws under the chair legs. Just like everyone else Papanov had subjected to this treatment, Kandinsky was ripping his legs to shreds in the handcuffs in fruitless attempts to get free. Papanov knew that the vacuum-like pressure in his head was getting close to the point at which it would feel as if his eyes might pop out.

  “Take a deep breath.”

  Papanov knew that to Kandinsky his words and the laughter that followed them seemed to come from farther and farther away. He was sinking into a dark abyss. It was time to bring him back, so he would understand that he’d been on the other side temporarily but had now risen from the dead.

  Papanov took the mask off him. Gave him a few seconds to realize he was alive. Then he pushed the needle into his thigh. Injected the liquid. Left the needle in.

  After a while, Kandinsky began breathing more or less normally again.

  “Shall we talk now, or do you want to go through that again?”

  Kandinsky looked at him.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “You don’t give a damn about a few dead Swedes, do you?”

  “No, of course not. But you made a mistake. By bombing Centrs, you murdered a Russian agent. My agent. Goga Golubkin.”

  “Then kill me and we’ll be even.”

  Papanov laughed. He walked over to the fire. Stuck one of the torches that were leaned up against the open fireplace into the fire. When it was lit, he turned around and pushed it into Kandinsky’s hair.

  The blond hair caught fire immediately. The scream resounded through the whole cabin, bounced off the walls like a pinball. The stink of his unwashed, burnt hair filled the room. When Kandinsky’s scalp was on fire, Papanov picked up the bucket of water and poured it over him.

  All of Kandinsky’s hair was gone. His scalp was singed and raw. Papanov put the gas mask back on.

  Once Kandinsky’s body was again jerking in spasms, Papanov took the mask off him again, walked around the chair, and stood in front of him.

  “Why Golubkin, exactly?” asked Papanov.

  Kandinsky shook his head.

  “Who gave you the assignment?”

  “A man came to see me in prison.”

  “Who?” asked Papanov. “Is he here in Sweden?”

  Kandinsky nodded.

  Papanov opened his eyes wide. He hadn’t counted on this.

  “And it’s he who has your car?”

  Kandinsky nodded again.

  “And that’s where the suitcase is?”

  “Yes,” said Kandinsky.

  “Did you really think you were going to get away with this? Leaving behind clues that
would make it look as though a Russian agent had murdered these Swedes you wanted to take revenge on? Didn’t you think we were going to come after you?”

  Kandinsky shook his head. Papanov didn’t know whether that meant he was too exhausted or too stupid, but it didn’t matter. The picture was clear to him now. It wasn’t the person sitting in front of him who was the brain behind everything.

  “Where is the car?”

  “That I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know.”

  “Where do you think it could be?”

  “At Stadsgårdskajen in Stockholm. There’s a big ship there…”

  That was specific and sounded credible.

  “Okay,” said Papanov. “This is the last question I am going to ask you. Your absolutely last chance. What is the man’s name?”

  He stood above Kandinsky and leaned down toward him.

  “Ozols,” Kandinsky said. “Ludwigs Ozols.”

  Papanov went back to his little table and picked up another object. The last one he would need. Once again he stood in front of Kandinsky, who had now let his head sink forward against his tattooed chest.

  Papanov lifted Kandinsky’s head and met his empty gaze. He pointed his two-tone GSh-18 exactly between Kandinsky’s eyes.

  “There is no lower creature than someone who murders one of my men.”

  106

  Pashie looked at the people in the waiting area around her. Some of them were her countrymen, she knew—there was no mistaking them. Others were citizens of the country she was trying to make hers. She felt equally foreign in both camps. She knew that if she were sitting in the corresponding place on the other side, on her way back to Stockholm, she would feel exactly the same way, uncertain whether she was traveling home or away from home.

  After she’d left Malin’s apartment yesterday, she’d gone home and packed her bag. She’d gone into the bathroom and opened the cabinet, taken out all of the cartons, bottles, salves, ampoules, and syringes, dumped them in a plastic bag, and thrown it all in the garbage chute. The pain had disappeared with the bag’s passage through the chute and down to the container in the basement, and she’d had a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time.

  The feeling of being free.

  On its way out to Arlanda Airport yesterday evening, the taxi had passed Kungsträdgården. Everywhere, tourists were soaking up the late-summer sun. Around them, workers were putting up fencing in preparation for the upcoming event. Behind the fencing, more workers were getting the big stage ready, setting up booths and temporary stalls. The emblem of the event had been affixed both to the ceiling above the stage and to the fencing.

  Mir 2000. A fresh start for Swedish-Russian relations.

  Pashie thought of the children she’d worked with, of the fine things they’d made for this evening’s exhibition at the Stockholm tourist center. Of how much she would have liked to be there.

  A gigantic clock hanging in the park had reminded her of how little time remained before the inauguration of the project she’d put so much work into.

  Seventeen hours and four minutes.

  She’d checked into a hotel at the airport, slept until lunchtime, and then wandered around the terminal.

  Around her, people were beginning to get in line with their luggage. A woman lifted a microphone. “Aeroflot flight AFL2523 to Saint Petersburg is now ready for boarding.”

  Pashie had not been to Saint Petersburg since medical workers had brought her from the American Medical Clinic there to a hospital in Stockholm by ambulance helicopter. She wasn’t planning to set foot there now, either. She would only have to wait at Pulkovo Airport for two hours before boarding her next flight. When that flight landed, she would be met by people she could help. People who would welcome her with open arms.

