Anger Mode

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Just as he was about to open the entrance door, he paused. He carefully touched the swelling around his eye. It felt like red-hot pins and needles. He did not dare to touch his nose. He only had to look at his reflection in the door’s glass panel to relive the pain. There was little doubt that his nose was broken. It was swollen, mainly on one side, he noticed. He looked terrible. Borderline grotesque – that was how Sebastian would have described him. He slowly started to come out of the initial shock.

  Why was he standing here at the entrance and what was he going home for?

  For a start, he had practically no home left to return to and besides, he needed medical attention – A&E, at that. His face burned and was so painful that he did not know if he could keep himself from fainting. The longer he examined himself in the door pane, the weaker he felt.

  Jörgen heard the sirens drawing nearer from different directions. Soon, the police would be here. Apparently, somebody had either seen or heard the gunfight. That was only to be expected. He considered his situation and decided that it would be best to visit a hospital as soon as possible. Perhaps someone was standing in a window, watching Jörgen right now with telephone in hand and talking directly to the police. If he went inside the entrance, the police would soon be swarming up the stairway. They would be going door to door, and those who did not open up would get a visit anyway. That was the procedure when dealing with serious villains. Talking to the police was the last thing he wanted to do now. He was in deep shit, as they say.

  He had been punished just like the other two. Lennart Ekwall, the arrogant prosecutor who had refused to listen to any entreaties, now stood himself as the accused before the tribunal. A powerful emotion overwhelmed him as he saw the evil-doers escorted from their homes in handcuffs. He felt no remorse, nothing that deterred him. This was how vengeance felt and he knew that his was righteous. The hatred burned within him with an ever-stronger flame.

  She was speaking to him again.

  WALTER SEEMED ALMOST apathetic after Jonna had dispensed with official channels and told him he was suspended from duty, pending an internal investigation that would start as soon as he was discharged from the hospital.

  “It’s not the first time this has happened, you know,” Walter said and tried to downplay the gravity of the situation.

  “No, I can see that,” Jonna said and smiled awkwardly. “But it could be the most serious infringement.”

  Walter looked inquiringly at Jonna. “What do you base that on?”

  Jonna squirmed. “Lilja said that this is one time too many. You have used up your favours and so on.”

  “Really? Is that what he said?” Walter remarked dryly. “Anyway, I haven’t received an official notification yet. Which de facto means that I’m still a detective with the CID. And before I have the notification in my hand, I can initiate a new investigation. Which is what I intend to do. With or without Lilja and definitely without the phony detectives at SÄPO.” He reached determinedly for his mobile phone, which lay on the bedside table.

  “What are you doing?” Jonna asked.

  “I’m going to become a pain,” Walter said. “A chronic pain.”

  “You’re calling …”

  “Julén.” Walter filled in the blank.

  Walter, however, never got the chance to use his phone. Without knocking, an older man man strode through the door to the hospital room. He was wearing a long, black wool coat, well-pressed trousers, and shoes polished to a mirror shine. The man observed Walter dispassionately for a few seconds before breaking out in a smile.

  “Walter, Walter,” he admonished and moved to the centre of the room. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

  “This is just what I don’t need right now,” Walter muttered and put his phone down.

  “You know why I’m here,” the man greeted him and walked over to the bed.

  “Straight to business like a tart’s punter and with the charm of an iceberg,” Walter stated.

  “Let me guess,” the man said.

  “Please do,” Walter answered.

  “Could you possibly be referring to me?” the man said.

  “You’ve always been very self-aware,” Walter laughed sarcastically.

  Both men sized each other up for a few seconds. Jonna watched, surprised by the icy chill that was obvious between them. Finally, the visitor backed down.

  “Do I need to explain the grounds for the decision?” he asked in a tense voice. His smile gave way to a stern expression.

  Walter nodded. “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “In the first place, you have performed illegal searches of both the national identity and the criminal records databases.”

