‘Your charming boss told me. I think his name was Jansson?’
The lift stopped with a jerk.
‘I shall be walking right behind you,’ the archivist said. ‘If you’re a good girl then the little lady in reception will get a chance to grow up.’
He moved even closer to her, his hands sliding into her coat pockets and down towards her crotch.
She kicked the door to open it.
He quickly withdrew his hands from her pockets, and in one hand he was holding her mobile phone.
‘Nice and quiet, now,’ he whispered.
They stepped into the lobby. Linda the receptionist came out from the kitchen, talking on the phone, and smiled warmly at them.
Ring the police, Annika tried to tell her telepathically, staring at her with fire in her eyes. Ring the police! Ring the police!
But the young woman waved to them and went back into the room behind reception with her phone.
‘And out we go,’ Hans Blomberg whispered.
The cold tore at her skin, and she felt the pistol at her back again.
‘To the right,’ the archivist said. She turned and walked unsteadily along the pavement, they passed her hire-car with Ragnwald’s millions in the boot. Hans Blomberg pulled her by the arm and steered her towards an old Passat that was parked outside a bookshop.
‘It isn’t locked,’ he said. ‘Jump in.’
Annika did as he said. The car-seat was ice-cold, the man walked round the car and got in the driver’s seat.
‘Where did you steal this one?’ Annika asked.
‘Porsön,’ Hans Blomberg said, hot-wiring the ignition.
They rolled off towards the water and turned off to follow the railway track. For the third time that day Annika drove through the industrial estate on Lövskatan.
‘How did you get into my room?’ she asked, staring into the rear-view mirror. Behind them, a long way back, she caught sight of a distant but growing point of light.
The archivist laughed slightly. ‘A little hobby of mine,’ he said. ‘I can break into anything. Anything else you’d like to know?’
She thought, shut her eyes and swallowed. ‘Why did you change the way you killed them each time?’
He shrugged, braked at the opening of the narrow track with the no vehicles sign, craned his neck and peered through the windscreen.
‘I wanted to try things out,’ he said. ‘At our training camp in Melderstein in the summer of sixty-nine the Dragon appointed me his supreme commander. I was the one who would lead the armed struggle. All summer we practised different forms of attack, different ways to take a life. Over the years I kept up my interest and my education. How far do we drive?’
‘To the viaduct,’ Annika said, glancing in the mirror again, the light was closer now. ‘Margit Axelsson received a warning after the Dragon disappeared. Did you get one as well?’
The archivist laughed again, louder this time.
‘But dear girl,’ he said, ‘I was the one who sent them. They all got one.’
‘Whose fingers were they?’
‘A little boy who had been killed in a car accident,’ Hans Blomberg said. ‘I broke into the mortuary and cut them off. There’s no need to worry, he didn’t miss them.’
She looked out of the window until she could talk again.
‘But why start killing them now?’ she said, looking at him. ‘Why did you wait so long?’
He glanced back at her and smiled.
‘You’re not listening,’ he said. ‘The revolution is here. It was going to start when the Dragon returned. He promised that before he left, and now he’s back.’
‘Göran Nilsson is dead.’
Hans Blomberg shrugged. ‘Ah well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘All false authorities die sooner or later.’
He pulled up, put the car in neutral and put on the handbrake, leaving the stolen car running. He turned to look at Annika, suddenly serious and thoughtful.
‘The Dragon promised that he would come back, and I knew it was true. I waited all those years. Of course I’ve had moments of doubt, but I’m the winner in the end.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ Annika said.
He slapped her across the face with the flat of his hand.
‘So now we go out and find the box,’ he said, reaching over her to open the passenger door, his hand pausing on her stomach.
She heaved herself out, taking a quick glance backward.
Not yet time.
She turned towards the box and pointed. ‘There.’
‘Open it.’
She walked slowly forward, lead weights round her feet.
It won’t work, she thought. I can’t do it.
She listened behind her, thought she could hear the dull rumble. Not yet, but soon. She took hold of the handle, tried to twist, pulled, used both hands, pulled even harder, braced her feet on the ground, and groaned loudly.
‘I can’t get it open,’ she said, letting go.
The light was close now, the whistling sound was very clear, merging with the distant rumble of the steelworks. Soon, soon, soon.
Hans Blomberg walked over, annoyed. ‘Get out of the way.’
Holding the pistol in his right hand, he grabbed the handle with his left, gathered his strength, then pulled. The door flew open, the man’s eyes opening wide as he leaned over and stared into the darkness, and Annika shrugged off her heavy jacket and ran.
She threw herself down onto the track, slipping on the sleepers, running though her legs felt like lead, unable to hear amidst the panic.
A bullet flew past her left ear, then another, and then she was bathed in the full glare of the diesel locomotive’s headlight. The driver pulled the whistle but it was too late, she was already across. She collapsed on the other side and the train thundered past her with its endless cargo of ore-truck after ore-truck after ore-truck, forming a wall of iron one kilometre long between her and Hans Blomberg.