  She took a long look back at the corridor between Arlanda’s shops and restaurants, as if she expected someone to come running down it as someone might have at the end of an American movie. But there was no one there. It was just a last look back at nothing.

  She took out her phone to switch it off. Saw that she had missed a number of calls. They were all from the same person. He had also sent a text.

  It’s not like you think. They’re trying to drive us apart. I would never betray you. Call me. Max.

  She switched off her phone, lifted her suitcase off the floor, and took her place in line.

  107

  Pashie wasn’t answering. Where was she?

  We’ve been lured into a trap.

  It wasn’t possible to explain everything in a text message. He needed to get hold of her, speak with her.

  A picture says more than a thousand words, he thought. Sometimes they said the wrong words. But pictures didn’t lie.

  Even if our intentions are good, we’re keeping secrets from each other, Pashie, secrets we shouldn’t be keeping.

  Sofia was sitting in silence, her gaze fixed on the road, steering the car out of central Stockholm and onto the E18 highway toward Örebro. Max put his cell phone away.

  The silence in the car was broken by the sudden crackling of the police radio.

  “We have a traffic accident on National Road 51 between Örebro and Kumla. Near Almbro. All traffic is blocked on National Road 51.”

  “Damn it, that’s where we’re going,” said Sofia. “There should be a map in there. Could you check whether any other roads go to Örebro?”

  Max managed to extract a map book from the mess in the glove compartment. Flipped to the Örebro area.

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  “We need to be passing someplace called Hidingsta near Rysjön.”

  “I have it here. It’s right by the Kvismaren nature reserve. Really small roads through the forest. Are you sure you have the right address? Nobody lives out here but elk.”

  Sofia nodded. “It’s the right address. Are you sure you’re reading the map right?”

  Sofia’s cell phone rang.

  “Boss?” she said, putting the phone to her ear.

  Per Carpelan sounded tense, as if he was under a great deal of strain. Max could tell from looking at Sofia that something had happened.

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  Sofia stomped on the brake, and Max had to put his hand on the glove compartment to avoid being thrown forward.

  When the car had come to a complete stop on the little forest road, Sofia said, “I’m in that area, Per.”

  Carpelan went on after a period of silence. When Sofia ended the call, she looked at Max with a new kind of horror in her gaze.

  “There was no traffic accident on National Road 51. The prisoner transport was stopped. They were threatened with weapons and forced to release Kandinsky.”

  Tall conifers surrounded them. In the middle of a primeval forest illuminated by the waning light of the evening sun. The Russians in the Ballongberget neighborhood in Solna had meant business. They had really wanted to get hold of the same man the Swedes had been hunting. But why?

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Is it them?” asked Sofia.

  Them. The invisible ones. The ones who moved in and out of any environment, wherever they needed to be. Their best-known motto was “Any assignment anywhere at any time.” This time they had threatened people with violence on a public road. In a foreign country. To get their hands on a prisoner? A Latvian nationalist with a criminal record spanning most of his lifetime. A man who’d murdered Swedes as revenge for the betrayal of the Balts in the forties.

  What could be so important to them about this case that they would take such extraordinary measures?

  What is it we’ve missed?

  “Carpelan told us to stay damned far away,” said Sofia. “What the hell are we going to do?”

  “We can’t sit here and wait. Whatever this is, we’re close to the answer now. We have to keep going.”

  Sofia nodded. Put the car in gear and drove on down the road.

  108

  They walked the short distance from the c
ar to the cabin. Instinctively, Max felt that something wasn’t right. When he caught sight of the cabin’s outline in the darkness, he got the feeling that this was a place for animals. And the men who hunted them.

  They left the road and walked into the forest a bit. Took cover behind a big tree trunk. They crouched down and looked toward the house. Sofia pulled out her Sig Sauer and chambered a round.

  “There were a lot of fresh car tracks on the gravel road,” she whispered. “But I don’t see any here.”

  Max nodded. The people who’d been here had probably just left. He stood up and waved her forward.

  The area around the hunting cabin was dark. The structure’s few windows were covered by shutters. Max went up to the front door and tried it. It was unlocked. Sofia crept along behind him, her weapon ready.

  Beyond the doorway the darkness was total, as was the silence. There was a stink of something burnt. A weak glow came from deeper within the cabin. An open fire? Someone had been in here recently. Perhaps someone was still hiding in the darkness?

  Max took out his cell phone and looked along the wall for a light switch in the weak glow of the phone’s screen.

  The first thing Max saw after his eyes had gotten accustomed to the light from a ceiling lamp was the eight-cornered marking inscribed in ink on a man’s breast. On the other breast, over the heart, was a large swastika. Then he saw a wave-shaped tattoo like a black snake across the stomach. Downward-pointing arrowheads surrounded the throat like a wreath. What was left of the head was burnt. There was a bullet hole in the forehead. The shot had blown out most of the back of the head, and the remains of it lay spread out on the floor behind the chair he was tied to. Max walked around the chair and looked at the man’s back. There was Lietuvens’s cross. With the symbols in the same order in which they appeared in the symbology book.

  Max could hardly recognize him.

  Maj-Lis Toom’s murderer and Charlie’s torturer. He wouldn’t be killing anyone else. Max couldn’t help thinking that justice had been served, in a way. A brutal, satisfying justice.