by Arne Dahl
“The day starts with an electronic sweep of my office,” said Laikmaa, lighting a cigarette. “To make sure that no listening devices have been planted during the night. But of course that doesn’t prevent long-distance bugging. In my position as head of the nominal fight against the mafia in this country, I’m a popular target. As far as the mafia is-”
“You of all people should know,” said Norlander coolly.
“The more I know, the more I realize how much I don’t know,” Laikmaa said sagely. “Cases dealing with all forms of organized crime land on my desk, from simple protection and collection rackets to matters that reach all the way up to the highest imaginable levels. The only common denominator is the desire to exploit the new opportunities. Some think we’re looking at the naked face of the market economy; others say it’s the natural continuation of state terrorism. In either case, what’s most apparent is the complete lack of, shall we call it empathy, or perhaps an intrinsic sense for the essence of democracy. As always, people are grabbing as much as possible for themselves, at others’ expense. It makes no difference whether the state is an absolute power or nonexistent.”
Laikmaa rummaged through the multitudes of documents and somehow managed to find the right one.
“All right,” he said. “Regarding your earlier questions on the phone, I don’t exactly have anything new to offer. The Viktor X gang is a constellation of Russians and Estonians operating primarily in Tallinn. They’ve started making forays into Sweden since the Finnish market will soon reach saturation point. We don’t really know how far they’ve gotten-whether a contact network has already been established, or whether a regular smuggling operation is under way-but we do know that there’s no lack of ambition.
“As we’ve said, they execute traitors with a shot to the head; that’s a consistent trademark, and I’ve never seen any deviations. They use ammunition from the weapons factory in Pavlodar, Kazakhstan, as we’ve already discussed. There’s no doubt about any of this. But you need to know that most of the groups use the same ammunition and that here in Tallinn the evasive Viktor X’s group is quite a small, marginal enterprise. Seven or eight gangster rings have divided up Tallinn and eastern Estonia into districts, and they avoid crossing each other’s boundaries.
“We know very little about their contacts higher up with the larger intra-Russian mafia. If we disregard Yugoslavia, right now Estonia tops the charts for European murder statistics. We have more than three hundred homicides a year in this country, and Tallinn has one of the highest murder rates in the world. That’s the background that you need to be aware of when you step out onto our streets.”
“Is it your department that’s known as Commando K?” asked Norlander.
“No, we’re the criminal police. Commando K is our antiterror group. They’re our extended arm-and the only actual physical weapon that we have against our gangsters. They do have a tendency to go a little too far, but they remain our only real force. We’re the ordinary criminal police, handling the investigations. Commando K is purely an assault team.”
Laikmaa fell silent, rifling through the papers to pull out another document.
“What we know is that Viktor X is mixed up in the protection operation for a Swedish media firm that’s trying to establish itself in Russia and the Baltics by producing a daily business newspaper, among other things. Internationally, the firm calls itself GrimeBear Publishing, Inc. I don’t know what it’s called in Sweden, but I think they have almost a monopoly on the media in your country. Seems rather strange for a democracy. Or am I mistaken?”
Norlander hadn’t a clue about any of this. He jotted it down in his notebook and then abruptly changed the subject. “I’ve got a new lead. A Jüri Maarja. He’s behind the smuggling of refugees to Gotland.”
“He’s not alone.” Kalju Laikmaa looked pensive.
Norlander saw that he’d mentioned a sensitive topic. Laikmaa was apparently considering how much he could reveal. Norlander decided to help him out. “We’re not interested in the refugee traffic itself. It is what it is. We’re only interested in the connection to the serial killings.”
“And what sort of connection is that?” Laikmaa asked skeptically.
Norlander didn’t reply. He tried to appear inscrutable rather than uncertain.
Only now did it occur to him how vague that connection actually was.
“So,” said Laikmaa when he realized that he wasn’t going to get an answer, “you get to keep your secrets and I have to reveal mine. Is that what our contract looks like?”
“Ich bin sorry,” Norlander managed to say. “This investigation has to do with national security. And as you said yourself, this office may be bugged, long distance.”
