“I don’t think Martin Borg has told us everything,” Kokk began.
“It makes no difference anymore,” Holmberg said abruptly. “Jernberg will take the fall. We have to throw the media a bone and he’s it. Before we release the dead Muslim’s body, the post-mortem report must be modified and all traces of that American truth serum must be removed from the body.”
“His story is quite far-fetched …”
“Once again, Thomas,” Holmberg said in a stern voice, “if this gets out, there’ll be a bloodbath in the media. The journalists will mow us down like the paper targets on the shooting range. The Muslim died of a heart attack. Jernberg was shot during a police operation. Period.”
“County CID has given us the name of a man who could be the one who shot Jernberg in Gnesta,” Kokk said. “The partner of the deceased Jerry Salminen. His name is Tor Hedman. But Borg’s description doesn’t fit him. According to Borg, he was a short, thin foreigner. Hedman is a tall Swede. I think Borg …”
“Thomas!” Holmberg cut him off and looked him straight in the eye. “Don’t lift any more rocks now. We’re riding out the worst media storm since Olof Palme. Let the storm blow itself out and you’ll see day-to-day operations get back to normal very soon. Some things are just not meant to see the light of day.”
Holmberg was presumably right. The problem was that Kokk had lost his moral compass. And he did not know in which direction he was heading.
“Now we must focus on getting hold of Drug-X,” Holmberg continued. “How it is manufactured and how that Leo Brageler was able to disperse it. It could be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.”
Kokk nodded. Then he stood up and went back to his office. He sat down heavily behind his desk and gazed at the photograph of his family by his computer screen. Within a minute, he was going to make one of the most difficult decisions of his life.
A LONG CHAIN of events had taken Martin Borg to his current position. A drunk on the wrong side of the road for a fraction of a second and Martin’s life was thrust into unknown territory. A new chapter in the book of his life.
He had followed Leo Brageler from the park bench to a flat in Södermalm. According to the list of names in the building entrance, it seemed to be a sub-let flat. He had used the unimaginative name of “Eriksson”.
Martin’s plan was evolving. When he had got the information from the chatty journalist, the plan was simple. To save his own skin and ensure that he could continue to work on the strategy that his comrades had adopted. But the situation had changed. New opportunities had surfaced and he had been given one chance in a million. If he did not take it, then he was no better than the fools that he despised.
He was playing a high-stakes game now. First, he was going to use the names on Omar’s hard drive to get reinstated. Beginning tonight, he would start making calls and see how useful the names were. Afterwards, he would be making a house call at Mr Eriksson’s.
A sense of invincibility rushed through Martin. The power the drug had been proven to have could change the balance of power in the world.
Martin was puzzled that Brageler did not seem to understand that he could make money on something so advanced. Instead, he went around hunting court employees just because a drunk had killed his family. Presumably, the brilliant scientist had cracked and become irrational. There was a thin line between genius and insanity.
The question now was: who else was involved in the research for Drug-X? Leo Brageler could hardly have developed something so sophisticated by himself. Martin needed to get back into the investigation. He needed to be able to search the databases and keep informed. There was little time to waste, and he would get only one chance.
CHAPTER 35
WALTER LOOKED OUT of the window of his office. It was Christmas Eve and, from the darkened sky, large white snowflakes were sailing slowly towards the ground. Lately, he had been afflicted by a melancholy bordering on depression. Despite help from the National Crime Squad, and an arrest warrant issued by Interpol, Leo Brageler had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up. After two months of intense searching, they did not have an inkling as to the whereabouts of Leo Brageler or
Drug-X.
His only comfort in the situation was that SÄPO was doing just as badly. Neither the German corporation nor the Uppsala company knew about anything that had to do with Drug-X and instead attributed it to research that had been carried out without the company’s knowledge. Brageler was the head of research at Uppsala and had the means to undertake research outside management control. There were no co-workers to question. None of Brageler’s colleagues had the faintest idea what SÄPO was talking about.
SÄPO was strangely passive when it came to tracking down Drug-X. It was as if their investigation was running in first gear, which reminded him of when he joined the Palme investigation team which had a mediocre level of enthusiasm and dedication. True to form, Walter had also managed to create a new enemy. This time at SÄPO. A certain Martin Borg had taken a dislike to Walter and the feeling was mutual.
Lilja was, however, under his thumb. He had closed ranks and was even more manageable than before the big role reversal. That Lilja licked boots was no surprise, but that he kept so many pairs polished was a big surprise to Walter. But as long as he backed Walter up, there was no sense in getting wound up. He would soon need Lilja’s support, given the developments at SÄPO and the upcoming struggle with Borg.
Walter looked at the clock. It was six-thirty and he was beginning to feel hungry. He gazed at his desk, which was piled with heaps of paper. Murder and beatings by the hour. It never ended. Not even on Christmas Eve, the biggest family holiday of the year.
