“Which one?”
“Check it out,” he said and held up Omar’s mobile phone. “Do you see the letters ‘HO’?”
Tor nodded.
“HO must be Haxhi Osmanaj.”
“You think so?”
Jerry nodded triumphantly. “When I pushed him to call up the client, he looked at his mobile. I bet he’s got all the numbers he uses in this phone.”
Tor clapped his hands. “Fucking sweet.”
“Yes, but the number for Haxhi is of no use to us, unless you want to call and ask him out on a date.”
“Why did you show me the number then?” Tor asked, shrugging.
Jerry gazed at him patronizingly. “Let me explain it to you. If you search through Omar’s call history, you can see that Omar has called the same number after almost every incoming and outgoing call from Haxhi. You can see that from the time log. Omar either called, or got a call from, the client every time Haxhi called Omar, or when Omar called Haxhi. This number must be the squealer that screwed us. Got it now?”
Tor nodded that he understood, although he really did not. The logic in what Jerry was saying was as murky to him as a pint of Guiness. Instead, he dwelt on his misgivings about Omar’s death and their lack of future income. How were they going to get by without Omar’s contracts? Go back to stick-ups? Or breaking into houses and stealing cheap jewellery again? When Omar came into their lives, they had secured a ticket out of the thieves’ ghetto. He had slowly and safely taken them up the criminal ladder to the top rung. As things looked now, they would have to creep back into the ghetto again and start doing the kind of jobs that respected villains never dirtied their hands with. Most of all, there would be no big money anymore.
It was time for Jerry to tell him what their future plans were now that Omar was no longer around. Maybe it had not been a smart thing to shoot him after all, even if they suspected that both Omar and the squealer had grassed on them to Haxhi.
“What are we going to do now that Omar’s gone?” Tor asked. He tried to sound as if he didn’t care – anything to not wind Jerry up.
“It’ll be all right,” Jerry said. “The important thing is that we take it one step at a time. To start with, we’ll shut the mouths of anyone who grasses on us. If we don’t do that, we’ll get no respect and, without respect, we won’t get any jobs. So Omar’s client is the next in line.”
“How do we get our hands on him?” Tor asked.
“Let’s see if we can trace the mobile number. If we’re lucky, it’s not a pre-paid phone.”
“If it’s pre-paid, what then?”
“We’ll soon find out,” Jerry said and picked up the mobile phone. He dialled the missing numbers service.
To their disappointment, the number was indeed for a pre-paid mobile phone. It was not registered in any name and therefore not possible to find out who owned the phone or their address.
Jerry swore and scratched his head, irritated. Everything was so fucking complicated now. He was going to have to choose his words carefully. The slightest hesitation or hint of deception in Jerry’s voice would alert the squealer. Jerry would have to lie with the same conviction that he used when the cops questioned him, which was something he had successfully pulled off five or six times already.
After a quick mental rehearsal, he had the scam clear in his mind. Now it was just a case of make or break, betting everything on one card.
“All we have to do is to call the number and see who picks up,” Jerry said and punched in the number on Omar’s mobile phone. When the squealer saw that it was the dead man’s phone number, there would be a reasonable chance that he would answer. Three rings later, and the game was in play.
CHAPTER 18
MARTIN BORG WAS stuck. Not one of the fucking bearded Muslims had said anything of substance. The investigation was treading water. The only thing happening was the media gorging on various theories. Finding the leak was SÄPO’s highest priority. It was presumably someone from the Prosecutor’s Office or the local police who, fortunately for them, were no longer involved. Maybe the flow of information to the media would finally stop.
In the investigation itself, there was nothing that even hinted at a breakthrough. It was therefore time for unconventional methods.
Before he started the project plan for Folke Uddestad, he needed to get the towelheads to talk. He took up his personal laptop, since the police computers were monitored. After logging onto the Telia 3G network with his top-up card, he went through his private mailbox. The only email of interest was from Omar. He had arranged for the goods to be delivered in a bag that was placed in a storage locker at T-Centralen railway station. He loved the symbiosis between the criminal underworld and society’s highest guardians. It could not get much better than this.
The only misgiving Martin had about Omar Khayyam was that he was a Muslim. But sometimes ideals had to be compromised to get ahead, even if it hurt deep down. Omar’s network of contacts was truly a wonder. There was nothing he could not fix, whether it were services or goods. It seemed that his old contacts within various intelligence agencies were still active, despite the fact that he had long since left the Syrian intelligence service for Sweden where he had, under false pretences, secured a permanent residence visa and, later, Swedish citizenship.
With some difficulty, Omar had even managed to get hold of Diaxtropyl-3S, also called a truth serum by some. Diaxtropyl-3S was developed for the CIA by a US military research unit for biomedicines. It was vastly superior to the Russian’s SP-117 and the sodium pentothal used so prolifically by the Chinese. However, there was an export ban on Diaxtropyl-3S in the USA and all use of the drug required advance approval from some bloody committee in the US Congress. This apparently concerned neither Omar nor the CIA.