“I was being sarcastic,” said Laikmaa, beginning to understand the nature of the man with whom he was talking. “Never mind. Jüri Maarja speaks Swedish, which may be of some interest to you. He lived in Sweden for many years without ending up in any police records. He’s close to Viktor X; that much we know. We also know that he’s one of many who deal in smuggling refugees. We have orders from the highest authority not to be too rigid when it comes to that particular type of smuggling. The Baltic countries are overflowing with refugees who think that Sweden is heaven. Apparently they’re using an old map.”
Norlander gave him a stony look. Laikmaa evidently had more on his mind.
“There’s something more,” said Norlander coldly.
Laikmaa sighed heavily and looked as if he were trying to think about good Baltic-Scandinavian relations, and about their dependence on Swedish aid. He was really thinking about the deportation of Baltic refugees back to the Soviet Union and about Swedish business interests in the Baltics.
The multifaceted meaning contained in that sigh went right over Norlander’s head. He heard only Laikmaa’s response.
“I’ve spent days interrogating one of Maarja’s more prominent drug dealers, one Arvo Hellat. But in vain. We’re going to have to let him go in a couple of hours, for lack of evidence. He speaks Swedish. From Nuckö, if that means anything to you. Would you like to have a try?”
Norlander stood up without a word. He was getting closer.
Laikmaa led the way down corridors, both above- and below-ground, to the prison. Accompanied by a couple of guards, they arrived at a steel door, where they stopped.
“I think it’s best if I’m present,” said Laikmaa. “Don’t worry, I don’t speak a word of Swedish. But it violates the rules to allow a foreign police officer to be alone in an Estonian cell. I’m sure you understand.”
Norlander nodded, hoping that his disappointment wasn’t too obvious.
They went in. The man in the cell had long hair and looked Finnish. Viggo Norlander pictured Arto Söderstedt in his mind and let the image stay there.
Arvo Hellat studied both mafia fighters and said something sarcastic in Estonian. Laikmaa replied tersely and pointed at Norlander, who cleared his throat and began talking. It was liberating to speak Swedish. No more “Ich bin sorry.”
“You’re close to Jüri Maarja, and that means you’re close to Viktor X. What do you know about the murders of three Swedish businessmen during the past week?”
Arvo Hellat looked surprised. He glanced at Laikmaa, who shrugged and said something in Estonian that meant either “answer” or “the man’s insane.” Hellat replied in a strange Estonian-Swedish accent with peculiar diphthongs and ts and gs and ks that came in odd places. Norlander could barely understand him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Hellat. “What do those murders have to do with me?”
Norlander was really only there to look. Window-shopping, he told himself. He wasn’t going to let this man out of his grasp.
“The good superintendent doesn’t understand a word we’re saying,” Norlander said in the icy tone that by now almost came naturally to him. “Is Viktor X involved in the murders of the Swedish businessmen? Let me point out that I’m here on a special assignm
ent and have the power to make things very unpleasant for you.”
Arvo Hellat was even more astonished. He stared at Norlander for a good long time, then burst into loud laughter. “You don’t know what you’re playing with!” he blurted out. “By comparison, fire is ice cold!”
Norlander left the cell with the image of Hellat engraved on his mind.
Laikmaa followed, astonished, as they walked down the corridors. “Did you find out anything?” he asked in his American-tinged English.
“Enoff,” said Norlander.
They returned to Laikmaa’s office. The superintendent sat down to continue their discussion.
Norlander remained standing. “I’m going home now,” he said.
Laikmaa frowned. “You’ve only just arrived. We still have a lot to discuss.”
“I’m satisfied. Thanks for all your help.” He headed for the door, then turned around and asked, “Oh, that’s right. Do you know anybody calling themselves Igor and Igor?”
Kalju Laikmaa just stared at him and shook his head.
Norlander closed the door and then he heard Laikmaa pick up the phone.
He went out to his rental car, tossed the parking ticket onto the ground without a second thought, and drove off.
