“Hang on a min—” Alex said, but Eden interrupted him.
“You’ll just have to take my word for it. Säpo is not investigating the murders of individual members of the Solomon Community, but if we had information that could benefit your work, then needless to say we would have passed it on.”
Unless, of course, national security was at risk, Alex thought.
Less than five minutes ago he had received information that virtually ruled out Efraim Kiel as a suspect, but of course Eden didn’t know that. He appreciated the fact that she had called and he couldn’t care less why Säpo was following Efraim, as long as it had nothing to do with the murders.
His thoughts turned to Polly Eisenberg. To her brother’s body lying on the dazzling white snow. To the paper bag over his head.
This has to end.
He heard a rustling noise, then Eden was back.
“Has Fredrika left?”
“Yes, she should be there by now.”
He wished they could have gone together, that it hadn’t been so urgent.
And he hoped Fredrika would take care of herself, all alone in the land of the Paper Boy.
ISRAEL
One of the smallest countries in the world, from a purely geographical point of view. The desert meeting the sea. Heat and aridity. Two nations laying claim to the same narrow piece of land. Almost two decades ago there had been a peace process, but there was nothing left of that initiative now. The country where the Paper Boy had once been given life was a strange place.
“Have you been here before?” asked the man who met Fredrika at the airport.
“Once, but it was a long time ago.”
She had been twenty-four years old, and she had just fallen in love.
This would have been so much more fun if Spencer were here.
They were in a car on the way to Jerusalem from Ben Gurion airport. The hills forming the landscape were a fascinating sight, a mixture of barrenness dotted with patches of vegetation and settlements.
Her companion was called Isak Ben-Zwi. He was roughly the same age as Alex and, as far as Fredrika could make out, worked for the Israeli equivalent of the National Crime Unit.
“You have a terrible situation in Stockholm,” he said.
Fredrika could only agree.
“Have you found the little girl who went missing yesterday?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She took out her cell phone: a new message she hadn’t had time to listen to yet. She was about to put her phone away when Isak said: “Please—we’re not here to make small talk; we’re here because we have a job to do. Don’t mind me.”
She gave him a grateful look and clicked on her voicemail.
Alex’s voice in her ear was a reminder of why she was there.
“Peder called. Efraim Kiel couldn’t have abducted the boys or shot Josephine, because he was in a meeting with the general secretary of the Solomon Community at the time. Speak to you later.”
So. That considerably reduced the possibility that Efraim was involved. Of course, it could be that one person had abducted the boys and another had shot them, but that seemed unlikely. As a general rule, if there was more than one perpetrator, they were usually responsible for different victims.
“Problems?” Isak said.
Fredrika didn’t want to share what she had just heard. She and Alex had agreed before she left that it was best to leave Efraim Kiel out of their collaboration with the Israeli police.
“Yes, but nothing new.”
She forced a smile and gazed out of the window.
“Is the weather always this good in January?”
The sun was shining and it was 64 degrees Fahrenheit. The contrast with Stockholm was depressing.
“Not always, but sometimes—if we’re lucky. Jerusalem is a little cooler; the city is higher up than Tel Aviv. We even have snow there occasionally, but it’s very rare.”
They drove in silence toward the Israeli capital, which was still not recognized internationally.
“We’ve started going through the material you sent over,” Isak said eventually. “The various addresses where the individual calling himself the Lion logged into Super Troopers.”
Fredrika’s spirits rose.
“Any luck?”
“Not so far, but as I said, we’ve only just started. I’ve got some of my team visiting these places to see whether they keep customer records or whether any of them have CCTV.”
If so, they might be able to get a picture, which would be invaluable. A picture and personal details. Fredrika tried not to be overoptimistic.
“We’re very grateful for your cooperation,” she said.
Isak kept his sharp eyes fixed on the road.
“We’re happy to help,” he said. “The Jewish people have the right to feel safe. Wherever they may be.”
Fredrika knew what he meant but felt no empathy. She didn’t really know who her own people were. A small political elite in Europe was trying to create a European identity for the members of the European Union, but Fredrika couldn’t see them succeeding. Such constructs didn’t usually have a long-term future.
“I believe you have some other matters to look into during your stay,” Isak said.
It was hard to tell whether there was a question in there, but Fredrika thought so. She and Alex had carefully planned their strategy for her visit. It would be inappropriate to reveal that they distrusted the boys’ parents. They had nothing concrete against them, but Fredrika thought that was irrelevant; the parents must be left out of the whole thing.
But she had to respond to Isak’s question—or statement.
“An old Israeli legend has come up in our investigation,” she said. “Have you ever heard of the Paper Boy?”
Isak frowned.
“The Paper Boy? No, never. Who is he?”