  “Who hasn’t done that?” Walter countered. “That became common practice back in the days of the Olof Palme investigation. Go on.”

  “Then we have the complaint from the Drug Squad, who maintain that you sabotaged two years of undercover operations by not consulting them before you shook down all known associates to the pimp Kenneth Haglund, now on trial for murder.”

  “For God’s sake, he had beaten a tart to death. What should I have done? Waited until the Drug Squad gave us permission to investigate a murder? They just lost a few drug dealers in the operation. I pointed that out when they came complaining to Lilja. Two small-fry dealers against one murderer. What other choice did I have?”

  “Don’t look at me,” the man said and shrugged apologetically. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “As a former murder detective, you would do exactly the same,” Walter said with some bitterness.

  The man just shook his head. “Do you keep them there?” he asked and looked at the cupboard standing in the corner of the room.

  Walter nodded.

  The man served Walter some papers, went over to the cupboard and started to poke around in his clothes.

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” Jonna said and went towards the person she assumed was from Internal Affairs. She had felt invisible ever since this comedian had marched into the room.

  “Not necessary,” he said curtly. “I already know who you are.”

  Jonna looked at the man, as surprised as she was irritated.

  “But I don’t actually know who you are,” she replied and took a step towards to the man.

  “Lindström, Internal Affairs,” muttered the man as he searched through Walter’s clothes.

  “Stay away from him,” Walter said from his bed. “Above all, don’t shake his hand. He’s as friendly as an electric fence.”

  Jonna said nothing and instead sat in the visitor’s chair. Internal Affairs was not exactly known for having the most convivial personalities on the police force. Investigating colleagues obviously required a certain type of mindset. There was, perhaps, a method in their madness. A trait that was needed to prevent them from empathizing with colleagues whom they were charged with investigating. The pressure on them was not insignificant. Still, that alone did not excuse his behaviour.

  The man picked out the shoulder holster with Walter’s service weapon, a Sig Sauer, and removed the magazine. In a practised manner, he pulled back the slide to ensure that the chamber was clear of any rounds. For safety’s sake, he double-checked Walter’s pockets for any extra magazines or rounds that he might have. From the wallet, which he found hidden deep down in one of Walter’s Ecco loafers, he removed the police ID and the badge. He put everything in a transparent evidence bag and sealed it.

  “Right then,” he said and approached Walter. He quickly examined the notification papers and Walter’s scribbled signature. Then he signed a receipt confirming that Walter’s weapon and police ID had been taken into his custody. Finally, he wished them a good day and left the room as quickly as he had entered.

  “I’ve known that man for many years,” Walter exclaimed as soon as the door had closed behind Lindström. “We’ve worked together more than once. We actually worked together during the Södermalm riots many years ago. A really sm
ug bastard.”

  “But now he’s at IA,” Jonna interrupted.

  “Yes, but this doesn’t change anything really,” Walter explained. “I’ll make sure that there will be a new investigation, based on the memo I wrote. Even with this small hiccup, I can start working on Lilja and Julén, and Lilja at least eventually does what he’s told,” Walter concluded.

  Jonna started to protest, but checked herself. That Walter no longer was on the force was really his problem. That he also believed that he could get a new investigation started sounded more like fantasy than reality. How could a detective at the CID possibly convince SÄPO and the Chief Prosecutor to open yet another investigation on Drug-X?

  At any rate, Jonna would do what she could to persuade her supervisor to forward a memo to SÄPO, about why the terrorist theory could not be a feasible one. She would instead suggest that someone convicted in the courts was seeking revenge on the District Prosecutor and the court jury. Even if that theory was not completely plausible, it was the most probable of the two. Even Walter agreed on that.