Martin did not go to the police garage where he usually parked his private car. Instead, he walked out onto Sankt Eriksgatan and went to his silver-grey Volvo V50, which was parked on Fleminggatan. He opened the cover of the fuel cap and removed a storage-locker key. The cover had not been locked so that Omar could put the key inside. He read the numbers on the small note when he was sitting in the driving seat.
MARTIN HAD SELECTED selected Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik, as he seemed to be the weakest of the towelheads mentally. He seemed ripe for an encounter with the unconventional drug. With a little luck, he would be gushing information by breakfast time. Information that could be interesting enough to start the investigation moving forwards.
Martin needed a breakthrough – and soon. Without it, Chief Prosecutor Julén would chicken out and Martin would lose face in front of his superiors. That would be a disaster, not only for his own personal career, but also for that which he and his kind were fighting for. He had gambled everything on this lead and knew that he was right. It was the perfect opportunity. Soon the masses would be made aware of the true face of Islam, and many small trickles would, in time, create the populist tidal wave that was necessary to wash the Muslims away from the ramparts of Europe. Martin read through the personal file of Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik one more time.
Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik was thirty-one years old and originally came from Yemen. He had lived in Sweden for four years and had already married a Swedish woman after two. Naturally, the idiotic female had converted to Islam just as quickly as she had been knocked up. Martin observed Hisham, who looked tired but determined.
“All right then,” Martin emphasized the words as he sat on the edge of the table. “Here we are again. How are you feeling?”
The man shrugged, indifferent.
“Do you know what this is?” Martin said and opened a metal case.
The man looked without interest at Martin as he took up two syringes from the case.
He held up one of the syringes to the fluorescent light.
“Our colleagues at the CIA use this,” he explained. “Five millilitres of this will make you tell us one or two truths. Ten millilitres, and I will trust you like a brother. With fifteen millilitr
es in your blood, I will believe every word you say. The drawback with fifteen millilitres is the risk of a sudden heart attack.”
The man still said nothing.
Martin looked at Ove Jernberg, who stood with his back against the door, nervously shifting his stance. It was a bad sign. Fucking wimp, Martin thought. Nerves like a rabbit. He should be called Game Over instead.
Martin dropped his gaze from Ove and turned towards Hisham again. He took the other syringe from the case.
“This one has the opposite effect. When I inject this one, you will wake up within thirty minutes and the traces of the sodium will disappear in your piss. No trace and nobody to accuse me of anything. Who’s going to believe a story as far-fetched as the police drugging their guests to make them sing?” Martin also held the syringe in the light and studied its light-blue content with a certain fascination.
“You’re evil to the core,” the man said calmly and looked up at Martin.
Martin laughed. “How nice of you to finally talk to us.”
Hisham did not reply and continued to look at Martin.
Martin took out cable ties and pliers from a brown attaché case he had brought with him. “The powers-that-be sometimes have little tolerance for the methods one must use to keep democracy alive.” Silence in the room. The only thing that could be heard was Jernberg shifting his feet.
“You may think I’m an evil policeman because you see democracy as your enemy,” Martin continued. “But I’m fairly convinced that the majority of the citizens out there support us in this struggle.” Martin stretched out his arms like an evangelical preacher at a revival meeting.
Hisham cautiously smiled behind the beard. It couldn’t possibly be the case that the Swedish police were so utterly incompetent. At first, he had refused to believe it, but the longer this continued, the more certain he became that it was indeed the case. For some reason he could not really work out, the Swedes actually believed that the Islamic Brotherhood was a group of terrorists planning terror acts in Sweden. Certainly, the Brotherhood had proclaimed its desire to introduce Sharia law in Sweden. But that was an opinion and was, of course, not going to happen unless the Government and Parliament, by the will of the people, accepted the new order. Which, presently, was hardly realistic since there were many more Christians than Muslims living in the country. Time was, however, the Brotherhood’s greatest ally and persistence would eventually pay off.
“Why are you grinning?” Martin asked, as he and Jernberg bound the man’s hands and feet to the chair.
“I think this is all a misunderstanding,” Hisham answered calmly.
“That’s what they all say,” Martin laughed.
“You can do whatever you want to me and my brethren. All you will get is the truth and that’s not what you’re looking for.”
“We’ll soon find that out,” Martin informed him. “Try not to think about it; just relax and let us take care of you for the next few hours.”
Martin held up the disposable syringe and flicked it with his index finger a few times.
“How much do you think I’ll need?” Martin asked, looking first at Ove Jernberg and then at the man in the chair.
“Ten?” Jernberg replied.
“What do you prefer?” Martin asked the man in the chair. Hisham was expressionless.
“Well?” Martin inclined his head to one side. Hisham sat motionless with eyes closed, as if he was praying to himself.
“Since you seem to have lost your tongue, I will have to decide for you,” Martin remarked with a sigh.
“Use all you have. Then you won’t have to waste any more time. Allah will reveal the truth shortly,” Hisham said calmly.
“Now we’re talking. Fifteen millilitres it is,” Martin decided.
He selected one of the veins in the man’s lower arm and carefully emptied the contents of the syringe. Afterwards, he put the empty syringe in the case and looked at Jernberg.