Fredrika told him, trying to put into words a story so unpleasant that she couldn’t understand why anyone would ever have told it to their children. She omitted specific details relating to the inquiry, such as the fact that Simon and Abraham had been found with paper bags over their heads.
“What a strange story,” Isak said. “I’ll get someone to do an online search in Hebrew, but don’t expect miracles; it sounds as if you’ve stumbled across a local urban myth.”
His words gave her the perfect opening.
“That’s exactly what we thought, which is why I’d really like to visit two kibbutzim where the story was told, according to our sources. Just to see if I can find out any more about where it comes from.”
“I understand. If you give me the names of the kibbutzim I can help you with transport. If they’re still in existence, of course.”
Fredrika hoped that at least one of them was still in operation. She had come a long way to track down the Paper Boy. The boy who came in the darkness and attacked small children. The boy who had now made his way to Sweden to seek out new victims.
Abraham, Simon, Josephine.
And Polly.
The yellow express train sliced through a snowy landscape so white and beautiful that it looked as if it belonged in a fairy tale.
So much space for such a small population.
Efraim Kiel couldn’t stop staring out of the window.
The Swedes had no idea how privileged they were. Over two hundred years of uninterrupted peace. A population where no one who was alive today had experienced the horrors of war on their home territory. For a man like Efraim, that was incomprehensible.
Conditions in Israel were so different that it hurt to think about his own country. Efraim had sacrificed more than most Israelis for the common good, for safety and security. He was well aware of the damage this had done to his heart and soul, dulling his senses and making him capable of doing harm to others in order to achieve a higher goal. But he thought it had been worth it, on the whole. Not everyone could enjoy a life spent barbecuing sausages in the back garden. Some people had to take responsibility.
At least, that was what Efraim told himself as he sat on the train, his thoughts once again turning to Eden and the child he had seen in her arms as she walked away.
Responsibility.
Efraim had taken responsibility when he had deliberately made her fall in love with him, even though he felt nothing in return. Perhaps things would have been different under other circumstances. If he hadn’t already met the woman in his life—the woman who had been his secret for so long. Both for his sake and hers, so that neither of them would come to any harm and be punished for their reckless love.
He had told her that the very first time he kissed her.
“This is doomed.”
She had responded by getting even closer to him. Then the boy came along and everything else lost its value.
Almost everything else.
The only thing that could rival his love for his son was his love for Israel, and for that, fate had punished him severely.
The train raced toward its final destination. Signs inside the carriage boasted that it took only twenty minutes to travel from Arlanda Airport into the city center. Efraim couldn’t have cared less whether it took twenty minutes or thirty. He was better prepared now and felt that he had regained control of the situation.
The gun was gone.
So was the child called Polly.
The child whose screams still echoed in his head.
Efraim didn’t speak Swedish, but there was one word he thought he would understand in any language.
Mommy.
A word with a unique tone and melody that a father could only dream of coming close to.
Ima in Hebrew. Umi in Arabic.
The train pulled in; Efraim got off and walked calmly out of the station. He had shaken off Säpo some time ago and he had no intention of renewing his acquaintance with them. Not until he needed their help. If that day should ever come.
He thought it unlikely.
He felt strong. Confident.
He headed north along Vasagatan, up toward the congress building that hid his new hotel. It was nowhere near as luxurious as the Diplomat, but it served its purpose. The receptionist didn’t appear to react as he walked in; there was no reason why she should be aware that he had been away overnight.
Up in his room he took a shower, changed his clothes, and went back out into the cold. He had to visit the Diplomat just once more. A final visit before war broke out.
He caught the bus this time. Got on and showed the strip of tickets he had bought. The driver stamped it and the bus moved off toward Djurgården. A green space right in the middle of Stockholm. An outpost by the sea. Efraim thought it was much more beautiful in the summer.
He got off at Nybroplan and took a circuitous route to the hotel.
There was a risk that Säpo might be waiting for him, hoping he’d come back, because by this stage even they must have realized they’d lost him.
He saw them from some distance away, sitting in a car parked much closer to the hotel than he would have done. He turned off Strandvägen, disappeared up a side street. He would have to use the entrance at the back of the hotel, the one he had located on his very first day there. It was easier to use when darkness had fallen, but not impossible in daylight.
That was the only advantage of this insane winter darkness: it was easy to become invisible. Efraim couldn’t think of anything else remotely positive about the fact that the sun disappeared at three o’clock in the afternoon.
He walked straight into a hotel maid as he opened the fire door and slipped into the corridor. Shit. She looked surprised and said something he didn’t understand. He smiled apologetically, explained briefly that he had taken a wrong turn.
She stared after him for far too long.
Foolish of her. Very foolish.
Time would tell whether he could leave the matter or whether he would need to deal with it.