  IT WAS PAST two in the morning when Jonna, for the seventh time, gave up any hope of sleeping. With her eyes fixed on a spider on the ceiling and brooding about how she was going to phrase the report to her supervisor at RSU, she was once again trapped in a mental loop. The report should not sound too far-fetched. It had to be a balanced mix of facts and qualified assumptions that led to a final conclusion, which pointed to one or several perpetrators, who could be traced through the court cases handled by the relevant jurors and the District Prosecutor. Certainly, there were gaps in her theory about the perpetrator’s method, but those questions would be answered by an investigation, if it were given adequate resources. The problem Jonna faced was SÄPO, which was now leading the ongoing operation with Åsa Julén in charge of the preliminary investigation. Jonna bit her lower lip, thinking it over.

  THE MEMO THAT Jonna proposed to her supervisor was forwarded, registered and archived at SÄPO without any further action. Johan Hildebrandt was so alarmed by the total radio silence that he had to check whether his memo had been received by the addressees, which it had. However, nobody paid it any attention. Not even the Prosecutor’s Office had bothered to send a reply. Julén deferred to SÄPO, where the memo seemed to have disappeared into a black hole.

  TOR HEDMAN TURNED into the parking space by Danderyd’s hospital and parked the car. He was shaking from the aftershock of the gunfight.

  “Fucking hell. That was so bloody close,” he said, shaken, and lit a Prince cigarette. His hand trembling, he took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke through his nose. Jerry glared contemptuously at Tor. Smokers were not only daft in the head, they smelled like fucking ashtrays too. And the passive smoker was just as much at risk as the idiot sitting with a coffin nail stuck in his cakehole. Jerry grabbed the cigarette from Tor’s mouth and tossed it out of the car window. “Oy! I told you to bloody lay off smoking in the car,” Jerry growled.

  “But I …”

  “No fucking buts,” Jerry interrupted. “We bloody nearly got our skulls filled with lead. We have to think now. Don’t you get it?”

  Tor silently swore to himself: he was being denied a smoke in the car even after they had barely avoided being smoked themselves.

  “Just listen,” Jerry went on. “What happened on Odengatan was a good thing. So bloody good that I could even kiss …” Jerry dug deep into his memory to find someone to swap spit with, but came up empty.

  Tor looked in amazement at Jerry, who apparently was rapt in intense thought.

  “This is too fucking good to be true,” Jerry finally said, and slammed his fist into the glove compartment so that the door flew open.

  Tor raised an eyebrow and looked dubiously at Jerry. Had he lost it? Was he in shock? Less than fifteen minutes ago, they had been in the middle of a shootout that could have cost them their lives. Now Jerry was sitting there and saying it was a good thing. Tor did not understand anything.

  “What’s so good?” Tor asked sceptically.

  “Who knew that we would be on Odengatan today and at exactly this time?” Jerry cried out.

  “Nobody knew about it,” Tor answered. “I haven’t talked to anybody, unless you have?”

  “One person knew,” Jerry concluded.

  “Who then?” Tor wondered and immediately thought of the go-between.

  “The bloke who gave us the job, of course. It was the bastard who told us to visit that bloody loser and to strong-arm that evidence from him. He was also the one who told us which day and what time to do the job.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t ‘so what?’ me,” Jerry said. “He screwed us. So now, we can screw him good and proper. Are you up for it?”

  “Dunno,” Tor hesitated, trying unsuccessfully to follow his logic.

  “Or we can just walk away from this job now without getting a bad reputation. And toss this key on the rubbish tip,” Jerry said, holding up Jörgen’s key to the safety deposit box.

  “But why did he try to set us up? What would he stand to gain?” Tor asked and groped after the cigarette pack in his inside pocket. He was dying for a ciggie now.

  “I have no fucking idea. But we’ll find out,” Jerry said, with eyes like red-hot coals.

  “It could have been a trap set by Haxhi,” Tor suggested and stuck a new Prince in his mouth. Just as he was about to light it, he stopped himself. Jerry was angrily watching the cigarette hanging from the corner of Tor’s mouth. Tor sighed and instead got out and sat on the wing of the car, where he concentrated on blowing smoke rings while he thought.

