by Viveca Sten
“Nice,” Margit said, helping herself to a chocolate. “I didn’t know there was so much money in this kind of enterprise.”
There had been something about private donations in Jeanette’s notes, Thomas recalled, individual sponsors who quietly supported the organization with large injections of cash.
The door opened, and a man in his early thirties came in; he was wearing a T-shirt and a blue jacket. His black hair was cut very short, and he had sideburns. In spite of this he had a boyish look about him, with rounded cheeks. He was broad-shouldered, and taller than Thomas.
Was this the PA? Thomas realized he’d been expecting a woman.
“My name’s Peter, and I work with Pauline,” the man said with an open smile. His American accent was immediately noticeable. “I understand you’re police officers—how can I help?”
“We have a few questions in connection with an ongoing investigation,” Thomas explained. “We’d like to see Pauline Palmér.”
“Perhaps I can answer your questions?”
“We really need to speak to your boss,” Margit replied.
The man pulled out a chair. “Please take a seat. I’m afraid Pauline is taking some time off over Christmas and New Year’s, so that won’t be possible.”
Thomas had to admit he was a good-looking guy. His movements were athletic; could he be an ex-basketball player? Maybe he’d played for a Swedish team; quite a few in the elite series had brought in American players.
What was he doing in an organization like New Sweden?
“I didn’t catch your last name,” Thomas said.
“My apologies. It’s Moore, Peter Moore.”
“That doesn’t sound very Swedish; are you from the USA?”
“Yes—Minnesota.”
Minnesota, Thomas thought. The state to which hundreds of thousands of Swedes had emigrated during the nineteenth century.
“So how did someone from Minnesota come to settle in Sweden?” he asked.
Peter Moore gave a disarming smile.
“This is a wonderful country. My maternal great-great-grandmother came from Småland.”
Thomas waited for further details, which were not forthcoming. A distant Swedish relative didn’t sound like much of a reason for making a new home across the Atlantic.
“How long have you lived here?” Margit said.
“I came over eight years ago.”
Thomas got the distinct feeling that Peter Moore knew exactly how to deal with the police, and that he’d been in this situation before.
“Could you tell us something about your role in New Sweden?”
“I help Pauline with just about anything.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“It’s hard to say—it varies from day to day. I take care of her calendar; sometimes I drive her to different events. She’s a very busy woman.”
Thomas studied the man’s broad shoulders.
“Do you also act as her bodyguard?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you provide personal protection?”
There was a flash of something in Moore’s eyes. “I help out in whatever way is necessary.”
“Is your boss at home over the holiday?” Margit asked.
“As far as I’m aware, she’s spending time with her family.”
“In that case we’ll go and see her there. Perhaps you could tell us where she lives.”
For the first time, Moore looked ill at ease.
“Pauline doesn’t want us to give out her address. She’s in a vulnerable position; there are elements out there who don’t exactly . . . appreciate her work. I’m sure you understand.”
“Absolutely.” Margit gave a wolfish smile. “And I’m sure you understand that we will have no difficulty in finding her details.”
It was obvious that she didn’t like Pauline Palmér’s PA, in spite of his efforts. After a brief pause he said: “She lives in Uppsala, on Slottsgatan.”
CHAPTER 56
Nora stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.
The woman who met her gaze in the mirror was pale and stressed, lines of tension etched on her face. She had changed into a jacket, a thin polo-neck sweater, and black pants, which felt more office-appropriate than the fleecy top and jeans she’d been wearing when she left Sandhamn.
She had spent the whole journey from Stavsnäs going over what she was going to say to Einar. They were due to meet at three, and it was now one thirty, which gave her well over an hour to do her final preparations. She needed to print out the document she’d received from Jukka Heinonen, plus her own summary.
Most doors in the department were closed. The majority of those who worked at the head office were in an open-plan environment, but the legal department still had their own rooms.
Even the secretaries were nowhere to be seen. Nora assumed that everyone had seized the opportunity to take some time off between Christmas and New Year’s. Because Christmas Eve fell on a Wednesday this year, it “cost” only five holiday days to enable staff to have a couple of weeks off.
As she continued along the corridor, she saw that Allan Karlsson’s door was open. He was one of the younger employees who had been with the bank for eighteen months.
So the place wasn’t completely empty.
Allan was around thirty-five, a real Anglophile who specialized in dry witticisms. Nora got along very well with him; occasionally they took a long lunch together, or chatted over a coffee. Allan’s area of expertise was tax law, and as Nora frequently dealt with company transactions, there were often issues they needed to discuss.
However, when she stuck her head around the door, no one was there, just his brown leather briefcase propped up against the wall.
He must be in a meeting, she thought as she headed to her own office.
She glanced at the photographs of Adam and Simon beside her computer. She ought to change the pictures; they were several years old. Adam still looked like a little boy, a million miles away from the gangly thirteen-year-old he had become. Simon hadn’t changed as much, but of course he, too, had grown. His cheeks were no longer quite so rounded, and his white-blond hair had begun to darken.