And she got to her feet and ran and ran and ran towards the noise, towards the glowing red eyes at the top of blastfurnace number two. She scrambled up a steep slope and over a mountain of coal, knives tearing at her lungs; in the distance the sign, West Checkpoint.
Tuesday 24 November
51
Thomas put the evening papers down on the desk before he took off his coat and hung it up on a hanger. He glanced at the desk over his shoulder as he hung the hanger on the back of the door. Annika’s solemn face stared up at him from the front page of the Evening Post, the new photo she had taken after the business with the Bomber, with her looking older and sadder.
Evening Post Reporter CRACKED TERRORIST GANG, the headline screamed, and his pulse started to race as he sat down and ran a finger over her face.
His wife, the mother of his children, was unique, and not only in his eyes.
He opened the paper. Articles about how Annika’s investigations had cracked the Norrbotten terrorist cell took up half the paper. Across the first news-spread inside, pages six and seven, there was a night picture, taken from a plane, of the Gulf of Bothnia, with someone running within an illuminated circle of light, and the caption: Terrorist hunt at sea tonight – serial killer tracked by helicopters with thermal cameras.
A long article described how a single man from Luleå had murdered at least four people in just the last few weeks. Journalist Annika Bengtzon had sounded the alarm at the West Checkpoint of Swedish Steel, the police had sealed off the Lövskatan district, forcing the man out onto the ice. Fortunately police helicopters were already fitted with thermal-imaging cameras, because they had been searching for a missing three-year-old the year before. He glanced through the article, then moved on.
The next spread described how Annika had been locked in an abandoned compressor shed beside the railway in Luleå with members of the terrorist cell, the Beasts, and how she had managed to alert the police before she was captured, and how she had saved the life of pensioner Yngve Gustafsson by keeping him warm with her
own body-heat.
Thomas felt a jolt at that sentence, and had to swallow. He stopped reading and looked at the pictures.
A nice picture of Annika in the newsroom. Below that was a photograph taken with a flash, of a little red brick building. His wife could have died there.
He ran a hand through his hair and loosened his tie.
Annika had escaped the killer by throwing herself in front of an iron-ore train, and had run for a kilometre to Swedish Steel and sounded the alarm at the West Checkpoint. The article had been written by a reporter, Patrick Nilsson. Annika herself was interviewed and just said she was fine and that she was glad it was all over.
He breathed out hard. She was mad. What on earth was she thinking? How could she put herself in such a dangerous situation when she had him and the children?
They had to talk. She couldn’t carry on like this.
The following pages were full of Minister of Culture Karina Björnlund’s story of how she was lured to join the Beasts, a Maoist group in Luleå in the late 1960s. After Björnlund left the group it went to pieces and turned to violence, something she deeply regretted. The minister tried to describe the spirit of the times, a desire for justice and freedom that span out of control. The Prime Minister welcomed her honesty, and was giving her his full backing.
The truth about the story of the attack on F21 filled the next two pages. The serial killer now in custody had thrown one of the military’s own flares into a container of surplus aviation fuel and thereby caused the explosion.
He skipped the article once he’d read the introduction and captions.
The next two pages covered the hitman Ragnwald, one of ETA’s most ruthless terrorists, who had evaded the world’s police and security services for three decades. He had frozen to death in the compressor shed while Annika and the others had looked on, powerless to help.
He looked at the grainy photograph of a young man, dark and skinny, with nondescript features.
Then Annika was back again, a brief summary of her work and achievements.
He put the palm of his hand over her face and shut his eyes.
Strangely, he thought he could feel warmth from the newspaper.
A moment later the phone rang, and he picked it up with a smile.
‘I have to see you,’ Sophia Grenborg said, sobbing loudly. ‘Something terrible has happened. I’m on my way to you now.’
For a moment he was caught up in her panic, his throat constricting, terrorists, hitmen, people frozen to death.
Then everything fell into place. Sophia’s terrible things were not Annika’s. He cleared his throat and looked at the time, trying to think of an excuse not to see her.
‘There’s a committee meeting in quarter of an hour,’ he said, blushing at the lie.
‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
She hung up and he was left sitting there with an unidentifiable summer tune in his head.
On Friday she had been happy as a lark, because she was going to be in an article in County Council World. They had asked her what she wanted for Christmas.
‘I said you,’ she had whispered, then kissed him on the ear.
He looked at the front page of the Evening Post, one of the biggest papers in Scandinavia, his serious-looking wife uncovering a group of terrorists. She was changing reality, while he and his colleagues were trying to tame it and administer it; she was making a difference while he was putting up smokescreens.
The telephone rang again, an internal call from reception.
‘There’s someone here to see you.’
He stood up and stared out across the churchyard below, frosted and frozen. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the disquiet, the clamminess, the feeling of reluctance and obligation.
A few seconds later Sophia Grenborg stumbled into his room, her eyes red with crying, her nose puffy and swollen. He went over and helped her take off her coat.
‘I don’t understand what’s happened,’ she sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from her bag. ‘I don’t know what’s got into them.’
He stroked her on the cheek and tried to smile. ‘What’s happened?’