The receptionist recognized him. He could see that she was confused because he hadn’t come in through the main door, which was less troublesome but still irritating. He would have avoided the visit if he could have, but it was impossible. He had no doubt about that.
“I was in such a hurry when I checked out yesterday,” Efraim said, his most charming smile firmly in place. “I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pick up any messages.”
The receptionist began to go through the file in front of her.
“Something did come for you; we were talking about it this morning, wondering what to do with it. We didn’t know how to get hold of you.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
Still smiling, and then the message was in his hand.
He moved away from the desk and the windows, where he was entirely too visible.
He opened the envelope and read the brief communication. The declaration of war he had been expecting. To think that so few words could cause such pain.
I will never forgive you for this.
LONDON
There were two things that Eden Lundell had found particularly difficult during her years in London: the ingrained conservatism and the terrible weather. Instinctively she felt that the latter would be easier to come to terms with than the former.
The sleet had turned into a classic autumn rain, lashing her face as she left the hotel, on her way to the man she had come here to see. The man who would tell her what she needed to know in order to get rid of her problem. To crush Efraim.
Her thoughts were constantly with Mikael and the children she had left behind. The anxiety she couldn’t shake off had grown into a monster that was threatening to drive her insane. She had to end this, and soon. She didn’t know why; she just knew that time was short.
The rain hammered against her waterproof jacket, the drops turning to transparent beads that almost looked like pearls. Eden had always hated pearls, mainly because her mother thought they were the last word in elegance. Eden wondered if she still felt the same. It was a long time since they had seen one another. Israel wasn’t all that far away, but after the affair with Efraim, Eden had been unable to bring herself to go there. She didn’t think she would get through passport control anyway—not without being taken to one side and questioned.
The water on the pavement softened the sound of her heels. There was hardly anyone else around, which wasn’t surprising: it was Sunday and it was pouring down. Why would anyone be out and about? She had chosen a hotel less than five blocks from where he lived. The most unexpected plan was often the best strategy. Her visit would lead to discussions and might also have certain practical consequences in the long term. She was under no illusion that he would be pleased to see her; those days were gone forever.
But that’s irrelevant; this is a matter of life and death, and that takes precedence over all the crap that’s behind us.
She had arrived.
She stood outside the house she had visited more times than she could count. The house where Fred and Angela Banks lived. They had been her and Mikael’s best friends when they lived in London. The most treacherous friends she had ever had.
At least as far as Fred was concerned.
He had been her colleague as well as her friend. And the first person her boss had chosen to involve in the investigation into her affair with Efraim.
A natural choice. He was closest to Eden and would easily be able to keep himself informed about her private life without arousing any suspicions.
The memories flooded her mind.
Memories of the holidays she and Mikael had spent with Fred and Angela. Dinner parties and celebrations. Fred with a cigar in the corner of his mouth (“I only smoke when I’m drunk, you know”), and Angela with a décolletage so deep you could practically see her navel (“Without these boobs, I would never have been such a successful broker!”). On the surface they didn’t seem to have anything whatsoever in common with Eden and Mikael, but in reality they had shared everything.
Interests.
Values.
Humor.
Because Fred and Angela were unable to have children, which led to a painful friction that Eden and Mikael not only witnessed but helped to heal.
Eden swallowed hard. She went up the steps, her finger trembling as she was about to ring the bell. Because they hadn’t made any friends in Stockholm who were as close as Fred and Angela had been.
We don’t let anyone get close anymore.
Eventually she had to do what she had come for. Prick a hole in the bubble in which she had been floating around ever since she left England. Not every aspect of her relationship with Fred had been false. They had established a friendship in her very first week with MI5, years before she met Efraim.
The sound of the doorbell was so loud that Eden thought the entire neighborhood had probably heard it.
She rang it again, hoping to hear some movement on the other side of the door. However, she had to press the bell several times before she heard footsteps approaching. Then came the usual silence as someone peered through the peephole. Which was normally followed by the sound of the latch being turned, the door opening.
But not this time.
After a while she realized that the person who had looked out had recognized her and crept away. Left her to her fate.
I refuse to be let down yet again by anyone at this fucking address.
She banged on the door with all her might, ringing the bell over and over again.
The footsteps returned, heavier and quicker this time.
Angry.
The door flew open so fast it almost hit her in the face.
Fred Banks, who had once been her very best friend, filled the entire doorway with his furious bulk. In spite of the fact that she had promised herself she wouldn’t react when they met for the first time in several years, she couldn’t help taking a deep breath when she saw him. And Fred, who had no doubt intended to start by bawling at her for daring to darken his door, froze in mid-movement and stood there with his mouth open.
When he eventually broke the silence, he was brief and to the point:
“I have no interest in speaking to you, Eden. Go away, please.”
The Chosen Page 25