He drove three-quarters of the way around police headquarters and then parked near one of the walls that couldn’t be seen from Laikmaa’s window. It was near the prison entrance; he had carefully taken note of its location.
He sat there for three hours, fully alert. Dusk arrived. He was hungry. He sat there for another hour, feeling drowsier.
Then Arvo Hellat came out the door, tossing back his long hair with a feminine gesture. Norlander hunched down behind the wheel. Hellat went over to an old green Volvo Amazon, a vintage model that Norlander hadn’t seen in God knew how many years. He drove off.
First he stopped at a Greek restaurant in Old Town. He made a phone call, ate a good-size portion of moussaka, and drank a beer. That took almost an hour. Norlander sat outside in his car, freezing and starving. Twilight swept away the last remnants of Tallinn light. The lights came on in Old Town, perched on its hill.
Hellat came out and drove off in his absurd Amazon-hardly a suitable car for someone holding a top position within the mafia. He drove out of Tallinn, heading southwest in the direction of Keila. In that small town he went inside the restaurant at the train station, made another phone call, and had another beer. Norlander watched him the whole time through the window. Then Hellat returned to his car, got back on the highway, and drove toward Tallinn. It was eleven o’clock by the time he re-entered the Estonian capital with Norlander’s rented Skoda in tow. He drove into Old Town again, choosing the sections that were more dimly lit, and stopped outside a decrepit building that looked abandoned and ready for demolition. Not another car was anywhere in sight, not a person on the sleazy streets.
Mafia territory, Norlander thought as Hellat slipped inside the ramshackle building. The big Swede slid his gun back into the shoulder holster, took the little pistol out of his waistband at the small of his back, flicked off the safety, put it back, and checked to make sure that the big hunting knife was still easily accessible, attached to his shin.
Blood was pumping wildly through his veins.
This was Viggo Norlander’s Moment, with a capital M.
Viggo the Viking.
He entered the building with his service revolver raised, the safety off. He heard Arvo Hellat climbing the rotting stairs a couple of floors above. Then Hellat took five steps and went through a door. After that, silence.
Norlander crept soundlessly up the stairs in the murky light. The steps didn’t creak even once.
Two flights up he found three doors: one right next to the staircase, one at the far end of the corridor, and one five steps away. He crept over to the last. It was closed, but he could see that it opened inward.
He took a deep breath, hyperventilated a couple of times, then kicked open the door with all his strength and rushed in, gun raised.
Eight men were standing in the light along the walls, aiming machine guns at him.
“Please drop your weapon,” said an Estonian-Swedish voice from the dark section of the room.
A desk was standing there. Two men were seated behind it. It was impossible to see their faces. But perched on the edge of the desk was Arvo Hellat, smirking. Norlander had him in his sights.
“Drop your weapon or die,” said the voice again. It wasn’t Hellat speaking. Hellat merely smiled. “One second,” said the voice.
Norlander dropped his gun.
He had never felt so disarmed.
Shaking his head, Hellat came over and removed the rest of his arsenal. Then he went back to the desk and sat down, dangling his legs like a child.
“It took some time to assemble a decent force,” the voice went on. Now Norlander could tell that it was coming from one of the men seated behind the desk. “And to find suitable premises. We sent Arvo on a little trip to Keila while we made the necessary arrangements. So what do you think you’re doing? Is this some sort of private vendetta?”
Norlander didn’t move. He was ice cold inside.
“I really must ask you to tell us what you’re up to,” the voice insisted courteously, stepping into the light and becoming a body. A large body, a large face adorned with a mustache and a good-natured smile.
“Jüri Maarja?” Norlander managed to say.
Jüri Maarja came over to him, pressed lightly on Norlander’s stomach, ran his hand over his bald spot, and then gave him a searching look.
“Interesting,” he said. “An interesting person for a vendetta.”
Maarja said something in Russian and received a muttered reply from another man sitting in the dark behind the desk.