She sank onto a chair, holding the handkerchief to her mouth.
‘Management want to move me,’ she said, breathing unevenly. ‘Clerk in the traffic safety department.’
She lowered her head, her shoulders began to shake, he shuffled his feet a couple of times, bewildered, then leaned over her, paused.
‘Sophia,’ he said. ‘Oh dear, come on, poor you …’
She stopped, looking up at him in genuine confusion.
‘After all the work I’ve done,’ she said. ‘I’ve put everything into this job for five years. How can they downgrade me like this?’
‘Are you sure it isn’t a promotion?’ he said, sitting down on the desk and putting his hand on her back.
‘Promotion?’ she said. ‘I’m losing my project management bonus, and I have to clear my room this afternoon and move out to an open-plan office in Kista. I won’t even have my own desk.’
Thomas rubbed her shoulders, looking down at her hair, breathing in the smell of apples.
‘What reason are they giving?’
Sophia started to cry again, he stood up and pushed the door shut properly.
‘Come on, love,’ he said, crouching down and stroking the hair from her face. ‘Tell me what happened.’
She pulled herself together and wiped her nose.
‘We’ll sort this out,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
‘They called me in for a meeting,’ she said. ‘I was really pleased. I thought I was going to join the congress group, or maybe one of the committees, but instead this happened.’
‘But why?’
She shook her head. ‘They said it was part of the reorganization ahead of the merger with you, and then they sent me out. Thomas, I don’t understand. What’s going on?’
He kissed her on the forehead, stroked her hair, looked at his watch.
‘Darling,’ he said, ‘I have to get to my meeting, and I don’t have any contacts in the Federation …’
The words hung in the air. She looked at him, wide-eyed.
‘Can’t you pull any strings?’
He patted her cheek. ‘Well, I can try. This will all sort itself out, you’ll see.’
‘Do you think so?’ she said, and stood up.
He followed her, breathing in the scent of her apple hair.
‘Absolutely,’ he said, getting her coat.
She kissed him gently before turning round and letting him help her with her coat.
‘Can’t you come over tonight?’ she whispered into his neck. ‘I could cook something Italian.’
He felt the sweat break out between his shoulder blades.
‘Not tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘My wife’s home. Haven’t you seen the paper?’
‘What?’ She opened her damp eyes wide. ‘Which paper?’
He walked away from her, went over to the desk, and held up the front page of the Evening Post towards her. Annika’s dark, unseeing eyes stared at them.
‘Cracked terrorist gang,’ Sophia read in astonishment and disbelief. ‘What does your wife do, exactly?’
Thomas looked at his wife as he replied. ‘She used to be head of the crime desk, but that took too much time from the family. Nowadays she’s an independent reporter, looking into official corruption and political scandals. She’s been working on this terrorism case for the last few weeks.’
He put the newspaper down, the picture facing upwards, noting the pride in his voice and behaviour.
‘She was supposed to come back yesterday, but this came up instead. She’s flying home this afternoon.’
‘Oh well,’ Sophia said, ‘I can understand that you’re busy tonight.’
She left without saying anything else, and he was surprised at how genuinely relieved he felt when she had gone.
Annika was staring at the countryside outside the window of the Ar
landa Express. Frozen fields and icy farms rushed past but she barely registered them. Her eyes were fixed.
The night had disappeared as she had weighed up and analysed different options and their consequences, piecing together the facts and formulating her argument. Now the article was in her notepad, ready to be printed.
Home, she thought. It doesn’t have to be a place or a house; it’s something else entirely.
She shut her eyes and thought through her decisions one more time. One: the text would be published. Two: she had lived in the building on Hantverkargatan for ten years. That didn’t mean that her home was there. Thomas had never really liked living in the city, for him it would come as a relief.
You have to win, she thought. You have to be stronger. You can’t give your opponent a chance. She must not be an alternative. Thomas will never pick a loser.
Her phone started to vibrate in the inside pocket of the polar jacket. She pulled it out and saw it was Q, calling from his private number.
‘Congratulations,’ the head of the national crime unit said.
‘What for?’ Annika said.
‘I heard you got your mobile phone back.’
She smiled weakly. ‘From your lads up in Luleå. Hans Blomberg had it in his trouser pocket when they caught him out on the ice. What can I do for you today?’
‘I was wondering about something,’ he said. ‘It’s this business of the money.’
‘What money?’ Annika said.
‘Ragnwald’s money. A bag full of euros.’
Annika watched blue-panelled industrial units fly by at 160 kilometres an hour.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘How did you find it?’
She shut her eyes, swaying with the movement of the train.
‘I was just out taking a walk. I stumbled across a bag of money that someone must have dropped. I handed it over to the police as lost property. Anything else you’re wondering?’
‘That’s Ragnwald’s life’s work,’ the commissioner said. ‘He killed people for money all his life and never used a franc to make his life easier, and because of that he was never caught. He collected it all in his doctor’s safety deposit box in Bilbao and took the whole lot out one month ago.’
Red Wolf Page 36