  Jerry’s brow was deeply furrowed. Certainly, he and Tor could still clean up this mess with their reputation intact. First, their go-between Omar would have to vouch for the evidence before they could send the journalist to swim with the fishes. Tor and Jerry had been given a free hand to handle the job in their own way. The important thing was that they succeeded. One hundred thousand up front had not been a problem. Jerry would have to talk with Omar, who had given them the job. He needed to get directly in touch with the client. Without Omar’s involvement.

  AFTER HAVING BEEN x-rayed and wheeled in on a bed to a room on one of the wards, Jörgen quickly began to take stock of his situation. The first things he was sure of were a broken nose, an agonizing headache and an eye that was blocked up tighter than an Egyptian pharoah’s tomb – perhaps permanently, if the radiologist’s reaction was anything to go on. Furthermore, the police mole and God-knows-who-else were after his scalp. It seemed as if the whole human race had turned against him. He had finally incurred the wrath of God for his sins. The only positive thing he could put in the equation was that his skull seemed to have stayed intact. Dr André had cheerfully informed him of that fact before he finished his rounds.

  THREE UNITS OF the National SWAT team, the NI, were deployed around the rented property on Atlasgatan. Team Alpha, which was the main force, would be performing the flat search itself. To avoid destroying any evidence, and as this was classed as a high-risk operation, it was decided to strike hard and without warning. Team Bravo would cut off any escape routes and had therefore sealed the building perimeter as tight as a drum. The third team, Delta, would provide backup for the other two teams. The assault would take place at 03.30 hours exactly. It had taken less than three minutes to deploy the teams and Martin Borg waited impatiently. Two minutes to go. Clouds of condensation rose from his mouth in the chilly morning air. He was content with all the preparations that his group at the Counter-Terrorism Unit had made. First, snatching the investigation from the amateurs at County CID, then planning and leading the operation with NI and, finally, being on the brink of an operation that would probably turn the tide in his favour. The fire smouldering inside him flared up when he thought of how these dirty animals poisoned the Free World with their twisted ideology. The Taliban were the worst of them all. Directly after 9/11, an American Air Force general had said that he would bomb Afghanistan back to the
Stone Age.

  Obviously, he was unaware that the Taliban had already taken the country back to that era.

  The walkie-talkie crackled into life.

  “Alpha, breach.” Two short words came from the task-force leader.

  Martin was jolted back to reality. The time had come and the leader of the NI task force had given the signal to enter the building. Now we will show them how a democracy works at its best, he thought, and squeezed the charm that he wore around his neck.

  “Affirmative, breach,” the Alpha-team leader answered.

  Police officers in black uniforms and ski masks were standing pressed up against the wall by the stairwell. Three of them ran towards the flat door with a battering ram. In less than six seconds, they had forced the door open. Two more police officers rushed to the doorway and fired in tear gas and stun grenades, which exploded with loud bangs. With MP5 submachine guns drawn, the rest of the team stormed into the block of flats, shouting over each other that they were from the police, in case anybody came to another conclusion.

  Alpha-team leader Anton Edvinsson was the first to enter the flat. The smoke from the tear gas had spread out like a fog, which made it impossible to see more than an arm’s length in front. He slowly swept the air in front of him with his MP5. The light from the torch attached to his submachine gun cut through the smoke like a laser beam. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his colleagues following behind him and flanking him at the side of the hallway. He signalled to his wingman to cover the door that was ahead of them. He was going to open a glass door that seemed to lead into the living room. His colleague moved quickly forwards and positioned himself to the left of the glass door. Edvinsson tested the handle, which was unlocked. He took a deep breath and threw open the door, shouting “Police!” so loudly that his voice almost cracked. Sweeping the room ahead of him with the MP5, he rushed in, together with the officer who had been covering him. Two policemen quickly moved up behind them. When the room was secured, Edvinsson positioned himself in front of yet another door, again backed up by a colleague. It was like ballet. Their pattern of movements was well rehearsed and each advance had a purpose. Nothing was left to chance. Even though the element of surprise was important, safety was always first.