“We’ve never done fifteen,” Jernberg said in a low voice.
“No, but I have a feeling that this one could be tricky, and we’re going to tug every shred of truth out of him. Better too much than too little. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“And if he has a heart attack?”
“Well, then he has one,” Martin replied matter-of-factly. “Who’s going to suspect we have given him a heart attack? We’ve just been questioning him, and he got so stressed by all his lying that he collapsed.”
Jernberg loosened his tie knot and lowered his eyes to the floor. Martin felt an increasing irritation. Jernberg had become soft lately. Gone was the strong conviction that had made Martin take him on board for this crucial odyssey to hunt down the enemies of democracy. It would, in time, become a problem.
Martin swayed impatiently back and forth while looking at the clock. After a few minutes, Hisham began to feel a heat rising from within him. It was as if Allah had filled him with his presence. He felt happy. His heart thumped and his eyes became blurred. This must be as close to paradise as a person could get.
“Now let’s see what the prophet has to tell daddy,” Martin said and started up a voice recorder.
First, they started with some simple control questions. This was always done to verify the interview subject’s state of mind and that he was not “abnormal”, that he really was susceptible. Some interview subjects had demonstrated a certain ability to fight against Diaxtropyl-3S. Why was not known, but it was probably because the subject had a specific chromosome that did not allow the brain to be affected in the correct fashion. Statistically speaking, one in ten thousand had this “abnormality”. If excuses and hesitation already were apparent during the preliminary control questions, then there was no point in continuing.
“I want to know your name, your age, and where you come from,” Martin began.
Three straight questions in succession, exactly according to the rule book. He observed the irises of the eyes between answers, looking for signs that indicated hesitation.
“My name is Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik. I’m thirty-one and I come from Yemen,” Hisham replied, slurring his words.
“Are you married?”
“Yes, to Mona ibn Abd al-Malik.”
“Excellent,” Martin replied. “Let’s get on with the reason why we’re sitting here today.” Martin flipped through some files.
“We know from reliable sources that you are financed by Prince Hatim Al-Amri of Saudi Arabia to build mosques. Is that correct?”
The man nodded slowly.
“The purpose of building the mosques all over Sweden is to spread Islam and to build bases for your coming war with the infidels. Is that correct?”
The man said nothing.
“Surely, given the facts, isn’t that your goal?”
“We are Allah’s servants and want to spread the true faith,” Hisham slowly answered.
“The true faith,” Martin repeated and paused for effect. “With what means do you intend to spread it?”
Hisham closed his eyes. “With God’s word and through many mosques.”
“No other methods? Like undermining the Swedish court system, for example?”
Hisham opened his eyes and stared confusedly at Martin.
Even if Diaxtropyl-3S was the best truth serum, its dosage was, as with all other serums, not an exact science. Martin knew that. Mostly, one could achieve a ninety per cent degree of truthfulness, but this was not related to the type of lies that could evade detection.
“Is the name Bror Lantz familiar to you?” Martin continued.
The man slowly shook his head.
“Do the names Sjöstrand or Ekwall mean anything to you?”
Martin felt his frustration gradually building.
Suddenly, the colour drained from the man’s face. Beads of sweat quickly formed on his forehead and he started to breathe heavily.
Martin threw a look at Jernberg, who had also turned pale.
Hisham’s eyes rolled back and his body convulsed. A p
owerful muscle contraction snapped his head backwards. His body tensed and he became as stiff as a shop-window mannequin.
“Shit. Heart attack!” Jernberg screamed.
“He doesn’t look well,” said Martin coldly.
What was not supposed to have happened just did. Diaxtropyl-3S, while effective, had the disadvantage of affecting the heart muscles. This was the first real set-back for Martin and it came just when he least needed it.
He took out the syringe with the light-blue anti-serum and emptied the contents into the man’s convulsing arm. He put the empty syringe back in the case and snipped the restraining bands. Then he put everything in the brown attaché bag and turned towards Jernberg, who had frozen by the door.
“You can raise the alarm while I perform a token resuscitation attempt,” Martin ordered. Jernberg was on his way out of the door before he had finished the sentence.
Martin threw Hisham from the chair, turned him over on his back and watched the life run out of him.
After a while, Marin heard footsteps quickly running down the corridor. He kneeled down and pretended to massage the man’s chest. A male paramedic was the first to enter the room. He politely, yet firmly, pushed Martin aside to make space for the defibrillator so that he could try to get the heart beating. After a few resuscitation attempts, the paramedic shook his head, then continued to give a heart massage until the ambulance crew arrived. Twelve minutes later, Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik was pronounced dead.
CHAPTER 19
that same night, Martin Borg had to make an oral statement regarding the events surrounding the sudden death of the detained Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik to the custody officer for SÄPO’s Counter-Terrorism Unit. Later on, a more thorough investigation would be carried out, based on what the coroner discovered.
After quickly perjuring his way through the formal interview, he went in to Ove Jernberg. He found a greyish, pale ghost behind the desk.
Anger Mode Page 22