He walked down the empty corridor towards the lifts. There were not many people still in the office, or even in the police station. Some were at home on call. But the majority were off and gorging themselves on the Christmas ham and schnapps and staring at the bald announcer from Gothenburg as he lit candles on national TV. Thirty minutes later, Walter opened his fridge and opened a tin of pea soup and put the soup in the microwave. He turned on the stereo, and from the speakers flowed the music of Chuck Berry. After warming the pea soup, he parked himself on the sofa with the plate on his knee. He dropped a large dollop of mustard onto the plate and ceremoniously consumed his meal. It was, after all, Christmas Eve and then, you should eat with dignity. Even if it was just tinned pea soup.
In many ways, it was the same as last Christmas. But then he had also eaten the traditional pork Prince sausages and ready-made meatballs. He had fallen asleep by ten, after two beers and a bad film that he could not remember. As a Christmas present, he had given himself an iPhone, a small miracle of technology that you could even make phone calls with.
This year, it was a completely different Christmas present. Santa had been to Walter’s house with a trip. On New Year’s Eve, he was off to the Azores, of all places on the planet. A minute group of islands in the middle of the Atlantic where it was cold even in the summertime. After seeing a wildlife programme about the Azores, he had, for some reason, booked a trip. Why, he did not know. Perhaps because there would not be any package-holiday tourists there. Or because it was an exotic place with a lot of pensioners.
Walter had just taken his fifth spoonful of the pea soup when the doorbell rang. He froze with the spoon in his mouth. It was Christmas Eve. Santa had already been and gone. But he could have heard wrong. One of those phantom ringing sounds in his head. It had happened before. And after Darth Vader’s butchery in his head, it was only going to get worse.
He waited, listening to the silence. But then there was another ring. This time, it was for real.
Walter opened the door and was greeted by two plastic carrier bags. He recognized the hands holding the bags, as well as the knitted hat that stuck up behind it.
“I heard that you normally celebrate Christmas Eve with yourself and a telephone call,” the voice began. “Is that really true?”
“What are you
doing here?” Walter asked, surprised.
“Are you alone?” Jonna asked, putting down the bags.
Walter coughed a dry cough. “Yes. Who else would be here on Christmas Eve?”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Not really,” Walter lied.
“What do you say to some homemade Christmas food?”
“Well, there’s always room for that,” he said and made a mental note to put the pea soup in the bin. “Don’t you have a family to celebrate Christmas with?”
“Yes, but to call it celebrating is a bit of an overstatement. Besides, I’ve just come from them. And the way my family celebrates Christmas, I can only take about one hour at the most. I can explain another time.”
“I see,” Walter said.
“Good, now can I come in or shall we stand here and small-talk a little longer?”
Two hours later, Walter was vegging out on the sofa in front of the bald announcer from Gothenburg, whose candles had burned all the way down to the candlesticks. He looked at Jonna who was holding a wine glass filled with a divine red liquid. He himself was finishing off his fourth glass of wine, an absolutely delicious red wine from Portugal that she had brought with her. Together with the extremely well-made Christmas food, Walter had gorged himself.
“So what are you up to at RSU nowadays?” he asked, turning the wine glass casually.
“Nothing that has to do with Leo Brageler,” Jonna said regretfully. “Organized crime. It has moved onto the internet big time.”
“Sounds exciting,” Walter said, smothering a yawn. The food and the wine had made him a bit drowsy.
Jonna twirled her wine glass. “He must have repressed a lot of emotions,” she said.
“If you’re talking about Brageler, then I can’t really blame him.”
“No, perhaps not. I wonder where he is now.”
“He has probably fled the country,” Walter said without sounding convinced.
“According to SÄPO’s investigation into the company he worked for, he must have done his research outside the company premises. At least, that is the term they used. Apparently, he had modified a substance that was intended for a completely different purpose but that already had the basic properties that he needed.”
“I’m not convinced he acted all by himself,” Walter said.
“You think that others in the company were involved?”
“Not necessarily,” Walter said. “Why not over the internet? Just look at how that slippery eel Serge Wolinsky works with his hacker buddies.”
“Do you think the compound has spread that far already?” Jonna asked, with a worried look in her eyes.
“You can never rule that out. We should hope that it isn’t the case. It would be a drag to have to do prison time for murder at my age,” Walter said with a wry grin. “What’s invented can’t be uninvented.”
“No, I suppose that’s true,” Jonna agreed and sank down in the sofa. “At least, Jörgen Blad finally got his exclusive.”
“He certainly did. And then some,” Walter said. “He made it out alive and became a celebrity within a few weeks.”
“He’s apparently publishing a book about the incident as well.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Walter said. “Nowadays, every soap actor and politician is writing a book.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Walter remembered a telephone conversation that he happened to overhear.
“Why do you call your father ‘Jockum’ and not ‘Daddy’?” he asked, immediately regretting the question.
She was silent. The only sound was the TV announcer from Gothenburg blowing out the candles.
“Every family has its problems,” she said, without taking her eyes off the TV. “It’s just the degree of magnitude that separates them.”
“So true, so true,” Walter said in a soft voice, trying to mitigate his clumsiness.
“To answer your question, Jockum is not my biological father. And my family is anxious not to advertise that fact.”
Walter smiled self-consciously. “No?”