The computer hummed into life. Nora quickly entered her password and username, then clicked on her PowerPoint presentation.
Project Phoenix.
To be on the safe side, she read through the whole thing once again. It was a meticulous analysis in which she pointed out the legal risks, from the payment structure to the shadowy figures behind the purchasing company.
On the final page, she had also raised other concerns: issues relating to public opinion, the bank’s reputation, the possibility that the media would pick up on the deal.
She had done her best to remain as objective and neutral as possible. Her own fears and her antipathy toward the project leader must not be allowed to come through.
When she had finished reading and making one or two minor amendments, she pressed the “Print” button. The printer was at the far end of the hallway; she heard it start up and begin to spit out two copies of everything.
This meant she had deliberately gone against Jukka Heinonen’s instructions. The material must not be printed or distributed to anyone outside the project without his personal approval.
But this was going to the bank’s chief legal adviser.
It was four minutes to three—time to make her way up to Einar’s office. Nora adjusted her jacket and smoothed down her hair, then she hurried along to the printer, grabbed the documents, and headed for the elevator.
CHAPTER 57
Margit was driving; she was sticking to the speed limit, seventy miles per hour. Time after time other cars overtook her.
“Did you know that New Sweden was founded by students in Uppsala?” Thomas said, putting away his phone. He had just finished telling Aram about their encounter with Peter Moore.
“Long before New Democracy, I believe.”
Margit was ref
erring to the right-wing populist party founded in the early nineties by an unlikely duo, a record-company director and a well-known businessman. The party was in Parliament for only a few years, but had pushed the issue of controlled immigration. By the time they lost their mandate in 1994, the question of immigration and refugees was part of the political agenda in a completely new way. Without a doubt they had paved the way for New Sweden.
“New Sweden would never have been able to flourish as they have if New Democracy hadn’t existed,” Margit went on as she passed a truck. A sign informed them that they had twenty miles to go before they reached Uppsala.
Thomas knew she was right. In the past eight years, the membership of New Sweden had increased significantly. There were now local branches in most large towns and cities, especially in the south of the country, and members came from a wide range of professions. It was no longer students who carried the organization.
“It’s Pauline Palmér who’s made the difference,” Thomas said.
The material Aram had put together told a clear story. Four years ago, Palmér, a lecturer in law, had become the leader of New Sweden. She had worked tirelessly to remodel the organization. First of all she cleared out all the shady characters with their links to National Socialism. She then produced a new ideology based on strong Christian values, Swedish traditions, and the importance of preserving the nuclear family. This turned out to have a powerful appeal. The membership grew, and New Sweden featured more and more frequently in the media.
“She claims they’re defending our Swedish national heritage and culture,” Margit said with a snort. “That’s just an excuse for cutting back on immigration and locking up every single criminal for life. I can’t understand why people go along with all that crap.”
“She’s a skilled orator.”
“Have you noticed how she always looks exactly the same?” Margit went on. “With her pearl necklace, hair stiff with hair spray, like some kind of outdated American First Lady.”
“I hope you don’t have a preconceived opinion of Pauline Palmér.”
“And her personal assistant is a little bit different,” Margit said, ignoring Thomas’s comment. “I wonder what else he does for Pauline, in the evenings for example . . . Then again, she’s married, isn’t she?”
“She’s been married for many years. Her husband, Lars, is a consultant who runs his own business. They have two sons in their midtwenties.”
The characteristic twin spires of Uppsala Cathedral came into view.
“Well, let’s see what she’s like when we meet her,” Thomas said.
CHAPTER 58
There was total silence when Nora stepped out on the top floor. The spacious offices allocated to the ten board members surrounded an open area equipped with generous sofas. On the coffee table in the center stood a bowl of fruit that had gone bad over the holiday; greenish-gray mold could be seen on several of the clementines.
The elevator doors closed behind Nora, and she set off across the soft wall-to-wall carpet; it was so thick that it absorbed any sound.
Anyone could sneak up behind me without my noticing, she thought with a shudder. In the faint glow of the nearest floor lamp, she could see her own shadow, an elongated apparition.
Automatically she glanced toward Jukka Heinonen’s office, right beside the director’s. The door was closed, which was a good thing; presumably he was still in Finland. Einar probably hadn’t mentioned their meeting.
She was embarrassed at how relieved she felt.
The overhead lights weren’t on, but the Advent stars in the windows shone reassuringly.
Einar’s room was around the corner, down the corridor. It looked as if he was the only one in. Nora took a deep breath, ran a hand over her hair once more, and wished she could get her nerves under control. Here goes. She knocked on the door; the curtains behind the glass wall were also closed, but then she heard a voice with a distinct Norrland accent: “Come on in, Nora.”
Nora tried to relax. Surely Einar would help her deal with Jukka Heinonen.
“Take a seat,” he said without looking up, pointing in the direction of the pale leather sofa with its back to the window. “I just need to finish this email.”