“Tell us everything you know and everything you think you know,” said Maarja, still very polite. Norlander recognized the chill in the voice. He couldn’t even bring himself to hate the similarity. “I insist,” Maarja went on.
Viggo Norlander closed his eyes. His last chance to be the hero would be to remain silent in the face of this courteous monster.
But the hero option was no longer on Norlander’s list. It had been crossed off, never to return.
“Right now Swedish businessmen are being murdered one after the other in Stockholm,” he said hoarsely. “They’re being executed with your ammunition and with the method that you use to kill traitors. Viktor X!” he shouted at the shadow behind the desk. Nothing moved.
Jüri Maarja looked genuinely surprised and blurted out a few Russian syllables. He received a few more in return from the desk.
“It’s possible that you’ve just saved your life, Detective Inspector Viggo Norlander.” He read the name aloud from Norlander’s police ID, which he’d plucked from his pocket. “We need to inform Stockholm of our innocence in some way. But of course we can’t simply let you go without some form of punishment. That would go against our policy. Now listen closely, and memorize these words. We’re going to write a note and pin it on you. We’d never do anything so incredibly stupid as to kill Swedish businessmen in Sweden. Is that understood? We have nothing to do with this matter. To the extent that we might have a presence in Stockholm, it’s extremely important for us to stay as low profile as possible.”
Maarja went over to the desk to accept a piece of paper and a pen from the man in the shadows. He shoved Hellat off the desk and proceeded to write for an uncomfortably long time. Then he said, “Now it’s time for us to make our departure. In case the good Laikmaa has seen fit to send a man after you. Although of course he knows better than to get involved. And it takes time to assemble Commando K.”
Then he said something in Estonian, and the men holding the guns flung Norlander to the floor. He stared up at the ceiling as they bound his arms and legs. He couldn’t move.
Then came the first pain. It was almost liberating. He screamed. For all sorts of reasons.
The second pain was annulled by the ne
xt two.
He became an illuminated bundle of nerve impulses. He saw himself light up with a final light.
Damn it, he thought in surprise. What a sleazy way to die. Then he felt himself disappear.
18
The sunny spring morning did not reach its fingers into Supreme Central Command. Only the hands of the A-Unit reached that far, and for the moment they seemed to be tied.
Somebody farted.
No one claimed responsibility.
Everyone glanced around suspiciously as the smell dissipated.
Hultin made his usual entrance through his mysterious boss-only door and slapped his cell phone down on the table. “In case Norlander decides to report in from Tallinn,” he said to head off any questions.
Somebody burped.
There was a rather lax mood in the room. Hultin noticed it. “Okay. The investigation has stalled. But we’re used to that happening, right? You’re experienced and handpicked officers. Keep your spirits up.”
The previous day had felt like a hangover. All activity had seemed muted, and everyone had moved as if in slow motion-except for Norlander, apparently, who had gone to the opposite extreme.
“Señor Chavez?” Hultin began his systematic run-through.
Chavez sat up straight. “I’m still working on the MEMAB lead. If you can call it a lead. But I’m convinced that it is.”
The cell phone rang. Hultin held up his hand and answered it. “Viggo? Is that you?”
A faint murmur spread through the room.
“How does it feel to sing in the Maria Magdalena Church?” Holm asked Nyberg.
“Magnificent acoustics,” said Nyberg. “Missa papae Marcelli.”
“How divine,” Holm said dreamily.
“What the hell is that on your cheek?” Chavez demanded of Hjelm.
“A blemish.” Hjelm had been practicing saying that word.
“Yes,” Hultin said in English into the cell phone, waving his free hand at the team members. Silence descended over Supreme Central Command. Hultin turned around and stared at the wall as he again said, “Yes.” Then he didn’t say a word for several minutes. Everyone could tell by looking at his back, perhaps from the way it was hunched up and leaning forward, that something had happened. No one spoke. Finally Hultin said, “Yes,” for a third time and put down the cell phone. At that moment the small fax machine whirred and churned out a piece of paper. Hultin held on to it as the machine released it. He read the message then closed his eyes for a moment. Something dramatic had happened.