“I am adopted,” Jonna said.
Walter nodded without saying a word. The timer on the TV indicated that the show would soon be over.
WALTER CAREFULLY ADJUSTED the blanket over his unexpected guest and turned off the light in the living room. The night had turned into morning and she had fallen asleep on Walter’s sofa. He could hear faint breathing and he could see how her eyelids twitched as she dreamed. For as long as he could remember, and that was a long time, he had not had such a pleasant Christmas Eve. They had talked like father and daughter. Agreed on most things, but not all. There was, after all, three decades between them. They had talked about everything, from work issues to political ones. After an hour, he gave up trying to make her into a political leftie, as he was himself. She had opinions that were just as strong as Walter’s. She was not a supporter of any party; instead, she wandered in a liberated no man’s land, taking the best ideas from many parties. He had to take his hat off to her open and broad-minded way of thinking. He understood why RSU was so interested in this new generation of talented recruits. They were as unbiased and curious as Walter was old and narrow-minded.
Time had flown by, just as it always did in the company of good friends.
He crept into his unmade bed and put his hands behind his head. The shadows from the window danced on the ceiling, and he wondered if they would return tonight. The faces that never disappeared. The faces of the dead.
He closed his eyes and felt the wine permeate his body. The bed rocked gently as if he was anchored in a bay and gently swayed in a soft breeze. He felt content. Jonna was like him in many ways, the way he had been thirty years ago. Just as ambitious and full of life. Just as naive and innocent.
But, most of all, she resembled Martine a lot.
Sometimes life does not turn out the way you expect and he had to find happiness here and now. For the first time, he felt that he could reconcile himself to the loss of Martine. If it was the wine, it mattered not. Tomorrow morning, he would wake her with a nice breakfast on the sofa. Omelette and toast with marmalade. And coffee, brewed from freshly ground beans.
Walter turned over and switched the radio on. From the speakers, barely audible, U2’s “Magnificent” poured out. He closed his eyes and let himself be swept away by the long, soft chord changes. Now. Now he could finally sleep.
EPILOGUE
WITH NO WINDOWS, the room was in permanent darkness and was cold. Damp ran down the uneven, stone walls and onto the floor. The mattress he laid on was never completely dry. He did not know how long he had been here. Two, perhaps three months. Time had lost all significance. The interrogations and beatings were becoming increasingly vicious. Sometimes electric shocks, sometimes drugs. Most of them were old, close to the end of their lives but driven by an implacable hatred. He did not know who they were, where they came from, or why they were so determined to discover what he had created. He understood that his only way out of here was as a corpse. They had not hidden their faces.
But he was already prepared and feared nothing. He would have ended it himself if they had not found him first. He cursed his mistake. Leo Brageler observed his wounds in the dim light that found its way under the door crack. The end would be a liberation. Not a day passed by that he did not dream himself away from the torture. To simply disappear into the infinite darkness. He prayed to be dead. Just like Anna and his beloved Cecilia.
PROJECT NIRVANA
Don’t miss the action-packed sequel to Anger Mode. Here are some excerpts from, Project Nirvana, the second book in the Walter Gröhn trilogy.
ONCE AGAIN, HE had taken a life. First, a deep stab in the kidneys to silence the victim. The extraordinary pain put the victim into a state of paralysis. Then a short pause before the final strike that drove the knife blade through the throat. The strike that separated the soul from the body. He was a true artist. An artist of assassination, who helped
others to remove their problems. He could have used more modern methods, such as a gun with a silencer, but that was too easy. It was like drinking watered-down vodka. He wanted to feel the death spasms in the victim’s muscles.
The white surgical gloves he wore were now coloured red. He inspected them for a while and then closed his eyes. He was known in Russia as Mjasník – the Butcher. Always terrifying to his victims and equally as respected by those who hired him.
WALTER PARKED A short distance from the main gate, so that the car was hidden by some trees. The SWAT team got out quickly from their vehicles and silently positioned themselves in front of the gate. The security guard unlocked two huge padlocks. The black-suited policemen fanned out in groups of three. Jonna unholstered her Sig Sauer and removed the safety catch. Walter did the same. Together with one of the SWAT team, they made their way along the fence. With torches set to dim, they began inspecting the caravan locks. The mist reduced visibility almost to zero. Like ghosts crouched against the rows of caravans, they examined lock after lock. It was time-consuming and, despite the cold and the damp air, Jonna was sweating. Clear beads formed on her forehead and ran down her temples. She felt the adrenaline rushing through her veins. The condensation from her breath mixed with the mist to form a milky white cloud. She watched Walter’s silhouette, slightly to her right. Like a mirage, he floated in and out of the mist. Surprisingly, he moved nimbly for someone with a damaged spine. She held her weapon in both hands, pointed at the ground in front of her. Jonna whispered to Walter, but he did not hear her. Instead, he disappeared into the fog. She looked up so she would not lose track of the SWAT officer. She just had time to see the fog swallow him up as well. As she moved rapidly to catch up with the officer, whose name she did not even know, she heard something break under her shoe.
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