Nora was taken aback; Einar seemed a little distant. However, she went and sat down, placed her papers on the desk, and automatically took out a pen in case she needed to make notes.
After a few moments, Einar got to his feet. He closed the door, then took the armchair opposite Nora.
“You wanted to speak to me as soon as possible?”
“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.” Nora handed him a copy of her presentation. “It’s about Project Phoenix. This is a summary and analysis of the material I received from Jukka Heinonen a few days ago,” she explained.
Einar took the document and put it down on the table. “OK.”
Nora opened the first page of her own copy so that Einar could see the text as she went through it.
“It concerns the arrangements for the transfer of the branch network in the Baltic states,” she began. “I’m worried about both the structure and the buyer. The company is registered in Ukraine, but wants the payment to go through a different company, in Cyprus, which is run from Gibraltar. On closer inspection, it seems as if all the parties involved are registered in various tax havens. Just like many other dubious organizations—”
Einar interrupted her. “Dubious? Are you sure about that?”
Nora bit her lip; had she gone too far?
“Sorry, that’s the wrong word,” she said. “No, I haven’t found any confirmation of dubious activity, not in that way. But I don’t understand why there has to be such a complex structure for the payment to go through. These countries are known for laundering dirty money.”
She paused in case Einar wanted to say something, ask a question, but when he remained silent she went on: “I’ve gone through everything, and I have to admit that I’m seriously worried about the exposure the bank could face if anyone involved can’t tolerate public scrutiny.”
Einar seemed to be listening, but showed no reaction. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Nora glanced at the copy she’d given him; why wasn’t he looking at it?
She continued her explanation, giving as much detail as possible, but was aware that she was sounding more and more uncertain. The lack of input from Einar was making her feel uncomfortable.
Still nothing. Had Heinonen already told him about the payment arrangements?
Hesitantly she said:
“I think it would be a mistake, perhaps even ill-judged, to agree to the proposal that’s on the table at the moment. I also think we ought to let compliance take a look at the whole thing; that would allow us to ensure that the individuals behind the purchasing company are legitimate—the kind of people we should be doing business with. That’s why I wanted to speak to you. I thought you ought to be informed of the situation, as the bank’s chief legal adviser.”
She hoped Einar would say something now, almost anything, but when he still didn’t speak, she felt compelled to add: “I have to report back to Jukka; he wants my comments as soon as possible, but I don’t really know how to communicate my objections. It’s not easy to bring this kind of thing up with him; he doesn’t always appreciate . . . other people’s views.” She couldn’t suppress a nervous laugh. “Especially when they don’t agree with him.”
Nora turned to the last page of her presentation, where all the risks were summarized in a bulleted list. She pointed to the payment arrangements so that Einar couldn’t avoid seeing them clearly laid out. The words she had used seemed to leap off the page; had she overstepped the mark?
“This could affect the entire bank if it goes wrong. I just want to be sure that everyone understands the implications. If the press got ahold of this, it could blow up in our faces.”
Another nervous laugh.
Einar adjusted his tie, gave her a searching look.
“And who would tell th
em?” he said. “Would you?”
Nora sat up a little straighter. Was that what he thought of her?
“Me?” she said in confusion. “No, why would I do such a thing?”
CHAPTER 59
Pauline Palmér lived in an apartment block on Övre Slottsgatan in the heart of the older part of Uppsala. The street was in fact an impressive tree-lined avenue, and even though it was winter, Thomas could imagine how beautiful it would look in the spring and summer. Identical Advent candle bridges glowed in each bay window on the ground floor.
The main door was locked, and unlike the offices on Olof Palmes gata, there was no intercom buzzer here. Black digits on a silver-gray metal keypad stared back at them.
“So what do we do now?” Margit said.
Thomas took a step back and gazed up at the façade. Pauline lived on the top floor. Above the entrance a small plaque with ornate writing informed him that the block had been built in 1888, based on designs by an architect called Hårleman.
“Let’s try the year,” he said, pressing the relevant numbers. There was a satisfying click. “There you go. Shall we pay fru Palmér a visit?”
As soon as they rang the doorbell, a cacophony of barking broke out inside the apartment, echoing through the stairwell. Someone shouted: “Quiet, Hannibal! Calm down! Sit!”
The barking stopped, and a tall man with gray hair and a substantial belly beneath his shirt opened the door. Behind him they could just see a German shepherd sitting motionless, ears pricked.
“Yes?” The voice was deep.
Margit held up her ID. “We’re from the Nacka police district, and we’d like to speak to Pauline Palmér. Are you her husband, Lars?”
“I am.”
The man held the two officers with his gaze for a few seconds, then stepped back and held the door open.
“Come in.”
Thomas and Margit entered a generous hallway with a white marble floor and an old-fashioned wrought-iron sofa. Through an archway on the left, they could see the kitchen, while straight ahead lay a light, airy living room with deep window recesses. The ceilings were high; it was a typical fin-de-siècle apartment.
